THE GIRLS WHO GREW BIG

Mottley’s second novel, following Nightcrawling (2022), concerns the Girls, a clique of young women in the coastal town of Padua Beach, Florida, united by their teen pregnancies and active contempt for the families, schools, and other social structures that seek to diminish them. The story alternates among three narrators, starting with leader Simone, who in a vivid opening scene describes chewing off her umbilical cord in the bed of a pickup truck for lack of a knife. (Well, a clean one—her partner’s dingy blade, like most of the men in this story, doesn’t measure up.) The second narrator, Adela, an aspiring Olympic swimmer until her pregnancy, has been shipped by her family to Padua Beach until she gives birth. The third, Emory, has an infant son, Kai, whom she insists on bringing to high school during her senior year, determined to go to college. Each in their own way claps back against their critics, hyperalert to how they’re diminished: “You wouldn’t believe what happens when a girl these days gets knocked up,” Emory says. “Suddenly, it’s the most important thing about you…You are nothing but a young mother.” Mottley’s lyrical prose and spirited characters are meant to be a counterweight to such reductionism, and there are fine set pieces throughout: bonding over breastfeeding methods, selling “jungle juice” to spring breakers for extra funds, a harrowing homebrew abortion that’s forced by hyperrestrictive state legislation. The plot can get soap opera–ish—Simone’s brother, Jayden, is the father of Emory’s child, and romantic squabbles abound. At times, Mottley’s prose gets overheated: “They don’t tell you in first aid training about the way blood works, about the thump and swirl of red hot beneath the skin and what happens when it runs drought dry.” But the ferocity of her characters gets over, letting an aggressively misunderstood group speak for itself.

Jun 24, 2025 - 06:02

Mottley’s second novel, following Nightcrawling (2022), concerns the Girls, a clique of young women in the coastal town of Padua Beach, Florida, united by their teen pregnancies and active contempt for the families, schools, and other social structures that seek to diminish them. The story alternates among three narrators, starting with leader Simone, who in a vivid opening scene describes chewing off her umbilical cord in the bed of a pickup truck for lack of a knife. (Well, a clean one—her partner’s dingy blade, like most of the men in this story, doesn’t measure up.) The second narrator, Adela, an aspiring Olympic swimmer until her pregnancy, has been shipped by her family to Padua Beach until she gives birth. The third, Emory, has an infant son, Kai, whom she insists on bringing to high school during her senior year, determined to go to college. Each in their own way claps back against their critics, hyperalert to how they’re diminished: “You wouldn’t believe what happens when a girl these days gets knocked up,” Emory says. “Suddenly, it’s the most important thing about you…You are nothing but a young mother.” Mottley’s lyrical prose and spirited characters are meant to be a counterweight to such reductionism, and there are fine set pieces throughout: bonding over breastfeeding methods, selling “jungle juice” to spring breakers for extra funds, a harrowing homebrew abortion that’s forced by hyperrestrictive state legislation. The plot can get soap opera–ish—Simone’s brother, Jayden, is the father of Emory’s child, and romantic squabbles abound. At times, Mottley’s prose gets overheated: “They don’t tell you in first aid training about the way blood works, about the thump and swirl of red hot beneath the skin and what happens when it runs drought dry.” But the ferocity of her characters gets over, letting an aggressively misunderstood group speak for itself.