Rather than a mountain-steep line that stops abruptly in adolescence, the learning curve of the human body is gradual and endless. Each age offers its own set of embarrassments and obsessions; the characters in Rachel Sherman’s debut short-story collection—keenly aware of their uncomfortable surroundings, both bodily and suburban—are no exception.

In opener “The Reaper,” a standout that originally appeared in n+1, a teenager’s class assignment—to adopt a soldier at war as a pen pal—leaves her with unexpectedly inappropriate letters: “Dear Beth . . . I play cards and THIS IS THE REAPER! WHEN I AM BORED I MASTURBATE AND THINK ABOUT YOU.” Like the clownish red birthmarks marring her face, she obsesses over his letters in private, ashamed to embrace the skewed beauty of both. Whether the physical or emotional was the first element of Sherman’s characters’ lives to collapse is never stated; that the body is used as both scapegoat and punching board doesn’t need to be. In “Two Stories; Single Family; Scenic View,” it’s unclear whether the wife’s drinking caused her twins’ deformities or vice versa. And in the title story, the narrator lets her skin problems get in the way of her relationships with her grandmother (whom she blames as the cause) and her unrequited crush. But the face-picking never stops.

Thankfully, these unsettling stories avoid florid descriptions and tidy resolutions. Like her characters’ own self-assessment, Sherman’s spare, detached style yields a somewhat cold take on sexuality, reminiscent of A.M. Homes and Mary Gaitskill. Even when a story’s not about the body—as in “Tag Sale,” when a girl befriends a man at his moving sale—everyone is out of place or unwanted. Such well-developed pathos makes for surprisingly round, desolate, and empathy-evoking characters: If you can’t understand your own body or life, what hope is there for anyone else to understand it?

Lacking the self-esteem and wisdom to know otherwise, the inhabitants of Hurt—most in their 20s or younger—make their bodies the business of others; private matters become public knowledge. In “Jewish Hair,” the narrator observes, “All the tricks Ida knew to divert her one pain always caused another.” While Sherman giving her characters so many physical discomforts might appear to be symbolic, these corporeal fixations are real and ripe for the grappling, their reach felt well beyond the page. And as anyone who’s ever inhabited a body—especially that of a young woman—can attest, each new hurt can indeed feel like the first.