I drive him to school, then I break back into Barron's house. I'm the best kind of thief, the kind that leaves behind items equal in value to those he's stolen. Then I go home and shave until my skin is as slick as any slickster's.
Yesterday when we went over the plan again and again, I never thought about Grandad showing up. Because I'm an idiot, basically--an idiot with poor planning skills. Of course he's here. Where else would he be? Seriously, what else could go wrong?
Farewell, Father," she said. He fell back upon his chair, choking. She laughed, not with mirth or even mockery, but something that was closer to a sob. "You crafted me so sharp, I cut even myself.
And if I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't throw myself off a roof. And if I was going to throw myself off a roof, I would put on some pants before I did it.
My head is pounding. I wish the mints were aspirin.
I can't trust the people I care about not to hurt me. And I'm not sure I can trust myself not to hurt them, either.
I have no memory of climbing the stairs up to the roof. I don't even know how to get where I am, which is a problem since I'm going to have to get down, ideally in a way that doesn't involve dying.
We have about three hours of homework a night, and our evening study period is only two hours, so if you want to spend the break at half-past-nine not freaking out, you have to cram. I'm not sure that the picture of the wide-eyed zombie girl biting out the brains of senior douchebag James Page is part of Sam's homework, bit if it is, his physics teacher is awesome.
Flattery will get you everywhere," Sam says, "Except, apparently, off a roof.
Once someone's hurt you, it's harder to relax around them, harder to think of them as safe to love. But it doesn't stop you from wanting them.
Carney is like a graveyard where everyone already owns their plots and has built houses on top of them.
She says that what you did was a cry for help." "It was," I say. "That's why I was yelling 'Heeeelp!' I don't really go in for subtlety.
She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.
The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.
It demeans you to cover rotten meat with honey. I know what I am. What would you want with a monster?" "Everything.
Everyone danced -- sweaty bodies packed tight, drunk with sound.
It's not that I want you to be a certain way--don't you want a boyfriend?" "Why bother with that? Let's find incubi." "Incubi?" "Demons. Plural. Like octopi. And we're much more likely to find them"--her voice dropped conspiratorially--"while swimming naked in the Atlantic a week before Halloween than practically anywhere else I can think of.
Nevermore," Lolli said. "That's what Luis calls it, because there are three rules: Never more than once a day, never more than a pinch at a time, and never more than two days in a row.
It's starting to sink in," Corny said. "I can almost look at you without wanting to bang my head against the wall.
He’s quiet then. We lie next to each other, twin corpses waiting for burial.
She can’t help it. She loves the con. I tell myself I’m not like her, but I have to admit I love it too.
Memory is slippery. It bends to our understanding of the world, twists to accommodate our prejudices. It is unreliable. Witnesses seldom remember the same things. They identify the wrong people. They give us the details of events that never happened. Memory is slippery, but my memories suddenly feel slipperier.
For me the curse is a crutch, but the con is everything.
Because I am about to be devoured by poodles," I quip. "Remember me always, my love.
She’s an old lady,” Barron says. “And she’s been locked up for years. Let her have some fun. She needs to blow off steam. Seduce old dudes. Lose money at canasta.
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