Casey doesn’t trust him.””Casey doesn’t trust anyone,” I replied. “He’s paranoid like that. I mean, come on, he’s a werewolf who installed a nanny cam in his kids’ room.” I pointed my spoon at Ali for emphasis. “A nanny cam.
Bethany blinked. “Did you just hit me?” she asked, disbelief coloring her every feature.Skylar raised both hands, palms outward. “I come in peace!””You do not come in peace. You hit me.””I hit in peace!
Little-known fact about cheerleaders: They keep schedules that would make grown marines cry.
Home isn’t a place. Home is the people who love you most, the people who will always love you, forever and ever, no matter what.
Sometimes, having friends who were like family was a good thing, and sometimes, it was like having an endless supply of very nosy, very irritating siblings.
Home isn’t a place. It’s not having a bed to come home to, or a yard, or a Christmas tree at the holidays. Home is the people who love you.
You want power-either because you’ve already had a taste of it and want more, or because you’ve been made to feel powerless for too long.
Sometimes, the most dangerous people were the ones you trusted most.
I lie to her. Because this world is not safe. The people who are supposed to protect us, the people we are supposed to trust — I know that sometimes they are the ones who do the most harm.
This was our language: half-truths, obvious lies, accusations neither one of us would ever make. It was a system eery bit as complicated as Morse code or the dancing of bees. Don’t ask, don’t tell, stay civil.
Most of the time, it felt like my father and I were completely different species. Possibly literally, depending on the day and whether or not I actually qualified as human at the time.
Home isn’t a place, Cassie.’ The memory crept up on me. ‘Home is the people who love you most, the people who will always love you, forever and ever, no matter what.
I am everything. I am nothing. I am powerful. I am forgotten.
Celine snorted. “Never have I ever had a thing for blondes,” she said. And then, her eyes on Sloane, she shot our statistician a dazzling smile and lowered her own finger —meaning that she did have a thing for blondes.
Three questions,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers as I spoke. “One: do you have a car? Two: do you have plans tonight? And three: how fast can you drive?
Well,” a female voice said. “What have we here?””Here,” Bethany said, responding to the woman’s rhetorical question, “we have a teenager. And she’s pissed.