She was astonished, and at the same time she knew. There were many things in life like that. You couldn’t imagine it, and then it happened and you couldn’t really imagine it hadn’t.

I killed her once and died for her many times

Besides being asked why I write about young characters, I am often asked how I write about young characters. How do I throw myself across the chasm of full adulthood to relive that period? I guess I don’t, really. Age is not so much a feature of your character, as the spot where you stand for a pretty fleeting time on the arc of your life.

The phone was her worst enemy and her best friend but she never knew which until she answered it.

She wasn't as destructive as Bee. She had never been as dramatic. Rather, she'd slipped carefully, stealthily away from her ghosts.

It was their mothers, long ago. Tibby noted with joy that all four of them were wearing jeans.

She knew whose love she doubted. It wasn't her parents' and it wasn't her friends: It was her own.