I don't have a car." His eyes sliced into mine. "I walked here," I explained. "I'm on foot." "Angel," he said in a way that sounded like he sincerely hoped I was joking.

You’ve never been to school, ever? If that’s true—and you’re right, I don’t think it is—what made you decide to come this year?” “You.

Well, well,” he said. “Five days a week isn’t enough of me? Had to give me an evening, too?

It didn't escape me that he couldn't seem to stop finding reasons to touch me. Nor did I miss that I didn't want him to stop.

Patch reached for my hand and pushed my dad's ring off the tip of his finger and into my palm, curling my fingers around it. He kissed my knuckles. "I was going to give this back earlier, but it wasn't finished." I opened my palm and held the ring up. The same heart was engraved on the underside, but now there were two names carved on either side of it: NORA and JEV. I looked up. "Jev? That's your real name?" "Nobody's called me that in a long time.

You're mine, Angel, and don't you forget it. Your fights are my fights. What if something bad had happened today? It was bad enough when I thought your ghost was haunting me; I don't think I can handle the real thing.

Why is Anthony Amowitz using his pimp smile on you?” “You’re only calling him a pimp because he’s here. At Marcie’s.” “Yeah, so?” “He’s being nice.” I elbowed her. “Smile back.” “Being nice? He’s being horny.