We like the wrong sorts of girls, they wrote. They are usually the ones worth writing about.

Metamorphosis is the most profound of all acts.

We all just keep moving, September. We keep moving until we stop.

It is such hard work to keep your heart hidden! And worse, by the time you find it easy, it will be harder still to show it. It is a terrible magic in this world to ask for exactly the thing you want. Not least because to know exactly the thing you want and look it in the eye is a long, long labor.

She liked anything orange: leaves; some moons; marigolds; chrysanthemums; cheese; pumpkin, both in pie and out; orange juice; marmalade. Orange is bright and demanding. You can't ignore orange things. She once saw an orange parrot in the pet store and had never wanted anything so much in her life. She would have named it Halloween and fed it butterscotch. Her mother said butterscotch would make a bird sick and, besides, the dog would certainly eat it up. September never spoke to the dog again — on principle.

She felt as she often did in class when she was nearly sure she had the right answer, but could not always make herself raise her hand.

Someone ought to write a novel about me.