Hamilton had a complaint. "Why did you have to tell the cops I'm your boyfriend? That's gross, Amy. We're related!" Amy was disgusted. "We had a common ancestor, like, five hundred years ago. Besides, if they think we're together, we only have to come up with one story, and I can do all the talking." "Hey, I got an early acceptance to Notre Dame," Hamilton said defensively. "I can talk." "Of course you can," Amy soothed. "It's what you say that might get us into trouble.

Dan was suspicious. "How did he find out where we were staying?" Amy frowned. "I think that's the message inside the message. He wants us to know that he has a long reach–that's he's rich and powerful." "Like we'll see his giant mansion and assume he works at Burger King," scoffed Dan.

Nellie Gomez awoke to a splitting headache. Worse, she was still hungry. "Where's my croissant?" she demanded of the person leaning over her. "Dear child," came a strangely familiar voice. "Don't 'dear child' me!" she snapped. The twenty-two-year-old punk rocker ran black-polished fingernails through black-and-orange-dyed hair, which did nothing to soothe the pounding behind her black-shaded eyes. "Give me my croissant or I'll–" It was then that she suddenly realized she was threatening the venerable Alistair Oh. "Alistair, what are you doing here?

Ian sighed wanly. "I once had the means to be gaga over art–before I found myself in a country where the standard of beauty is toaster waffles shaped like cartoon characters.

I hate France. It's like the whole country's on a diet

Sinead broke in. "The cops need to know what to do with Evan, Amy. What should I tell them?" "Shoot to kill?" Ian suggested.

You don't get Billie Joe Armstrong's autograph on your forehead without following your instincts.