She's alone, they kept telling themselves, and surely she danced in no one's arms, yet somehow that seemed to matter less and less. As the night went on, and clarinet and coyote call mingled beyond the lantern light, the magic of their own powder-blue jackets and orchids seemed to fade, and it came to them in small sensations that they were more alone than she was.

She laughed when there was no joke. She danced when there was no music. She had no friends, yet she was the friendliest person in school.

In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew

I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.

Because life doesn't always happen according to a timetable or calendar. And feelings can't be scheduled.

Every day I hold my breath until I see her. Sometimes in class, sometimes in the hallway. I can't start breathing until I see her smile at me. She always does, but the next day I'm always afraid she won't. At lunch I'm afraid she'll smile more at BT than at me. I'm afraid she'll look at him in some way that she doesn't look at me. I'm afraid that when I go to bed at night I'll still be wondering. I'm always afraid. Is that what love is - fear?

Life is populated with scarecrows—all those people and things that seem so scary and trouble our sleep. Isn't it nice to know that most of them turn out to be made of nothing but straw?