That's it. Gently now," Reagan said to Nellie. "We'll move onto the hard stuff tomorrow." "This...isn't...the hard stuff?" Nellie spit out through gritted teeth. Reagan grinned. "You really hate me right now, don't you?" "Immeasurably." "Good. Give me ten.

C'mon, Amy, cinnamon rolls are calling us." Dan put a hand to his ear. "Do you hear? 'Amy? Dan?'" he squeaked. "'Come and get my sugary, sticky goodness!

There's something wrong with the brakes." He didn't recognize his shaky, weak voice. He pumped them again. Nothing. "There's something wrong with the BRAKES?" "I don't think we have any." "We don't have any BRAKES?" "Bro, it doesn't help to repeat everything I say!" Jonah yelled.

That's it. Gently now," Reagan said to Nellie. "We'll move onto the hard stuff tomorrow." "This...isn't...the hard stuff?" Nellie spit out through gritted teeth. Reagan grinned. "You really hate me right now, don't you?" "Immeasurably." "Good. Give me ten.

I always wanted a father. Any kind. A strict one, a funny one, one who bought me pink dresses, one who wished I was a boy. One who traveled, one who never got up out of his Morris chair. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. I wanted shaving cream in the sink and whistling on the stairs. I wanted pants hung by their cuffs from a dresser drawer. I wanted change jingling in a pocket and the sound of ice cracking in a cocktail glass at five thirty. I wanted to hear my mother laugh behind a closed door.

Hamilton awkwardly folded himself into the passenger seat. "Couldn't you get something bigger?" he asked as he banged his knee against the dashboard. "We're supposed to be a diversion," Jonah said. "Got to make an entrance. Can't do that in a minivan, Giganto Boy. Can't do much in a minivan except look about as uncool as it gets." "Hey! My dad drives a minivan." "Snap.

I understood the word 'swoon'. It felt that way, like 'sweep' and 'moon' and 'woo', all those words smashed together in one word that stood for that feeling, right then.