If I can write a book that will help the world make a little more sense to a teen, then that's why I was put on the planet.

I lift my arm out of the water. It's a log. Put it back under and it blows up even bigger. People see the log and call it a twig. They yell at me because I can't see what they see. Nobody can explain to me why my eyes work different than theirs. Nobody can make it stop.

Hannah was about to burst with excitement, which would have been disgusting because she would have sprayed blood, guts and glitter in every direction.

For one moment we are not failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays; we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds.

My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into pieces.

You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl.

If I can write a book that will help the world make a little more sense to a teen, then that's why I was put on the planet.