Next to her, even the prettiest djamphir boys looked gawky.

Oh, the testosterone. You could have cut it with a cafeteria spoon.

I don't believe in getting clothes that just look pretty or that'll fall apart—they have to stand up to a lot of abuse.

I don't even have moderately big breasticles. They just look like - well, nevermind what they look like. At least they stay strapped down when I worm into a sports bra.

No problem, Goth Boy. First one's free.

Would I be as strong as that once I did that thing Christophe was talking about? Blooming? Would I smell like a bakery item? Or was that just him? Did he use pie filling for cologne?

How had I managed to tie my boots? I didn’t even remember getting dressed. I was out here in public at the mall. What was I wearing? Jeans. I could feel socks. I had my boots on. I plucked at the edge of my t-shirt and saw it was red. I was wearing Dad’s spare Army jacket, and there was a heavy weight in the right pocket that had to be something deadly.