Lit majors are not known for watching where they're going; most of us walk with our eyes in a book instead of on the path ahead.

It's suspiciously quiet in here, and there's a Tod shaped dent in the bean bag. For the sake of both my sanity and my temper, I'm going to pretend I can't tell that you're in his lap, so could you pretend that this is still my house and you are still my daughter, and I'm within my parental rights to kick your boyfriend out after 11:00 p.m.?

Standing, I turned to face my father. “It’s the same as the scent on Moore. It’s definitely a foreign cat, but it’s...more, somehow.” Ethan snickered at my unintentional pun, but I ignored him.

I could take care of that obstacle for her - I'd tear down anything standing between us - but I couldn't destroy what I couldn't even see.

It's kind of like when a clock battery runs down. The hour and minute hands don't disappear, but they don't keep ticking either. They freeze on the last minute they measured.

If Eastlake High School were the universe, I would be one of the moons circling Planet Emma, constantly hidden by her shadow, and glad to be there. Nash Hudson would be one of the stars: too bright to look at, too hot to touch and at the center of his own solar system.

I'm dead, not impotent. Nasty rumors like that must be squashed before they gain momentum. Feel free to emphasize how very functional I am.