Until this moment, she’d kept Park in a place in her head that she thought Richie couldn't get to. Completely separate from this house and everything that happened here. (It was a pretty awesome place. Like the only part of her head fit for praying.)

It’s just … everything. There are too many people. And I don’t fit in. I don’t know how to be. Nothing that I’m good at is the sort of thing that matters there. Being smart doesn’t matter—and being good with words. And when those things do matter, it’s only because people want something from me. Not because they want me.

Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don’t actually sculpt an object; they sculpt away everything that isn’t the object?

Real life was something happening in her peripheral vision.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,' he said.

You act like there are two kinds of girls,' she said. 'The smart ones and the ones that boys like.

Take your vitamins. Don't drink vodka. Get used to empire waistlines.