All of her bones seemed more purposeful than other people’s. Like they weren’t just there to hold her up, they were there to make a point.

Ah." He set down his backpack and pulled out their notebook. "You're working on your final project?" "Indirectly," Cath said. "What does that mean?" "Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don't actually sculpt an object; they sculpt away everything that isn't the object?" "No." He sat down. "Well, I'm writing everything that isn't my final project, so that when I actually sit down to write it, that's all that will be left in my mind.

I wonder…,” she said, “if there was such a thing as time machines, would anyone ever use them to go to the future?

You don’t have to be the kind of beautiful that everyone can agree on. If the right person finds you beautiful, you win. You win forever.

That was the beauty in stacking up words--they got cheaper, the more you had of them.

Eggnog reminds me of mucus." "Me, too. But in a good way.

Well,” she said. “I’m frustrated.” “Don’t make me angry-kiss you.” “Give me the laundry.” “Tempers rising, faces flushed … This is how it happens.