I'm one, too," he said. "What?" He spit a wad of blood and mucus into the dirt. "A virgin." What a shock. "What makes you think I'm a virgin?" I asked. "You wouldn't have hit me if you weren't.

I didn't save you," he whispers, lips tickling my eyelashes. "You saved me.

Could there be irony crueler than this? How, upon his rescue, the truth had brought him here, to a house for the mad, for only a madman believes what every child knows to be true: There are monsters that lie in wait under our beds.

She hated him and loved him, longed for him and loathed him, and cursed herself for feeling anything at all

Self-pity is egotism undiluted, after all—self-centeredness in its purest form.

And red is not the color of apples or roses or the dresses that pretty girls wear in the summertime. That is not the color of red at all.

After another half second, he's locked me in a bear hug, crushing me into his chest and lifting my feet a couple inches off the ground as I kick furiously with my heels, twisting my head back and forth, snapping at his forearm with my teeth. And the whole time his lips tickling the delicate skin of my ear. "Cassie. Don't. Cassie..." "Let...me...go." "That's been the whole problem. I can't.