When we kiss, his lips on mine are like CPR-- breathing the life back into me.

We've turned off all the lights in the living room to make hand shadows. We've got this big flashlight aimed at the wall. I make the silhouette of my hand into a duck. Robin makes his into a rabbit. Now my duck kisses his rabbit And-POOF!- it turns into a turkey. And for some reason this strikes us as hysterically funny. But you probably had to be there.

There’s something so great about this,” she whispers. About what?” I whisper back. About this,” she whispers. About being outlaws. It’s just you and me—against the world.

You're thinking I'm a hopelessly romantic idiot. And you know what? You're right.

My parents are great listeners Which is why I never tell them anything

Madame V begins the lesson by reading aloud the first stanza of a famous French poem: Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langueur Qui penetre mon coeur? Then she looks up and without any warning she calls on me to translate it. I swallow hard, and try: "It's raining in my heart like it's raining in the city. What is this sadness that pierces my heart?" Saying these words out loud, right in front of the whole class, makes me feel like I'm not wearing any clothes.

Culture Clash Dylan says when I meet his mother today I shouldn't mention that I'm Jewish. I say okay, but can I tell her about the HIV postive thing? He gives me a look. I give him one back