Jessica Martinez

“He probably hadn't written it. I knew that. I certainly hadn't written mine. But after yesterday, his pompous sneer was permanently imprinted on my brain, and I could just picture him sitting at a computer and stringing together sentences like, "His golden tone and tender touch have moved audiences across the continent to tears." I was half-surprised it didn't claim his vibrato could cure cancer.”

“I like the scars because I like the stories. Bravery, stupidity, pain—none of them come free.”

“Cute kid. Dimples, curls, he’s like a male Shirley Temple.”

“I don’t know a thing about jazz.” “That’s okay.” He pulled me toward the door and opened it. “You know music. Jazz will explain itself.”

“That church . . . it reminds me of one in downtown Chicago. Do you remember? That beautiful one with the courtyard near the Drake."Jeremy took a newspaper from a stack behind him and sat across from me. "I know the one you're talking about, but that church," he gestured out the window, "is older than America."I sighed. "Of course it is. Did I really just try to compare British and American architecture? How insensitive of me.”

“The violin wasn't alive. It wasn't a baby or an animal, not living. But that would be easier to believe if I hadn't felt it breathe and sing.”

“How about I give you a hin instead?""Sure. I'm sure a hint's all I need anyway.""You think you're pretty smart then?" he said, his voice somewhere between playful and cocky."I only have to be smarter than you think I am, right?""...well now I'm in a position where I have to make it impossibly hard if I don't want to insult you. That wasn't smart at all.""Oh, wow, just give me the hint already.”

“That's to British," I countered."What is?""Making sweeping generalizations about Americans because that makes you feel better about having a national inferiority complex the size of the Atlantic Ocean. I was just trying to be helpful, but if folding your pizza threatens you sense of patriotism, you probably shouldn't do it.”