“They managed to describe fifteen different weapons you’re an expert in, but they couldn’t even mention that I’m running for prom queen?” Brooke moaned.”

“Despite myself, I wince.  Everything about her screams “psychopath” – and not the ho-hum, hey-kid-I’m-a-creepy-loner-who’s-gonna-chop-you-up-and-eat-you kind that Hollywood adores.  She’s the truly effed-up variety.  The hey-bitch-I’m-the-pageant-spawned-nightmare-who’s-gonna-make-you-wish-you-were-dead-if-you-even-think-about-running-against-me-for-Prom-Queen type.  And it’s got me checking for the nearest exit.Until he steps in.”

“Plans could change in a heartbeat, though, couldn’t they? The wind shifts and the clouds rush in. The air sparks and hums, and before you can even think about running, you’re standing in the middle of a storm.”

“Then she (Queen Christina) stood with the Prince and grinned like a monkey and waved like a fucked-up prom queen while about a thousand flashbulb went off in her face.”

“Hurricanes couldn’t remove you from my mind. You’re my world and I’m incapable of not loving you.”

“It makes Brooke feel strange in her stomach. It is like the feeling when she reads a book like the one about the man with the bomb, or thinks a sentence, just any old sentence like: the girl ran across the park, and unless you add the describing word then the man or the girl are definitely not black, they are white, even though no one has mentioned white, like when you take the the out of a headline and people just assume it's there anyway. Though if it were a sentence about Brooke herself you'd have to add the equivalent describing word and that's how you'd know. The black girl ran across the park.”