“Becky, you're only standing there because I decided I didn't want to.”

“I didn't want to be popular because it was easier; I wanted to be popular because in high school that's the best thing you can be: perfect. Everything else is shit.”

“I don't like you with Becky. She's not a very nice girl.''I don't like you with Jake. He's not me.”

“Then I should be dead really soon, because you're stressing me out.”

“I feel the space beside me in a way that knows he's been gone a while. and my chest is winding itself tight with everything that means for me. What does that mean for me. I don't move because I don't want to move. I keep my eyes closed because I don't want to open my eyes.But eventually you have to move.Eventually you have to open your eyes.There's no note.”

“I want to go into the sympathy card business. . . Forget sappy messages about overcoming. I want ones that say NOW YOU’LL BE A LESSER PERSON THAN YOU WERE or WE CANNOT POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND or I CAN UNDERSTAND BECAUSE SOMEONE I KNOW DIED TOO or maybe something about how grief can make your skin feel sore and bruised and electric because that’s how my skin has felt ever since, except for my hands.”

“...We’re working with paint today and I pick the easel next to Jake’s. It thrills him.“What do you want?”“I want to apologize if you’re offended by the way I am,” I tell him. “But that’s the way I am with everyone. I was just trying to make you feel welcome.”“That’s the crappiest apology I’ve ever heard.”“Well, that’s because I’m not really sorry.”He rolls his eyes. “Right.”