“You, strange puzzle of a girl, are very lucky.”

“A tall, thin boy with choppy black hair stood next to her. He eyed Isobel as she approached, sizing her up, grinning like he found something funny. She glared at him in return, ready for him to say just one thing about her cheer uniform, because she knew he must have pulled the black jeans he wore straight from the girls' rack at Target.”

“She edged away from him, trying to put a greater distance between herself and Creepy McCreeperson. She bent down, careful not to let her eyes leave him, and plucked up a hairbrush from where it had fallen on her floor. She held it at arm’s length in front of herself, a stupid weapon feeling better than no weapon at all. At the very least, she could give him style.”

“I told you you’d come," said a nearby voice, one Isobel knew well. "You said you would."(…)"You shouldn’t have, though," he said, and looked up, his face twisted with anger. "Even if we knew you would, you shouldn’t have." He got up and began moving toward her."Why," he growled, "when we will only show you we are not worth it? Why, when we have no other choice but to prove to you we’re not worth it?”

“You never give up, even when you should.”

“You can touch me, but you can't hurt me.”

“I can't help it that I'm susceptible to you," he whispered. "You know that. It's just that you're so...unreal...and so I have to touch you. If only to be certain that I'm not the one who's dreaming. You see, I hear that sort of thing is going around.”