“Johnny made me feel like I was clever without trying to be. And pretty. And valued. He made everything about me seem more special.Like, say I was a song. Well, Johnny made me feel as though I’d been remixed. The melody didn’t change, but it wasn’t just the same one-dimensional sequence of notes anymore. Instead, he brought out all these harmonies — these low and high notes — that made the music fuller. No more discord or dissonance. Around Johnny, I was the best possible rendition of myself.”

“So I've made up with Mar. I've made up with Señor Shitslacks. I'd even forged a shaky truce with Amanda. The only person I still needed to deal with was Johnny Mercer. Oh yeah, I had to kill Gabe Walker, too, but there was plenty of time for that.”

“According to Marcie's mom, only people with no class actually use the word class. If you have it, then you never talk about it.""Oh". Johnny nodded slowly. "Just like herpes.”

“He said, “So . . . do you like music?” It was a pretty stupid question. I mean, who doesn’t like music? Okay, maybe some puritanical zealot out in Hicksville. But really. It was kind of like asking, “Do you like food?” “Isn’t oxygen great?” “Have you got skin? I do.” I knew what he meant, though.”

“I couldn't help daydreaming that I was Elizabeth and Gabe was Mr. Darcy. fighting against his blossoming feelings for me. Discovering that his passion was beyond his control and finding me more and more desirable each time we met.”

“Over the years, I’d learned that under the bed was the best place to keep anything I didn’t want found, because there was so much crap—papers, magazines, dirty socks, grocery bags—that no one would ever suspect that anything of value was under there. Sort of like hiding in plain sight.”

“She set her hands neatly in her lap. “But you just said he liked you.” “No, I said he enjoys my company. That is, he enjoys hating me. Or pretending to hate me. I don’t know which. But I’m finding it difficult to completely dislike someone who gets pleasure from having me around. ...“So he likes being mean to you,” she said. “And you like that he likes being mean to you.” “And I like being mean to him, too, don’t forget.” “Of course not. Pleasure from meanness. There’s a name for it: sadomasochism.”