“We mutinied quietly, using every lesson we’d been taught by every person who’d ever used us for their own benefit.”

“Meredith's a big girl. She knows how babies are made, don't you, Mer?"I nod, numb and weary. "'Course I do. Same guy that taught you taught me.”

“Maybe it's true that shared trauma brings people closer together-a common hardship, a battle to survive-because when times are quiet people relax and go their own separate ways. They're lulled into believing they've got everything under control and don't need what they did before.”

“We have babies because we want them to love us, to make us important, but the only make us tired and fat and stinking of spit up because they're babies, not saviors. Their fathers leave us, sick of crap and sour milk, sweatpants and tears. But the babies still need all of us, only there isn't anything left to give because we based our worth on the lowlifes who knocked us up and around. So our babies end up screwed up and screwed with because not we're single again, too, so we're bringing home guys who secretly like pink satin baby skin more than our silvery stretch marks. We don't see what we should see because having anyone is till supposedly better than being alone.”

“I know the grim probability of my own future. The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that id I don't keep hold of myself I will lose what's left.”

“He shook his head and gave this laugh, a good laugh, and just looked at me. "You always this happy?""No," I said, laughing. "It's you. Every time I see you, I just...I don't know. You make me smile.”

“Now, I learned a long time ago how to be quiet on the outside while I'm freaking on the inside. How to turn away like I don't see all the things that need to be seen, just to keep peace. How to lie low and act like I want nothing, expect nothing, and hope for nothing so I don't become more trouble than I'm worth. I'm five months short of eighteen and I know how to be cursed and ignored and left behind, how to swallow a thousand tears and ignore a thousand delibarate cruelties, but it's two in the morning on New Year's Eve and I'm mad and scared and bone tired and really, really sick of acting like I'm grateful to be staying on a hairy, sagging, dog-stained couch in a junky, mildewed trailer with a fat, dangerous, volatile drunk who sweats stale beer and wallows in his own wastewater, and who doesn't think there's one thing wrong with taking his crap life out on his dog, who comes bellying back for forgiveness every single time, no matter how rotten the treatment-”