“Should I push him or should I throw him?" Howie asks."Do what comes naturally," I yelled back."I don't know," he says. "This is a very unnatural thing.”

“This should make him happy. This should change him. But it doesn't. It can't. He's been changed already. And I don't know what to write anymore, because I'm afraid of what it will be. Because I can't think, and she asks me to write, but I won't know what to write. I can't think. I can't think. Isobel. Isobel. Isobel.”

“How do you always know just what to say?" I ask. His laugh rumbles through me. "Practice, I guess."I pull back and give him a quizzical look."I spent three years imagining what I would say to you if you were mine," he says, tugging me close. "I should hope I know what to say now that I've got you.”

“I say we should stake him to an anthill and throw little pickles at him! (Selena)”

“Just thoughts of what I have to do. Homework. And it comes up to my brain and I look at it and think "I'm not going to be able to do that" and then it cycles back down and the next one comes up. And then things come up like "You should be doing more extracurricular activities" because I should, I don't do near enough, and that gets pushed down and it's replaced with the big one: "What college are you going into, Craig?" which is like the doomsday question.”

“What do you want to want to be, anyway?""I don't know; I guess what I want to be is a good Catholic.""What you should say"--he told me--"what you should say is that you want to be a saint.”