“You don't pray?" Ram asks."Which one should I pray to," I say flatly, "the dragon, or the fairy?"Ram stares at me.I tug on my ponytail. "That's our religion," I explain, suddenly self-conscious. "A mountain fairy married a dragon. That's where we all come from." I can see the shy smile poking at Ram's lips. "You're half-fairy?""And half-dragon," I remind him."Right. Definitely.”

“Just don't eat all of it," Ram fusses. "It could be tampered with. You should show it to your dad first, he'll know--""Ram has Seahorse Syndrome," Sahara tells me wisely."What's that?" I ask."In seahorses the dad's the one who gets pregnant and has babies. We learned about it in life science class. Ram thinks he's a mother hen. So he must be a seahorse.”

“His words slow my pulse. His fingers, square and even, feel nonpareil entwined with mine. He is symmetry. He is color."Never," I tell him. "I will never go away.""You're sure about that?""I'm sure I can't live with a Ram-sized hole in my chest.""That would be a pretty big hole, I think," Ram says."Don't be so sure. You're short.""Hey," Ram protests."I worry for you on carnival rides.""I get on carnival rides just fine, thanks.""The operator doesn't stop you?""Tim," He pauses. "Sometimes.”

“You'll have to forgive me," Dad said. His mouth was moving very little, a sign that he was tense. "I'm not...familiar with...the protocol. For boys like you. But I..."I felt my face turning red. No, no, no. Quit while you're ahead, Dad. Please."I'm sure you have...urges," Dad went on. "All teenage boys have...urges. I don't know whether you've...tried anything--"I said please!"Just as long as you're safe. That's very important. You still have to be safe, even if you're both boys. I don't know what really...um, entails. You know. How you...do things. I could look it up for you--"I clapped my hand over Dad's mouth. I took him by his arm, my face burning, and dragged him back to the field.”

“In Shoshone, there's a saying. It's a long one, and it doesn't have an English equivalent, so bear with me.Sutummu tukummuinna. It means, I don't speak your language, and you don't speak mine. But I still understand you. I don't need to walk in your footsteps if I can see the footprints you left behind.”

“We'd better go," I say. "It's time for you to make Hmong babies."Toua pulls free from my grasp. "You little--""Go. Further the great Flower Clan. The mountainous homeland will sing from your victorious loins.""You're disgusting!”

“I picked up my flute and smiled, eyebrows dancing. "Why don't you show her your straight dance?""Is there a gay dance, too?" Mickey asked.”