“The bell on the cat's collar roused her. He'd brought her something: a baby pigeon stolen from its nest, mauled and draped on Jacey's pillowcase. The thing was pink, nearly translucent, with magenta cheeks and lavender around the eyes. It looked like a half-cooked eraser with dreams of someday becoming a prostitute. -- Wild America”

“You know, you're not so bad when you try to be nice." "It's not easy." He looked down as he brought the end of the towel around his hip. "Damn thing's pink."The corner of her mouth twitched. "You're man enough to carry it off. Or are you afraid you aren't pretty in pink?""Baby, I'm so pretty in pink, I'm worried you won't be able to help yourself.”

“With her wild red hair draped around her pallid visage, she could easily be mistaken for a nymph from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. But then again, those nymphs were rarely hung-over or quite such a freckled, busty little thing.”

“I bet she woke up with her hair looking like something out of a Pantene commercial while little bluebirds circled around her head, and raccoons brought her breakfast or something.”

“Tracy, the leader of the CDH group, looks at me with eyes that seem to belong to someone three times her age. It's something beyond wisdom, all the way to insanity and back. It's like her eyes are scarred from all the things she's seen.”

“The blond stuffs her hairbrush, which is now spun with gold and black silk (a miniature angel's nest) back into her backpack next to her anthology of English literature. The pages are so thin, they're like dead girls' dreams, translucent skin. On them it seems that everything that has ever been thought has been written.”