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289 pages, Hardcover
First published June 2, 2020
“And this other guy, he makes you happy?”
“It’s not his job to make me happy,” she told him.”
“That summer she would fall in and out of love more than once,
in different ways
in different possible worlds.”
“Alabaster Preparatory Academy is a boarding school. It is the sort of place that offers classes like Eastern Religions, Theories of Popular Culture, and Microeconomic Theory. Students play lacrosse and row crew. They live in quaint residence halls that smell of wood and have no elevators. There is a chapel with large stained-glass windows. Most of the buildings are gray stone. There are woods on one side of the campus, and there’s a small town on the other.”
“Adelaide wasn’t depressed. She never felt bleak. She had energy. She was talky. She painted her fingernails green and wore floral-print dresses and enormous cardigan sweaters.
But you can be talky and paint your fingernails and still be very sad.
In fact, you can be talky and paint your fingernails to protect other people from how sad you are.”
“Romantic obsessional tendency—that is not a good quality in a person.”
“I AM NOT THE GUY WHO did narcotics and told the lies and took cash from your wallet and wouldn’t talk to you and acted terrible in therapy and was just a thunder-butt.
I mean, I did all that stuff. I just don’t want to walk around every day saying to myself, I am a complete and utter shit. I feel like a reasonably nice human.
I would rather say I used to be an addict.
But that is NOT what you are supposed to say.
You have to say, I am an addict.
[…]
And Mom is scared of the addict.
Justifiably scared,
Like it might take me over, like a werewolf changing at the full moon.
And she can’t trust the me that’s here because of the addict that’s inside”
“And this other guy, he makes you happy?”["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>
“It’s not his job to make me happy,” she told him.”
“I would let a creepy doctor with a secret basement lab shoot a
random glowing substance into my ear if I knew it would stop me from feeling the way I do.
I tried listening to happy music and
putting on a ton of makeup. So much makeup. Then my
eyebrows (with their makeup) looked scary and
their scariness made me depressed.”
“I was depressed by my own eyebrows.”