Elements of Chemistry: Attraction (Hypothesis, #1)

by Penny Reid

I hated the word ugly. It was an ugly word.

it’s not like I was a horrible beast who turned people into stone with a single gaze. I was just…low maintenance.

I didn’t see the value in spending hours in front of a mirror when I could be playing video games, or playing the guitar, or reading a book instead.

he was what I imagined a good kisser would kiss like. The kind girls fantasize about. The guy who just takes what he wants, like he’s hungry and you’re on the menu, but somehow makes it epic for both parties involved.

I wasn’t a damsel. I wasn’t going to need rescuing. If anyone was a damsel in this situation it was Martin Sandeke.

Even though you don’t feel calm doesn’t mean you can’t be calm.

I understood my previous reluctance to gaze at him directly. It was called self-preservation.

I realized I’d been acting like a crazy person. Proximity to Martin made me lose my sense. I’d been senseless. Without sense. Not any sense. No sense.

He’s the man equivalent of a gun to the head, except without the fear for my life aspect.

“Coward.” “Is a chameleon a coward because it can change its color? No. It’s evolved and awesome. I like to think of myself in a similar fashion. There is nothing wrong with having a strong sense of self-preservation.”

He was so handsome I felt like filing a civil lawsuit against his parents, claiming punitive damages, pain and suffering to my psyche.

All girls should be treated with respect regardless of whether or not they’re virgins.

He was so…lookable. And lookable wasn’t even a word.

I felt like Scarlett O’Hara after she was kissed by Rhett Butler, confused and anxious and swoony and wanting it to happen again.

Fools fight compliments, she’d said, and sometimes other people see you better than you can see yourself.

I blinked at Martin and a dawning and disturbing realization took root. Martin Sandeke wasn’t used to freely voicing his thoughts and feelings…nor was he used to kindness.

I’d entered the bizzaro world of the obscenely rich where baths were drawn and leave was taken.

I kept thinking how silly it was to run around a grassy field, kick a ball into a net, and think of it as an accomplishment. Finishing War and Peace, now that was an accomplishment.

“You’re starved for physical intimacy. He’s starved for emotional intimacy. Maybe you can help him and help yourself.”

once again my dirty thoughts were at odds with what I knew was smart, with what I knew was right.

The nice thing about having life rules is that you can make up new ones on the spot when it’s convenient.

She told me I should be proud of my healthy shape and healthy body, and love and treasure it because it was mine. No one, she said, could tell me what to think of my body. If I let another person’s opinion matter I was giving him or her control over me, and I had complete control over my self-image.

It seemed to me that perfect—the word and all its connotations—might feel a bit like a cage, a defined floor and ceiling.

The only element I believe in is the element of surprise.

“You’re the girl that guys like us, if we’re smart and if we’re lucky that is, you’re the girl we marry. You’re the marriage girl.”

“I have two sisters, and I tell them this all the time. Be the marriage girl. Don’t be the hook-up girl. Don’t be her. She’s stupid and shallow. Yes, she gets lots of male attention, dressing in her sexy lumberjack or sexy nun costumes…for a time. But then she’s used up, hardened, disillusioned and desperate, because no one stays with the hook-up girl.”

Sometimes I hate it when I’m right. Sometimes I love it when I’m wrong.

I once tried being dramatic when I was fourteen. My mother told me to add it to the calendar.

Boys were so epically strange and obviously placed on the earth to torture girls.