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The other boys were mad for her. Thomas was mad for her plaid skirt.
She had blue eye shadow, hair that screamed Madison Avenue salon, eyebrows in a permanent state of raised wonder, like the world was constantly throwing her pleasant surprises.
Don’t be déclassé and steal, because stolen clothes never looked good or right on nobody.
she didn’t believe in paying no attention to people who didn’t give a shit about her. Didn’t matter if that person was a person or god herself.
“I call everyone a girl, even the muscle boys like you. Unless they’re being bad! Then I don’t call them nothing!”
“I suppose it’s important to remember, in times like this,” Angel said above the music, “that we simply cannot blame the straight world for their lack of imagination.”
Passing is an art form, darling. It’s a craft. And just like any craft, the artistic ideal is always impossible to achieve.
When she needed to see the wonders of creation, she went to the public library, like Hector did,
She couldn’t ever say why another person was crying at any given time, because she couldn’t read minds. That seemed to her one of the most heartbreaking things about being human.
she was also sad that she wasn’t lucky enough to have the kind of life where she didn’t need to depend on the kindess of strangers.
He always thought that the hands were the most intimate part of the body. All the face-lifts in the world, but the hands? Ain’t nothing the doctors could do to the hands.
