The Scorpio Races

by Maggie Stiefvater

She is my mare and my best friend, and I keep waiting for something bad to happen to her, because I love her too much.

There are moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life and there are moments that you think you’ll remember for the rest of your life, and it’s not often they turn out to be the same moments.

Neatness makes me feel like I have to be on my best behavior. Clutter is my natural habitat.

She had a short fuse this morning, because it was a day that ended with y, you see.”

“Boys,” she says, “just aren’t very good at being afraid.”

“Well, your face looks like it remembers a smile,”

I wonder how long it will take for me to feel as adult inside as I look outside.

“It’s easy to convince men to love you, Puck. All you have to do is be a mountain they have to climb or a poem they don’t understand. Something that makes them feel strong or clever. It’s why they love the ocean.” I’m not sure that is why Sean Kendrick loves the ocean.

His wife’s the brand of Christian that forbids a gathering that involves young women dancing in the streets but not races where men die.

I’d always thought I was above being fascinated by anyone but myself.

It strikes me as a strange, luxurious statement. It assumes you’ll have not only that moment when you take the first bite but then enough moments in front of it for that mouthful to become a memory. My future’s not that certain that I can afford to wonder what will become of the taste later. And in any case, the November cake tastes plenty sweet to me now.

I’m quite happy for the smile, because Dad told me once you should be grateful for the gifts that are the rarest.

I say, “I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick.” Now he looks at me. He says, very softly, “It’s late for that, Puck.”

“What I need is for your mother to have thought a little harder nine months before your birthday.”

I loved how they formed their own identity quite separate from the “Mainland,” no matter what that mainland might be.