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“Sophia, that is the gayest thing I have ever heard.”
In unison, the siblings repeated their favorite refrain: “Just gay enough to work!”
“You’re not Detective Thistler,” Kane said, even though it couldn’t be more obvious. “Ah, how astute. They told me you were a clever one.”
“Thistler is occupied with…I don’t know. Whatever occupies the pathologically heterosexual. Perhaps trying to find just one more use for his three-in-one shampoo–conditioner–body wash? Maybe he ought to use it as a mouthwash, too? It might help that dingy rainbow of a smile he keeps showing everyone.”
“Oh.” Kane was still clutching The Witches. “Nothing. A kid’s book.”
Uhh, That is such a great book! How dare they say such things!
“Oh.” Kane was still clutching The Witches. “Nothing. A kid’s book.”
How dare he say such dastardly things about a exquisitely written book like that?!?!
“Witches interest me,” Dr. Poesy said. “If you look at most female archetypes—the mother, the virgin, the whore—their power comes from their relation to men. But not the Witch. The Witch derives her power from nature. She calls forth her dreams with spells and incantations. With poetry. And I think that’s why we are frightened of them. What’s scarier to the world of men than a woman limited only by her imagination?”
“Ah, so you are smart!
“People like us? We must tell our stories ourselves, you know, or else they will destroy us in their own violent making. And I assure you this truth will destroy you, too, if you’re not careful. It’ll crack you apart from the inside out”—Kane
He could not believe this person was accusing him of lying and blackmailing him into keeping a journal. A fake dream journal.
He wasn’t going to let himself crack apart now. “I’m not an egg,” Kane told the night, pulling out the journal. Into its soft leather cover, he whispered, “I’m not an egg.”
Kane wasn’t scared to talk about his pain; he was scared of making other people listen.
“Hmm. I don’t know, honey. I think you kind of look rock-and-roll, you know? Like, a tough guy. A tough-guy poodle.” She grinned. “Or should I say…a ruff guy.”
“That’s not funny, Mom.” “Well, it certainly seemed to give you…paws.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “That’s not really the right pun, Kane.” He rolled his eyes. “Throw me a bone?”
“Perhaps going back to school will be the perfect thing for your…” “What? Another pun?” “I can’t. I’m your mother.” Kane crossed his arms. “Say it.” “Melan-collie.” “You’re sadistic.”
Viv was always calling herself brutally honest, but she was more concerned with being brutal than with being honest.
“No, Vivian, getting a haircut doesn’t usually hurt unless, like yourself, your head is neck-deep up your own ass.”
“Just because something is imagined doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Sometimes the things we believe in are the most dangerous things about us. That’s why people build entire worlds in their minds. Because they think they’re safe, but they’re wrong. Dreams are like parasites. They grow up in the dark within us, and they grow deadly.
