the_cat’s Reviews > The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag > Status Update

I paused at the door … and turned.
“If anyone wants me,” I said, “I shall be upstairs, weeping at the bottom of my closet.”

I love this girl ;)

Eleven-year-olds are supposed to be unreliable. We’re past the age of being poppets: the age where people bend over and poke us in the tum with their fingers and make idiotic noises that sound like “boof-boof”—just the thought of which is enough to make me bring up my Bovril. And yet we’re still not at the age where anyone ever mistakes us for a grown-up. The fact is, we’re invisible—except when we choose not to be.