Liars, Inc.

When you care about someone, you can’t just turn that off because you learn they betrayed you.

To me, Mother Nature isn't nearly as scary as human nature.

A lot of kids think high school represents the best years of their lives, but others recognize that it's mostly irrelevant bullshit, and that life doesn't even begin until afterward.

I study her expression, trying to memorize what love looks like, just in case things don’t work out. Apparently, it looks vulnerable, like a dog that’s been hit by a car. Just lying there on the pavement, waiting for you to run into the street and scoop it up in your arms.

The truth doesn't get you very far on the streets, or in a group home, or even in high school. That's probably why the idea of Liars, Inc. appealed to me. Everybody lies. You might as well get paid for it.

Maybe I could dole out the truth in tiny pieces that, once assembled, would make a picture that resembled a reality in which I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I don’t make to-do lists, but if I did, today’s would have gone something like this: 1. get drunk, 2. get laid, 3. go surfing (not necessarily in that order.) Noticeably absent from the list: get arrested. And yet here I am, spending my eighteenth birthday with my back against the wall of the Colonel’s hunting cabin, two FBI agents prowling the dark with their guns drawn, both trying to get me to confess to the murder of my friend Preston DeWitt.

It's like that. When you care about someone so much that you'll do anything - even stupid or destructive things - for them." "That sounds more like mental illness than love.

It kind of sucks having nothing to lose, but it sucks even worse having everything good taken away from you.

Darla adjusts the collar of her nightgown. “Do you love her?” I slouch forward. “I don’t know. What does that even mean?” A smile plays at her lips. “Remember when you hit that kid with a rock because he was bullying Amanda?” “Yeah.” Not my finest hour, but he kind of deserved it. “It’s like that. When you care about someone so much that you’ll do anything—even stupid or destructive things—for them.” “That sounds more like mental illness than love.

I’m not afraid of the dark or what hides within its shadows. To me, Mother Nature isn’t nearly as scary as human nature.

You have until midnight to get here,” someone whispers, low and growly. It’s a man, but he’s purposely distorting his voice. “If you call the cops, she dies.” “What do you want from us?” I ask. “Why are you doing this?” The phone disconnects, leaving a silence as still as death. If you call the cops, she dies. “And if I don’t call the cops, we probably both die,” I mutter. “This is too much for me.

Faith seems to be something people develop when their lives are going good. It's always been in short supply for me.