“Which is why she’d fallen desperately in love the first time she’d met Sharlah. She’d looked into her foster daughter’s eyes and she’d known her. Just . . . known her. Sharlah’s fears, anxieties, fragile hope, bone-deep strength. Rainie saw all of her daughter. And she loved her, not in spite of her weaknesses, but because of them. Sharlah was a fighter.”
“And how many episodes of being “not yourself” do you get before people figure out this is who you really are? I”
“Family is family. Even if you hate them, it’s hard to let go.”
“can’t do this. I suck at this. Which is why they’re making me go. Not to improve my swimming—who cares about that?—but to work on that whole playing-well-with-others thing. Another one of my broken bits. I don’t want to socialize with other kids. I don’t trust ’em, I don’t like ’em, and best I can tell, the feeling’s mutual.”
“approached alone, the hallway too small, the rooms too tightly bunched”
“Families aren’t built in a day. But they can be destroyed in an instant.”
“For a bit, he picked up the paperbacks, thumbed the worn edges. Military thrillers. Books with clear right and wrong where the good guys always won in the end. Zero or hero. A part of Telly clearly wanted to be the hero. The brother who’d saved his sister. The troubled teen who, according to his PO, was trying to do better.”
“Warn a kid with oppositional defiant disorder not to do something, and you’ve pretty much guaranteed the crime.”
“This new generation, they’ve been raised by their parents to assume they’ll start at the top. No scut for them. They’ll just sit in their parents’ basement till the job offer for partner comes in.”
“Is your father really evil?” I heard myself ask. “Yes.” “Because he drank, did drugs?” “No, honey. Because God made him that way, and he liked it. Your father had an excuse. My father doesn’t.”
“We are all a little bit broken, she tells me (the reason she doesn’t sleep at night?), but we all work on fixing ourselves.”
“BARBARA: One of the last times I spoke with my father, we were talking about . . . I don’t know, the state of the world, something . . . and he said, “You know, this country was always pretty much a whorehouse, but at least it used to have some promise. Now it’s just a shithole.” And I think now maybe he was talking about something else, something more specific, something more personal to him . . . this house? This family? His marriage? Himself? I don’t know. But there was something sad in his voice—or no, not sad, he always sounded sad—something more hopeless than that. As if it had already happened. As if whatever was disappearing had already disappeared. As if it was too late. As if it was already over. And no one saw it go. This country, this experiment, America, this hubris: what a lament, if no one saw it go. Here today, gone tomorrow. (Beat) Dissipation is actually much worse than cataclysm.”
“And knowing that the only alternative to your grief is the nothingness that’s fast approaching, you try to embrace your own sorrow, to be open and empty and let it all pass through you. This is the key, you have learned – to relinquish control, to relinquish the desire for control. Even in this late drama, to try to control is to go mad. And so you do your best to let it all go.”
“I have yet to hear God's audible voice, although I have often felt led by God in more subtle ways.”
“The City of San Francisco is being stalked by a huge, shaved vampyre cat named Chet, and only I, Abby Normal, emergency backup mistress of the Greater Bay Area night, and my manga-haired love monkey, Foo Dog, stand between the ravenous monster and a bloody massacre of the general public. Which isn’t, like, as bad as it sounds, because the general public kind of sucks ass.”
“Selective hearing...typical male. Maybe he was human after all...”
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