Some Boys

I strongly believe if God had intended man - or woman - to jog, he'd have scaled way back on breast size and sent some of that padding to the soles of our feet. Just sayin'.

Hold your head up, Grace. Even when you’re dying inside—especially then—hold it up.

Do the laws against sexual assault not apply to strippers? To girlfriends?

I don't have a K in my name, so I guess I'm out of the klub. Like I even give a krap.

What the hell, just what the hell was wrong with how I looked today? Why does he care if I wear eye-black like the football team? It's my face. It's my body. I can dress it up or down however I want. Why is that such a hard concept for guys to accept?

Guys are so dumb. You actually believe this crap. You waste half your lives trying to prove to everybody and their mother how tough you are, how strong, how manly, and then say crap like, 'Ooo, baby, you make me so hard,' because there's absolutely no way you can control your own body.

Dude, the key to scoring with a chick like that is to show her what you can do for her— not to her.

Giving up is easy, not right. If doing the right thing were easy, nobody would ever do stuff they know is wrong, like kiss their daughter’s dance instructor or rape an unconscious girl who already said no.

Grace is a girl. That’s it. You want to slap on any other names, knock yourself out. But don’t ever forget she’s a girl first, and we don’t treat girls like that. Feel me?

He shouldn’t have touched Grace. She liked me. Damn it, she liked me. But he just stands there like the god he thinks he is while the rest of us pay his dues.

The word hangs in the air for a moment and then falls away, almost like even it knows it has no business being used to describe me. I’m not brave. I’m scared. I’m so freakin’ scared, I can’t see straight, and I can’t see straight because I’m too scared to look very far. I’m a train wreck. All I’m doing is trying to hold on to what I have left.

For what it's worth, any man who 'tries to score' with a girl he's not dating isn't much of a man in my eyes.

I defended myself from a physical attack by that student, Mr. Jordan. Mrs. Weir knows Lindsay hates me, did nothing when she called me names in her classroom, and then left us alone.

Rules, regulations, rights—what about my rights? Zac McMahon belongs behind bars. I don’t care how bright he is, how high he scored on his SATs, or how many saves he makes.