The Angel Experiment

Because what’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?

Man, you weigh a freaking ton," he told me. "What've you been eating, rocks?" "Why, is your head missing some?" I croaked. His mouth almost quirked in a smile, and that's when I knew how upset he'd been

Popcorn for breakfast! Why not? It's a grain. It's like, like, grits, but with high self-esteem.

I feel like, like pudding," Iggy groaned. "Pudding with nerve endings. Pudding in great pain.

I took a bite of cookie and chewed. “Hmmm,” I said, trying not to spit crumbs. “Clear vanilla notes, too-sweet chocolate chips, distinct flavor of brown sugar. A decent cookie, not spectacular. Still, a good-hearted cookie, not pretentious.” I turned to Fang. “What say you?” “It’s fine.” Some people just don’t have what it takes to appreciate a cookie.

Holy [Insert your choice of a swear word here]," said Fang stunned.

In the dictionary, next to the word stress, there is a picture of a midsize mutant stuck inside a dog crate, wondering if her destiny is to be killed or to save the world. Okay, not really. But there should be.

Dr. Martinez: "I take it you don't want me to call your parent?" Max: "Uh, no." Hello, lab? May I speak to the test tube please?

Max!' Nudge cried, rushing over to hug me. Her thin arms gripped me tight, and I hugged her back, scratching her wings where they joined her shoulders, the way she liked. 'We were so worried—I didn’t know what had happened to you, and we didn’t know what to do, and Fang said we going to eat rats, and—' 'Okay, okay. Everything’s okay,' I told her. I met Fang’s eyes over her shoulder and mouthed rats? silently. A flicker of a grin crossed his lips and then was gone.

Gazzy: "What does that mean?" (points to metal plaque warning to stay off the third rail that said Stay off the third rail!) Fang: "It means the third rail has seven hundred volts of direct current running through it. Touch it and you're human popcorn.

I didn't know a van could go up on two wheels like that, for so long." -Nudge

Feeding a crowd?' the woman behind the counter asked. Yes, ma'am ,' Fang said sweetly. Yeah, him and all his split personalities, I thought.

I muttered a swear word to myself. After I heard Angel cussing like a sailor when she stubbed her toe, my new resolution was to watch my language. All I needed was a six-year-old mutant with a potty mouth

Why was the blind guy playing with matches, you ask? Because he's good at it. Anything to do with fire, igniting things, exploding things, things with fuses, wicks, accelerants . . . Iggy's your man. It's one of those good/bad things.

Nudge: You aren't dead. Iggy (irritably): No. You aren't dead either. How about just 'hello'?

There's nothing more annoying than cold logic and reason when you've got a good fit going.

Can you giggle while racing for your life and protecting a six-year-old? I can.

Frustration was my constant companion. I wanted to scream. "What the he-eck are we supposed to do now? I asked Fang. He looked at me, and I could tell he was mulling over the problem. He held out a small waxed-paper bag. Peanut?

Do we have any chlorine? It seems to be kind of explosive when mixed with other stuff." "Like what, your socks? No, we don't have chlorine. No swimming pool.

Is this a movie?' I heard someone ask. Naw- this is too original for Hollywood. They do sequels.

Jeb: I wish I could explain what I'd give just to see you smile again. Max (thinking): How about your head on a stick?

Fang snorted in disbelief. "On one hand, we have a mythical nice family that wants to adopt me. On the other, we have a gang of insane scientists desperate to do genetic experiments on innocent children. Guess which hand I get dealt?

Fang and I searched in every way we could think of and found a million institutes of one kind or another, in Manhattan and throughout New York state, but none of them seemed promising. My favorite? The Institute for Realizing Your Pet's Inner Potential. Anyone who can explain that to me, drop a line.

Fang was going to kill me. And after I was dead, he would kill me again.

When did they start coming after you?” “Was it—was it after the oil- slick Hummer crash?” the Gasman asked Iggy tentatively. My eyes widened. Oil-slick Hummer crash? Iggy rubbed his chin, thinking. “Or maybe it was more---after the bomb,” the Gasman said in a low voice, looking down. “I think it was the bomb,” Iggy agreed. “That definitely seemed to tick them off.” “Bomb?” I asked incredulously.

Jeb: But I need to tell you something first. Max (thinking): That you are the devil incarnate?