Kody Keplinger · 280 pages
Rating: (157.5K votes)
“Spanish, huh?" he said, glancing down at the scattered papers as he grabbed them. "Can you say anything interesting?"
"El tono de tu voz hace que queria estrangularme." I stood up and waited for him to hand over my papers.
"That sounds sexy," he said, getting to his feet and handing me the stack of Spanish work he'd swept together. "What's it mean?"
"The sound of your voice makes me want to strangle myself."
“No matter where you go or what you do to distract yourself, reality catches up with you eventually.”
"Wesley Rush doesn’t chase girls. They chase him.”
“You’re right. Wesley Rush doesn’t chase girls, and I’m not chasing you”
But in the end:
"Wesley Rush doesn’t chase girls, but I’m chasing you" ♥”
“Wesley Rush doesn't chase girls, but I'm chasing you.”
“Your sense of humor needs some work, then,' Wesley suggested. 'Most girls find my jokes charming.'
'Those girls must have IQs low enough to trip over.”
“I think about you much more than any self-respecting man would like to admit, and I'm insanely jealous of Tucker - something I never thought I'd say. Moving on after you is impossible. No other girl can keep me on my toes the way you can. No one else makes me WANT to embarrass myself by writing sappy letters like this one.
“I don't like him," I explained. "He annoys the hell out of me ninety-six percent of the time, and sometimes I'd like nothing better than to strangle him to death. But at the same time I... I want him to be happy. I think about him way more than I should, and I -"
"You love him.”
“Thanks,” Toby said. “And if Wesley breaks your heart, I promise to . . . well, I would say I’d kick his ass, but we both
know that’s physically impossible.” He frowned down at his skinny arms. “So I’ll write him a strongly worded letter.”
“Bianca, whore is just a cheap word people use to cut each other down," he said. His voice softer. "It makes them feel better about their own mistakes. Using words like that is easier than really looking into the situation. I promise you, you're not a whore."
I looked at him, into his warm gray eyes, and suddently understood what he was trying to tell me. The message hidden beneath the words.
You're not alone.”
“You can lie to yourself if you want, but reality is going to catch up with you. I’ll be waiting when it does… whether you like it or not.”
“I was the Duff. And that was a good thing. Because anyone who didn't feel like the Duff must not have friends. Every girl feels unattractive sometimes. Why had it taken me so long to figure that out? Why had I been stressing over that dumb word for so long when it was so simple? I should be proud to be the Duff. Proud to have great friends who, in their minds, were my Duffs.”
“Just when I think you might have a soul, you say shit like that.”
“I wanted to make sure you were fine...and that he was okay, too. You didn't, like, stab the boy, did you? I mean, I totally disapprove of murdering hotties, but if you need help burying the body, you know I'll bring the shovel.”
“"...we’re all fucking Duffs.”
(Designated Ugly Fat Friend)
“I’m not the Duff,” Wesley said confidently.
“That’s because you don’t have friends.” (Bianca)
“Wesley Rush was the most disgusting womanizing playboy to ever darken the doorstep of Hamilton High… but he was kind of hot. Maybe if you could put him on mute… and cut off his hands… maybe—just maybe—he’d be tolerable then. Otherwise, he was a real piece of shit. Horn dog shit.”
“He was sweet and charming and smart... but my feelings for Wesley were way beyond that. I'd skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you'll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.”
“You're a disgusting, shallow, womanizing jackass, and I hope that soda stains your preppy little shirt." Just before I marched away, i looked over my shoulder and added, "And my name isn't Duffy. it's Bianca. we've been in the same homeroom since middle school, you selfabsorbed son of a bitch.”
“I’m the wind beneath your wings”
“Go try your charming act on some tramp with low self-esteem, because I'm not falling for it.”
“No rush. This time things were slow and earnest. This time I wasn't looking for an escape. This time it was about him. About me. About honesty and compassion and everything I'd never expected to find in Wesley Rush.”
“Calling Vikki a slut or a whore was just like calling somebody the Duff. It was insulting and hurtful, and it was one of those titles that just fed off the inner fear every girl must have from time to time. Slut, bitch, prude, tease, ditz. They were all the same. Every girl felt like one of these sexist labels described her at some point.”
“I kissed someone tonight."
"Good for you. Now go back to sleep."
"It was Wesley...Wesley Rush."
Casey shot straight up in bed. "Whoa!" She shook her head and rubbed the sleep from her wide hazel eyes. "Okay, now I'm awake.”
“He wasn't perfect, or even remotely close, for that matter, but, hey, neither was I. We were both pretty fucked up. Somehow, though, that made everything more exciting. Yeah, it was sick and twisted, but that's reality, right? Escape is impossible, so why not embrace it?”
“Don’t lie to yourself because you think nit’s safer. Reality doesn’t work like that…”
“Wesley Rush doesn't date, he fucks - everyone, for that matter.”
“Yeah, it was sick and twisted, but
that’s reality, right? Escape is impossible, so why not
“I'm perfectly fine with being used. But I would like to know for what I'm being used.
That much I gathered. What am I supposed to be distracting you from? There's a chance that if I knew, I could do my job more effectively.”
“I shook my head. "Don’t bother making excuses," I said. "Don’t waste your time because, the fact is, I am the Duff. But so is everyone else in the world. We’re all fucking Duffs."
"I’m not the Duff," Wesley said confidently.
"That’s because you don’t have friends."
“I mean, there is a reason its initials are VD. I bet you more people contract syphilis on Valentine's Day than on any other day of the year. What a cause for celebration.”
“The winter sky has already turned black, but I could still see Wesley's gray eyes in the darkness. They were exactly the color of the sky before a thunderstorm.”
“It’s hard to explain,” she says. “I would say that I’m more spiritual than religious at this point.” “What does that even mean?” I stare upward at the gleaming stars. “To me, religion is the Walmart of spirituality.”
“Thinking, not for the first time, that life should come with a trapdoor. Just a little exit hatch you could disappear through when you´d utterly and completely mortified yourself. Or when you had spontaneous zit eruptions.
“Good book?” he asked, taking it from her and reading the subtitle, “A Guide for Good Girls Who (Sometimes) Want to Be Bad,” out loud.
But life did not come with a trapdoor. ”
“Men had always wanted her, this Karintha, even as a child, Karintha carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes down.”
“These, gentlemen, are my rules: if I don't succeed, I keep trying; if I do succeed, I keep quiet; and in any case I don't undermine anyone. I'm not an intriguer, and I'm proud of it. I wouldn't make a good diplomat. They also say, gentlemen, that the bird flies to the fowler. That's true, and I'm ready to agree: but who is the fowler here, and who is the bird? That's still a question, gentlemen!”
“These sociologists who talk to facilely about the sacred are like a man who keeps a toothless old circus lion around the house in order to experience the thrills of the jungle.”
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