Being the emotional reader that I am, I knew that I was headed for good things when I started to tear up early into the story. Callie is a seventeen-year-old girl who was abducted by her mother when she was only five. She knows this, yet she stays with her mother because she was made to believe that her father didn't love and want her. They spend their lives constantly on the run, squatting in model homes, abandoned houses and overstaying in cheap motels. During an unplanned move in the middle of the night, they are caught and Callie's mom is arrested. Callie is then returned to her father and must now learn how to live with a new family while coming to terms with the consequences of her mother's actions.
Immediate thoughts after finishing Fangirl:
1. I need to read Attachments to find out if Ms. Rowell has a habit of ending her books abruptly. I needed an epilogue. BADLY.
2. I wish I had read Harry Potter (I have yet to read past HP#1) at the time when the books were still being released. Reading about Cath's obsession with Simon Snow made me want to be part of something that big. Sadly, I don't think the HP phenomenon will ever be repeated in my lifetime.
3. Where was THIS when I was a freshman in college? I didn't understand what it meant to be an introvert. I didn't think other people clammed up the way I did in social situations.
Hey guys. I decided to check out Booklikes yesterday and now here I am with an account set up and an import on its way. I'm not the most organized person when it comes to managing multiple social network platforms so I don't know if I can keep a steady online presence here. We'll see how things progress :)
You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.
"What do you want from me, Crank?" Her voice was raw, desperate.
I looked at her. She was so close, but might as well have been a thousand miles away. I said, "I want you to love me."
Kat stands quietly in front of the triple mirror, studying her reflection and smoothing the fabric of a simple satin gown in a vintage style. But when I ask her if she wants to buy it, she just shakes her head.
"No, Mom," she says. "I'm not sure about it."
"Then you shouldn't get it."
Kat, face solemn, nods. She smooths her hands down the front again, then gives me a small smile. "It's pretty, right?"
"It's beautiful, honey. Very you." I haven't checked the tag on this one, but what is money for if not to spend? "But you shouldn't settle. Not when it should be something so special. You should make sure it's what you really, really want. And even then," I say with a small laugh, "you'll probably look back on it in twenty years and wonder what on earth you were thinking."
She turns to me. "Do you?"
I think of my own wedding dress. I'd wanted to wear my grandmother's 1940s suit with its padded shoulders and peplum, the sleek skirt. My mother had talked me into a mermaid-style dress, a monstrosity of lace and satin that had never fit quite right no matter how many times we'd had it altered. I haven't looked at my wedding pictures for a long time.
"Yes. I'd have picked something different. So you should make sure," I say, looking across the room to where her sister is now twirling in front of the mirror in a fourth choice, "to pick something you really really love, at least right now, because that way even when you look back and can't believe you picked it, you'll remember how much you loved it when you did."
I don't remember the first day I resented this. I don't remember wondering why all the years I'd made the effort were not reciprocated. Nothing jumped up and bit me or slammed like a door in my face. That's not how it happens. What happens is you get married, you raise your kids, they go off to school, and you look at your spouse and wonder what on earth you're supposed to do with each other now, without all the distractions of having a family to obscure the fact that you have no idea not only who the other is, but who you are yourself.
...no matter what happens, I hurt. No matter what I do, there is casualty.
There is the sudden. There is the eventual. And in between, there is the living.
We do not start as dust. We do not end as dust. We make more than dust.
That's all we ask of you. Make more than dust.
"She has big boobs and -"
"There is no comparison," I interrupt. "Everything about you is better."
"You didn't think so in middle school."
"I was fourteen," I say. "I was thinking with the wrong head back then. As opposed to, you know, now. When I only think with the wrong head sometimes."
"You might not remember me, but -"
"Travis Stephenson," she interrupts, her words like a roadblock. "Welcome home. Now leave me alone."
Damn, she's hostile.
"It fucking sucks. I just want to be normal again."
"Maybe, it's time to find a new normal."
"I opened you up to the life you were born to live. You came from... you only knew this growing up. It is in your blood just as it is in my blood. We lead the lives we were meant to, lives that are exciting and dangerous and full of power. We are strong. We are so alike, so very alike, that sometimes I wish you had told me back then who you really were."
"You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do."