About Jenny Han: Jenny Han is an American writer of children and teen novels.
When boy likes you, you say no thank you. You don't kick him on the ground.
It still feels weird to spend money on Christmas trees. Back when Mom was alive, we’d go out “tree hunting.” That’s what she called it, anyway. I think other people might use the word “trespassing.
Reeve shakes his head and exhales loudly. “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it!” He looks away. “Can you just . . . can you go get dressed and come with me and we’ll talk about it later? My mom’s expecting you.
Reevie . . . I feel wasted.” Her head sways from side to side, her hair hanging in her face. “Will you please take me home?” I peer at her. She’s had, like, two beers. I’ve seen her finish a six-pack in under an hour and not get tipsy.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. a burn for a burn. a life for a life. that's how all this got started. and that's how it's going to end.
I’m clenching my fists so tight my fingernails leave red crescent moons on my skin. I feel a surge, a heat roar up inside me. As bad as I’m hurting now, he’ll hurt ten times worse. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.
I’ve fallen for the one person I shouldn’t have. For the boy who broke Mary’s heart. For Rennie’s one true love. For Alex’s best friend. It has to end here. Now.
It's crazy, how similar we are. Here's both of us, working through our stuff, trying to make something positive out of something really bad.
The words come out of my mouth, but they don’t sound like me. I don’t sound like me. Probably because I know it’s all lies. But I can see that they’re lies that Reeve believes. He swallows them whole. His eyes go blank. Empty. He completely s...
This is Karma. I'm a bitch. Can you think of anyone who deserves a bitch slap?" My phone buzzes again. "If so meet at Judy Blue Eyes, 2am. If not, sit back and enjoy the show.
And for a second, just for a second I forget. I forget that this isn't real.
It will get easier each time, I think. I hope. I just have to keep trying.
It was over before I even had a chance.
But I don't think people change at the core.
I hate change more than almost anything.
It's funny how much of childhood is about proximity. Like who your best friend is is directly correlated to how close your houses are; who you sit next to in music is all about how close your names are in the alphabet. Such a game of chance.
If love is like a possession, maybe my letter are like my exorcisms
I'm always wondering about the what-ifs, about the road not taken.
I’ve never gotten a love letter before. But reading these notes like this, one after the other, it feels like I have. It’s like . . . it’s like there’s only ever been Peter. Like everyone else that came before him, they were all to prepare me...
But what now? What am I supposed to do with all these feelings?
My favourite food is cake. What kind of cake? It doesn't matter. All cake.
