Rusty Fischer

“He's reading a book called Great Warlocks of the 18th Century, and to get this ball rolling before Dean Devlin shows up and rains on our private parade, I snort and ask, "Good book?"I forget I'm pretending to be sitting behind my two-thousand-ninety-eight-page Highlights of Modern Chemistry book, so he snorts back. "Better than yours.”

“So why are you so mad at me for kissing you?”“Because you took too long. If you'd done that, say, three years ago, we wouldn't have only had one kiss before we both get horribly mutilated.”

“Why don't you check out those teenagers in the middle row? They've been going at it like dogs in heat ever since the previews. They're probably both werewolves. And even if they aren't, you should throw them out on principle alone.”

“If I've got a Dad, and his name is Wormwood Rot, and he's in some heavy metal rock band called Grave Dirt . . . then I'm definitely meeting him!She stares at me awkwardly, and I'm about to ask again—maybe even insist—when she says, "Honey, why do you think he's on the news? Wormwood, I mean . . . your father? Becca, he's . . . dead.”

“Some sample lyrics I think I catch: "My engine races up to seventh gear; wrap your legs around my engine, dear . . . . The tunnel's dark, but the ground is wet; I lubricate it with my dripping sweat!"Or, something vaguely disturbing and gross like that; it's hard to tell with the wailing guitars and the front man screaming through his ravaged vocal chords.”

“Just try it,” he murmurs, reaching over to cover my hand gently.And I think, Whoa, that’s never happened before!Then: Is he just doing that because he thinks Wyatt is interested?And, finally, this: Who the hell cares?!”