I watched her, waiting.
She smiled. Her lips curved up and the edges, and her chocolate eyes warmed.
I’d just admitted to stalking her, and she was smiling.

Stop it, Mom, you're making me blush.

I wanted his death so savagely that the need for it rang in my ears and clouded my sight and was a flavor on my tongue.

How old are you?” she asked.
My answer was automatic and ingrained. “Seventeen.”
“And how long have you been seventeen?”
I tried not to smile at the patronizing tone. “A while,” I admitted.
“Okay,” she said, abruptly enthusiastic. She smiled up at me.

My life was an unending, unchanging midnight. It must, by necessity, always be midnight for me. So how was it possible that the sun was rising now, in the middle of my midnight?

driving at the speed limit--hideous thought.