I was fairly certain that pragmatic Grace would not have heard of Rilke. “Poetry.” Grace sighed and gazed out at the dead white sky that seemed to press down on the road before us. “I don’t get poetry.” — Back at my house, I made coffee and cranberry scones for us, and we sat at the kitchen table looking at a stack of Olivia’s latest photos under the yellow ceiling light. — I snorted. “Are you kidding? I’m raising myself. I should get a head of household bonus on my taxes.” John laughed, probably more than my comment warranted, and Olivia shot me a look imbued with enough venom to kill small animals. I shut up. — At breakfast the next morning, I chatted with Grace about her calculus homework—it looked entirely incomprehensible to me—and about her rich, hyper friend Rachel and whether or not turtles had teeth.
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Select quotes from a really great book about teenage werewolves and friends that I accidentally 1-Click purchased from Amazon and subsequently read.
