After Lucca died, everything shut down. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Furthermore, I couldn't talk. Somehow they got me on the plane and back home.

— Lisa Schroeder

And then it hits me like a fast, open-palmed, stinging smack in the face. Having a ghost boyfriend Wayward

— Lisa Schroeder

And what I think is that when you’re completely alone and deep inside yourself with feelings no one else can understand, there really aren’t a hundred places to go. It’s like if I woke up one Dayan looked outside and saw purple tree sand red grass and green dogs, is there anyone I could tell who would understand? No. There’d be no one. It’s exactly like that. He saw purple tree sand red grass and green dogs while no one else did.  And maybe, he just got tired of seeing them.

— Lisa Schroeder

And years from now, you may not remember exactly what you ate. But you’ll remember who you ate with.

— Lisa Schroeder

Come with me,' Mom says. To the library. Books and summertime go together.

— Lisa Schroeder

Guilt reminds me of a stray cat. You chase it away and yet, it comes back when you least expect it. If you let yourself feel pity for it and feed the thing, it parks its ugly, puny, lonely-for-attention butt on your doormat and won't go away. Scat kitty cat, scat. I don't need you sitting around here like that.

— Lisa Schroeder

Heads: This girl Tails: That girl

— Lisa Schroeder

He cups my face with both hands leans in, eyes lingering sweet second before his lips are there on mine, teasing, playing, tasting, kissing. When he pulls away, I'm breathless. He nuzzles my ear." Now that's thrilling." You got that right.

— Lisa Schroeder

He was a character. A character who should still be here. Damn it all to hell. He should still be here.

— Lisa Schroeder

I hear the word in the allover and over again. Suicide. Suicide. Suicide. Did he or didn’t he? Everyone’s got a guess. Still no one knows for sure, except Gabe, but he’s not talking. Why does it even matter? He’s gone. His, ours, theirs— blame needs a place. His, ours, theirs— pain all over the place. His, ours, theirs— forgiveness missing from this place.

— Lisa Schroeder