Or Maybe Crying Is Like Everything Else

I Love Being A Pavement Artist; Seriously, I Do. It's Like When Guys Who Would Normally Hate Being Freakishly Tall Discover Basketball, Or When Girls With Abnormally Long Fingers Sit Down At A Piano. Blending In, Going Unseen, Being A Shadow In The Sun Is What I'm Good At. Seeing The Shadows, It Turns Out, Is Not My Natural Gift.

Angus Looked At Hamish. "i Hate It When Mom And Dad Fight." Hamish Smoothed His Brother's Messy Hair. "me Too.

Zach Walked Away, But I Stood There For A Long Time, Wondering If I Should Go To My Mother; If I Should Go To My Friends; But Instead I Slipped Into The Corridors I Hadn't Used In Months, Pushed My Way Through Cobwebs And Darkness, Trying To Walk Away From The Tears That Burned Hot Down My Cheeks, Because Maybe I Didn't Want To Admit Weakness; Maybe I Wanted To Wallow In My Solitude And Grief. Or Maybe Crying Is Like Everything Else We Do—it's Best If You Don't Get Caught.

Pain Seared Through Me Again-a Hot, Burning Stab In My Gut-and Yet My Body Found Strength I Didn't Know I Had, Correcting As I Fell.

Listen To Me." He Grabbed My Arms, Holding Me There. " I Couldn't Find You. And I Will Never Forgive Myself For That. Ever.