The problem with my life was that it was someone else's idea.

I could have asked my father lots of questions. I could have. But there was something in his face and eyes and in his crooked smile that prevented me from asking. I guess I didn't believe he wanted me to know who he was. So I just collected clues. Watching my father read that book was another clue in my collection. Some day all the clues would come together. And I would solve the mystery of my father.

The quiet over the phone was strange. "Do you think it will always be this way?"
"What?"
"I mean, when do we start feeling like the world belongs to us?"
I wanted to tell him that the world would never belong to us. "I don't know," I said. "Tomorrow."

"You think you and Dad are the only ones who can keep things on the inside? Dad keeps a whole war inside of him. I can keep things on the inside too."

I was smiling the rest of the day. Sometimes, all you have to do is tell people the truth. They won't believe you. After that, they'll leave you alone.

But I had learned how to hide what I felt. No, that's not true. There was no learning involved. I had been born knowing how to hide what I felt.

And even though I felt it was a beautiful thing, I also felt it was a weight. Not that she meant it to be a weight. But love was always something heavy for me. Something I had to carry.

"It was fun, wasn't it?"
The way he said that. Like he knew we would never play that game again. We were too old now. We'd lost something and we both knew it.

I couldn't decide if the dream was a good dream or a bad dream. Maybe a good dream because when I woke I wasn't sad. Maybe that's how you measured whether a dream was good or bad. By the way it made you feel.

"Can I tell you a secret, Ari?"
"Can I stop you?"
"You don't like knowing my secrets."
"Sometimes your secrets scare me."

"I wished it was raining," he said.
"I don't need the rain," I said. "I need you."