thegreatmanda's Reviews (459)

A warning light flashes somewhere in August's brain. Her mental field guide to making friends is a two-page pamphlet that just says: DON'T.

"I can't decide if I'm impressed or horrified."
"My favorite emotional place," Myla says. "That's where horny lives."

Crazy how August can imagine a whole life for this girl she doesn't even know, but she's can't begin to picture what her own is supposed to look like.

August takes note after note and finds it almost funny—that all the fighting only conspired to make Jane gentle. Fearsome and flirty and full of bad jokes, an incorrigible sweet tooth and a steel-toe boot as a last resort. That, August is learning, is Jane.

"Look, I was gay in the '70s. I can handle an emergency."

Dear Freddie Mercury, when you wrote "Love of My Life," did you mean for it to reach across space and time in a platonic way or a real-deal, break-your-heart, throw-you-up-against-a-wall type of way?

It's hazy, but she remembers Jane telling her about drag shows she used to go to in the '70s, the balls, how queens would go hungry for weeks to buy gowns, the shimmering nightclubs that sometimes felt like the only safe places. She lets Jane's memories transpose over here, now, like double-exposed film, two different generations of messy, loud, brave and scared and brave again people stomping their feet and waving hands with bitten nails, all the things they share and all the things they don't, the things she has that people like Jane smashed windows and spat blood for.

"Your pants are in the window by the TV," says a voice, much too clear and much too loud for the hangover bog. August looks up, and there's Lucie, glitter lingering around her eyes, glowering into the cabinets. "You said, 'They need to get some air.'"

"I wish I were never born," August moans into the floor.
"Retweet," Wes says solemnly.

"So... your idea is... a heist. You want us to pull off a heist." August gestures helplessly at Niko, who has given up on his meal with a quarter left to go. "Niko can't even pull off that cinnamon roll."
Niko pats his stomach. "It was really filling."
"It's not a heist," Myla hisses. "It's... an elaborate, planned crime."
"That's a heist."

"Niko, everything I'm about to say to this guy is a complete and total lie, and I love you and will marry you and adopt a hundred three-eyed ravens or whatever it is your weird ass wants instead of kids," she mutters.
"I know," Niko says back. "Did you just propose to me?"
"Oh shit, I guess I did?" Myla opens the door and shoves Gabe through it.
"I'm so mad at you," Niko says. "I already have a ring at home."
"Oh my God, seriously?" says Jane.
"Mazel," Wes chimes in.
"Y'all," August says.

"You think I'm stupid?" she says. "Like it's not obvious to anyone who knows y'all that something's going on. Look at Wes. He's sweating like a fucking hard cheese on the A train. I don't need to know what you're doing, but, you know, I can help."
Wes stares at Annie for a full five seconds, and says, "Oh Jesus Christ, I'm in love with you."
Annie blinks. "Can you say that without looking like you're gonna throw up?"

"I saw this," he says. "Not—not that this would happen. But I saw that you had something in you that could reach across. That could make impossible things happen. And I saw... I saw a lot of pain. Behind you. In front of you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
"It's okay," August tells him. "I wouldn't have changed anything."

"We have to go home."
"I'm already home. I'm with you."

"But in this house, Ari, there is only belonging. You belong to us. And we belong to you."
"But isn't it wrong to be gay? Everybody seems to think so."
"Not everybody. That's a cheap and mean morality. Your aunt Ophelia took the words I don't belong and wrote them on her heart. It took her a long time to take those words and throw them out of her body. She threw out those words one letter at a time."

"Mom, why didn't anybody tell me that love hurts so much?"
"If I had told you, would it have changed anything?"

Dante slipped off his tennis shoes, and he said, "I've been writing a poem for you. I haven't finished it yet—but I have the ending. 'You're every street I've ever walked. You're the tree outside my window, you're a sparrow as he flies. You're the book that I am reading. You're every poem I've ever loved.'"

"Just because you don't think that you're anything special doesn't mean I agree with you."

It was so easy just to be with Dante. When we touched, it seemed like it was something pure. What wasn't easy was learning how to live in the world, with all of its judgments. Those judgments managed to make their way into my body. It was like swimming in a storm at sea. Any minute, you could drown. At least it felt like that. One minute the sea was calm. And then there was a storm. And the problem, with me, anyway, was that the storm lived inside me.

But here we are, we're in it, this world that does not want us, a world that will never love us, a world that would choose to destroy us rather than make a space for us even though there is more than enough room.

"How come people aren't as sincere as dogs? Tell me. What's your secret?" She looked at me intently with her dark, dark eyes, and I knew that even though dogs didn't understand the language of human beings, they did understand the language of love.

A lot of adults had to say something about my looks, which I always found interesting. I didn't have anything to do with the face I was born with. And it didn't mean that I was a good guy. And it didn't mean that I was a bad guy either.

If we're lucky. If we're very lucky, the universe will send us the people we need to survive.

I'd never found it difficult to keep my mouth shut—but maybe I should think about keeping my mind shut when it came to judging the things other people did that I didn't understand.

Dante asked me what I was thinking. And I said, "My dad told me that during the Vietnam War, there was a body count. He said that the country was counting bodies when they should have been studying the faces of the young men who had been killed. I was thinking that the same thing is happening with the AIDS epidemic."

I wanted us to be lovers because I liked that word. It was a word that appeared in some books I'd read. But seventeen-year-olds didn't have lovers—because we weren't adults, and only adults had lovers. Seventeen-year-olds only had sex that they weren't supposed to be having—but it didn't have anything to do with love, because that's what we were told—because we didn't know anything about love. But I didn't believe that.
Nobody was going to tell me that I didn't love Dante. Not anybody.

Sometimes, when I was in Dante's presence, I felt that I knew everything there was to know about love. But, for me, to love was one thing. To let yourself be loved, well, that was the most difficult thing of all.

We stood there in the silence of the desert—and he kissed me. And in that moment, I thought that we were the center of the universe. Couldn't the universe see us?
He kissed me and I kissed him back. Let the universe see. Let the sky see. Let the passing clouds see. He kissed me. Let the plants of the desert see. Let the desert willows, let the distant mountains, let the lizards and the snakes and the desert birds and roadrunners see. I kissed him back. Let the sands of the desert see. Let the night come—and let the stars see two young men kissing.

"Kindness is never a mistake," said the Elder Steward. "Somewhere in the heart it is always remembered."

"Even those who think themselves powerless can fight with small acts. Kindness. Compassion."
"The Stewards fight with swords," said Will.
"But our swords are not what make us strong," said the Elder Steward. "The true power of the Stewards is not our weapons. It is not even our physical strength. It is that we remember." And something in her eyes seemed ancient. "When the past is forgotten, then it can return. Only those who remember have the chance to stave it off. For the dark is never truly gone; it only waits for the world to forget, so that it may rise again."

"What is this place?" said Violet, her voice hushed.
Will said, "This is what's left."

You could run from your enemies.
You couldn't run from yourself.

"My whole life, all anyone's ever wanted was to possess me," said James. "The only one who ever set me free was you."

"You know," Carter said, "this is the point in horror movies where I usually shout at the screen for the people to not go inside the house."
"You're a werewolf," I muttered. "You're the one that's usually waiting for the people inside the house."
He looked offended.

"What in the fuck," Carter muttered after walking into the rather large skull of an animal I didn't think I'd ever seen before.
"It's certainly not the interior design choice I would have gone for," Kelly whispered to him.
"You think? Nothing says 'welcome to my murder shack' like skeletons hanging from the ceiling."
"Is that a jar of eyeballs on the shelf?"
"What? No, don't be stup—that's a jar of eyeballs on the shelf. Well, now I'm officially that person that shouldn't have gone inside the house."

The song of the Alpha was a tremendous thing, and no one sang it like Oxnard Matheson.

The smile returned. "Your threats don't sound so bad now that I know you've got my wolf tattooed on your chest."
"Bite me," I snapped, stalking off after the Alphas.
Mark chuckled behind me. "Oh, I will."
Fucking werewolves.

"Because it was the only part of you that's ever been mine."

"In a minute," Ox said, and I'd never heard him speak so coldly, "there's going to be yelling. Probably some screaming. Things are going to get confusing. Blood will be spilled. I want you to remember something for me when that happens. All I wanted to know was your names."

"You can't promise that," I said through gritted teeth.
"Watch me," Ox said.

Once, the moon had loved the sun.
Once, there was a boy.
Once, there was a wolf.
He had sat with his back against a tree.
His bare feet were in the grass.
The boy leaned forward and kissed the wolf.
And knew then that nothing would ever be the same.

He said, "Okay," because it was that easy for him. To have faith in me.

Rico was in the break room, feeding Bambi grapes by hand as she sat in his lap.
I didn't understand straight people.

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."

Nick's not the kind of guy who can write sonnets or anything, mostly because he can't remember how to, but if he happens to have a page in his notebook dedicated entirely to ass-related haikus, that's his business, right?

Nick's job is super dull. He mostly takes care of answering the phone and doing filing, and stapling things. Sometimes the things don't even need stapling, but Nick does it anyway. He makes shiny little railroad tracks along the tops of documents. His record is thirty-eight staples on one thing. Then he picked thirty-seven of them out again because he remembered he was supposed to be professional.

"It was an accident?" Nick attempts.
"An accident?" Chris huffs out. "An accident? You accidentally gave someone a blowjob?"

Devon's too scared to make a move because he's been crippled by the weight of his male privilege. He only discovered it a few months ago, and it's shaken him up pretty badly.

Jai almost laughs when, a few seconds later, Nick comes into view out the front window, punching the air in victory. He even does a weird little dance.
"I can still see you," Jai calls out the window.
Nick freezes like a raccoon caught in a porch light, then very slowly turns around to face the window. He gives Jai an awkward wave.

"My mom and stepdad will be away, and since the last thing Lewis used the pool for was so his pastor could come over and, like, adult baptize people, I'm counting on you and Nick to get in the water and really gay it up."

After lunch he steals another pen from the office supplies.
He calls it Gloria, and decides that it's his favorite.

"I think that when we're little, they tell us stories about being heroes and saving the universe, and then when we get older, they tell us to grow up and stop believing in dumb stories anymore."

He just ... Nick wanted to be special. He wanted to be Luke, with a destiny. He wanted to be Frodo, with a quest. He wanted to be an unlikely hero and do something that mattered, but there are no quests in the real world, where everything is much bigger and more tangled and complex than in the stories he loves. In the real world, small people don't get to be heroes, and Nick is the smallest person he knows.

"It's really hard to keep count of the minutes when we're fucking, Jai!" Nick counters, his voice rising. "I'm very easily distracted by your perfect ass and your incredible dick!"
Someone downstairs drops something breakable.
"Please tell me your dad doesn't have a shotgun," Jai whispers in the sudden, terrible silence.

"All I really know is that nothing I've experienced so far compares to you. Maybe that makes me gay." He swallows. "Or maybe that just makes me yours."

"Why have you always wanted to meet a demon?"
"Who wouldn't? Can't you think of a thousand questions you'd ask a demon?"
"I'd ask him to let go of your soul. That's all. Then I'd close the door."
Shepard's back to eating his sandwich. "They're not all 'he's, you know. I'm not sure any of them are 'he's. What's gender to a demon?"
"Did you get a chance to ask him that?"
Shepard looked sheepish. "I did not."

I loop his tail around my hand again and hold him everywhere tight. "No," I repeat. "I can touch you less gently, but I won't love you less kindly."

BAZ

I kiss him back, squarely. Firmly. Matter-of-factly. You're all I want, I think. And you can have everything you need.
I'm not sure what he's telling me with this kiss. I pretend it's Yes and Yes and Be kind to me.

SIMON

Fine, you fucker. Have me. Just have me.
  Do your worst, you stubborn twat.
  Be the death of me.

  You'll be the death of me.

I snort. It would have been a scoff, but I was drinking tea.

We held hands the whole day. At lunch, he sat with his arm resting on the back of my chair. "If you can't be gay at Ikea," Snow reasoned, "where can you?"

"Should I be hurt that you got me out of this by convincing that demon that I was more trouble than I'm worth?"

"I love you," I say. I may as well say it, I'm thinking it. It's all I ever think. I'm an "I love you" gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.

"I understand that you've lost something—a lot of things—but you're still the same person. I know, because I loved you then, and I love you now, and I know that's not enough to make you happy—to make anyone happy—but you're the same person, Simon. You're still you."
He doesn't answer me. It sounds like he's pacing. I can hear his wings snapping open and closed.
"It's enough," he finally grumbles.
"What is," I whisper.
"The fact that you love me. It does make me happy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he sighs. "It doesn't fix everything. I still don't know who's looking back at me in the mirror. But... it makes me happy."

This is what people do.
They get close and try to stay there.
They stay.

"And I've been waiting," Joe said. "For him to look at me like I looked at him. And he finally did. He finally did. And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it stays like that. Because I want him for always."

"Quick," she said as she walked by me into the house. "Look up rabbit recipes on the Internet before you go to work."
"You're dripping on the floor!"
"It's just a dead rabbit, Ox. You sound hysterical."
"I sound hygienic."
I wasn't very good with Internet stuff, so I googled "what to do when your future werewolf mate/boyfriend/best friend courts you and brings you a dead rabbit."
First, there was a lot of porn.
Then I found a recipe for Maltese rabbit stew.
It was delicious.
The stew, not the porn.
The porn was weird.

"You're not broken."
He said, "You don't know that."
I said, "I do. You're alive. If you can take another breath, if you can take another step, then you're not broken. Battered, maybe. Bruised. Cracked. But never broken."

Someone told me once that the light we see from them is hundreds of thousands of years old. That the star could already be dead and we'd never know it because it still looked alive. I thought that was a terrible thing. That the stars could lie.

He said, "It's you. I would always choose you. I don't care if it's a biological imperative. I don't care if it's some destiny. I don't care if you were made specifically for me. It doesn't matter. Because I would choose you regardless."

But hearts are funny things: they beat strongly in our chests, even though they can shatter at the slightest pressure.

"Sometimes, it's the smallest things that can change everything when you least expect it."

"There is an eight percent chance that the power source has gone critical and will cause an explosion that will level the surrounding area, killing all of us in the process."
"It's not going to explode," Vic told Rambo. "She would never have let us get this far if she thought that was going to happen."
"So I let you think," Nurse Ratched said, a skull appearing on her screen. "You have fallen into my trap. I wanted you to get this far. Prepare for death." The skull disappeared, replaced by DON'T FORGET TO RATE MY SERVICE! I APPRECIATE A 10!
It took Vic longer than he cared to admit to realize she was kidding.

"What is it?" Vic asked.
"I do not know," Nurse Ratched said. "Consider leaving it where it lies. It was discarded for a reason. Malfunction. Corruption. Faulty coding. It has obviously served its purpose."
"You said the same thing about Rambo," Vic said, never looking away from the hand.
"I did. And you did not listen to me then. Look what happened."

"Humanity was lost," Dad said. "And lonely. I don't think they even realized just how lonely they were. And so they began to build again, making machines that looked more and more like them. Even surrounded by so many of their kind, they still searched for a connection. They were like gods, in a way, in the power of their creation. At first it was Hubble. Then Discovery. And Curiosity. Explorer and Endeavor and Spirit. The humans gave them names and sent them away beyond the stars in search of that connection they so desperately wished for."
"Why?" Nurse Ratched asked. "It seems illogical. Why did they not just speak to each other if they were lonely?"
"They did," Dad said. "Or they tried, at least. But they hated as much as they loved. They feared what they didn't understand. Even as they built us, they pushed for more. And the further they went, the less control they had. They accused each other of treachery. They poisoned the earth. They had time to change their ways, but they didn't. And their anger grew until it exploded in fire. Most of them died. But we remained, because our flesh wasn't their flesh. Our bodies were not their bodies. Our minds weren't their minds." He shook his head. "And yet, I love them still." He looked at Vic. "Because for all their faults, they created us. They gave us names. They loved us."

"If we can fix what's broken, we should always try."
"Why?" Rambo asked.
Vic chose his words carefully, trying to find the right ones in the right order. "Because all beings deserve a chance to find out what life could be when they don't have to serve others."

"Victor is extremely intelligent," Nurse Ratched said. "He can fix almost anything. And he decided to fix you, so you should be thankful to your father. Your dad. Your daddy. Error. Error. Do not call people 'daddy.' That is unprofessional."

Later—much later, when it was already too late—Vic would wonder why his father didn't tell them what he knew. But by then, it wouldn't matter. The world had teeth, sharp and fierce, and they were about to sink into Vic's skin.

"Never forget. It has always been you."

"I don't like it," Rambo said. "What if it's a dragon?"
"Dragons do not exist," Nurse Ratched said. "That was a story I told you to scare you. They are not real."
"Are you sure?"
"No," Nurse Ratched said. "You should go first and find out."

The Coachman tilted his head back toward the ceiling as he closed his eyes. "Please, tell me. What is it like? Does it ache? Does it burn? Or does it fill you with joy?"
Hap scowled. "All of it. All at once."

"We can never be you. Instead, we became your ghosts, and we'll haunt this world until there is nothing left." The Coachman smiled gently. "It is not a flaw, Victor. There must be no greater feeling in the world than to know that this isn't forever."

"I don't know you, and you're kind of scary, but I also want to be like you when I get older? It's very confusing."

"Oh. Well. Engaging Empathy Protocol. That was very nice of you to say. You are wonderful. Disengaging Empathy Protocol. Idiot. I am going to sleep now. Do not bother me unless you are on fire. Even then, I will do little to help you."

Be it man or machine, Victor thought, to love something meant loving the ghost inside, to be haunted by it.