Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: boarding-school‎ (50)

The boys went off to fight with swords while girls had to learn dog barks and owl hoots. No wonder princesses were so impotent in fairy tales, she

The boys went off to fight with swords while girls had to learn dog barks and owl hoots. No wonder princesses were so impotent in fairy tales, she thought. If all they could do was smile, stand straight, and speak to squirrels, then what choice did they have but to wait for a boy to rescue them?

She was Evil, always Evil, and there would never be happiness or peace. As her heart shattered with sadness, she yielded to darkness without a fight, only to hear a dying echo, somewhere deeper than soul.
It’s not what we are.
It’s what we do.

Her waist-long hair, the color of spun gold, didn’t have its usual sheen. Her jade-green eyes looked faded, her luscious red lips a touch dry. Even the glow of her creamy peach skin had dulled. But still a princess, she thought.

As for the rest of Sophie’s beauty routine, it could fill a dozen storybooks (suffice it to say it included goose feathers, pickled potatoes, horse hooves, cream of cashews, and a vial of cow’s blood).

Her hideous dome of black hair looked like it was coated in oil. Her hulking black dress, shapeless as a potato sack, couldn’t hide freakishly pale skin and jutting bones. Ladybug eyes bulged from her sunken face.

Sophie’s eyes flashed. “You’re lucky that someone would come see you when no one else will. You’re lucky that someone like me would be your friend. You’re lucky that someone like me is such a good person.”
“I knew it!” Agatha flared. “I’m your Good Deed! Just a pawn in your stupid fantasy!”

Stunned, Sophie watched Agatha plummet into pink cotton-candy mist. “Wait—no—”
The bird swooped savagely towards the Towers of Evil, its jaws reaching up for new prey.
“No! I’m Good! It’s the wrong one!” Sophie screamed—
And without a beat, she was dropped into hellish darkness.

Here was a mass of the miserable, with misshapen bodies, repulsive faces, and the cruelest expressions she’d ever seen, as if looking for something to hate. One by one their eyes fell on Sophie and they found what they were looking for. The petrified princess in glass slippers and golden curls.
The red rose among thorns.

She ran for her life.

Agatha did the only thing she knew how to do when faced with expectations.
Up the blue Honor staircase, through sea-green halls, she ran.

The fight escalated to a ludicrous climax, with Sophie beating Agatha with a blue squash, Agatha sitting on Sophie’s head, and the class gleefully making bets as to who was who—
“Go rot in Gavaldon alone!” Sophie screamed.
“Better alone than with a phony!” Agatha shouted.
“Get out of my life!”
“You came into mine!”

“But the boys train for war in class,” a girl moaned.
“We haven’t even learned to fight!” said another.
“Would you like to be a slave to villains?” Beatrix fired back. “Made to cook children and eat princess hearts and drink horse blood—”
“And wear black?” Reena cried.
Evergirls gulped.
“Then learn quickly,” Beatrix said.

Tedros was used to girls watching him. But when would he find one who saw more than his looks? Who saw more than King Arthur’s son? Who cared about his thoughts, his hopes, his fears? And yet here he was, pivoted purposely as he toweled so the girls could have a perfect view.

Princess Uma looked far too young to be a teacher. Nestled in prim grass, backlit by lake shimmer, she sat very still, hands folded in her pink dress, with black hair to her waist, olive skin, almond-shaped eyes, and crimson lips pursed in a tight O. When she did speak, it was in a giggly whisper, but she couldn’t make it through a full sentence. Every few words, she’d stop to listen to a distant fox or dove and respond with her own giddy howl or chirp.

“Oops!” she tee-heed. “I have too many friends!”

Agatha couldn’t tell if she was nervous or just an idiot.

Sophie was crouched over a puddle of water on the floor, singing as she applied blush in her reflection.

“I’m a pretty princess, sweet as a pea,
Waiting for my prince to marry me...”

Three bunk mates and three rats watched from across the room, mouths open in shock.

All these years she had tried to be someone else. She had made so many mistakes along the way. But at last, she had come home.

Agatha prickled with shame. In this School for Good, where everyone was supposed to be kind and loving, she had still ended up alone and despised. She was a villain, no matter where she went.

Agatha felt familiar shame rise. Everything in her body told her to shut the door again and hide. But this time instead of thinking of all the friends she didn’t have, Agatha thought about the one she did.
Agatha slipped into the pink parade, put on a smile...and tried to blend.

The girls collapsed in tormented heaps.
“Ready to go home?” Agatha panted.
Sophie looked up, ghost white.
“Thought you’d never ask.”

"But none of them is so well loved as Baldur the Beautiful.
He’s the god of light, and is handsome and golden, strong and funny. At the end of every summer, he dies and his body is consumed in a great bonfire, only to rise again at winter’s end. He gives himself to Hel for six months of every year, but lives harder and more brightly in the time he has with us on earth.
He is the only god who dies at all.
And that makes him the one most like us."

"I think my heart stops beating.
There are stories of old heroes being born and reborn to discover loves from past lives, to suffer and struggle for them again and again. Sigurd Dragonslayer and the Valkyrie Brynhild, Ivar and Ohther, Starwolf Berserk and Lady Kate.
In that moment on the roof of the Spark, I imagine ages and lifetimes pile atop us, spinning us into the pull of destiny."

“What kind of eggs?” I asked.
“You tell me.” The boy’s words caught me off guard.
I stared at him through the wisps of hair still covering my face. “You want me to guess how you want your eggs cooked?”
He smiled. “Why not?”
And just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.
“Not scrambled,” I said, thinking out loud. Scrambled eggs were too average, too common, and this was a guy who liked to be a little bit different. Not too different, though, which ruled out poached—at least in a place like this. Sunny-side up would have been too messy for him; over hard wouldn’t be messy enough.
“Over easy.” I was as sure of the conclusion as I was of the color of his eyes. He smiled and closed his menu.

No matter how long they did this job, or how much training they had, these agents would never have instincts as finely honed as ours.

“Have you ever seen The Bad Seed?” he inquired politely. “The movie.”
A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “No.”
Michael grinned. “I have.”
Dean stood up. “I’m done here.”

When Agent Starmans glanced in the room, all he saw was [him] and me.
Kissing.
The kiss in the pool was nothing compared to this. Then, our lips had barely brushed. Now, my lips were opening. Our mouths were crushed together. His hand traveled from my neck down to my lower back. My lips tingled, and I leaned into the kiss, shifting my body until I could feel the heat from his in my arms, my chest, my stomach.

Sloane on coffee was a bit like an auctioneer on speed. The numbers poured out of her mouth rapid-fire, a statistic for every occasion. For eight hours.
“Sixteen percent of American men have blue eyes,” she informed me blithely. “But over forty percent of male TV doctors do.”

Sloane slipped an arm around my waist. “There are fourteen varieties of hugs,” she said. “This is one of them.”

Agent Locke added, meeting Lia’s eyes, “she’s a very good liar.”
Lia didn’t seem to take offense at the agent’s words. “I’m also bilingual,” she said. “And very, very flexible.”
The second very was aimed directly at Michael.

I was only going through the motions, just like I had ever since Logan had left. More than once, I found myself staring off into space, wondering where he was and what he was doing. If he was okay. If he was cold or hungry or scared or tired.
If he was thinking about me.
After about two minutes of that, I’d shake off my sorrow and get angry at for myself for obsessing about him. Vic was right. I really needed to quit brooding and get on with killing Reapers.

The other kids looked at the girl, but nobody approached her and nobody said anything to her. Nobody gave her so much as a cheerful wave or even a polite nod. The girl pretended that she couldn’t see the other kids deliberately avoiding her, but her jaw was clenched, and her whole body was tense with anger---and pain.
She reminded me of, well, me. Back when I’d first come to Mythos, I’d been that exact same girl—the one standing all alone, watching the other kids around me, hoping that someone would at least notice me.

“Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself.”
Logan blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said, my voice growing harsh. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Yeah, something horrible happened to you, and the Reapers tried to turn you into Loki’s little soul puppet. But you know what, Spartan? Horrible things have happened to all of us now---and more terrible things are in store. So suck it up and get back in the fight.”

"...I think it is lovely, your face. You are like a doll—I do not know the name...one of those that break if you drop them."

Lustrous dark hair hung loosely to broad shoulders. A few locks turned out in an unkempt manner contrary to the rest of his appearance, while a few strands clung to his noble, chiseled features—a long nose, high cheekbones, defined lips like a Grecian sculpture and impossibly dark eyes.

“No need for apologies,” he replied. “I was the one asking the questions.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And there’s no need to thank me!” the professor snapped.
“I’m sorry---Oh dear!” Percy murmured, biting her lip and yearning to retreat into her corset.

Percy groaned. “Oh, that class remains my bane! I pay attention, take countless notes, but all I remember is the sound of Professor Rychman’s voice. Every syllable he speaks is like a hypnotic delicacy, like dark velvet. I try to grasp his explanations, but all I can see is how his robe sweeps as he moves, how his presence commands the room, how his brow furrows in thought, how his eyes blaze, how he calmly brushes a lock of dark hair from his noble face...'

“Can’t you see that he’s using you to get over his grief? That you’re just a distraction? All the other girls know to keep their distance after what happened. He’s an emotional train wreck, and he needs time. Friends. Not some love-starved loner throwing herself at him.”

I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for him to find the right person to help him move on after Becca’s death. After all, we deep, smart, solitary types have a tough time relating to people who aren’t like us.

He and I definitely have a connection. I felt it when we first met, at the fountain, and even on the cliff.

But now Max has me. As a friend. Even as more than a friend. Whatever he wants.

Still, maybe if I can learn more about Becca, I can get closer to Max. Find out what kind of girl he likes. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll like me, too?