My Mom Is A Queen Quotes

I could not hold my breath for seven minutes. I couldn’t even make it to one. I once tried to run a mile in seven minutes after hearing some athletes could do it in four but failed spectacularly when a side stitch crippled me about halfway in. However, there was one thing I managed to do in seven minutes that most would say is quite impressive: I became queen. By seven tiny minutes I beat my brother, Ahren, into the world, so the throne that ought to have been his was mine. Had I been born a generation earlier, it wouldn’t have mattered. Ahren was the male, so Ahren would have been the heir. Alas, Mom and Dad couldn’t stand to watch their firstborn be stripped of a title by an unfortunate but rather lovely set of breasts. So they changed the law, and the people rejoiced, and I was trained day by day to become the next ruler of Illéa.

Don’t cry in front of Mom, apologize to Farley, figure out how to save five thousand children, nanny a bunch of Silvers, put my head through a wall. Seems doable. The

But why didn't you just ask me?" I set down my fork and glare at her. "Because you were sleeping," She says, taking a sip if Chardonnay. "I was taking a nap, Mom. It wasn't intended to be some kind of Disney fairy-tale hundred-year snooze.

My Selection wasn’t a farce, but it wasn’t that far off. My father chose all the contestants by hand, picking young women with political alliances, influential families, or enough charm to make the entire country worship the ground they walked on. He knew he had to make it varied enough to seem legit, so there were three Fives thrown into the mix but nothing below that. The Fives were meant to be little more than throwaways to keep anyone from being suspicious.” I realized my mouth was gaping open and shut it immediately. “Mom?” “Was meant to be gone almost immediately. Truth be told, she barely made it past my father ’s attempts to sway my opinion or remove her himself. And look at her now.” His whole face changed. “Though it was hard for me to imagine, she is even more beloved as queen than my mother. She has made four beautiful, intelligent, strong children. And she has been the source of every happiness in my life.

You try standing up to my mom. She's a force of nature.

Oh my gosh, Mom, seriously!” Jewel flapped her wings, the royal stance entirely collapsing. “I am TRYING to be MENACING AND MYSTERIOUS. Could you be quiet for ONE SECOND while I handle this?

Though I adore the idea of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Sandman, the Tooth Fairy, and such luminary characters—especially their altruism and devotion—I still don't believe in them.  For I know the truth.  Only one such miracle worker exists who performs magic in my life, seeing to my wants and needs without fail.  That queen is my mother.  With unwavering faith I believe in her.

my mom's al like sparkle sparkle sparkle and I'm all like sparkle yourself

Not five minutes after Alona had vanished through the far wall of my bedroom, my mom had poked her head in my room to say good night, and let’s face it, probably check up on me. Her face was glowing with happiness. She must have had a good time Sam at the movies. Where I was absolutely sure they did nothing but actually watch the movie, and refused to believe any evidence to the contrary. It was too...weird.

His barely there smile warmed me. “You try really hard to hide behind that Ice Queen disguise, but that’s not who I see. I see a girl who had to grow up fast, and a mom who would sacrifice everything for her son. You’re beautiful, Taryn, inside and out, and I want to get to know the woman you keep hidden away.” He lowered his hand and my body ached at the loss. “If you’re willing, I’ll walk through the fire with you.

My mom said it’s different when it’s the woman who’s violent. It strikes people as abnormal. Like, it’s natural for a guy to just ‘lose his temper,’ but if a woman does the same thing, then it’s a sign of something deeper wrong, like psychologically or almost metaphysically.

Tink looked over at Ren. “Wait. Have you two stopped fighting? Oh my Queen Mab, you guys are in love again!” My eyes widened as I glanced around, seeing that several of the strangers were watching us with detached interest. “Tink . . .” “We were never not together,” Ren said, dropping his arm over my shoulders. The blue and red bag slipped to the floor as he clapped his hands like an overexcited seal. “You guys are! This is amazing.” “Tink,” I said again, this time with a little more force behind his name. “Thank the faery lords and ladies, I will not be a product of a split home.” “For the last time, we are not your parents, Tink.” I shook my head as I started to turn but stopped. “Pick up your bag.” Ren leaned in as Tink snatched the bag off the floor. “You sound like his mom.” “Shut up,” I hissed.

Ty, I’ve thought so many times about what I would say to you if you reappeared suddenly. If I was walking along the street and you popped out of thin air, walking along beside me like you always used to, with your hands in your pockets and your head tilted back. Mom used to say you walked celestially, looking upat the sky as if you were scanning the clouds for angels. Do you remember that? In your world I am ashes, I am ancestors, my memories and hopes and dreams have gone to build the City of Bones. In your world, I am lucky, because I do not have to live in a world without you. But in this world, I am you. I am the twinless twin. So I can tell you this: When your twin leaves the earth you live on, it never turns the same way again: the weight of their soul is gone, and everything is off balance. The world rocks under your feet like an unquiet sea. I can’t tell you it gets easier. But it does get steadier; you learn how to live with the new rocking of the new earth, the way sailors gain sea legs. You learn. I promise. I know you’re not exactly the Ty I had in this world, my brilliant, beautiful brother. But I know from Julian that you are beautiful and brilliant too. I know that you are loved. I hope that you are happy. Please be happy. You deserve it so much. I want to ask if you remember the way we used to whisper words to each other in the dark: star, twin, glass. But I’ll never know your answer. So I’ll whisper to myself as I fold this letter up and slide it into the envelope, hoping against hope it will somehow reach you. I whisper your name, Ty. I whisper the most important thing: I love you. I love you. I love you. Livvy

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: SAVING YOU I'm teleporting to Atlanta.I'm picking you up,and we'll go someplace where our families can't find us.We'll take Seany. And we'll let him rup laps until he tires,and then you and I will take a long walk. Like Thanksgiving. Remember? And we'll talk about everything BUT our parents...or perhaps we won't talk at all. We'll just walk.And we'll keep walking until the rest of the world ceases to exist. I'm sorry,Anna.What did your father want? Please tell me what I can do. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Sigh.I'd love that. Thank you,but it was okay. Dad wanted to apologize. For a split second,he was almost human.Almost.And then Mom apologized,and now they're washin dishes and pretending like nothing happened.I don't know.I didn't mean to get all drama queen,when your problems are so much worse than mine.I'm sorry. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Are you mad? My day was boring.Your day was a nightmare. Are you all right? To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Re: Are you mad? I'm okay.I'm just glad I have you to talk to. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: So... Does that mean I can call you now?

I miss my moms,” Blue said softly.

I sleep for an entire day. And when I wake up I’m a new person. I’m empty. I’ve cried out everything I had in me. I’m an empty shell waiting to be filled with what comes next. Or I’m just being a total drama queen. I’m not empty. I’m still a person. I cried over a bad thing that happened in my life, but I probably shouldn’t have. Compared to Mom’s crisis, mine was small. Compared to a thousand other girls’ around the world, mine is insignificant. It wasn’t bad. Not compared to everyone else. It was just a couple seconds. It wasn’t years. It wasn’t months, like Mom. It wasn’t a family member. Wasn’t someone I see anymore. It didn’t even hurt. There was no blood. It wasn’t bad. Not compared to others’. So I should stop crying.

There are no words for this. But he stays right there, my last bit of warmth in a world turning to dust. I weep for tham all. Farley, Tristan, Walsh, Will. Shade, Bree, Tramy, Gisa, Mom, and Dad. Fighters, all of them. And Kilorn. I couldn't save him, no matter how hard I tried. I can't even save myself. At least I have my earrings. The little specks, sharp in my skin, will stay with me until the end. I die with them, and they with me.

You’re sure you want to do this,” Galen says, eyeing me like I’ve grown a tiara of snakes on my head. “Absolutely.” I unstrap the four-hundred-dollar silver heels and spike them into the sand. When he starts unraveling his tie, I throw out my hand. “No! Leave it. Leave everything on.” Galen frowns. “Rachel would kill us both. In our sleep. She would torture us first.” “This is our prom night. Rachel would want us to enjoy ourselves.” I pull the thousand-or-so bobby pins from my hair and toss them in the sand. Really, both of us are right. She would want us to be happy. But she would also want us to stay in our designer clothes. Leaning over, I shake my head like a wet dog, dispelling the magic of hairspray. Tossing my hair back, I look at Galen. His crooked smile almost melts me where I stand. I’m just glad to see a smile on his face at all. The last six months have been rough. “Your mother will want pictures,” he tells me. “And what will she do with pictures? There aren’t exactly picture frames in the Royal Caverns.” Mom’s decision to mate with Grom and live as his queen didn’t surprise me. After all, I am eighteen years old, an adult, and can take care of myself. Besides, she’s just a swim away. “She keeps picture frames at her house though. She could still enjoy them while she and Grom come to shore to-“ “Okay, ew. Don’t say it. That’s where I draw the line.” Galen laughs and takes off his shoes. I forget all about Mom and Grom. Galen, barefoot in the sand, wearing an Armani tux. What more could a girl ask for? “Don’t look at me like that, angelfish,” he says, his voice husky. “Disappointing your grandfather is the last thing I want to do.” My stomach cartwheels. Swallowing doesn’t help. “I can’t admire you, even from afar?” I can’t quite squeeze enough innocence in there to make it believable, to make it sound like I wasn’t thinking the same thing he was. Clearing his throat, he nods. “Let’s get on with this.” He closes the distance between us, making foot-size potholes with his stride. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to the water. At the edge of the wet sand, just out of reach of the most ambitious wave, we stop. “You’re sure?” he says again. “More than sure,” I tell him, giddiness swimming through my veins like a sneaking eel. Images of the conference center downtown spring up in my mind. Red and white balloons, streamers, a loud, cheesy DJ yelling over the starting chorus of the next song. Kids grinding against one another on the dance floor to lure the chaperones’ attention away from a punch bowl just waiting to be spiked. Dresses spilling over with skin, matching corsages, awkward gaits due to six-inch heels. The prom Chloe and I dreamed of. But the memories I wanted to make at that prom died with Chloe. There could never be any joy in that prom without her. I couldn’t walk through those doors and not feel that something was missing. A big something. No, this is where I belong now. No balloons, no loud music, no loaded punch bowl. Just the quiet and the beach and Galen. This is my new prom. And for some reason, I think Chloe would approve.

But with the letter here, none of my work mattered anymore. In my mom’s mind, I was already queen.

My mom was a sayyed from the bloodline of the Prophet (which you know about now). In Iran, if you convert from Islam to Christianity or Judaism, it’s a capital crime. That means if they find you guilty in religious court, they kill you. But if you convert to something else, like Buddhism or something, then it’s not so bad. Probably because Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are sister religions, and you always have the worst fights with your sister. And probably nothing happens if you’re just a six-year-old. Except if you say, “I’m a Christian now,” in your school, chances are the Committee will hear about it and raid your house, because if you’re a Christian now, then so are your parents probably. And the Committee does stuff way worse than killing you. When my sister walked out of her room and said she’d met Jesus, my mom knew all that. And here is the part that gets hard to believe: Sima, my mom, read about him and became a Christian too. Not just a regular one, who keeps it in their pocket. She fell in love. She wanted everybody to have what she had, to be free, to realize that in other religions you have rules and codes and obligations to follow to earn good things, but all you had to do with Jesus was believe he was the one who died for you. And she believed. When I tell the story in Oklahoma, this is the part where the grown-ups always interrupt me. They say, “Okay, but why did she convert?” Cause up to that point, I’ve told them about the house with the birds in the walls, all the villages my grandfather owned, all the gold, my mom’s own medical practice—all the amazing things she had that we don’t have anymore because she became a Christian. All the money she gave up, so we’re poor now. But I don’t have an answer for them. How can you explain why you believe anything? So I just say what my mom says when people ask her. She looks them in the eye with the begging hope that they’ll hear her and she says, “Because it’s true.” Why else would she believe it? It’s true and it’s more valuable than seven million dollars in gold coins, and thousands of acres of Persian countryside, and ten years of education to get a medical degree, and all your family, and a home, and the best cream puffs of Jolfa, and even maybe your life. My mom wouldn’t have made the trade otherwise. If you believe it’s true, that there is a God and He wants you to believe in Him and He sent His Son to die for you—then it has to take over your life. It has to be worth more than everything else, because heaven’s waiting on the other side. That or Sima is insane. There’s no middle. You can’t say it’s a quirky thing she thinks sometimes, cause she went all the way with it. If it’s not true, she made a giant mistake. But she doesn’t think so. She had all that wealth, the love of all those people she helped in her clinic. They treated her like a queen. She was a sayyed. And she’s poor now. People spit on her on buses. She’s a refugee in places people hate refugees, with a husband who hits harder than a second-degree black belt because he’s a third-degree black belt. And she’ll tell you—it’s worth it. Jesus is better. It’s true. We can keep talking about it, keep grinding our teeth on why Sima converted, since it turned the fate of everybody in the story. It’s why we’re here hiding in Oklahoma. We can wonder and question and disagree. You can be certain she’s dead wrong. But you can’t make Sima agree with you. It’s true. Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. This whole story hinges on it. Sima—who was such a fierce Muslim that she marched for the Revolution, who studied the Quran the way very few people do read the Bible and knew in her heart that it was true.

Now it's just that dishwater blond," my mom continued as she snaps the last roller into place. I get up and kiss her on the cheek. "Thanks, Momma," I say, looking in the mirror over the mantel to check my pink plastic Afro head. Dishwater? Seriously? Way to build the self-esteem before the most important day of my life, I think; but what I say is, "I'm gonna go get ready for bed.

My sister’s friend lived in a small duplex with her mother (a welfare queen if one ever existed). She had seven siblings, most of them from the same father—which was, unfortunately, a rarity. Her mother had never held a job and seemed interested “only in breeding,” as Mamaw put it. Her kids never had a chance. One ended up in an abusive relationship that produced a child before the mom was old enough to purchase cigarettes. The oldest overdosed on drugs and was arrested

I thought of Atargatis, the First, frightening and beautiful. The mermaid goddess who lived on in the soul of every woman who'd ever fallen in love with the ocean. I thought of Sebastian, my little mermaid queen, how happy he was the day of the parade, just getting the chance to express himself, to be himself. I thought of Vanessa, the story about how she and her girlfriends became feminist killjoys to get a women's literature core in their school, the way she'd accepted me this summer without question, gently pushed me out of my self-imposed shell. Of her mother, Mrs. James, how she'd grabbed that bullhorn at the parade and paved the way for Sebastian's joy. I thought of Lemon, so wise, so comfortable in her own skin, full of enough love to raise a daughter as a single mom and still have room for me, for her friends, for everyone whose lives she touched with her art. I thought of Kirby, her fierce loyalty, her patience and grace, her energy, what a good friend and sister she'd become, even when I'd tried to shut her out. I thought of all the new things I wanted to share with her now, all the things I hoped she'd share with me. I thought of my mother, a woman I'd never known, but one whose ultimate sacrifice gave me life. I thought of Granna, stepping in to raise her six granddaughters when my mom died, never once making us feel like a burden or a curse. She'd managed the cocoa estate with her son, personally saw to the comforts of every resort guest, and still had time to tell us bedtime stories, always reminding us how much she treasured us. I thought of my sisters. Juliette, Martine, and Hazel, their adventures to faraway lands, new experiences. Gabrielle with her island-hopping, her ultimate choice to follow her heart home. And Natalie, my twin. My mirror image, my dream sharer. I knew I hadn't been fair to her this summer—she'd saved my life, done the best she could. And I wanted to thank her for that, because as long as it had taken me to realize it, I was thankful. Thankful for her. Thankful to be alive. To breathe.

I use my mom’s shampoo sometimes,” I blurt out. “I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s lady shampoo. But it smells better than mine, and I think my hair might like it better, and – but that doesn’t change the fact that that stuff, that’s for chicks. And, that, that’s probably gay, isn’t it? Like, at least a little.” “I don’t know whether—” “And I cried once listening to ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay. I don’t know, I was in sort of a lousy mood anyway, but it’s not like that excuses that stuff. Like, that was gay, wasn’t it? Guys don’t just sit around and cry over Coldplay.” “Howie—” “And I loved Mamma Mia. Like, loved it. Amber made me watch it with her on TV once, and I didn’t want to, and she wound up thinking it was this sentimental piece of crap, but I loved it. It was all sunny and happy and there was all that blue sky and blue ocean, and everyone was just, like, so chill, all bouncing and singing and being so happy, and I just wanted to, I don’t know, live there or something. Jump right into the screen and sing backup to Dancing Queen. That’s gay, right? That’s queeriest queerdom. There’s no way that’s not totally gay. It’s gay. It’s so gay. I’m … I …” “If I may,” Arthur says. I take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.” “I don’t like any of those things,” Arthur says, “and I am gay. So maybe you’re just girly.” That? That’s his answer? “I’m not girly,” I say, affronted. “Just an observation,” Arthur replies innocently. “You didn’t like Mamma Mia?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked. “I’m not even really sure what it is,” Arthur replies, frowning thoughtfully. Useless bastard.

Wanna rock you, girl, with a butterfly tunic. / No, I’m not gay, I’m just your emo eunuch. / Gonna smile real shy, won’t cop a feel, / ’cause I’m your virgin crush, your supersafe deal. / Let those other guys keep sexing. / You and me, we be texting / ’bout unicorns and rainbows and our perfect love. / Girl, we fit together like a hand in a glove. / Now I don’t mean that nasty, tell your mom don’t get mad. /I even wrote ‘You’re awesome’ on your maxi pads.” Tiara sighed. “My mom let me use that song for my Christian pole dancing routine.

maybe it’s a Midwestern thing, but where I’m from, you’re not supposed to brag about yourself. That’s what my mom says. She says you should wait for people to recognize your good qualities. And then you should say, like, ‘Oh, no. I’m not really that great at whatever-it-is. I’m just okay.’ And then they’ll say, ‘No, really. You’re great.’ And you say, ‘I’m really not, but thanks anyway for saying so.’ And they’ll say, ‘Yes, you are. You so are!’ And you say, ‘Gee, do you really think so?’ And they’ll say, ‘Totally!’ And then people think you’re good at whatever it is you’re good at, but they don’t think you’re braggy about it ’cause that makes you seem like a real tool.

Zach leans over and whispers on my lips, “Cleopatra. That’s your name, right?” I swallow against the onslaught of emotions. I feel the savage flapping of the butterflies in my stomach and I press my belly against him to make him feel it too. Make him feel all these crazy, intense emotions inside of me. “But hardly anyone calls me that.” A lopsided smile as he traces my cheek with a thumb. “Do you know Cleopatra was an Egyptian queen?” I nod. “Yeah. My mom used to tell me that she was the most beautiful woman of her time.” “People are crazy, aren’t they?” I clutch his dark t-shirt at his waist. “Why?” “They don’t know what they’re talking about. One look at you and they would’ve snatched away her crown and laid it down at your feet.” The shudder that goes through me is the biggest one yet. He called me beautiful. Beautiful.

It was a weird thing. Before the divorce, my mom had been kind of strict, the triplets constantly wrecking shit as she sternly tried to wrangle them. She had no patience for people who might complicate her life or create more work for her, was always rolling her eyes at how stupid everyone else was. She made checklists that no one else ever checked. She frowned a lot. I was slightly afraid of her, even though I knew that she loved me. And though I knew the divorce had messed her up, it had also seemed to relax her, like the bad thing had finally happened and she didn't have to keep waiting for it. She chilled out. The triplets, if they burned down the Dairy Queen, well, that was someone else's problem. If I invited some strange boy into our house and made out with him, who was she to intervene? We were eating pizza on a weekday. She was the coolest mom in Coalfield.

Okay,like I could write about being new to this school and feeling really self-conscious already, you know, 'cause I'm new and haven't really gotten my growth spurt yet...in any capacity." This gets a few chuckles and I plow forward. "Then,at this meeting, maybe some cool, hot jock is sitting next to me and asks me to stand up, only to have the entire classroom staring at me as I say, 'But I am standing up!' Except,you know, funnier." A few kids giggle and the big guy next to me grunts, "Pretty funny." I smile over at my new comrade and smack his massive shoulder like we're old friends.I'm going to have to get his name. "I mean, obviously it'd be better than that. But I just think it'd be good comif relief," I add, doing what my dad calls laying it on thick. "And we could put it near the pet obits to balance out all the high-school-is-depressing-enough vibes!" Now the laughs are easy and everyone's smiling, and I feel myself loosen up a bit. Just like Mom and Dad with cheerleading, these folks are cracking under my spell, and I start really amping up the drama. "And I know I couldn't use 'Traumarama' as a title since Seventeen already does, but I'm thinking 'Trauma and Drama-Terrible Tales of Teenagedom,' or something like that, with some real-life gossip mixed in.

The biggest canvas is wider than my arm span. It’s bursting with so much color it looks like a graffiti artist got too excited with a spray can. But it’s my story, told in brushstrokes and acrylic paint. There's Jamie and me as children, hiding in trees and searching for ladybugs. There's me alone, searching for stars in the dark. There's my mom, the queen of the starfish, existing in a tornado of glitter that poisons anything else it touches. There are my brothers and me, living on opposite sides of a triangle, experiencing the same things but never together. There's my dad, never knowing or doing as much as he should but trying to fix the poison all the same. There's Hiroshi, painting my hands so I can paint my voice. There's me split in half—Japanese and white—stitching myself together again because I am whole only when I’ve embraced the true beauty of my heritage. And there's Jamie and me in June, the sun on our faces and the sand at our feet, finding each other again after all those years. Our lives trail around us, sometimes broken and sometimes beautiful, but all puzzled and tangled up into the lump that is us. We fit together not because we need each other, but because we choose each other. Our friendship was always our choice. Love was a natural progression. Jamie stares at the painting for so long that I think the room actually starts to get darker. When he turns to face me, he looks relieved. Calm. Jamie turns back to the painting. We don’t need words. We just know. Our fingers find each other’s.

What if—” I stopped, swallowing hard. Nope. I couldn’t even say it aloud. We’d figure something else out because we had to. Time for a subject change before I lost it. “What did your mom say?” “Mostly that she thinks my hair is getting too long and I should cut it.” “That’s not helpful.” “That’s my mom for you.” He was trying for humor but his voice caught, and I wondered if he was thinking about how if she left and he didn’t, he’d never ever see her again. “So,” I said, sitting on the floor against the wall as close to the kitchen doorway as I could get without Lend dropping like a rock, “do you want your Christmas present?” “You got me something?” He sounded surprised. “I’ve been working on it for a while.” “I, uh, didn’t find you anything yet. I was actually setting up for your party, not Christmas shopping like I said.” “Being kidnapped by the Dark Queen and then cursed gets you off the hook for a lot. Besides, my birthday party totally counted.” “This isn’t how I wanted our first Christmas to go. We were going to go all out, pick out a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, decorate it, watch cheesy holiday movies, drink hot chocolate, let my dad make his eggnog and then complain about how disgusting it was, then I was going to deck out my entire room in mistletoe . . .” “Wait, you mean you didn’t plan for us to be stuck in different rooms for the holidays?” “Well, that part’s kind of nice.” I heard his head bang against the wall where he was sitting right on the other side of it from me. “I mean, who wants to actually be able to touch their super hot girlfriend? Overrated.” “I know, right?” I tried to laugh, but it came out choked. I swallowed, forcing my one to come out light. “And I totally dig watching people sleep. It’s so sexy.

Nonna tucked each of her hands into the opposite sleeve, a wizened Confucius in a leopard bathrobe. "Michelangleo, he goes. For days and days he stays away from Elisabetta. The other girls, the prettier girls, have hope again. And then, there he goes once more, carrying only his nonno's ugly old glass-his telescope-and a bag of figs. These he lays at her feet. "'I see you,' he tells her. 'Every day for months, I watch. I see you. Where you sit, the sea is calm and dolphins swim near you. I see your mended net looks like a lady's lace. I see you dance in the rain before you run home. I see the jewel mosaic you leave to be scattered and remade again and again, piu bella than gold and pearls. You are piu bella than any other, queen of the sea. "'You do not need silk or pearls. I see that. But they are yours if you wish. I am yours if you wish.If you like what you see.' He gives her the glass. She takes it. Then she asks, 'What about the figs? My bisnonno, he laughs. 'It might take time, your looking to see if you like me. I bring lunch.'" Nonna slapped her knee again, clearly delighted with little Michelangelo's humor. "There is the love story. You like it?" I swallowed another yawn. "Si, Nonna.It's a good story." I couldn't resist. "But...a talking seagull? A dolphin guide? That kinda stretches the truth, dontcha think?" Nonna shrugged. "All truth, not all truth, does it matter? My nonno Guillermo came to Michelangelo and Elisabetta, then my papa Euplio to him, then me, your papa, you." She lowered her feet to the floor. Then pinched my cheek. Hard. Buona notte, bellissima." "Okay,Nonna." I yawned and pulled the white eyelet quilt up.I'd inked abstract swirl-and-dot patterns all over it when I redecorated my room. They're a little optic when I'm that tired. "Buona notte." As I was dozing off,I heard her rummaging in the linen cupboard next to my door. Reorganizing again, I though. She does that when Mom can't see her. They fold things completely different ways.

Should I be scared?” “I think you should get ready for quite an inquiry, but they’re necessary questions that must be answered if I want to ask you out on a second date.” “What if I don’t want to go on a second date?” “Hmm.” He taps his chin with his fork, ready to dig in the minute the plate arrives at our table. “That’s a good point. All right. If the question arose, would you go on a second date with me?” “Well, now I feel pressured to say yes just so I can hear the inquiry.” “You’re going to have to deal with the pressure, sweet cheeks.” “Fine. Hypothetically, if you were to ask me out on a second date, I would hypothetically, possibly say yes.” “Great.” He bops his own nose with his fork and then sets it down on the table. “Here goes.” He looks serious; both his hands rest palm down on the table and his shoulders stiffen. Looking me dead in the eyes, he asks, “Bobbies and Rebels are in the World Series, what shirt do you wear?” “Bobbies obviously.” He blinks. Sits back. “What?” “Bobbies for life.” “But I’m on the Rebels.” “Yes, but are we dating, are we married? Are we just fooling around? There’s going to have to be a huge commitment on my part in order to put a Rebels shirt on. Sorry.” “We’re dating.” “Eh.” I wave my hand. “Fine. We’re living together.” “Hmm, I don’t know.” I twist a strand of hair in my finger. “Christ, we’re married.” “Ugh.” I wince. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think it will ever happen.” “Not even if we’re married, for fuck’s sake?” he asks, dumbfounded. It’s endearing, especially since he’s pushing his hand through his hair in distress, tousling it. “Do we have kids?” I ask. “Six.” “Six?” Now it’s time for my eyes to pop out of their sockets. “Do you really think I want to birth six children?” “Hell, no.” He shakes his head. “We adopted six kids from all around the world. We’re going to have the most diverse and loving family you’ll ever see.” Adopting six kids, now that’s incredibly sweet. Or mad? No, it’s sweet. In fact, it’s extremely rare to meet a man who not only knows he wants to adopt kids, but is willing to look outside of the US, knowing how much he could offer that child. Good God, this man is a unicorn. “We have the means for it, after all,” he says, continuing. “You’re taking over the city of Chicago, and I’ll be raining home runs on every opposing team. We would be the power couple, the new king and queen of the city. Excuse me, Oprah and Steadman, a new, hip couple is in town. People would wear our faces on their shirts like the royals in England. We’re the next Kate and William, the next Meghan and Harry. People will scream our name and then faint, only for us to give them mouth-to-mouth because even though we’re super famous, we are also humanitarians.” “Wow.” I sit back in my chair. “That’s quite the picture you paint.” I know what my mom will say about him already. Don’t lose him, Dorothy. He’s gold. Gorgeous and selfless. “So . . . with all that said, our six children at your side, would you wear a Rebels shirt?” I take some time to think about it, mulling over the idea of switching to black and red as my team colors. Could I do it? With the way Jason is smiling at me, hope in his eyes, how could I ever deny him that joy—and I say that as if we’ve been married for ten years. “I would wear halfsies. Half Bobbies, half Rebels, and that’s the best I can do.” He lifts his finger to the sky. “I’ll take it.

I'm not sure how you gather such strength If you weren't my Mom, I wouldn't be the same When everything seems to go against you You are queen of the universe, a confident dame

You haven’t been to India in twenty years. We’ve read lifetimes’ worth of stories about the spiritual sojourns to your motherland, but it’s still rare to read the perspective of a Muslim, Dalit, non-Indian South Asian, who experiences this motherland as an outsider. Even getting my ten-year visa to go is a trip. I need documentation of my parents’ origins—photocopies of their decades-defunct Bangladeshi passports from before they became US citizens. I made sure that I looked as “Indian” as possible, so I wore a bindi, a kurta top, making sure nothing screamed too Muslim. I rode the train far out to Richmond Hill, Queens, to a mom-and-pop Punjabi-owned spot.

She took a sip of her margarita. “It’s all about leverage, darling. My mom taught me that during the divorce. You figure out what they want, and you threaten to destroy it if they don’t meet your terms.

So that’s why we’ve been swapping postcards about this for the past two weeks. To anyone else, it would have seemed like we were talking about sports and the weather and my mom’s weird baby sculptures. But that’s why Emile stayed at the Viper Queen’s for so long. Sending postcards back and forth isn’t the fastest method of communication.” “But it’s one of the more brilliant ones.” Hunt kissed her brow, wings curling around them. “I love you. You’re crazy and shady as Hel, but I love you.

The pint of cookies 'n' cream ice cream in the freezer is for you. Do not kill the spider in my bathroom. Her name is Queen and she's guarding the plant you gave me for Mother's Day. Love, Mom

The pint of cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream in the freezer is for you. Do not kill the spider in my bathroom. Her name is Queen and she’s guarding the plant you gave me for Mother’s Day. Love, Mom

Oh, Loni, I don't have the patience to read anymore. My eyes get so tired." So what the hell will she do all day? Watch game shows? "All right then, I'll read to you." I open one of her poetry books and read a favorite passage. "The work of the world is common as mud---" She interrupts me. "That's um... that's um... Marge Piercy." And then she goes on to recite the next three, transcendent lines. I nod. "You got it, Mom." So she's not completely gone. I just have to stay calm when she's cranky, and read to her. Maybe my dad was right, all those years ago, when he encouraged me to see an invisible reservoir of good in my mother. It's like waiting for those cool pockets of air in the steaming swamp---they're unpredictable, but ever welcome.

But here, I can’t deny that Caroline was an actual person with family. With friends. She had hobbies, and she loved and was loved. She was a living person who now isn’t, like my mom.

Is this the kind of place still deeply entrenched in the bullshit high school politics of old movies, which seemed quaint, retro cool at Pasadena Central High? According to my mom, the five

The notoriety added a dimension to her disease. Yes, the Munchausen by proxy was the most dangerous part of the abuse, but it also acted as a backstage pass to my mother’s internal cinematic show. Whatever that movie in her mind was, I wasn’t the star of it. When the press arrived, she’d be doing all of the talking, while I numbly waited for my cue. Like a stage mother, Beauty Queen Dee Dee fed me my lines: “It’s a dream come true,” “This makes me so happy,” “My mom is my best friend.” Through me and through the script we memorized, Dee Dee could achieve some level of the fame she had long desired.

I'm going to kill, but I shouldn't be mad about it? Not when all I am is mad. I'm mad that I'm missing my time with Brax and Abel for this. I'm mad that he's never home, and when he is, I'm pulled into his office for stupid lectures about stupid things. I'm mad that Mom's always drunk, and when she isn't, she's worse.

Dad smiled. “And don’t worry; you are almost nothing like your mother.” “Almost nothing like?” Stormy asked as she scrubbed one of the dishes left over from breakfast. “Yes, almost,” Dad replied, “because you have her beauty.” “I know.” Stormy looked over her shoulder at him. “But, I’m just worried I may also have too much of her personality. I mean, she used my coach as a footrest.” Dad laughed. “Yes, your mom does have a way about her.

These groups were a new kind of vehicle: a hive or colony of close genetic relatives, which functioned as a unit (e.g., in foraging and fighting) and reproduced as a unit. These are the motorboating sisters in my example, taking advantage of technological innovations and mechanical engineering that had never before existed. It was another transition. Another kind of group began to function as though it were a single organism, and the genes that got to ride around in colonies crushed the genes that couldn’t “get it together” and rode around in the bodies of more selfish and solitary insects. The colonial insects represent just 2 percent of all insect species, but in a short period of time they claimed the best feeding and breeding sites for themselves, pushed their competitors to marginal grounds, and changed most of the Earth’s terrestrial ecosystems (for example, by enabling the evolution of flowering plants, which need pollinators).43 Now they’re the majority, by weight, of all insects on Earth. What about human beings? Since ancient times, people have likened human societies to beehives. But is this just a loose analogy? If you map the queen of the hive onto the queen or king of a city-state, then yes, it’s loose. A hive or colony has no ruler, no boss. The queen is just the ovary. But if we simply ask whether humans went through the same evolutionary process as bees—a major transition from selfish individualism to groupish hives that prosper when they find a way to suppress free riding—then the analogy gets much tighter. Many animals are social: they live in groups, flocks, or herds. But only a few animals have crossed the threshold and become ultrasocial, which means that they live in very large groups that have some internal structure, enabling them to reap the benefits of the division of labor.44 Beehives and ant nests, with their separate castes of soldiers, scouts, and nursery attendants, are examples of ultrasociality, and so are human societies. One of the key features that has helped all the nonhuman ultra-socials to cross over appears to be the need to defend a shared nest. The biologists Bert Hölldobler and E. O. Wilson summarize the recent finding that ultrasociality (also called “eusociality”)45 is found among a few species of shrimp, aphids, thrips, and beetles, as well as among wasps, bees, ants, and termites: In all the known [species that] display the earliest stages of eusociality, their behavior protects a persistent, defensible resource from predators, parasites, or competitors. The resource is invariably a nest plus dependable food within foraging range of the nest inhabitants.46 Hölldobler and Wilson give supporting roles to two other factors: the need to feed offspring over an extended period (which gives an advantage to species that can recruit siblings or males to help out Mom) and intergroup conflict. All three of these factors applied to those first early wasps camped out together in defensible naturally occurring nests (such as holes in trees). From that point on, the most cooperative groups got to keep the best nesting sites, which they then modified in increasingly elaborate ways to make themselves even more productive and more protected. Their descendants include the honeybees we know today, whose hives have been described as “a factory inside a fortress.”47

Okay, let’s do this.” “That’s my girl.” He kissed me hard before wrapping his arm around my waist and walking me toward the house. “I mean, honestly, how could they not love you and your bitchy personality?” “You’re such an asshole, Kash,” I hissed at the same second the front door opened and his mom stepped out. Oh good Lord, kill me now. This is where I need to run away. Mrs. Ryan’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and Kash tried to choke back his laugh but failed miserably. It felt like my stomach was simultaneously on fire and dropping. Not a good feeling, I was going to be sick. I was the freaking Queen of First Impressions with the Ryan family. When I’d met Kash at the beginning of last summer, I’d been a bitch to the extreme, and our first three run-ins had gone over about as well as a bale of turtles in a sprinting race. Now there I was, cussing in front of his mom in the first seconds of ever seeing her. I started feeling light-headed as I held my breath, waiting for Mrs. Ryan to tell me I was not good enough for her son, or to reprimand me. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a glare at Kash that impressed even me. “What on earth did you say to the poor girl?” He raised his hands in surrender before wrapping his arm around me again. “No clue what you’re talking about. And why do you automatically think it had to be something I did?” “Because I know you, Logan.” “Eh . . . so anyway. Mom, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is my mom.” She brushed back a chunk of black hair that had fallen into her eyes and smiled brightly at me. I still felt like I was frozen and didn’t know how to breathe properly. “Rachel, it’s so good to meet you, honey!” I almost blurted out “But I just called your son an asshole right in front of you!” Instead I plastered a smile on my face and tried to relax my body as Kash let go of me and she wrapped me in a hug. “It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for having us to dinner.” “Of course”—and then softer, so only I could hear—“he gets the obnoxious, asshole gene from his father. But, unfortunately, it’s one of the things I love most about my guys. You just get used to it and become a master at slyly flipping them off with a smile.” My

I’m okay, Mom. Really.” My father hung back for a moment, as was his way. His eyes were wet and red. I looked at his face. He knew. He hadn’t bought the story about Africa with no phone service. He had probably helped peddle it to Mom. But he knew. “You’re so skinny,” Mom said. “Didn’t they feed you anything there?” “Leave him alone,” Dad said. “He looks fine.” “He doesn’t look fine. He looks skinny. And pale. Why are you in a hospital bed?” “I told you,” Dad said. “Didn’t you hear me, Ellen? Food poisoning. He’s going to be fine, some kind of dysentery.” “Why were you in Sierra Madre anyway?” “Sierra Leone,” Dad corrected. “I thought it was Sierra Madre.” “You’re thinking of the movie.” “I remember. With Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hep-burn.” “That was The African Queen.” “Ohhh,” Mom said, now understanding the confusion. Mom let go of me. Dad moved over, smoothed my hair off my forehead, kissed my cheek. The rough skin from his beard rubbed against me. The comforting smell of Old Spice lingered in the air. “You okay?” he asked. I nodded. He looked skeptical. They both suddenly looked so old. That was how it was, wasn’t it? When you don’t see a child for even a little while, you marvel at how much they’ve grown. When you don’t see an old person for even a little while, you marvel at how much they’ve aged. It happened every time. When did my robust parents cross that line? Mom had the shakes from Parkinson’s. It was getting bad. Her mind, always a tad eccentric, was slipping somewhere more troubling. Dad was in relatively good health, a few minor heart scares, but they both looked so damn old.

my mom pours Lady Grey for us all from an actual teapot like she’s the goddamn Queen of England. Zeth Mayfair’s gigantic hands somehow manage to navigate my parent’s best wedding china without breaking a single thing or spilling a single drop. And I feel like I just dropped acid.

Like many modern day women, I came from a very traditional household. Growing up watching the dynamic of my mom and dad, I decided I wanted to be more like my dad…I wanted to be the one who made the money.

I stood on a rise, overlooking the plague valley. Matthew was beside me. The last thing I remembered was crawling into my sleeping bag after the whiskey had hit me like a two-by-four to the face. Now my friend was here with me. “I’ve missed you. Are you feeling better?” How much was this vision taking out of him? “Better.” He didn’t appear as pale. He wore a heavy coat, open over a space camp T-shirt. “I’m so relieved to hear that, sweetheart. Why would you bring us here?” “Power is your burden.” I surveyed all the bodies. “I felt the weight of it when I killed these people.” “Obstacles multiply.” “Which ones?” A breeze soughed over the valley. “Bagmen, slavers, militia, or cannibals?” He held up the fingers of one hand. “There are now five. The miners watch us. Plotting.” “But miners are the same as cannibals, right?” He shuffled his boots with irritation. “Miners, Empress.” “Okay, okay.” I rubbed his arm. “Are you and Finn being safe?” His brows drew together as he gazed out. “Smite and fall, mad and struck.” I looked with him, like we were viewing a sunset, a beautiful vista. Not plague and death. “You’ve told me those words before.” “So much for you to learn, Empress. Beware the inactivated card.” One Arcana’s powers lay dormant—until he or she killed another player. “Who is it?” “Don’t ask, if you ever want to know.” Naturally, I started to ask, but he cut me off. “Do you believe I see far?” He peered down at me. “Do you believe I see an unbroken line that stretches on through eternity? Centuries ago, I told an Empress that a future incarnation of hers would live in a world of ash where nothing grew. She never believed me.” I could imagine Phyta or the May Queen surveying verdant fields and crops, doubting the Fool. “Now I tell you that dark days are ahead. Will you believe me?” “I will. I do. Please tell me what will happen. How dark?” “Darkest. Power is your burden; knowing is mine.” His expression turned pleading, his soft brown eyes imploring. “Never hate me.” I raised my hands, cradling his face. “Even when I was so mad at you, I never hated you.” “Remember. Matthew knows best.” He sounded like his mom—when she’d tried to drown him: Mother knows best, son. I dropped my hands. “It scares me when you say that.” “Do you know what you really want? I see it. I feel it. Think, Empress. See far.” I was trying! “Help me, then. I’m ready. Help me see far!” “All is not as it seems. What would you sacrifice? What would you endure?” “To end the game?” His voice grew thick as he said, “Things will happen beyond your wildest imaginings.” “Good things?” His eyes watered. “Good, bad, good, bad, good, good, bad, bad, good-bye. You are my friend.

Ignore Jiggie. Come, Ryker.” Ryker listens and positions himself behind me. He pushes me against Hazen’s chest, and I press my palms onto him to catch myself. After a moment, I feel lube right against my ass. “I think it’s numbing lube,” Hazen mutters. “Sometimes, the pain is good. How are you doing, pretty boy?” My fingers tangle into his mohawk. His full lips curl into a smirk. “You’re embarrassing me, Mom,” he teases. “It’s mommy to you.” I wink back, capturing his lips as Ryker’s tip slides in and out of my ass.

MORE ON THIS TIDY STORY AS IT UNFOLDS “Here are your sheets, Mom, warm from the dryer. I’ll make us some lunch while you fold.” Elsie knew not to do everything for her mother because getting her mother active would help her blood circulation and help dispel the swelling in her feet. She dropped the armload of laundry on the ottoman beside her mother’s lounger. “I can’t fold sheets alone. Help me with these.” Of course. What was she thinking? Elsie turned to grasp a couple corners of her mother’s queen-sized fitted sheet. “I need to relearn how to fold these things, anyway.” Mother and daughter pulled and halved, tucked one corner inside another, and brought the ends together like partners in a square dance. Suddenly, Gail growled, “Oh!” Fed up, she grabbed the sheet from Elsie and wadded the whole thing into a roll. “I don’t remember how to do these things! Just stuff them into the linen closet, will you?” She laughed. “Okay. I was hoping you’d teach me how to do it.” “If you don’t know by sixty, daughter, it’s too late! My mom was always so good with linens. You should’a seen her linen closet. It was like the linen closets at Macy’s, all lined up. Mom took pride in her housekeeping, but I just don’t care anymore.” Elsie was noticing how she no longer cared about much of anything either. The proverbial rug had been pulled out from under her, and though she went through the motions of taking Gail’s vitals, dispensing her meds and massaging her feet, they often had little to say to one another. “Mom, why do you think the Bible says so often to remember this or remember that?” “Does it?” Gail gasped, “—talk about remembering?

I liked the guy more than I should have, but he would have to learn I wasn’t the object of a negotiation. I had thoughts and feelings and desires, and not one of them appreciated being disrespected. If he wanted to win me over, my opinion was the only one that mattered. Not my mom’s. Not my dad’s. Mine. And I would not be bullied into anything less. Bishop needed to understand that I wasn’t the pawn on his chessboard or even the king or queen. I was his opponent across the table. We both had equal stakes in the game, and cheating wouldn’t be tolerated, which was exactly what he’d done when he’d gone behind my back.

One day she asked, 'Why do you treat me so well?' 'Because you're my mother and you deserve to be treated like a queen.' After finishing her tea she burped. 'But queens don't do that." She smiled and said, 'How do you know?

One day she asked, 'Why do you treat me so well?' 'Because you're my mother and you deserve to be treated like a queen.' After finishing her tea she burped. 'But queens don't do that.' She smiled and said, 'How do you know?

I liked the guy more than I should have, but he would have to learn I wasn’t the object of a negotiation. I had thoughts and feelings and desires, and not one of them appreciated being disrespected. If he wanted to win me over, my opinion was the only one that mattered. Not my mom’s. Not my dad’s. Mine. And I would not be bullied into anything less. Bishop needed to understand that I wasn’t the pawn on his chessboard or even the king or queen. I was his opponent across the table. We both had equal stakes in the game, and cheating wouldn’t be tolerated, which was exactly what he’d done when he’d gone behind my back. I needed to send him a message that he’d messed up—show him that he wasn’t the only one who could play dirty.

How the fuck am I supposed to tell him that I need time? That the thought of my mom setting me up to be raped is fucking me up inside and I don’t know how to deal? It's fucked up, and I have no doubt he'd completely understand. Hell, out of all the fucking people in the world, Dean would get it. And the fact that I want to tell him—that I want to blurt out all of my stupid fucking feelings—makes me clamp my lips shut even more. "I have to figure this shit out on my own. For now.

Good. Fuck her. Fuck this dress. She made me into her doppelganger, living out some sick fantasy she’d failed to accomplish with my mom. But I am my own person. Not a puppet.

They had killed my mom’s human husband to try to force her to harm other humans? And she had taken rage-fueled revenge and cursed them instead.

My car is already packed with clothes and supplies for all of us," Saint snapped like that was obvious just as I made it back to him. "I also took the liberty of securing Tatum's father's ashes and the letters from her sister down in the crypt." "What about the necklace she asked me to look after?" Monroe asked, taking a step back, like he was willing to go hunting for it even as we heard a knock at the front door. Saint pressed a finger to his lips before opening a pocket on the side of the bag of cash he held, revealing the necklace alongside the plaque my mom had given me, Nash's little collection of mementos from his previous life and Kyan's sketchbook. Monroe gaped at him in clear confusion as to how Saint had managed to steal his most prized possessions, but considering our situation he couldn’t really fault his methods. I caught a glimpse of the pen and lighter Saint had stolen from me and Kyan oh so long ago too before he zipped the pocket shut again and threw the bag over his shoulder. My heart surged with love for my brother as we hounded him towards the crypt on silent feet. For someone who claimed not to understand love or sentiments, he'd instantly figured out the few things that meant the most to the people he cared about and had secured them in preparation of this happening. Deep down, Saint Memphis was as soft as butter and he was starting to let it show.

I feel I owe my daughter stability, bourgeoisdom, charge accounts at Woodies, a chance to join the mainstream. I will be the Cosmo mom, the queen of having it all, and my daughter a Cosby clone. For $50,000 smackeroos, how bad could it be?

The scar on my face. Do you know how I got it?” “Your family was attacked by some Craven when you were a child,” he answered. “Vikter…” “He filled you in?” A faint, tired smile pulled at my lips. “It’s not the only scar.” When he said nothing, I slipped my hand out from under my sleeve. “When I was six, my parents decided to leave the capital for Niel Valley. They wanted a much quieter life, or so I’m told. I don’t remember much from the trip other than my mother and father being incredibly tense throughout the whole thing. Ian and I were young and didn’t know a lot about the Craven, so we weren’t afraid of being out there or stopping at one of the smaller villages—a place I was told later hadn’t seen a Craven attack in decades. There was just a short wall, like most of the smaller towns, and we were staying at the inn only for one night. The place smelled like cinnamon and cloves. I remember that.” I closed my eyes. “They came at night, in the mist. There was no time once they appeared. My father…he went out onto the street to try and fend them off while my mother hid us, but they came through the door and the windows before she could even step outside.” The memory of my mother’s screams forced my eyes open. I swallowed. “A woman—someone who was staying at the inn—was able to grab Ian and pull him into this hidden room, but I hadn’t wanted to leave my mom and it just…” Dark and disjointed flashes of the night attempted to piece themselves together. Blood on the floor, the walls, running down my mother’s arms. Losing my grip on her slippery hand, and then grabbing hands and snapping teeth. The claws… And then the soul-crushing, fiery pain until, finally, nothing. “I woke up days later, back in the capital. Queen Ileana was by my side. She told me what had happened. That our parents were gone.

My mother had been a Lady in Wait, given to the Court during her Rite, but my father had not been a Lord. She had chosen my father over the Blessing of the gods, and that kind of love…it was, well, I didn’t have any experience with that. Probably never would, and I doubted most people did, no matter what their futures held. What my mom had done was unheard of. She’d been the first and the last to ever do so. Queen Ileana had said more than once that if my mother had Ascended, she might’ve survived that night, but that night may have never come. I wouldn’t be standing here. Neither would Ian. She wouldn’t have married our father, and if she had Ascended, she would bear no children. The Queen’s beliefs were irrelevant.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the idea of Horus being hosted by the fearsome warrior queen doesn’t bother me. I like strong women. My mom is one. So is my girlfriend. And Sadie? She just might be the most powerful of them all. Carter! I take back every mean thing I ever said about you! Which, I grant you, could take some time. It’s a long list. —Sadie

Want to hear a song?” he whispered. “A song?” Peril said. “Really?” “I made it up myself just nowish,” he said. “All right, but quietly,” said Peril. “The queen would really hate to be woken up.” “The quee — oh, you mean Grandmother,” he said. Peril stifled a laugh. She didn’t think anyone had ever dared call Queen Scarlet “grandmother” before. “Ready?” Prince Cliff flipped his wings back and stretched his long neck theatrically. “You the audience, so listen up: We the dragons of the sky We can fly and fly and fly We go up so super high We the dragons of the sky And we know my mom is best Better queen than all the rest She come save us from this mess We the dragons dragons dragons of the sky!

I found my parents in the living room. They were playing chess. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Who’s winning?” My dad grumbled. “Your mother just took my queen,” he complained. “Even after all the nice things I’ve done for her.” My mom laughed. “What else should I do? Lose to you on purpose?” “Yes!” my dad answered. “Lose to me on purpose! I love that idea!” Yeesh. That’s my dad for you. A little goofy. “Um, Mom, Dad? Can you tell me some family stories?” My dad slid his rock across the board. “Now’s not a good time, Theodore. I’m trying to destroy your dear mother.” My mom moved her knight. “Check,” she said. She tried not to smile. But not hard enough. “Uh, guys?” I asked. “Remember me? Your youngest son?

micro second, I could see Mishy and I doing an aerial somersault and being pinged like a sling shot off the bike, landing ungracefully  in the gutter, probably head first into a steaming pile of dog poo. Miraculously, (well not really, because I used my witch craft) Mishy was able to steer the bike to safety as her tyres magically ploughed through the bike on the ground. She kept saying over and over, “What just happened, what just happened? I thought we were dead!” I said to her, “Its ok Mish, you saved our lives.” “Sorry guys,” a timid voice popped out from behind the tree. “It was kind of lying against the tree when I left it. It must have fallen down. I hope you’re both ok.” As soon as I saw Kaitlyn sheepishly step out from behind the tree, it suddenly clicked as to what had been missing back at Koolbar. It was Kaitlyn. She wasn’t there and she was always dutifully there with Tiffany. Kaitlyn Ramsay was part of the princess gang, though she wasn’t as fake as the rest of them. Every Friday the four of them always sat in a corner of Koolbar, slurping on their shakes and getting guys to slurp on their every word. I don’t think I’ve ever been there on a Friday when the four of them weren’t huddled up together batting eyelids and preening themselves, whispering and fussing. Which is why it seemed so strange when I didn’t see her. As she stood under the branches, the sun sprinkling filtered light onto her face, I could see that her normally creamy colored complexion was blotchy, and her eyes were red and hazy. Her makeup was streaky under her eye’s with smudges of black casting shadows. She looked a little bit like Dracula’s daughter meets prom queen Barbie, but she put on this big phony smile as though nothing was wrong. As if! Did she think we were born under a rock? “So what’s happening guys?” She tried to sound cheery. “Nothing much, we’re just on the way home from Koolbar,” Mishy replied. “What about you? What are you doing hanging around a tree?” “Yeah Kaitlyn, we didn’t see you at Koolbar. What’s the deal? You’re always there on a Friday with the others.” Kaitlyn’s face crumpled momentarily when I questioned her, then just as quickly went a fake shade of happy again. “Agh, I didn’t really want to go today. I have aghh ….some other things I want to do,” she stuttered, searching for words. “Like bird watching?” Mishy giggled. “You didn’t want to go? That’s not like you Kaitlyn.” I added. “So are you two going straight home now?” Obvious change of subject from Kaitlyn. “Yeah I have to babysit my kid brother while my mom and dad go out on their date night. “Aren’t your parents married?” “Yes, they just like to have a date night once a week where they don’t have to be bothered by us kids. Apparently

I realized suddenly that I needed her almost as much as she needed me. Taking care of her helped me to stick to my guns with Josh, because even though she was a mess, a mess was something to clean up. And now, without the distraction, the emptiness was overwhelming. I sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a stack of napkins in front of me and started to straighten them, lining up the corners and chewing on my lip, thinking about my next move. Okay, maybe what she said about Mom was true. God knows I could spend the rest of my life in therapy working through the shit the Ice Queen put me through. Maybe Mom did fuck me up and I had some self-worth issues. But the cold, hard truth was that I came with too much baggage, and I wasn’t worth the sacrifice Josh would have to make to be with me. I could never give as much as I would take from him. That wasn’t lack of self-esteem. That was just a simple fact.

Ella. This is an emergency!” To my mother, Candy Varner, everything was an emergency. She was a shock-and-awe parent, the ultimate drama queen. But she had covered it up so adeptly that few people suspected what went on behind closed doors. She had demanded her daughters’ collusion in the myth of our happy family life, and Tara and I had given it to her without question. At times Mom wanted interaction with my younger sister and me, but she quickly became impatient and surly. We learned to watch for every sign that would indicate the fluctuations of her mood. We had been storm chasers, trying to stay close to the twister without getting swept up in it

Stop stepping on the back of my shoe,” I demand through gritted teeth. This was the fourth time he’d bumped into me. “Mooom, Sophie pinched me,” he whines. “If you two don’t stop bickering, we’re heading home,” Mom warns. We pipe down. We’ve been waiting for

Stop stepping on the back of my shoe,” I demand through gritted teeth. This was the fourth time he’d bumped into me. “Mooom, Sophie pinched me,” he whines. “If you two don’t stop bickering, we’re heading home,” Mom warns.

Chloe, I’m a model child. I get good grades in school. I’m nice to my friends. And I help out in the house when Mom and Dad ask me to.

Route 206 has only two lanes, which makes no sense in this over populated state, but presumably someone in power believes that restricting the road to only two lanes forestalls the advent of a further population explosion. Presumably these same people have not realized that a two-lane system clogs cars, frustrates drivers, and imperils a family of three (Mom, Dad, Ben) driving to a dinner deep in Southern New Jersey. These same people have not seen any logic to expanding a roadway so that a bleary, sweaty, fleshy man, vodka steaming from his pores, angry at the Range Rover sputtering in front of him, angry that the man with the ponytail driving the Range Rover has a Range Rover, angry at himself for not picking up Willy, his eleven-year-old son, from his mother's today because he went to the bar Fredo's instead, angry angry angry - so fuck it, fuck it all, he thought, I'm going to fucking pass this fucking asswipe Range Rover asshole, I don't care who's coming down the other side, I don't care if the President and his fucking Secret Service guys are barreling down this shitty road, fuck it all, I have the bigger car, I don't need a Range Rover, I have this, my TRUCK, my beautiful big motherfucking TRUCK, and goddamn it, what was up with the blond at the bar?

It was surprising how quickly the girls opened up to my mother. Gemma told her the entire story of the Darkroom and the Dulcinea Award. She also reviewed the complete bird lexicon. My mother was as baffled as I was by the ubiquity of blowjobs as an introductory sexual act. “I don’t understand,” said Mom. “Don’t girls give hand jobs anymore? Much less effort required.” “The blowjob is the new hand job,” I said. “Really?” said Mom. “How many girls are entered in the contest? And what do they get—money?” “Most girls don’t even know there is a contest,” Gemma said. “If you don’t want to do something, why do you do it?” said my mom. “There’s this thing the boys do,” Mel said. “They make it seem like there’s something wrong with you if you don’t do it. So, you’re hanging out with some guy you like. You’re kissing and stuff and the next thing you know, he’s unzipped his fly. And you’re like, what happened? But you don’t say that because it’s awkward and—and you’re already not thinking clearly, because you like the person and everything you’ve done so far feels good. You don’t want to ruin the mood, so you do it. And while you’re doing it, you’re not feeling anything at all, and you’re telling yourself it’s not a big deal. But then, later, you feel something. You feel wrong, like dirty and used, and stupid. And you wonder what happened to you, the you who has a backbone.” “I need another drink,” I said. “Me too,” said my mother. Me too, said Gemma and Mel. My mother would have given them both a shot of bourbon, but I nixed that idea when I saw her pull two more glasses from the cabinet. Gemma showed us a few samples of the scoring system but wouldn’t relinquish the entire stack of entrants. “Swallows were spies, right?” said my mother, as she gazed down at the page. “Spies? What do you mean?” Mel said, perking up. “The Russians called female spies ‘swallows’ and male spies ‘ravens’ in the Cold War,” I said. “See, Mel. You’re a spy. That’s all,” said Gemma. “I would cut off the penis of any man who talk about me like this,” said my mother, as she gazed down at a score sheet. “You know what I would like to see? A bad-blowjob contest. That would teach them.” Gemma and Mel, who had seemed so lost, suddenly looked up at Mom like she was their new queen.

I used to think my sister and I were just two nice southern girls who would get married in a few years, have babies, and settle down to a life of sipping sweet tea on a porch swing under the shade of waxy-blossomed magnolias, raising our children together near Mom and Dad and each other. Then I discovered Alina and I descend not from good, wholesome southern stock but from an ancient Celtic bloodline of powerful sidhe-seers, people who can see the Fae, a terrifying race of otherworldly beings that have lived secretly among us for thousands of years, cloaked in illusions and lies. Governed loosely by a queen, and even more loosely by a Compact few support and many ignore, they have preyed on humans for millennia.

I gather you weren't keen on going back to Scotland with your brother at this time of year. I don't say I blame you. Terribly bleak and cutoff in the winter." "Oh no, Mom," I said, as her words sunk in. "My brother is not going back to Scotland. He and my sister-in-law are going to the Riviera." The Riviera? I had no idea." "For my sister-in-law's health. She's feeling rather frail at the moment." "I don't think that frail would ever be a word to describe your sister-in-law," the Queen said, looking up with a half smile on her lips as a tray of coffee was reeled into the room. "I managed to have six children without making a fuss. One just got on with it.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others.

- Ron??? - Ready, standing there, Mom. - You're sleeping in fact, you're there astral. It's in your bedroom and anywhere else. Got it? - So, what, when I wake up in the morning the Tower will follow me to work? My boss will be mad with this. - No, it'll wait near your bedroom." "- End of Magic? You did magic on me, didn't you? - Let's say I baptized you in the Waters of Oblivion. Sleep well, Ron...