Perkins Quotes

For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.

The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.

Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?

I know you aren't perfect. But it's a person's imperfections that make them perfect for someone else.

French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.

I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I'm not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about it.

Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.

I'm saying I'm in love with you! I've been in love with you this whole bleeding year!

Boys turns girls into such idiots.

Maybe the grass is greener on the other side depends who was standing in it. Sometimes you have to go over there and look.

Why is it that the right people never wind up together? Why are people so afraid to leave a relationship, even if they know it's a bad one?

I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It's so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn't have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.

I wish for the thing that is best for me.

Girl scouts didn't teach me what to do with emotionally unstable drunk boys.

Just because something isn't practical doesn't mean it's not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.

I'm a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece.

Soap?" "School of America in Paris" he explains. "SOAP". Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.

It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.

Perfect is overrated. Perfect is boring." I smile. "You don't think I'm perfect?" "No. You're delightfully screwy, and I wouldn't have you any other way.

So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure I want? Someone I'm not sure I need? Or someone I know I can't have?

When it's right, it's simple.

So do you believe in second chances?" I bite my lip. "Second, third, fourth. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. If the person is right," he adds. "If the person is... Lola?" This time, he holds my gaze. "Only if the other person is Cricket.

Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent.

I don't want to feel this way around him. I want things to be normal. I want to be his friend, not another stupid girl holding out for something that will never happen.

And if I'm the stars, Cricket Bell is entire galaxies.

How many times can our emotions be tied to someone else's - be pulled and stretched and twisted - before they snap? Before they can never be mended again?

There is no female mind. The brain is not an organ of sex. As well speak of a female liver.

There are some people in life that you can't get over.

We both got our Point Zero wishes―each other. He said he wished for me every time.

Sometimes a mistake isn't a what. It's a who.

A moment of reserve. "That was it? The whole story?" "Yes. God, you're right. That was pants." I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. "Pants?" "Rubbish. Crap. Shite." Pants. Oh heavens, that's cute.

I don't believe in fashion. I believe in costume. Life is too short to be same person every day.

I moan with pleasure. "Did you just have a foodgasm?" he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips. "Where have you been all my life?" I ask the beautiful panini.

This is home. The two of us.

Anna, Anna," Josh interrupts. "If I had a euro for every stupid thing I've done, I could buy the Mona Lisa. You'll be fine.

People should say what they mean and not make other people stumble around.

The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-​u-​i and not w-​e-​e.

Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.

Madame Guillotine gets mad at me. Not because I told them to shove it, but because I didn’t say it in French. What is wrong with this school?

It's easy to talk about things we hate, but sometimes it's hard to explain exactly why we like something.

Please. The boy gets a boner every time you walk into the room." My eyes pop back open. Does she mean that figuratively or has she actually seen something? No. Focus, Anna.

Why do I care so much about him, and why do I wish I didn't? How can one person make me so confused all of the time?

Har. Bloody. Har." He smiles. "Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent. What's next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?" Trousers. Honestly.

Because that’s the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don’t want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lungs. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It’s mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

I am hard on myself. But isn’t it better to be honest about these things before someone else can use them against you? Before someone else can break your heart? Isn’t it better to break it yourself?

Life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you DO with what you get.

Phones are distracting. The internet is distracting.The way he looked at you? He wasn't distracted. He was consumed.

I don't understand why things always go from perfect to weird with us. It's like we're incapable of normal human interaction.

And I hold my head high toward my big entrance, hand in hand with the boy who gave me the moon and the stars.

A blank canvas...has unlimited possibilities.

I draw him closer by his tie and whisper into his ear, "Cricket Bell, I have been in love with you for my entire life.

What just happened?" "Your father invited the former love of your life in for pie." "Yeah, that's what I thought.

St. Clair clears his throat. 'My fiancée and I are headed out for a celebratory dessert. I'd ask you all to join us, but I don't want you there.

Sorry to be your second choice." "Don't be stupid. Third choice. Mum's asleep, remember?" He laughs again.

There's no story,' I say. 'I saw you one day, and I just knew.

Oof," he says. "Hey, there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem.

It's not right. It hasn't been right, not since I met you.

Why?" His voice is suspicious. "Are you two going out now?" "Yeah, we set up our first date right after he asked me to marry him. Please. We're just friends.

Do adults realize how lucky they are? Or do they forget that these small moments are actually small miracles? I don’t want to ever forget.

I wasn't being a git. I wasn't even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms -

If you ask me to kiss you, I will,” he says. His fingers stroke the inside of my wrists, and I burst into flames. “Kiss me,” I say. He does.

Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time." "My pleasure. Always happy to educate.

Do you know my biggest regret?" She asks. "That you turned into this bright, beautiful, fascinating person... and I can't take credit for any of it.

You say that I'm afraid of being alone, and it's true. I am. And I'm not proud of it. But you need to take a good look at yourself, Anna, because I am NOT the only one in this room who suffers this problem.

Lola?" Cricket is on his knees at the side of my bed. I feel it. "I'm here," he whispers. "You can talk to me or not talk to me, but I'm here.

There are few things worse than having feelings for someone you shouldn't, and I don't like where my thoughts were headed.

Anna prods St. Clair's shoulder. "Come on. Weren't you gonna show me that thing?" "What thing?" She stares at him. He stares back. She cocks her head toward Cricket and me. "Ah, yes." St. Clair stands. "That thing." They rush out. The door shuts, and St. Clair shouts, "Lola, Cricket wants to show you his thing, too-oo!

No more moving. I'm here. I'm wherever you are.

What...what about when I'm married?” “We'll buy a cot. Your husband can sleep on that when he visits.

His eyes lock on mine."Anna,I promise that I will never leave you." My heart pounds in response.And Étienne knows it,because he takes my hand and holds it against his chest,to show me how hard his heart is pounding,too.

I have the strangest feeling that he's aware of me as I am of him.

There's something about blue eyes. The kind of blue that startles you every time they're lifted in your direction. The kind of blue that makes you ache for them to look at you again. Not the blue green or blue gray, the blue that's just blue. Cricket has those eyes.

Remember that day I made you the elevator?” he suddenly asks. I give him a faint smile. “How could I forget?” “That was the day I had my first kiss.” My smile fades. “I’m better now,” He sets the apple beside me. “At kissing, just so you know.

I look at you, and I think about you, and ... I don't know. No one has ever confounded me the way you do.

Har. Bloody. Har.

No, I don't love Max anymore. But I don't want to give you this broken, empty me. I want you to have me when I'm full, when I can give something back to you. I don't have much to give right now.

Pinkie means excited or happy, thumb means thinking or worried. I’m surprised I know the meaning of these gestures. How closely have I been paying attention to him?

What do you say to someone who is not the same and yet completely the same?

Once upon a time, there was a girl who talked to the moon. And she was mysterious and she was perfect, in that way that girls who talk to moons are. In the house next door, there lived a boy. And the boy watched the girl grow more and more perfect, more and more beautiful with each passing year. He watched her watch the moon. And he began to wonder if the moon would help him unravel the mystery of the beautiful girl. So the boy looked into the sky. But he couldn't concentrate on the moon. He was too distracted by the stars. And it didn't matter how many songs or poems had already been written about them, because whenever he thought about the girl, the stars shone brighter. As if she were the one keeping them illuminated. One day, the boy had to move away. He couldn't bring the girl with him, so he brought the stars. When he'd look out his window at night, he would start with one. One star. And the boy would make a wish on it, and the wish would be her name. At the sound of her name, a second star would appear. And then he'd wish her name again, and the stars would double into four. And four became eight, and eight became sixteen, and so on, in the greatest mathematical equation the universe had ever seen. And by the time an hour had passed, the sky would be filled with so many stars that it would wake the neighbors. People wondered who'd turned on the floodlights. The boy did. By thinking about the girl.

Most people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly. "Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent. I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly. Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too-" I gasp. "Much." "You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions." "My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget.

So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure I want? Someone I'm not sure I need? Or someone I know I can't have? Screw it. Let the fates decide. I wish for the thing that is best for me.

What my parents never considered is that I just wanted a choice.

But I MUST say what I feel and think in some way — it is such a relief! But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.

Where's your hat?" He squints at me. "Mer? Is that you? Do I need my scarf? Will it be cold, Mummy?

I don’t care what he thinks. Only what you think.” He holds me tighter. “Like if you think I need to stop biting my nails.” “You’ve worn your pinkies to nubs,” I say cheerfully. “Or if I need to start ironing my bed spread.” “I DO NOT IRON MY BED SPREAD.” “You do. And I love it.

I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe.

I risk a glance, and St. Clair stares back. Deeply. He has not looked at me like this before. I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later. I know he is smiling, and my heart races.

The first thing I notice is his hair - it's the first thing I notice about anyone. It's dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles, since I've just seen them in Meredith's room. It's artist's hair. Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-really-do hair.

If I weren't standing next to your boyfriend, I'd be tempted to ask you out myself." She blushes, and St. Clair bounds inside the box office and wrestles her into a hug. "Miiiiiiiiine!" he says. "Cut it out." Anna pushes him off, laughing. "You'll get fired. And then I'll have to support your sorry arse for the rest of our lives.

You're the most incredible girl I've ever known. You're gorgeous and smart, and you make me laugh like no one else can. And I can talk to you. And I know after all this I don't deserve you, but what I'm trying to say is that I love you, Anna. Very much

I'm sorry," he says. "What? Why?" "You're fixing everything I set down." He nods at my hands, which are readjusting the elephant. "It wasn't polite of me to come in and start touching your things." "Oh, it's okay," I say quickly, letting go of the figurine. "You can touch anything of mine you want." He freezes. A funny look runs across his face before I realize what I've said. I didn't mean it like that. Not that that would be so bad.

You forgot to call,' he says. I throw open my arms. He pulls me into them, and we kiss, and his lips are cold, and I think he's crying, and I'm definitely crying, and I pull back to say, 'I am so in love with you, Joshua Wasserstein. Of course I'll wait for you.

I’m…getting there. I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s okay to be a blank canvas. Maybe it’s okay that my future is unknown. And maybe,” I say with another smile, “it’s okay to be inspired by the people who do know their future.” “It goes both ways, you know.” I link his icicle fingers through mine. “What does?” “Artists are inspired by blank canvases.” My smile grows wider.

What are you working on?" I ask. "The last page." He gestures towards the table, where a pencilled sketch is being turned into inked brushstrokes. It's a drawing of us, in this café, in this moment. I smile up at him "It's beautiful. But what comes next?" "The best part." And he pulls me back into his arms. "The happily ever after.

And I realize ... it’s okay. It’s okay if St. Clair and I never become more than friends. His friendship alone has strengthened me in a way that no one else’s ever has. He swept me from my room and showed me independence. In other words, he was exactly what I needed. I won’t forget it. And I certainly don’t want to lose it.

I trail my fingers across his cheek. He stays perfectly still for me. “Please stop apologizing, Étienne.” “Say my name again,” he whispers. I close my eyes and lean forward. “Étienne.” He takes my hands into his.Those perfect hands, that fit mine just so. “Anna?” Our foreheads touch. “Yes?” “Will you please tell me you love me? I’m dying here.” And then we’re laughing. And then I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing, at first quickly—to make up for lost time—and then slowly, because we have all the time in the world. And his lips are soft and honey sweet, and the careful, passionate way he moves them against my own says that he savors the way I taste, too. And in between kisses, I tell him I love him. Again and again and again.

He pats his way around the the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says. "yes?" "My belt. Would it be weird..." I'm thankful he can't see me blush."Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather, s he pulls it out of his belt loops. He lays it gently on my hardwood floor. "Um," he says. "Would it be weird-" "yes" "Oh, piss off. I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath, and now we're lying side-by-side. In my narrow bed. Funny, but I never never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being, well, a sleepover.

Being with Anna is easy. She's the one." The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but... there's that other one. The first one. "Do you believe in that?" I ask quietly. "In one person for everyone?" Something changes in St Clair's eyes. Maybe sadness. "I can't speak for anyone but myself," he says. "But, for me, yes. I have to be with Anna. But this is something you have to figure out on your own. I can't answer that for you, no one can." "Oh." "Lola." He rolls his chair over to my side. "I know things are shite right now. And in the name of friendship and full disclosure, I went through something similar last year. When I met Anna, I was with someone else. And it took a long time before I found the courage to do the hard thing. But you have to do the hard thing." I swallow. "And what's the hard thing?" "You have to be honest with yourself.

St. Clair gets a crush on Anna. He's torn between her and Ellie, and he spends so much time running between them that he hardly has time left for Josh. And the more time that Josh spends alone, the more he realizes how alone he actually is. All of his friends will be gone the next year. Josh grows increasingly antagonistic toward school, which makes Rashmi increasingly antagonistic toward him, which makes him increasingly antagonistic toward her. And she's upset because Elie dropped her as a friend, and Meredith is upset because now St. Clair likes two girls who aren't her, and Anna is upset because St. Clair is leading her on, and then St. Clair's mom gets cancer. It's a freaking soap opera.

Oh my. He's English. "Er. Does Mer live here?" Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent. The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big, curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf, like my Nana Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, "What kind of salad dressing would you like?" or "Where did you put Granddad's false teeth?" "I'm sorry." He takes the smallest step away from me. "You were going to bed." "Yes! Meredith lives here. I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my little brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. "I'm Anna! I'm new here!" Oh, [Gosh]. What. Is with. The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it's all so humiliating. The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely - straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin. "Étienne," he says. "I live one floor up." "I live here." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused. He raps twice on Meredith's door. "Well. I'll see you around then, Anna." Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.