Red Swimsuit Quotes

I return to the sprinklers and sit down. George plunks down next to me. “Did you know that a bird-eating tarantula is as big as your hand?” “Jase doesn’t have one of those, does he?” George gives me his sunniest smile. “No. He useta have a reg’lar tarantula named Agnes, but she”—his voice drops mournfully—“died.” “I’m sure she’s in tarantula heaven now,” I assure him hastily, shuddering to think what that might look like. Mrs. Garret’s van pulls in behind the motorcycle, disgorging what I assume are Duff and Andy, both red-faced and windblown. Judging by their life jackets, they’ve been at sailing camp. George and Harry, my loyal fans, rave to their mother about my accomplishments, while Patsy immediately bursts into tears, points an accusing finger at her mother, and wails, “Boob.” “It was her first word.” Mrs. Garret takes her from me, heedless of Patsy’s damp swimsuit. “There’s one for the baby book.

She thinks very distinctly of two things. The first is a photograph of herself at nine years old in a red swimsuit on a beach, she can’t remember where, Filey or Scarborough perhaps. She is with her mother and father who are swinging her towards the camera, their sunburnt faces buckled with laughter. Then she thinks of Dexter, sheltering from the rain on the steps of the new house, looking at his watch, impatient; he’ll wonder where I am, she thinks. He’ll worry.

Standing out on purpose is one thing, but doing so by default takes a lot of energy and confidence. I’m proud of the things that set me apart, and I know why they are good; but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult. Every now and then I wish I wasn’t the only one-piece swimsuit at the pool, the only sleeved dress on the red carpet, the only sober performer in the room, or the only pirate at the party. Not because I don’t see the value in these things, but because sometimes being different feels a lot like being alone, and being alone is exhausting.

Toadstool mandarins are a form of toxic jellyfish whose tentacles are loaded with entheogenic venom. The effects of a mandarin sting are threefold. The first is a sharp stinging sensation; the second a nasty red welt, which may fester if not treated with a salve of toadstool mandarin doodoo. And the third is a bold of self-awareness, thanks to the entheogens in the venom. Having been stung, a victim's typical reaction will be something like: Owww. Zark, that hurts. Then: Oh no. Look at this nasty red welt. I'm in the swimsuit competition later. And finally: What? I'm a latent misogynist with father issues! If a person is allergic to mandarin venom, one sting will prompt total self-awareness, leading to either immediate catatonia or a career as a talk show pundit.

You can start with the whole ‘my lady’ thing,” Liv said, breaking her train of thought. “What’s the deal with that?” Kat’s face got almost as red as her hair. “It’s what they call plus-sized girls, all right? They, uh, have a thing for them. For us, I guess.” “Holy crap—Lock and Deep are curvy connoisseurs?” Liv raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” “Seriously,” Kat said gloomily. “As in, they’d rather peruse the Lane Bryant catalogue than the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.” “But that’s great!” Sophie exclaimed, forgetting her own problems for a moment. “You’re always saying that guys in Tampa don’t appreciate curves.” “Yeah, well, neither do they want to get inside your head and never ever leave,” Kat snapped. “Talk about the first date from hell that won’t end.” “Okay,

I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this intense before,” Asher said, leaning over to drop a kiss on her shoulder next to her swimsuit strap. “If I wear a suit and bring Mya flowers, will you go all aggressive on me like this? ’Cause I think I’d like that.” Bethany’s face turned the brightest shade of red I’d ever seen it, and that was saying a lot because she blushes at the drop of a hat. “Can we talk about this later?” “Oh, we will,” Asher declared, that confidence coming through again. Bethany’s cheeks somehow turned even more crimson as she wiggled farther away from him.

See! Told you!” Paige sings out, pointing up at a wooden tower, on top of which a lifeguard is lounging, smoking a cigarette, talking on his mobile phone, his skin tanned so dark he might be Indian, wearing nothing but a tiny, shiny pair of red Speedos. “But Paige, his swimsuit!” I object. Paige tosses her head. “Actually, Violet,” she says, “I think you’re being really sexist. Why should girls be able to wear bikinis if boys can’t wear Speedos? Boys like to tan too!” “My dad calls them budgie smugglers,” Kelly volunteers, and I snigger at this. So does Paige, when she figures it out.

She was wearing a dark-red swimsuit consisting of two small triangles up above and a mere suggestion of something down below. If she took everything off, Dill thought, she would look a lot less naked.