Slumber Party Quotes

Yes, because a vampire slumber party is the pinnacle of safety conscious behavior.

Slumber party with Dracula, all things considerd why not?

Daemon's gaze slipped from his brother to me then back to his brother. "Are we having a slumber party? And I'm not invited?

So the Casnoffs are at Hex Hall. Probably with however many demons they've managed to create. What are they doing there? Throwing a hellacious slumber party?

The older you get, the fewer slumber parties there are, and I hate that. I liked slumber parties. What happened to them?

What are they all doing there? Throwing a hellacious slumber party?” when no one said anything, I added, “Get it? Hellacious? Because they’re all…Forget it.

This isn't a slumber party.

So I asked around about The Blonde,” she said, sitting down on my bed once the room was completely slumber party–ready. “She’s a sophomore. Her name is Autumn Elliot. What the hell kind of name is Autumn? Why don’t they just call her Fall or The Depressing Season When Everything Starts to Die.

But if anyone so much as threatened them because of what Kaia had once done, she would turn the Slumber Party Massacre into Blood, Bath and Beyond, a documentary by Kaia Skyhawk.

Strawberry milk,” I say, eyeing him as we head toward the counter. “Really.” He turns to me. “Do you have something to say about my snack selections?” “Nope.” I fall into line behind him. “I just didn’t realize you were a middle-school girl going to a slumber party.” “And I,” he says, plunking his strawberry-fest down on the counter, “didn’t realize you were a soccer mom justifying her chocolate craving with the fact that raisins are a fruit.

Oh. Well. A slumber party with Dracula? All things considered, why not? Okay, but I snore.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that one only comes up with clever, cutting remarks long after the other party is happily slumbering away.

Wow,Cal," I said, feeling a little bit like myself for the first time since I'd walked into this crazy house. "You will be able to have some awesome slumber parties in here.All of the other girls are gonna be so jealous." Cal shot me a half smile, and I felt some of the weird-ness between us dissipate. "It's not so bad," he said. Then he flopped down on the bed, only to sink out of sight in the middle of it. As Cal drowned in a sea of fluffy coverlets and throw pillows, I couldn't help but crack up. Lara looked offended. "That bed originally belonged to the third Duke of Cornwall." "It's great," Cal said, his voice muffled. He gave her the thumbs-up, which only made me and Jenna laugh harder.

In the spirit of slumber parties, I want to have a sleepover and invite only narcoleptics.

This is why I can't talk to parents. They think you can get friends in high school the way you get chips from a vending machine. Put in a little niceness, and some kid pops out ready to double-check your homework and paint your nails at a slumber party. Niceness is not a valid currency in high school.

The slumber party took place in what the Methodists called a family room, the Catholics used as an extra bedroom, and the neighborhood's only Jews had turned into a combination darkroom and fallout shelter.

His question is pretty dangerous for me to try to answer, so I don’t—it continues to hang out there like the stained underwear at a slumber party that goes unclaimed.

All these women. And Trina. Trina,” she repeated, with considerable passion as she gripped his shirt. “And gooey dessert and body things and chick-vids. All night. Slumber party. Do you know what that means?” “I’ve had many dreams of them. Will there be pillow fights?” She spun him around so his back hit the door. “Don’t. Leave. Me.” “Darling.” He kissed her brow. “I must. I must.” “No. You can bring Vegas here. Because . . . you’re you. You can do that. We’ll have Vegas here, and that’ll be good. I’ll buy you a lap dance.” “That’s so sweet. But I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow, and lay a cool cloth on your fevered brow.” “Tomorrow?” She actually went light-headed. “You’re not coming back tonight?” “You wouldn’t be in this state now if you paid attention. I’m taking a shuttle full of men to Las Vegas late this afternoon. There will be ribaldry, and a possible need to post bond. I’ve made arrangements. I’ll bring back this same shuttle full of men—hopefully—tomorrow afternoon.” “Let me come with you.” “Let me see your penis.” “Oh, God! Can’t I just use yours?” “At any other time. Now pull yourself together, and remember that when all this is over, you’ll very likely arrest a killer who’s also a dirty cop. It’s like a twofer.” “That doesn’t make me feel better.” “Best I have.

Once I accepted the fact that I was bad luck, I shied away from group activities. And groups. And activities. I started spending a lot of time in my room, tucked under my covers reading books. There’s only so much damage a book can do, and I wasn’t worried about hurting myself. Accidentally hurting yourself is way better than hurting other people. Sure, I got lonely for a while. But getting invited to slumber parties just wasn’t worth the stress of wondering if I might accidentally burn down the house with my flat iron or be the only survivor of a freak sleepover massacre. And loneliness is just like everything else—if you endure it long enough, you get used to it.

Every night was a somber, adults-only slumber party - no giggles or whispers, just lots of coughing and farting and snoring and groaning, the sounds and smells of too many stressed-out of people packed into too small a place.

So the Casnoffs are at Hex Hall,” I said. “Probbaly with however many demons they’ve managed to create. What are they doing there? Throwing a hellacious slumber party?” When no one said anything, I added, “Get it? Hellacious? Because they’re all…Forget it.

Love wasn’t a slumber party with your best friend. Love was dangerous, violent, with an element of something repulsive; attraction had a permeable border with repulsion. Love had death in it, and madness. To try to escape those things was immature and anti-novelistic.

Trina and her consultants will be here by four to start setting up.” “Joy and—what? Who? Trina? Why? What have you done?” “You said no silly games, and no strippers,” Peabody reminded her. “We’re doing the full-out girl party. Champagne, decadent food, body, hair, face treatments. Chick-vids, presents, gooey desserts. Big girl slumber party, followed by champagne brunch tomorrow.” “You mean . . .” The shock was sharp and cruel, a stunner blast against the heart. “Overnight? All night into tomorrow?” “Yeah.” Peabody grinned around her carrot. “Didn’t I mention that?” “I have to kill you now.” “Uh-uh. No games, no strippers. Those were your only rules.” “I’ll find a way to hurt you for this.

The night went on like this, a mix of serious talk, utter bullshit, self-promotion, and slumber-party giddiness.

Don’t worry,” I said. “We won’t be having slumber parties and spa days any time soon.” “I quite like spa days.

Tonight, it’s my slumber party and I say we dine on mushrooms, pepperoni and cheese.” He sent him a hopeful grin. “And Xbox?

We kicked off the night with pizza—courtesy of my dad—and a plethora of online quizzes. (Yes, I did google “slumber party activities.” No, I did not expect to be inundated with pornography.)

What are we even supposed to do?” Nina said aloud. “I know my way around horses,” Leoni offered. Adrik rolled his eyes. “Here we go.” “It will ingratiate us with the locals,” insisted Leoni, already pushing through the trees. “We could use some soldier friends.” “Soldier friends?” Nina asked incredulously. “Come on,” said Adrik. “If we leave Leoni to her own devices, she may invite them to a slumber party.

And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register.

Foster and I would be having a slumber party tonight.” “No you wouldn’t,” Grady informed him. Keefe smirked. “Worried I’ll prank you?” “Definitely not what I’m worried about.” And on that note, Sophie decided it was time for another subject change.

At Jeanette’s slumber party, I told Kitty Coffey she smelled like a hamper and was delighted when she cried. I ate greedily, danced myself into a sweat, and laughed so loud that Mrs. Nord had to come in and speak to me. “Keep it down, honey, will you? I can hear you all over the house,” she said. “Shut up, you whore,” I thought of saying, but only made a face. I dared each girl there to stay awake as long as I could—to match my energy. When the last of them faded off to sleep, I started shaking so hard that I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe he’d left because I was a bad person. Because I’d wished he’d married Mrs. Nord instead of Ma. Because I told Ma she was ugly. By dawn, my eyes burned from no sleep. I tiptoed amongst my girlfriends in the blanketed clumps on Jeanette’s floor, pretending they were all dead from some horrible explosion. Because I had stayed awake, I was the only survivor. Birds chirped outside in the Nords’ graying yard. I got dressed, walked down the hall, and pedaled barefoot back to Bobolink Drive.

And what about us?” Catcher asked. Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re part of the mystery-solving gang, aren’t you?” Catcher muttered something unflattering, and Mallory nudged him. “I presume you want us to stay here tonight?” she asked. “It would make things easier,” Gabe said. “So we’ll sleep on the couch,” Catcher said, “like we’re twelve-year-olds at a slumber party.” “In fairness,” Ethan said, “we don’t all have to sleep on the couch.” “In fairness,” Catcher said, “you can kiss my ass.” “Ladies,” Mallory said. “Let’s put on our big-girl panties. Merit and Ethan are already sleeping in the bedroom, and there’s no point in making them move. Catcher and I can take the couch. The shifters will feel better if we make this work, and it’s no great loss to any of us.

Love wasn't a slumber party with your best friend. Love was dangerous, violent, with an element of something repulsive; attraction had a permeable border with repulsion. Love had heath in it, and madness. To try to escape those things was immature and anti-novelistic.

Love wasn't a slumber party with your best friend. Love was dangerous, violent, with an element of something repulsive; attraction had a permeable border with repulsion. Love had death in it, and madness. To try to escape those things was immature and anti-novelistic.

I recognized that the idea of being penetrated and dominated was exciting to me, too, though the mechanics, as well as the implications, were unclear and troubling. Also, why did we have to be excited by that? Why couldn’t we be excited about something else? But I knew I was being childish and unrealistic, and Svetlana was right. Love wasn’t a slumber party with your best friend. Love was dangerous, violent, with an element of something repulsive; attraction had a permeable border with repulsion. Love had death in it, and madness. To try to escape those things was immature and anti-novelistic.

And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards

Daydreaming had spun in her head a book-length "soon-to-be" affair with Percy. He would call her when she returned home, ask her out, pick her up in a Porsche, take her to an expensive restaurant and order lobster, then to the theater, kissing her passionately in his leather upholstered seats afterwards, promising that he would see her the following day, and the day after that. She was still working on the castle-in-the-sky and the happily-ever-after chapters. It was incredible the material an innocent, half-hour conversation could generate.

into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground

It was the first time I discovered that some girls actually sneak out of the house during slumber parties and meet up with boys. I would’ve never known if I hadn’t gone to the bathroom at midnight and caught Macy and Adrienne climbing through the bathroom window. They had on eyeliner, perfume, and cut-off shorts. Their only goodbye a glare that promised retribution if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.

Why did you break in Mrs. Casnoff’s desk for?” Information on Archer. After he left. “Ah. You’re welcome, by the way?” For what? She jiggled the nail harder. “For putting him in his place the other night. Working with The Eye,” she scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant plan.” He’s just trying to think of something,” I said automatically. I wasn’t sure why I was defending him when I’d basically said that idea was the stupidest thing ever to have stupided, but I didn’t like the scorn in her voice. Well, my voice, her words. Elodie paused in trying to open the desk drawer and shoved my hair back with both hands. “What’s it going to take for you to realize that Archer Cross is bad news? He’s an Eye. He’s a liar and a jerk, and he’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. And you’re betrothed to Cal. Boys who can heal all wounds and are super hot, to boot? Don’t exactly come around every day.” I don’t think about Cal like that. Pressing the point of the nail back into the lock, Elodie snorted. “Um, hi, I’ve been in your head. You totally think about him like that.” Look,, this isn’t a slumber party, I snapped. Can you please get back to work? “Fine,” she muttered. “Don’t listen to me. But I’m telling you, Cal is the way to go. Heck, if I had a body, I wouldn’t mind-“ I’m going to need you to stop right there. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wasn’t going to stop right there, but before she could say anything else, the lock on the drawer gave way.

One of my favourite stories is about an old woman and her husband – a man mean as Mondays, who scared her with the violence of his temper and the shifting nature of his whims. She was only able to keep him satisfied with her unparalleled cooking, to which he was a complete captive. One day, he bought her a fat liver to cook for him, and she did, using herbs and broth. But the smell of her own artistry overtook her, and a few nibbles became a few bites, and soon the liver was gone. She had no money with which to purchase a second one, and she was terrified of her husband’s reaction should he discover that his meal was gone. So she crept to the church next door, where a woman had been recently laid to rest. She approached the shrouded figure, then cut into it with a pair of kitchen shears and stole the liver from her corpse. That night, the woman’s husband dabbed his lips with a napkin and declared the meal the finest he’d ever eaten. When they went to sleep, the old woman heard the front door open, and a thin wail wafted through the rooms. Who has my liver? Whooooo has my liver? The old woman could hear the voice coming closer and closer to the bedroom. There was a hush as the door swung open. The dead woman posed her query again. The old woman flung the blanket off her husband. – He has it! She declared triumphantly. Then she saw the face of the dead woman, and recognized her own mouth and eyes. She looked down at her abdomen, remembering, now, how she carved into her own belly. Next to her, as the blood seeped into the very heart of the mattress, her husband slumbered on. That may not be the version of the story you’re familiar with. But I assure you, it’s the one you need to know.

Their idea of what it means to live a life in a female body is informed by the male gaze, gender stereotypes and porn. This is why their fantasy recreation of a woman hardly ever involves being paid less, doing unpaid domestic labour or being ignored. Instead they are drawn to the stereotype of beautiful bimbos whose lives are easy and filled with acceptance, slumber parties, gossiping in female toilets, colouring each other's hair and prancing around in sexy lingerie and fluffy slippers.

A boring machine, would it drill holes—or put you to sleep? The two-party political system, that’s a boring machine, though voters are waking up. I'd like to think my ducks quacking for their breakfast in the morning is also helping The Sleepwalkers rise from their slumber.

When Straight Women Flirt …With Me She sits on my lesbian lap both of us too much wine arm around my shoulder hair carelessly tossed from her face her full weight light upon me sweet sweat rising in the noisy night her laugh laps up the smoke her lean close her breathing flirts with mine small confessions of girlhood slumber parties spill out and into my ear long unspoken memories of pairing up with other girls to practice kissing she tosses excitement of kitten innocence in my face roller skate caresses first tastes of delicious shudder first caress and innocence innocence innocence only in a sense implication of guilt guilt guilt the unsaid in her sentence she tosses excitement her breathing breathless breathing breath breast breasts breasts breasts oh flirt with my around my shoulder lean close close close both of us taste too much too much to touch ankles thighs fingers ribs eyes ears toes her arm my shoulder my shoulder her arm alarm disarm dare me dare me dare me no harm my shoulder her arm my shoulder hold her fold her I never told her my small confession: I don’t practice kissing

And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had Flora the least signs

We have snacks, everybody!” “Where’d you get them from, Delaware?” Ben asked. He was glaring behind me, where Sage leaned casually against the wall. “Practically,” I said. “My fault-I was dying for Red Hots. Pretty much impossible to find. So what movie are we watching?” Back in the cave, Sage had told me I wasn’t much of an actress, and apparently he was right. I thought I put on a brilliant show, but Ben’s eyes were filled with suspicion, Rayna looked like she was ready to pounce, and Sage seemed to be working very hard to stifle his laughter. Rayna yawned. “Can’t do it. I’m so tired. I’m sorry, but I have to kick you guys out and get some sleep.” She wasn’t much better at acting than I was. I knew she wanted to talk, but the idea of being away from Sage killed me. “No worries,” I said. “I can bring he snacks to the guys’ room. We can watch there and let you sleep.” “Great!” Ben said. Rayna gaped, and in the space of ten seconds, she and I had a full conversation with only our eyes. Rayna: “What the hell?” Me: “I know! But I want to hang out with Sage.” Rayna: “Are you insane?! You’ll be with him for the rest of your life. I’m only with you until morning!” I couldn’t fight that one. She was right. “Actually, I’m pretty tired too,” I said. I even forced a yawn, though judging from Sage’s smirk, it wasn’t terribly convincing. “You sure?” Ben asked. He was staring at me in a way that made me feel X-rayed. “Positive. Take some snacks, though. I got dark chocolate M&Ms and Fritos.” “Sounds like a slumber party!” Rayna said. “Absolutely,” Sage deadpanned. “Look out, Ben-I do a mean French braid.” Ben paid no attention. He had moved closer and was looking at me suspiciously, like a dog whose owner comes from after playing with someone else’s pet. I almost thought he was going to smell me. “G’night,” he said. He had to brush past Sage to get to the door, but he didn’t say a word to him. Sage raised an amused eyebrow to me. “Good night, ladies,” he said, then turned and followed Ben out. It hurt to see him go, like someone had run an ice cream scoop through my core, but I knew that was melodramatic. I’d see him in the morning. We had our whole lives to be together. Tonight he could spend with Ben. I laughed out loud, imagining the two of them actually cheating, snacking, and French braiding each other’s hair as they sat cross-legged on the bed. Then a pillow smacked me in the side of the head. “’We can watch there and let you sleep’?” Rayna wailed. “Are you crazy?” “I know! I’m sorry. I took it back, though, right?” “You have two seconds to start talking, or I reload.” Before now, if anyone had told me that I could have a night like tonight and not want to tell Rayna everything, I’d have thought they were crazy. But being with Sage was different. It felt perfectly round and complete. If I said anything about it, I felt like I’d be giving away a giant scoop of it that I couldn’t ever get back. “It was really nice,” I said. “Thanks.” Rayna picked up another pillow, then let it drop. She wasn’t happy, but she understood. She also knew I wasn’t thanking her just for asking, but for everything. “Ready for bed?” she asked. “We have to eat the guys to breakfast so they don’t steal all the cinnamon rolls.” I loved her like crazy.

The fall of the protecting class walls transformed the slumbering majorities behind all parties into one great unorganized, structureless mass of furious individuals who had nothing in common except their vague apprehension that the hopes of party members were doomed, that, consequently, the most respected, articulate and representative members of the community were fools and that all the powers that be were not so much evil as they were equally stupid and fraudulent. It was of no great consequence for the birth of this new terrifying negative solidarity that the unemployed worker hated the status quo and the powers that be in the form of the Social Democratic Party, the expropriated small property owner in the form of a centrist or rightist party, and the former members of the middle and upper classes in the form of the traditional extreme right. The number of this mass of generally dissatisfied and desperate men increased rapidly in Germany and Austria after the first World War, when inflation and unemployment added to the disrupting consequences of military defeat; they existed in great proportion in all the succession states, and they have supported the extreme movements in France and Italy since the second World War.

In Truth,” I said, “there are no rules other than you have to tell the truth.” “How do you win?” he asked. “That,” I said, “is such a boy question.” “What, girls don’t like to win?” He snorted. “Please. You’re the one who got all rule driven on me claiming Instant Breakfast isn’t a food.” “It’s not,” I told him. “It’s a beverage.” He rolled his eyes. I can’t believe this, I thought. A week or two ago putting a full sentence together in front of Wes was a challenge. Now we were arguing about liquids. “Okay,” he said, “back to Truth. You were saying?” I took in a breath. “To win, one person has to refuse to answer a question,” I said. “So, for example, let’s say I ask you a question and you don’t answer it. Then you get to ask me a question, and if I answer it, I win.” “But that’s too simple,” he said. “What if I ask you something easy?” “You wouldn’t,” I told him. “It has to be a really hard question, because you don’t want me to win.” “Ahhh,” he said, nodding. Then, after mulling it for a second he said, “Man. This is diabolical.” “It’s a girl’s game,” I explained, tilting my head back and looking at the stars. “Always good for a little drama at the slumber party. I told you, you don’t want to play.” “No. I do,” he squared his shoulders. “I can handle it.

I promised to show you a secret cafeteria, didn’t I? Perfect way to end your Foxfire slumber party!” It felt a little wrong to go hunting for desserts while Fitz and Biana were trying to figure out how to live with their murdering brother. But . . . butterblasts did sound pretty good. “Hang on—what are you wearing?” Keefe asked as she threw back her covers, revealing the sparkly slogans on her tunic. “Is that a Bangs Boy reference? Because you know I haven’t let him into the Foster Fan Club, right?” Sophie rolled her eyes. “It’s an inside joke—and Linh made this for me.” “Yeah, well, it still breaks the fan club rules. As penance, I’m getting you a tunic that says, Empaths Give Me All the Feels, and I expect to see you wear it twice as often as Bangs Boy’s.” Ro snorted. “Subtle.” “Ridiculous,” Sophie corrected. “I try,” Keefe told them as Sophie took his hand and let him pull her slowly to her feet. “You good?” he asked when she wobbled from the head rush. No. But she wasn’t going to admit that, so she told him, “I’m up.” “You are. It’s pretty amazing.” “Isn’t it?” Elwin asked as he emerged from his office and helped Sophie strap her arm into a sling. “Bring me back some butterblasts, okay?” “Done!” Keefe told him, bending his elbow to offer Sophie his arm, and after one brief second, she let him lead her toward the door. “TO THE SECRET CAFETERIA!

On the other side of the mountain, Drizzt Do'Urden opened his eyes from his daytime slumber. Emerging from the cave into the growing gloom, he found Wulfgar in the customary spot, poised meditatively on a high stone, staring out over the plain. "You long for your home?" the drow asked rhetorically. Wulfgar shrugged his huge shoulders and answered absently, "Perhaps." The barbarian had come to ask many disturbing questions of himself about his people and their way of life since he had learned respect for Drizzt. The Drow was an enigma to him, a confusing combination of fighting brilliance and absolute control. Drizzt seemed able to weigh every move he ever made in the scales of high adventure and indisputable morals. Wulfgar turned a questioning gaze on the drow. "Why are you here?" he asked suddenly. Now it was Drizzt who stared reflectively into the openness before them. The first stars of the evening had appeared, their reflections sparkling distinctively in the dark pools of the elf's eyes. But Drizzt was not seeing them; his mind was viewing long past images of the lightless cities of the drow in their immense cavern complexes far beneath the ground. "I remember," Drizzt recalled vividly, as terrible memories are often vivid, "'the first time I ever viewed this surface world. I was a much younger elf then, a member of a large raiding party. We slipped out from a secret cave and descended upon a small elven village." The drow flinched at the images as they flashed again in his mind. "My companions slaughtered every member of the wood elf clan. Every female. Every child." Wulfgar listened with growing horror. The raid that Drizzt was describing might well have been one perpetrated by the ferocious Tribe of the Elk. "My people kill," Drizzt went on grimly. "They kill without mercy." He locked his stare onto Wulfgar to make sure that the barbarian heard him well. "They kill without passion." He paused for a moment to let the barbarian absorb the full weight of his words. The simple yet definitive description of the cold killers had confused Wulfgar. He had been raised and nurtured among passionate warriors, fighters whose entire purpose in life was the pursuit of battle-glory - fighting in praise of Tempos. The young barbarian simply could not understand such emotionless cruelty. A subtle difference, though, Wulfgar had to admit. Drow or barbarian, the results of the raids were much the same. "The demon goddess they serve leaves no room for the other races," Drizzt explained. "Particularly the other races of elves." "But you will never come to be accepted in this world," said Wulfgar. "Surely you must know that the humans will ever shun you." Drizzt nodded. "Most," he agreed. "I have few that I can call friends, yet I am content. You see, barbarian, I have my own respect, without guilt, without shame." He rose from his crouch and started away into the darkness. "Come," he instructed. "Let us fight well this night, for I am satisfied with the improvement of your skills, and this part of your lessons nears its end." Wulfgar sat a moment longer in contemplation. The drow lived a hard and materially empty existence, yet he was richer than any man Wulfgar had ever known. Drizzt had clung to his principles against overwhelming circumstances, leaving the familiar world of his own people by choice to remain in a world where he would never be accepted or appreciated. He looked at the departing elf, now a mere shadow in the gloom. "Perhaps we two are not so different," he mumbled under his breath.

SLEEPING MASKS: For a fun and creative activity, decorate sleeping masks. They make ADORKABLE party favors. And always remember . . . What’s done at the slumber party STAYS at the slumber party! I hope your Pop Star slumber party is just as exciting as mine! And good luck at the Pajammys! ! Your DFF (Dorky Friend Forever), Nikki Maxwell

So that’s it for tonight then? I can go?” An expression of sadness passed over his face, there and gone so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. “I had hoped you might want to stay the remainder of the night here with me. The bed is quite comfortable.” “So you’re inviting me to a vampire slumber party? I don’t think so,” I said flatly. “Sorry, Corbin, but I don’t want to be here if you get horny again.” “I would do nothing but hold you, Addison. I would never ask you to pay the Crimson Debt for me.” I frowned. “You said that earlier when you were talking about finding a willing donor for Taylor. What does that mean, exactly—the Crimson Debt?” He sighed. “It’s a euphemism for feeding and sex at the same time. There is a reason for it, you know—it heals all wounds. Those of the body and of the heart.” I snorted. “All but the ones the human in question incurs, you mean.” Corbin nodded. “Paying the Crimson Debt—giving blood while making love—is a lethal combination, as we know, when a human is involved. But it is possible between two vampires or a vampire and another paranormal creature, such as a were or other shapeshifter.” “But you guys hate each other—vamps and weres, I mean,” I protested. Corbin shrugged. “Interspecies flings are generally frowned on, true. I’m just saying what’s possible.” He got off the bed and came to stand in front of me. “Just as it is possible for you to spend the night in my arms and not fear for your life.” I wanted to look away but again his eyes held me. “Corbin,” I whispered. “I…” But I didn’t know how to go on. “Stay with me, Addison,” he murmured, stroking my cheek gently. “Sleep in my arms. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I swear it won’t happen again.” “No, it won’t,” I said firmly, forcing myself to ignore the fire his tender touch started inside me. “Because I’m not going to put myself in that position again. And that means I have to leave, now.

But by her second campaign, Hillary had spent four years traveling the world, meeting with the likes of Egyptian president Mohamed Morsi and the Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi in Rangoon—a long way from Rochester. Hillary seemed like Rip van Winkle, awoken after a seven-year slumber to find a vastly different country. She’d missed the rise of the Tea Party. She’d missed the Occupy Wall Street movement and the rage over health care and bank bailouts and the 1 percent.

As I snapped pictures, Nina gave me a dirty look. I just laughed, acting as though I didn’t care. But inside I felt sort of differently. She used to be my good friend. It made me feel funny. Sad. Now she gave me dirty looks and did mean things to my house. To tell you the truth, it hurt. Later,

Nina flutters her eyelashes at Justin. “Here’s the cookies Nicole promised you in her note. We made them together,” she lies, fluttering her eyelashes some more. Justin takes the cookies from her. “Thanks.” He watches her silently, tilting his head. “You have something in your eye?” She immediately stops fluttering and starts twirling her hair

sigh. “Matt, I know. But it ended up to be fun—going to the dance with Walker … and seeing you on the stage playing the drums. You rocked!” Matt grins. “It was fun—playing while you danced.” Then his grin fades a little. “It wasn’t fun seeing you dance with Walker, though.” We

It’s midnight. I figure it will get light about six or seven, right? We can’t just run the Blazer all night.” He paused as if he didn’t quite know what to say next. He ran his hand down his face, and I suddenly felt like laughing from sheer helplessness. I bit my lip hard, the inappropriate giggle perched at the back of my throat just waiting to jump out. I really was crazy. "I have a sleeping bag and two pillows, plus those three old blankets. It’s going to get cold when we turn off the Blazer.” Finn stopped again, as if he were uncomfortable, and the giggle escaped through my clenched lips. “Are you laughing?” “No.” “You are. Here I am feeling like a dirty old man because I’m about to suggest that we make a bed and cuddle up to keep warm, and you are laughing.” “You were going to suggest we . . . cuddle?” My shock immediately cured the giggling problem. Finn ran both hands over his face, scrubbing at it like he wanted to erase what he’d just said. “Okay,” I said in a tiny voice. He looked at me in surprise, and I couldn’t help it. I smiled. A big, wide, you-are-my-sunshine smile. “You do realize we’re in trouble here, right?” Finn shook his head like he doubted my sense, but a smile teetered around the corners of his mouth. “This isn’t a slumber party with your girlfriends and trips to the fridge for snacks.” “Hey, Clyde?” “Yeah, Bonnie?” “You will have officially slept with Bonnie Rae Shelby after tonight. You aren’t going to ask me to sign an autograph, are you? Maybe sign your hiney in permanent marker so you can take a picture and sell it to US Weekly?” “Got a little ego, there, huh?” I dove over the seat into the back, laughing. “Dibs on the pillow with a pillow case!

All the royal tales got their own special festivals. In honor of the Sleeping Beauty tale, Ever After High held the yearly Beauty Sleep Festival. Everyone put on their pajamas and lay down on their beds, and a magical sleep spell rained over the castle, putting them into a restful slumber for two days. Briar rolled her eyes. "I'd prefer my story got a dance festival with some kicky music and a chocolate fountain." "It's kind of like a massive slumber party, so that's cool," said Ashlynn. "Kinda," said Briar. "But the best part of a slumber party isn't the part where you're unconscious. I'm already facing a hundred years of sleep. Worst. Festival. Ever." "You recall that the royal festival for the Cinderella story is basically just an excuse to get the students to clean the high school," said Ashlynn. Briar laughed, putting her arm around Ashlynn. "That's true! But at least your Spring Cleaning Festival ends with a Ball." Apple always enjoyed the Apple Festival in her story's honor- so many pies and turnovers and breads, and none of them poisoned. The whole school smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg for days. The Spring Cleaning Festival was an excellent opportunity to clean out her sock drawer and then wear a ball gown and dance till midnight. The Little Mermaid Festival took place every summer at Looking Glass Beach with swimming, beach volleyball, and a clam dig.

Yet another subset of Protestants was skewing even more quickly to the right than Catholics were, and that sect was also growing in numbers. The Supreme Court’s decisions on school prayer and abortion woke evangelical Protestantism from a decades-long political slumber. With Ronald Reagan promising to fight these decisions, evangelicals became the backbone of the new Republican Party.

her ledger. All I could see was the top of her graying head. “Can you spot me ten?” “Do you mean I give you ten dollars?” She put a finger on a page and punched numbers into the calculator. “Yes, Mom, ten dollars.” “Ten dollars?” I rolled my eyes. Where’s a translator when you need one? “Yes, ten dollars!” “Baby, don’t yell. I right here. What you need ten dollars for?” “A birthday present,” I said. “A friend invited me to a slumber party Friday.” Mom kept her gaze on her work. “Party? Who this friend?

WELL, I THINK IT’S SAFE to say that the Fitzphie slumber party is a total snoozefest,” Keefe said, plopping dramatically onto the empty cot next to Sophie. “And I mean that literally.

Mosley stared at me through the passenger’s-side window with that pained expression on his face again, like he was hoping I would stop the vehicle and save him from the impending Finnegan Lane slumber party.

Wasn’t that your kissy face out there with the kid?” “Shut

Slumber party!” he said with a delighted grin on his face. As Ellie

Reluctantly,

I was about to make a snappy reply, when suddenly Lisa and Robbie came flying into the house and stormed into the kitchen, it being their regular habit in such awful weather to have hot chocolate or coffee soon as they arrived home. Yet upon observing Ami, and I, they abruptly stopped in passing and then looked us both over and how we were dressed. Lisa with a giggle remarked: -Oh, what is this, a slumber party? -Ha! Robbie exclaimed. -if you had on one of dad’s ratty old bath robes you would be a poor man’s Hugh Heffner (snort), and so this must be one of your bunny girls!

This is not, however, to let Barbie off the hook. In the doll's early years, before women spoke openly about anorexia, Barbie's props encouraged girls to obsess on their weight. In addition to pink plastic hair curlers, Barbie's 1965 "Slumber Party" outfit featured a bathroom scale permanently set at 110. Mattel also gave her bedtime reading—a book called How to Lose Weight that offered this advice: "Don't Eat.

do not remember having ever fainted away, or having even been moved to tears of joyful pride, at sight of any legislative body. I have borne the House of Commons like a man, and have yielded to no weakness, but slumber, in the House of Lords. I have seen elections for borough and county, and have never been impelled (no matter which party won) to damage my hat by throwing it up into the air in triumph, or to crack my voice by shouting forth any reference to our Glorious Constitution, to the noble purity of our independent voters, or, the unimpeachable integrity of our independent members.

Linda told me all about the party. She's having boys!" Meg stared. "At a slumber party? You're making that up!" "Of course not at the slumber party, silly." Gracie giggled. "She's having a boy-girl party first, and then some of us--her best friends--will stay for the slumber party. Wait'll you see her house!" "What's it like?" Meg was trying to ignore the steady chorus of "who-cares" pounding through her brain.

It was a tried and tested remedy. Go home, take two Panadols and fall into a deep dreamless slumber. The next morning awake in a hazy stupor, go through the daily routine and as soon as all obligations are met and affected parties satisfied, repeat procedure with Panadol. Continue routine for several days, months if necessary… it all depended on the magnitude of the cut.

Yeah. He’s crazy alright.” She raised her eyebrows. “Crazy in love—with ME!!!

The Bird Wars,

You run ahead and find a pay phone,” I said to Jezza. “Tell your mom we’re having a slumber party or something.” “A slumber p—? What the hell are you on about?” “I love you, man. So don’t take this wrong, but your mom’s an idiot. You’re an idiot. Your whole family is idiots. When Randall OD’d last year and we had to crash at your place, we told her he had the flu. She made him fucking Rice Krispies squares. I don’t give a shit what you tell her, just let her know we’re coming.” Jezza

slumber party had been hijacked.

No man would ever want a girl who roams nude in a bar and drenches herself in bear on a slumber party.

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By self-identifying as a person who lived for a sleepover (gets energy from small groups where observations are exchanged, likely to sleep on a bed) but not a slumber party (where entertainers thrive, pranks are played, and the invitation tells you to bring a sleeping bag), I was basically figuring out my introversion and an all-consuming desire for plush accommodations.

If standing in a dark room and calling out “Demon Lord, I summon thee” works, then high school slumber parties probably would have wiped us out decades ago.

So I waited and drifted further, through slumber parties I’d attended and books I had read. Conversations I’d had. The feeling of being tucked into bed and even the dreams I’d had while I slept at night. My first kiss. Learning to tie my shoes. Journal entries. Breaking my arm at summer camp in the sixth grade. Sneaking out of my second-story bedroom to meet up with Nolan, my first boyfriend, in tenth grade. The week my grandma Rosie—or “Bubbie Rosie”—had come to stay for a week when my mom was in the hospital for back surgery.

Sienna woke up to the sound of panic coming from Paige’s side of the room. “Shit. What the….Why am I? Oh my God.” Paige said, sounding like she was on the verge of tears before running out of the room. Sienna began laughing uncontrollably. It had taken a full week of patiently waiting for this moment and she was glad she was around to witness it. She knew exactly what had just happened and all she needed was a bag of popcorn to make the moment an even more entertaining show. She grabbed her shower caddy and made her way to the showers for a casual stroll. She’d pretend she was in for a shower and catch the show live and in person. Payback really was a bitch. Upon walking into the community showers, the echoing sounds of Paige’s whimpers led Sienna right to her. Sienna walked around with her caddy, with a smile on her face and eventually was within sight of Paige. Her athletically toned body was red from the scorching hot water hitting her body. She scratched like a dog with fleas. “Aw, what’s wrong? Feeling a bit...itchy? Soap and water work miracles. Is it crabs? Maybe you’re allergic to yourself. I mean it wouldn’t surprise me if your own body was trying to get away from you.” Sienna said, holding back the urge to laugh hysterically. “Shut up, Sienna! This isn’t funny.” Paige whimpered, continuing to scratch. “It can’t be that bad.” Sienna smirked. “You know there’s probably a cream for that itch.” “I know you’re totally getting off on watching me naked, Arkansas. You didn’t have to go to these extremes to do it.” Paige said, clearly pretending she was stronger than her itch. “Wow! You’re more delusional than I thought you were. Listen, I'm a nice person and I won't spread any rumors about you and your....Uncontrollable urge to scratch but if you mess with me again, I promise next time I won't be so nice. Oh and by the way I'm not a fan of slumber parties so find somewhere else to hook up with your little girlfriends.” Sienna said, blowing a kiss at Paige while walking away. Sienna walked out of the showers proud of herself and listened one last time as Paige screamed from the combination of anger and itching.

That’s cool. A slumber party in a hotel.” I aimed a wink at Nanna. “You up for that?” “Oh son, at my age, I’m up for anything

SlumberPartyPopaDaisySugarMelon DrinkWaterNotAtKingsDoLoveaTeddy MerryHappyPopaPipiJumboTumbo LumboSamboDidoFidoDidilyDidily TutiTutiPataPatiPatuPari DumDimDumDamDumDammerDammerDum PullyPullerPullyPullyPullerPullyPully PullyPullerPullyPullyPullyPullerPie OhDodidodadidolidododidododo.

At the Meadows, Lee had wanted the gathered Indians “to attack the emigrant party before daylight when they would be in the most profound slumber, and to massacre them before they could awake and arm themselves,” Shirts remembered. Not wanting to appear at the main assault, Lee crept up on a herdsman sleeping on a knoll above the cattle. When he pulled the trigger of his caplock pistol to kill the man, it failed to fire. Startled, the herdsman leaped up and raced down the rocky knoll for the camp, with Lee in close pursuit. As the man stooped to dive into a tent, Lee shot him dead.13 The shot and barking dogs woke the emigrants, who fired on their attackers.

She will,” Keefe interrupted. “Don’t ask me how. But believe me, if I thought there was even the slightest chance we could catch her, Foster and I would be having a slumber party tonight.” “No you wouldn’t,” Grady informed him. Keefe smirked. “Worried I’ll prank you?” “Definitely not what I’m worried about.” And on that note, Sophie decided it was time for another subject change.

I'm spending the night at your house!’ I yell. ‘You are?’ ‘That's what my note told me so it must be true.’ ‘Yay! Slumber party.’ ‘We should toilet paper someone's house,’ I say. ‘Yes. We should TP someone's house. Whose?’ ‘I don't know’ Then I raise my hand like she's a teacher. ‘Xander's!

They’ll warm up in no time if you let me just…” I feel her toes hit the side of my calf muscle. I pull it back. “This isn’t a slumber party, Theodora.” “You think this is what girls do at slumber parties? Tickle each other with their toes?” She laughs. “You are so far off.

DOD: What is it you people do in there anyway? At any of the Triskeleon bases around the world? ROMANOFF: Slumber parties. S’mores. Truth or dare. The usual stuff.

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We were driving up to Palos Verdes from Long Beach after a day of second grade. I was eight years old. I had written, illustrated, and turned in a story that required my grandmother’s presence at school, a substitution for my mother who was always at work. We met with Sister Mary, the principal, and Sister Bernadette, the nice one, and the school nurse. As we drove home, my grandmother asked me to read the offending piece aloud. In the story, it is an October night. Five girls are invited to a slumber party. Each girl has a defining characteristic: one of them is sporty, one is brainy, one is shy, one of them is the most beautiful and the leader. One of them is the orphan. During the slumber party the girls play with a Ouija board and detect the existence of spirits. They perform a séance to entreat the spirits to come closer. They perform “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board,” lifting the Orphan with their fingertips because she is the smallest. All the lights go out and she ascends toward the ceiling. They are successful. The Orphan drops down to the floor, unconscious. She wakes up and realizes that she is not alone. She has been possessed by an evil spirit, her twin who died when they were in the womb. The Evil Twin begins to twist her thoughts, then her words. The Orphan knows it will make her do awful things, turn her into someone she doesn’t want to be. She goes to the kitchen, where the mother of one of the girls is cooking. The Evil Twin tells her to pick up a knife. The Orphan picks it up. The Evil Twin tells her to use the knife to kill the mother, then her friends. The Orphan stabs herself in the chest instead. The End, I said. I watched for my grandmother’s reaction. From this vantage point it doesn’t take a psychologist to see how terrified I was by what might seize me. There was already a split in me: disorder, abandonment. I leaned into the gothic to illustrate what I couldn’t articulate. At eight years old, I unconsciously understood the function of symbols. I mimicked my favorite writer, Poe, but with this story I had taken the perilous and grandiose first step of making it my own. Did I already know that art could make sense of madness? Did my grandmother? Her navy Cadillac was at a stoplight. There was a Pavilions supermarket behind her, a row of eucalyptus trees, an air-conditioned stream through the car that made my nose run. She looked at me, so directly I flinched, and she said, Never stop writing.

Strawberry milk,” I say, eyeing him as we head toward the counter. “Really.” He turns to me. “Do you have something to say about my snack selections?” “Nope.” I fall into line behind him. “I just didn’t realize you were a middle-school girl going to a slumber party.” “And I,” he says, plunking his strawberry-fest down on the counter, “didn’t realize you were a soccer mom justifying her chocolate craving with the fact that raisins are a fruit.

It’s going to be a Foxfire slumber party!

WELL, I THINK IT’S SAFE to say that the Fitzphie slumber party is a total snoozefest,” Keefe said, plopping dramatically onto the empty cot next to Sophie. “And I mean that literally.” He pointed across the room, to where Fitz was still curled up with Mr. Snuggles, looking far more peaceful than Sophie felt at the moment. Ro was watching Fitz like a hawk, like she suspected him of eavesdropping again. But every time she poked his shoulder, Fitz let out a snuffly snore. Keefe smirked. “Epic Fitzphie fail.” Sophie rolled her eyes,

Now that Erica wasn’t aiming a gun at him, Mike had the time to look over my new outfit. “Nice suit,” he told me. “Thanks,” I said. “I just got it.” “Did it come with the utility belt?” “Yeah. But you have to load it yourself.” “Do you have anything cool in yours?” “Not unless you think gum is cool.” “Would you two mind canning the chitchat?” Erica asked. “This is a covert mission, not a slumber party.

Last year Nicole called me on the phone and told me she just became a Cookie,” Aunt Michele explained to the whole room of ladies. “It took me a long time to figure out she meant she was a Brownie—you know the younger Girl Scouts?

At recess, Sara invited me to hang out with her and her friends: Megan, Nina and Destiny. I was so excited. It was hard for me not to act like a spaz. But I gave it my best shot. I tried to act as though it was no big deal, as though being their friend was something I expected to do today anyway—like it was on my list. Monday, I’ll swallow my contact, Tuesday I’ll throw up on Sara, Wednesday I’ll break my arm, Thursday I’ll stink at kick ball, and what should I do on Friday? Hmmm. I guess I’ll be friends with the coolest girls in my new class. Why not? I have nothing better to do.

mind it—it’s like a rolling slumber party, with me; Johnny; Lauren

Matt’s

If you hadn’t been there, I’m not entirely sure I would’ve been able to stop myself from hurting the guy worse. That’s why I need to get to the lake house and be alone.” She sniffed. There was so much in that one little derisive sound that he had to look her way. “What?” Her expression went deadpan. “You realize that is a completely ridiculous plan, right?” He frowned. “Come on, Finn.” She pursed those red-glossed lips like she could barely tolerate his foolishness. “That is such a man plan.” “A man plan.” “Yes. You don’t know how to be among the living anymore so you’re going to…go live alone in a cave. Right. Good thinking. That will pop your how-to-be-human skills right back into place.” He made a frustrated sound and pulled into the lot of the hotel to park so he could face her, make her understand. “You saw what happened today. I’m not fit to be around other people right now. I beat a guy down for taking a picture. And I was…aggressive with you last night.” “Aggressive?” Her mouth flattened, and she put a finger to her chest. “I kissed you. I was the aggressor. You were just…complicit in the aggressiveness. And you’re lucky I haven’t gone two years’ celibate, because had I been in your shoes, I would’ve convinced you to go up to my room and used you eight ways to Sunday and back again by now. You’d be limping.” His libido gave a hard kick and knocked the logical thoughts out of his head for a moment. “I—” “You need to be around people.” That snapped his attention back to where it needed to be—mostly. “No.” “You promised your boss you’d be around friends. You made me promise your boss that I’d make sure you did that. You made me lie to the FBI. That’s got to be a federal offense or something.” “Made is a strong word.” “Finn.” He groaned. “What would you have me do? You want to babysit me, Livvy? Come stay at my lake house and make sure I don’t turn into a deviant?” She stared at him, her gaze way too sharp, and then tipped her chin up in challenge. “Is that an invitation? Because you know you shouldn’t test me. I could babysit the hell out of you, Finn Dorsey. I know who you used to be. You don’t get to become a bad guy. I will make you do slumber-party things like play charades or watch crappy nineties movies or incessant reruns of Friends. You won’t be able to fight your old goofy side. It will emerge like a freaking butterfly and smother scary Finn.” He blinked and stared, and then he couldn’t help it—he laughed. “A freaking butterfly?” She smiled triumphantly. “A goofy freaking butterfly.” He let out a long breath, some of the tension from the morning draining out of him. “You’re weird.” “So are you.

Can you at least try answering like a K-pop star and not some starstruck little girl at a slumber party? Or is that too much to ask from our poor little Korean American princess?