Title For Tat Quotes

I don’t like tit for tat. I like tit for tit. Bring on the boobies!

He hangs out near campuses at lunch, after classes, his skateboard rat-a-tat-tatting across sidewalk cracks just barely past school-ground limits. The girls cluster and giggle, and he chooses one to peel off the herd. He tells her to snap pictures. He tells her to get a secret Facebook account, one her parents don’t know about, and upload them there. He tells her that everyone does this in high school, and he’s mostly right, but not everyone is hooked into a scheme like this. He targets Title I schools, broke girls, easily impressed, looking for a dream, a romance, a way out. Girls whose parents lack the resources to do much if they disappear. The secret Facebook page links go to Hector Contrell. The genius of it is, the girls create the sales catalog themselves.

Echo continued to tap her finger to her chin and created more dots on her face while she stared at the canvas. The intensity of her stare shocked me. The art teacher stacked the bowls and walked toward the door. “She’s in the zone. Good luck getting her attention. Do me a favor. If she ends up painting her whole face, grab my camera from my desk and take a picture. I’ll add it to my collection.” She gazed at Echo and smiled. “I’ll title that one Smurf. Nice tats, by the way.”

What are you reading?” I ask. He looks down at it and tells me the title. “Will you read it to me?” I ask. He lifts his head long enough to look at my face and finds that I’m serious. I can learn. And I love books. I just can’t read them. I have an amazing memory. “Start at the beginning?” I look up at him with a smile. He turns to page one and begins to read. I settle against him, wrapping my arms around his chest, snuggling as tightly against him as I can. And he reads. His voice is strong and sure, and he reads long into the night, long after he’s yawning, because I don’t want him to stop. When he finally lays the book to the side, I roll toward him and he turns to face me. He tucks me beneath his chin, and I can hear his heart beating in his chest. “When you’re ready for what I want,” he says, “let me know.” I’m ready. I’m ready now. But I’m not ready for the same thing he is. I nod against his chest, and he heaves a sigh. His lips touch the top of my head, soft as a whisper.