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Fang: When do I get out of here? Max: They say a week. Fang: So, like, tomorrow? Max: That's what I'm thinking.
James Patterson
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James Patterson
Age: 77
Born: 1947
Born: March 22
Actor
Advertising Person
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Philanthropist
Screenwriter
Television Producer
Newburgh
New York
James Brendan Patterson
James B. Patterson
Fang
Max
Fangs
Tomorrow
Week
Thinking
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I love you Max,Fang said...God, Max I love you so much. I know. I thought. I've always known
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Not saving you from this storm, mutant,” he said. “Saving you for your later fate, we are.” His voice was weirdly inflected and metallic, like an automated answering machine. “Oh, good. Yoda captured us,” Fang whispered.
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I’m not comfortable in this stadium,” I explained, trying to look calm. “I know. And you hate Fang looking at those girls. But we’re still having fun, and Fang still loves you, and you’ll still save the world. Okay?
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While carefully synchronizing our wings-they almost touched-Fang leaned in,gently put one hand behind my neck and kissed me.It was just about close to heaven i'll ever get,I guess.I closed my eyes,lost in the feeling of flying and kissing and being with the one person in the world I completely ,utterly trusted.
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Fang felt a cold jolt, then dismissed it. Max wasn’t dead. He would know, somehow. He would have felt it. The world still felt the same to him therefore, Max was still in it.
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maybe, beauty, true beauty, is so overwhelming, it goes straight to our hearts.maybe it makes us feel emotions that are locked away inside
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Fang swerved closer to me, big and supremely graceful, like a black panther with wings. Oh, God. I'm so stupid. Forget I just said that. He needs a Band-Aid, I said. A look passed between me and Fang, full of suppressed humor, relief, understanding,love — Forget I said that too. I don't know what's wrong with me.
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What are you guys doing? If you anted me to take a shower, all you had to do was pay me ten bucks, like you usually do
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Plus her mom was so awesome. She was strict about some things—don’t leave your socks lying around—but so not strict about other things, like calling the cops about my bullet wound.
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I recommend you stick to your own species, Shy Babe. p. 155
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Listen, street punk. You're a guy, and you're a couple inches taller, and maybe forty pounds heavier, and ooh, you're in a gang. But I've survived ten years of Catholic school, and I will cut you off at your knees without a blink. Do you understand?
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Man, you weigh a freaking ton, he told me. What've you been eating, rocks? Why, is your head missing some? I croaked. His mouth almost quirked in a smile, and that's when I knew how upset he'd been
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I hoped I wasn't actually dead. That would make finding our parents and saving the world really hard.
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Yes. I owed my life, Angel's life, and my mother's life to a mutant's ability to create industrial-strength snot.
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Steve turned to us again, looking so dang enthusastic that I wondered how much coffee he'd had this morning. So, you kids want to be big stars, eh? God, no! I said spewing crumbs. No way! Oddly, this seemed to throw a petite wrench into the convo.
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