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This is pretty much the answer to every problem you encounter in suburbia: plant a tree, and hope you don't see anyone's privates.

Lauren Oliver

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Lauren Oliver
Age: 42
Born: 1982
Born: November 8
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Westchester County
New York
Tree
Answers
Pretty
Privates
Anyone
Suburbia
Hope
Encounter
Problem
Encounters
Much
Plant
Every
Answer

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I get that rush that comes when you know you're doing something wrong and are getting away with it, like stealing from the school cafeteria of getting tipsy at a family holiday without anyone knowing it.
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Live free or die.
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You came form different starts and you'll come to different ends.
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I'll find you, he says, watching me with the eyes I remember. I won't let you go again
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When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. So I guess we saved each other.
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The first one, we’ll name Blue.
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You see, we didn't know.
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Everything looks beautiful. The Book of Shhh says that deliria alters your perception, disables your ability to reason clearly, impairs you from making sound judgments. But it does not tell you this: that love will turn the whole world into something greater than itself.
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Old words words that nearly brought me to my knees. Live free or die
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That's when you really lose people, you know.When the pain passes.
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It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.
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It's funny how you can know your friends so well, but you still end up playing the same games with them.
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But this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen, or imagined, or even dreamed: This is like music or dancing but better than both.
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And it's the funniest thing: as soon as I see it, the whistling in my ears stops and the feeling of terror drains away, and I realize this whole time I haven't been falling at all. I've been floating.
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Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.
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This was what true fear was--that you could never know other people, not completely. That you were always just guessing blind.
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Funny how certain things stay with you.
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And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us.
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It won't matter if nobody ever thinks I'm pretty (although sometimes I wish, just for a second, that somebody would)
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I close my eyes. An image flashes—emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
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