Holly Black

“Most of all, I hate you because I think of you. Often. It’s disgusting, and I can’t stop.”

lean toward him, close enough for a kiss. His eyes widen. The look in his face is some commingling of panic and desire.

“And pleasant is the faerie land

But an eerie tale to tell,

Ay at the end of seven years

We pay a tithe to Hell;

I am sae fair and fu o flesh,

I’m feard it be mysel.”

—“YOUNG TAM LIN”

I want to win. I do not yearn to be their equal.

In my heart, I yearn to best them.

Actually, that sounds amazing. Maybe I am making all the wrong choices.

I am too stunned to say anything. Hitting him was the most honest thing I’ve done in a long time. I feel better than great. I feel nothing, a glorious emptiness

Here’s why I don’t like these stories: They highlight that I am vulnerable. No matter how careful I am, eventually I’ll make another misstep. I am weak. I am fragile. I am mortal.

I like this. I like everything about kissing him—the familiar buzz of fear, the knowledge I am punishing him, the proof he wants me.

Grown-ups were always worried,

Everything was boring.