embassy-row

Grace, if you have used an iron within the last six months, I will eat that fork," Ms. Chancellor says."Which one?" I try to tease. "You've got a lot of forks to choose from.""From which to choose, Grace. Do not end your sentences in prepositions, dear.""Of course, I totally see what you're getting at. I mean, at what you're getting.

Friends help each other when they are...you know...going up international hit men and stuff.

The obvious," Noah goes on, a little out of breath, "being that he is probably some super secret assassin or something. And I'm not as tough as I look.""That's OK," I tell him. "I'm way tougher than you look.

But that's the thing about being the girl who's spent years convincing the world she's not afraid of anything: At some point, someone is going to find out you're afraid of everything.

I don't understand boys.

Honor is overrated.

But guilt isn't smart. It isn't logical. It doesn't only live in the places it belongs.

Hope is a delicate thing. A dangerous thing.

Ok," he says. "First lesson."Noah broadens his stance, taking his place firmly on the embassy side of the threshold. "in the United States," he says. Then, with both feet, he leaps on to the sidewalk. "Out of the United States." Quickly, he jumps back toward me. "In the United States." Another jump across the threshold. "Out of the United States. In. Out. In --""Is this the part where I hit you?