LISI HARRISON

I like writing about the issues we all bump up against as we get older, but I try to present them in a fun way.

My goal is to teach readers how to treat and respect themselves and each other in an entertaining way. I do that in all of my books.

I completely remember the horror I felt when my pits started getting hairy. I would walk with my arms pressed against my sides.

I don't like the vampire books. I don't like any of those.

I was a terrible athlete and a pretty bad student. I couldn't focus. My imagination was always racing.

Viktor was swinging a leather duffle and wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his favorite brown UGG slippers with a hole in the toe. "Worn and old, just like Viv," he'd say when Frankie made fun of them, and then his wife would swat him on the arm. But Frankie knew he was just joking, because Viveka was the type of woman you wished was in a magazine just so you could stare at her violet-colored eyes and shiny black hair without being called a stalker or a freak.

The Clique: The only thing harder then getting in is staying in.

After each dream, Frankie woke with a start, soaked in tears. But she found no relief in the peaceful silence of her room, because there everything was real. And the guilt was too immense to bear. Each time she opened her eyes, she'd quickly shut them. And wish that she had woken up for the very last time.

It was an image Melody would never forget. Or was it the emotions the image conjured - hope, excitement, and fear of the unknown, all three tightly braided together, creating a fourth emotion that was impossible to define. She was getting a second chance at happiness and it tickled like swallowing fifty fuzzy caterpillars.

The confusing lesson whipped Frankie's anger into something she had never felt before. It was like an emotional meringue - the airy feeling of loneliness topped with the hard crisp of injustice. Yet its taste was far from sweet.

Because whipping an atlas at Jackson's head while he was flirt-touching that Frankie girl in geography would have been very satisfying. And beating him with the Eiffel Tower snowglobe while he kissed Cleo in French would have been tres cathartic. But she hadn't. Instead she'd been egg-like: a hard shell on the outside, and a runny mess on the inside.

Watching a make-out while wrapped in a blanket with a guy she wanted to make out with made her feel exposed. Obvious. Transparent. Like her thoughts were flashing before his eyes. Finally Brett managed to pull away without consent of Bekka's lips. The confusion created a sloppy bite-a-juicy-peach sound. Everyone cringed.

A good boss asks what part she could have played in the problem. And then she asks herself what she can do better next time.

Truth is beauty

What was it about high school that made people think with their insecurities instead of their brains?

She raced for him, propelled by the strength of a thousand regrets.

Loser loser, double loser, whatever, as if, get the picture. DUH!

Never slam a car door. According to the Westchester elite, it's a heinous crime, as heartless as kicking a puppy.

One by one, drops fell from her eyes like they were on an assembly line - gather, fall, slide...gather, fall, slide...each one commemorating something she had lost. Hope. Faith. Confidence. Pride. Security. Trust. Independence. Joy. Beauty. Freedom. Innocence.

When the horse was little, Massie had covered the walls with posters of young fillies that she thought Brownie would find sexy.

Something about Bekka and Haylee reminded her of Candace's line between ingenious and insane. Ingenuity inspired their dreams, and insanity gave them the courage to pursue them. It was something Melody wanted for herself.