Sarah Dessen

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It is not easy, but you have to be willing to make mistakes. And the earlier you make those mistakes, the better.
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Sarah Dessen (born 1970-06-06) is an American writer for young adults who lives and teaches in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

Sourced

The Truth About Forever (2004)

(first lines) Jason was going to brain camp. It had another name, a real name, but that's what everyone called it.


I was scanning the living room for stray empty glasses when there was a loud crash from the kitchen.
Everything in the front of the house stopped. Conversation. Motion. The very air. Or so it felt.
"It's fine!" a voice called out, upbeat and cheerful, from the other side of the door, "Carry on as you were!"


Delia: Not exactly at this moment, no. I'm speaking futuristically.


"Well," she said after a second, "in a way, it's good. We know where we stand. Now things can only get better. Right?"


Bert: I'm just trying to help her be informed! This is serious stuff, Wes. Just because you'd prefer to stay in the dark.


I took a breath. "Basically, it came down to the fact that I ended an email by saying I loved him, which is, you know, big, and it made him uncomfortable. And he felt that I wasn't focused enough on my job at the library. There's probably more, but that's the main stuff."
They both just looked at me. Then Monica said, "Donneven."

"He broke up with you because he didn't think you were focused enough on your job performance?"
"The library," I said, "is very important to him."
"Is he ninety years old?"


"A former amulance," Bert corrected her. "It's got history. It's got personality. It's got-"
"Final sale status," Wes said. "He can't take it back. When he drove it off the lot, that was it."
Delia sighed, shaking her head.

Kristy: Does it have a CD player?
Bert: Actually-
Wes: No, but it does have a broken intercom system.
Kristy: Oh, well then, I'm sold.


I was passing the garbage cans when someone jumped out at me from the bushes.
"Gotcha!"
I shrieked and dropped the box, which hit the ground with a thunk, spilling fliers sideways down the driveway.

Kristy: All I'm saying is that the next person who leaps out at me from behind a door is getting punched in the gut. I don't care if you're down or not.
Bert: I thought she was Wes. And I wouldn't jump out from behind the door, anyway. That's basic. We're way beyond that.


"I know what I said," Delia shot back, slapping an edge of napkins onto the tray, "but this is an emergency situation, and I have to put you back in, even if it is against my better judgment. Just walk slowly and look where you're going, and be careful with the liquids, please God I'm begging you, okay?"

This last part, I was already beginning to recognize, was a mantra of sorts for her, as if by stringing all these words together, one of them might stick.

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