I’m not gonna tell you

Flora: Why’s Mom dancing?

Cinder: She either filed a story–got a new story that doesn’t suck–or got paid.

Jane: I’m that predictable, am I?

Cinder: Possibly something really bad happened to someone she hates, and she’s happy about that.

Jane: Jesus. This you think of me?

Flora: Well, what was it? Did that Lord Voldemort guy die?

Jane: I’m not gonna tell you. Beasts.

I’m not gonna tell you either. But I’m deliriously happy. Fulfilled. Stoked. Thrilled. Various other adjectives of excess, preceded by excessive adverbs, that, were they usually to appear in my prose, would get ruthlessly slashed out even before they got to an editor.

What? You almost all said that it was better not to know.

English: Classic ballet-dancer Español: Bailar...

In case you’re in Cinder-and-Ender-penis-stories withdrawal, pop over to Undogmatic Unschoolers and read Sometimes, what they know is embarrassing.  

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