Kate Ryan

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.