YA LIT MEME: [6/10] SERIES/BOOKS » delirium by lauren oliver
“It’s me, Alex. Lena. Your Lena. Remember? Remember 37 Brooks, and the blanket we used to keep in the backyard—”
“Don’t,” he says. His voice breaks on the word.
“And I always beat you in Scrabble,” I say. I have to keep talking, and keep him here, and make him remember. “Because you always let me win. And remember how we had a picnic one time, and the only thing we could find from the store was canned spaghetti and some green beans? And you said to mix them—”
“And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.”
D E L I R I U Mtrilogy: locations → T h e W i l d s
Trees close in around us, l e a v e s and b u s h e s press on me from all sides, brushing my face and shins and shoulders like t h o u s a n d s of dark hands, and from all around me a strange cacophony starts up, of fluttering things and owls hooting and animals scrabbling in the underbrush. The air smells so thickly of flowers and life it feels t e x t u r e d, like a curtain you could pull apart.
D E L I R I U Mtrilogy: locations → Back Cove, East End Beach
My sister used to stay on the s h o r e and build sand c a s t l e s, and we would pretend that they were real cities, like we’d s w u m all the way to the other side of the world, to the u n c u r e d places.
D E L I R I U Mtrilogy: locations → 3 7 B r o o k s
The best part of 37 Brooks is the garden in the back. An enormous overgrown lawn winds between ancient trees, so thick andgnarled and knotted their arms twist overhead and form a canopy. The sunlight filters through the trees and spots the grass a pale white.
But somehow it’s not gross or frightening. Somehow it’s kind of nice, and it makes me think of woods and endless cycles of growth and death and regrowth -like what we’re really hearing is the house folding down around us, centimeter by centimeter.
“Sometimes I feel as though there are two me’s, one coasting directly on top of the other: the superficial me, who nods when she’s supposed to nod and says what she’s supposed to say, and some other, deeper part, the part that worries and dreams… Most of the time they move along in sync and I hardly notice the split, but sometimes it feels as though I’m two whole different people and I could rip apart at any second.”
They say that the cure for love will make me happy and safe forever. And I’ve always believed them. Until now. Now everything has changed. Now, I’d rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years suffocated by a lie.