27
" I can’t be the only one. There have to be other people out there who see the Mr. Twister mascot for what he is: Hitler. A grinning, cartoon, twisty-cone version of the Führer himself, advertising to the world that this place is secretly Nazi central. There is no other logical reason to put one of those little black smudge mustaches on a custard mascot.
Of course, I’ve got Annie in my head—Chill out, Mo. It’s obviously supposed to be Charlie Chaplin—so fine, where’s the cane? And the hat? Exactly. Hitler.
This truck is an oven. I am pot roast.
I’d go in, but I’m already throwing up a little in my mouth just thinking about the assault of peachy-ness behind those doors. Peach walls, peach aprons, peach countertops, peach chalk on the blackboard menu. And of course, Annie is in there smiling and faking brain-dead. I’m better off as pot roast, and besides, the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to learn itself.
I turn back to the previous page, the one that I’ve already read and forgotten three times this hour, and start over. The picture of Ferdinand II of Aragon is freakishly distracting. It’s the way he’s glaring. I close my right eye and glare back at him and his unapologetic scowl. I bet nobody told him to quit being cranky. "
― Jessica Martinez , The Vow
35
" So we have a deal,” she says.
“We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.”
The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.”
“Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.”
“It’s nothing like signing a contract.”
“There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?”
She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly.
“Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancée yields immediate submission to my will.”
“Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. "
― Jessica Martinez , The Vow
