Home > Work > Fireside (Lakeshore Chronicles, #5)
1 " The Immigration Reform Act wiped out that option. Used to be, if undocumented parents could prove their deportation would put a U.S. citizen—in this case, you, AJ—at risk, the judge could let them stay. But the act made deportation automatic.” She showed them a document she’d printed out. “In the mid-’90s, there were around forty thousand deportations a year. Nowadays, there are around three hundred thousand a year. The INS and ICE will tell you they’re getting rid of a criminal element, but that’s not always the case. Plenty of working people—even war veterans—get swept up in raids. "
― Susan Wiggs , Fireside (Lakeshore Chronicles, #5)
2 " Having a Mac all to himself was pretty amazing. "
3 " Fine, then just tell me what I need to do. It’s your specialty, right? Turning a diamond in the rough into a polished gem.” She regarded him skeptically. “Assuming there’s a precious stone under that exterior.” “Ha. You know it, sugar pie.” “New rule,” she said. “Don’t go around calling women names like sugar pie.” “If I called men names like that, people would think I’m queer.” “And don’t say queer.” “Everybody says queer. It’s even in the name of that show.” “It’s a matter of context. And judgment. Just do yourself a favor and don’t use that word.” “What should I use? Ho-mo-sexual?” He separated the word into obnoxious-sounding syllables. “How about you avoid the subject altogether? People can go for long periods of time without debating sexual orientation.” She assessed him with her eyes. “Unless this is a preoccupation of yours.” He snorted. “Right. You slay me, lady. You really do. First, you rag on me for being a Lothario. Which, by the way, I looked up. I’m nothing like that guy. He was banging anything in hoop skirts. And I’m not. I don’t have that problem. At the moment, my biggest problem is you. And you’re supposed to be helping me.” “I am, but I need some cooperation from you.” “You got it,” he said, polishing off the doughnut. “Sugar pie. "
4 " The cut was only the beginning. With Goldi acting as art director, a couple of girls in pink smocks swooped in and painstakingly separated strands of his hair and painted them with a noxious substance. Then they carefully encased the locks in foil so he resembled a Star Trek extra. He was placed in a chair where—no lie—they lowered a plastic dome over his head and set it on Bake. Under the plastic dryer-dome, Bo sat there like an abductee and pondered what else his captors had in mind. He wondered when they were going to bring out the probe. "