Anika

“That dress is couture," the stylist calls nervously before I can answer. The poor woman's eyes display sheer horror, like she's watching peanut salt fall onto the dress in slow motion.

"Oh no," Dee says sarcastically. "Well, good thing I didn't eat it.”
― Emery Lord, Open Road Summer

“Apollo was the god of so many different things, even the Greeks got confused. They’d be like, “Hmm, I forgot who the god of basket weaving is. Must be Apollo!”
― Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson's Greek Gods

“Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.
"You?" she said.
"No," Morrison blurted, "not me! I mean, yes, it's me, but I'm not the Toll, I mean." Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Scythe Anastasia.
"What are you even doing here?" she asked.
He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one.
The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. "You mean to say you two know each other?"
But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder.
"As usual, you're in the way, Morrison," he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation.
Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them.
He paused short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should.
"Okay," said Scythe Anastasia. "Now I know I've lost my mind.”
― Neal Shusterman, The Toll

“That's the second reporter to call me 'boyish.'"
"Boyish is nice," Dee offers.
He tips his head towards her. "I'm nineteen. I'm not boyish."
"It's your hair," I tell him without glancing up from the magazine, and Dee laughs.
"My hair?" he asks, incredulous. "What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing. But you had it that way when you were younger, right? During the Finch Four years?"
He frowns. "Yeah, I guess. I don't know."

"Yeah," Dee says. "You did. Same haircut. Kind of almost shaggy."
"Shaggy?"

"Yeah." I gesture near his ear. "It sort of starts to curl right here. The look is a little..."
Dee and I both study his face for a moment.
"...boyish," Dee decides.
We both giggle, and Matt's eyes widen as if we've betrayed him. "Girls are mean! I'm bailing out of this bus at the next rest stop."
"Unlikely," I tell him.”
― Emery Lord, Open Road Summer