conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Band On The Run about with the genre: Humor & Entertainment, Humor
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This book containsprofanity and drug use in comedic situations and is not for the easily offended.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first three paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Band On The Run
  Wolfie looked up. "I believe that is called a pattern, Dad. The pattern shows that I don't like taking classes."
  Wolfie stood against the wall of the school gymnasium. Ms. Stuckley, the gym teacher, was also the dance teacher. She asked everyone to warm up, and boys and girls began swooshing their arms through the air or spinning in circles or skipping across the floor.
  The boys wore gym shorts. The girls wore leotards. Some had on frilly tutus. Most of them were pink. Wolfie hated pink. She was wearing her usual outfit—a white T-shirt, overalls and sneakers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wolfie put the drums in front of the animals, arranging the garbage can, the pot and the cymbal. She kept the wooden spoons in her hand. Then they both went out of the room.
  Fly started to say something but stopped. He thought a minute and then shook his head. "I don't know! You just have to try. Are you ready?"
  Wolfie stood just behind Fly in the darkened doorway. She tried to make herself believe she was about to step onto a real stage in a real theater. But how could you imagine what wasn't real? She closed her eyes.
  How strange, thought Wolfie. The voice didn't sound like Fly at all. She could tell he was stepping through the doorway, so she opened her eyes a little to follow.
  Wolfie looked. And saw that she was on a big stage with colored spotlights shining down on them. And out front were rows and rows of...people? Yes, hundreds of them, all cheering for her and Fly. How could that be? Where were the stuffed animals? Where was her living room?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She kept the wooden spoons in her hand. Then they both went out of the room.
  Fly started to say something but stopped. He thought a minute and then shook his head. "I don't know! You just have to try. Are you ready?"
  Wolfie stood just behind Fly in the darkened doorway. She tried to make herself believe she was about to step onto a real stage in a real theater. But how could you imagine what wasn't real? She closed her eyes.
  How strange, thought Wolfie. The voice didn't sound like Fly at all. She could tell he was stepping through the doorway, so she opened her eyes a little to follow.
  Wolfie looked. And saw that she was on a big stage with colored spotlights shining down on them. And out front were rows and rows of...people? Yes, hundreds of them, all cheering for her and Fly. How could that be? Where were the stuffed animals? Where was her living room?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This really was strange. Wolfie set up the garbage can, pot and cymbal. Not long ago she had seen two rows of stuffies somehow turn into a packed concert hall of screaming fans. Now the two of them were playing for a handful of parents and kids in the school gym.
  Wolfie's parents hurried up to them, followed by Fly's parents. "We're very proud of both of you," said her dad.
  They all walked to the ice cream shop together. Wolfie ordered vanilla—it was the only flavor she liked. But Fly dithered over all the choices. "I can't decide if I should have raspberry caramel swirl or licorice chunky toffee."
  He settled on peanut butter raisin. Their parents went to a table while Wolfie and Fly sat on the step outside. "That was some day," Fly said.
  Thanks again to ace editor Samantha Swenson and the crack team at Tundra Books. A finer bunch I never met.