conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Nina, Seth, UpNina with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'What Girls Are Made of'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: What Girls Are Made of
  But he's not being funny. He doesn't smile, or look away, or even blink. This feels like a test, and I don't know the answer.
  I'm not even sure I really understand the question. Or why he would ask it. He couldn't really be asking me to jump off a bridge with him—to die with him. Is he really asking how much I love him? If my love for him is conditional on staying alive?
  We don't jump off the bridge. We don't walk down to the river. We eat the sandwiches, we share the pistachios, we watch other people tie in and leap and scream and cheer and the divide between us widens into a chasm.
  I answered the question wrong. Following Seth, watching the muscles underneath his T-shirt move as he leads the way, I hate myself. It was a bluff, and I should have played along. I should have said yes, anything, let's go, let's jump, as long as we can hold hands when we go over. I should have said something different. I should have done something different. But now it's too late, and though Seth walks no further from me on the way out than he did on the way in, the distance is impassable.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bekah stays with me all day. By the time it's dark outside, the bleeding has slowed to my normal period flow. Bekah makes popcorn and we climb into my bed and watch the beginning of this romantic drama set in the 1800s, but it's boring and depressing so we switch it to something funny.
  Even that, though, we mostly ignore. We eat the popcorn. Mom's cat wanders in and hops up onto the bed. She purrs loudly, her begging purr.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It's like this. Sometimes things call to me. Not all things, just some things. And not the things you'd think. Marissa likes to say the things that call to her are almost always inside the display cases of overpriced stores, and sometimes she counts on me to distract the salesgirl while she worms her way inside to answer their cries. The things that call to me don't always shine. I do like metal, though, and wood, but I don't consider myself too good for plastic. I've been known to pull things out of trash cans. I've lifted things here and there that had price tags attached to them, but I'm not proud of it the way Marissa is.
  Half a moon winks in the sky, providing a little light to skate by but not so much that I feel safe taking my finger off the trigger of the pepper spray. I skate hard in the stretches between streetlamps and cruise in the curved circles of light that they cast. Light to dark to light. And within that rhythm, the regular click of each section of the sidewalk. My mind is everywhere else.
  I'm thinking about what I'm going to do with the things I've found. And I'm thinking about Marissa and the way she hooks her index fingers in the front belt loops of Sal's jeans, how he crashes into her when she pulls him by those loops. I'm thinking about something I started that isn't finished yet. All day long I've thought about it—first as I headed to the coffee shop where Carson works (he's always good for a free mocha), and then later as I changed into my bikini to meet Marissa and some other kids for a few hours of R & R. And again as Marissa and I headed back to her place to raid her dad's fridge and sock drawer (beer and pot). I think of the mini blinds on her dad's bedroom window, the way they were angled and the shadow lines they cast. Black bars of shadow slashed across the bed. I think about the shit I had to paw through—some gross porno DVDs, among other things—to find his baggie of pot. Ever since Marissa came across a couple of pretty raunchy girlie magazines one time when she was foraging through his socks and skivvies ("The girls in those pictures don't look any older than us, Seph," she'd said), she's put me in charge of the marijuana-plundering detail. Then we'd headed over to Carson's place with the beer and pot (I owed him after all the early-morning mochas), along with a pizza Darrin gave us out of the back door at the place he works, and the night had ended—I'd thought—back at Marissa's place. Just the two of us again. But stories—and nights—don't always end where they should, so here I am, thinking.
  Fairy tales are like that. The real ones, the originals, before Disney raped them. The story gets to what you think will be the end—say, Sleeping Beauty wakes up—but that's not the end at all. It's just a reprieve. There's more in store for her, farther to travel, heavier burdens to bear.
  But there's my apartment building just up ahead, a dingy, gray-blue rectangular box of stucco and windows and doors and lives all stacked up one atop another. Like it or not, I'm home.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Like it or not, I'm home..
  But there's my apartment building just up ahead, a dingy, gray-blue rectangular box of stucco and windows and doors and lives all stacked up one atop another. There's more in store for her, farther to travel, heavier burdens to bear. It's just a reprieve. The story gets to what you think will be the end—say, Sleeping Beauty wakes up—but that's not the end at all. The real ones, the originals, before Disney raped them.
  Fairy tales are like that. But stories—and nights—don't always end where they should, so here I am, thinking. Just the two of us again. Then we'd headed over to Carson's place with the beer and pot (I owed him after all the early-morning mochas), along with a pizza Darrin gave us out of the back door at the place he works, and the night had ended—I'd thought—back at Marissa's place. Ever since Marissa came across a couple of pretty raunchy girlie magazines one time when she was foraging through his socks and skivvies ("The girls in those pictures don't look any older than us, Seph," she'd said), she's put me in charge of the marijuana-plundering detail. I think about the shit I had to paw through—some gross porno DVDs, among other things—to find his baggie of pot. Black bars of shadow slashed across the bed. I think of the mini blinds on her dad's bedroom window, the way they were angled and the shadow lines they cast. And again as Marissa and I headed back to her place to raid her dad's fridge and sock drawer (beer and pot). All day long I've thought about it—first as I headed to the coffee shop where Carson works (he's always good for a free mocha), and then later as I changed into my bikini to meet Marissa and some other kids for a few hours of R & R. I'm thinking about something I started that isn't finished yet. And I'm thinking about Marissa and the way she hooks her index fingers in the front belt loops of Sal's jeans, how he crashes into her when she pulls him by those loops.
  I'm thinking about what I'm going to do with the things I've found. My mind is everywhere else. And within that rhythm, the regular click of each section of the sidewalk. Light to dark to light. I skate hard in the stretches between streetlamps and cruise in the curved circles of light that they cast.
  Half a moon winks in the sky, providing a little light to skate by but not so much that I feel safe taking my finger off the trigger of the pepper spray. I've lifted things here and there that had price tags attached to them, but I'm not proud of it the way Marissa is. I've been known to pull things out of trash cans. I do like metal, though, and wood, but I don't consider myself too good for plastic. The things that call to me don't always shine. Marissa likes to say the things that call to her are almost always inside the display cases of overpriced stores, and sometimes she counts on me to distract the salesgirl while she worms her way inside to answer their cries. And not the things you'd think. Not all things, just some things. Sometimes things call to me.It's like this