conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Ivy, Milbourn, Erica with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Wild Swans'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wild Swans
  Erica narrows her eyes and blows a plume of smoke in my direction. "You are a judgmental little thing, aren't you? You must get that from him. I'm trying to help you, kid."
  I remember the picture of her at the English department Christmas party, six months before Grandmother died: already rail thin, her long limbs poking out of the black velvet dress that swallowed her up. There aren't any photos of her at her high school graduation or the summer afterward or pregnant with me. Nowhere in the house. I've looked.
  But I also remember Isobel slumped at the kitchen table, staring miserably into her bowl of grapefruit. That's not Granddad. That's all Erica.
  There's a look on her face that I've never seen before. Regret? Guilt? Whatever it is, it doesn't last. She walks away, and a minute later I hear the fridge opening. Probably time for her morning Bloody Mary.
  I go stand in front of the french doors, trying to catch the breeze coming in off the Bay. The air is suffocating. It feels more like August than mid-June. "Don't you ever take her side again. That was not okay."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Her little hand waves in the air. Her head sinks below the water and then pops back up as she kicks and coughs and sputters. She's not a quitter, not the kind to let herself sink. Thank God. My feet thud down the dock, and then I'm in the water with her, cutting through it till I reach her. I snatch Gracie and kick furiously to keep us afloat. She's panicking, making it harder for me to keep hold of her.
  Erica's sobbing, her mascara painting wet, black trails over her cheeks. She drops to her knees, cradling Grace in her arms. "You're okay, baby," she says over and over again. Grace is crying too, and she coughs and throws up water while her mama rubs circles on her back. I haul myself out of the water and kneel next to them.
  I reach out and scoop up a sodden soccer ball, which Grace must have been chasing, and heave it back toward the shore.
  Erica looks at me. "Thank you. I couldn't... I—" She starts sobbing again, holding Grace so tightly that she squirms in protest.
  Isobel comes running down through the yard. "Oh my God. What happened? I was up in my room and I heard you scream and—" She takes in Gracie's wet dress, the water dripping from her braids. "Is she okay?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Granddad smiles down at me. "Thank God for that. You were a huge help with the girls. I know you've only had a week or so, but you're a good big sister. I'm proud of you."
  We've been texting all day. He didn't tell me that he talked to Granddad, but I think that's one secret I can forgive.
  Thank you to Tiffany for being an amazing cheerleader and friend; to Lauren for brainstorming walks at Highlights; to Lindsay for encouraging line edits; and to Anna-Marie for insightful notes on Ella's scenes. To Caroline and Robin for five-plus years of flailmails. To Miranda for answering my newbie "how do I write contemporary" questions. To Andrea, Marie, and Beth for always inspiring me to dream a little bigger.
  Special thanks to my mom, who is much more of a Luisa (baking delicious cookies, growing beautiful flowers, and making me laugh) than an Erica. Thank you to all my wonderfully supportive family and friends, especially to my BFFs Jenn and Jill, who are just as smart and funny and loyal as Claire and Abby. I couldn't let Ivy have any less.
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