conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Away Running about Paris, Free, Matt with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 9 UpMatt and Free are in Paris for different reasons. Matt, a wealthy white Canadian football player, has fled Montreal to get away from parental pressure to take a collegiate and career route that will not fulfill him. While staying with his cousin, he meets up with Moose, an Algerian kid who lives in the projects in Paris. Moose had stayed with Matt's dad as an exchange student the previous summer. Freeman is African American and has earned a scholarship to study abroad in Paris for the summer. He feels guilty for leaving his family behind in San Antonio, especially because they are going through a tough time, but he couldn't pass up the chance of a lifetime. When the two main characters meet, Matt convinces Free to extend his stay in Paris to play for the Diables Rouges, the under-20 team from Moose's neighborhood. As the two foreigners learn more about their teammates and the neighborhood they represent, they see a darker side of Paris than they ever knew existed. Through the lens of football, readers learn about prejudice and racism in Paris. The alternating points of view of Matt and Free add a richness to the story that makes it relatable to a wide variety of readers. The language and some violence, while not overly graphic, make this a choice for mature readers looking for a change of pace. VERDICT This eye-opening offering deserves a spot on most high school library shelves. Hand to readers who seek to broaden their perspectives of the world.Carli Worthman, Carmel Middle School, IN
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Away Running
  The Wednesday before game day—our last game of the season, for the league championship—me and Matt take the suburban train, the RER, from Paris up to Villeneuve-La-Grande early, way before practice. Me and him play American football for the team there, the Diables Rouges. We meet a bunch of our teammates outside the station and walk to a field between some abandoned cinder-block warehouses and their high school to play a pickup game of soccer.
  A few guys from their projects join us, including Karim and one of his crew. Me and Karim got history, dating back to when I first got here, in February. Him and his set were slinging dime bags outside their high-rise like the bangers do back in my 'hood in San Antonio, and he just strode up on me, spitting French slang I didn't understand at the time, but I squared off with him all the same. That's what you do when someone's fronting on you.
  Now he acts like he doesn't remember or doesn't care. But Matt whispers in English, "Keep cool, Freeman. No more Karim."
  Never having to see Karim again is the last thing I think on when I think of home. I think about Mama, my brother Tookie and baby sister Tina, who I haven't seen in so long—you know I do. But I also think about not seeing Matt anymore, him going back to Montreal and off to college to major in business and become a big businessman like almost everyone else in his family. I'm going to miss every single one of the Diables Rouges. Even Moose. We've gotten pretty close since our rough start. That's what I think on when I think about leaving.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about We'll, going.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Away Running
  The Wednesday before game day—our last game of the season, for the league championship—me and Matt take the suburban train, the RER, from Paris up to Villeneuve-La-Grande early, way before practice. Me and him play American football for the team there, the Diables Rouges. We meet a bunch of our teammates outside the station and walk to a field between some abandoned cinder-block warehouses and their high school to play a pickup game of soccer. 
  A few guys from their projects join us, including Karim and one of his crew. Me and Karim got history, dating back to when I first got here, in February. Him and his set were slinging dime bags outside their high-rise like the bangers do back in my 'hood in San Antonio, and he just strode up on me, spitting French slang I didn't understand at the time, but I squared off with him all the same. That's what you do when someone's fronting on you. 
  Now he acts like he doesn't remember or doesn't care. But Matt whispers in English, "Keep cool, Freeman. We'll be going home soon. No more Karim. "
  Never having to see Karim again is the last thing I think on when I think of home. I think about Mama, my brother Tookie and baby sister Tina, who I haven't seen in so long—you know I do. But I also think about not seeing Matt anymore, him going back to Montreal and off to college to major in business and become a big businessman like almost everyone else in his family. I'm going to miss every single one of the Diables Rouges. Even Moose. We've gotten pretty close since our rough start. That's what I think on when I think about leaving.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Moose, Free, Claude and Yasmina sat crammed together on a public bench outside the tunnel. The sidewalk was noisy and chaotic, filled with people speaking many different languages.
  Free and I had been to the Pizza Pie Factory three or four times, each time more lively than the one before. It was the closest thing to a genuine American sports joint in Paris: spunky waitresses (mostly Brits and Irish, by their accents), so-so pizzas but good burgers, and buffalo wings (the sauce tasted like ketchup and Tabasco, but it was better than nothing). There were TVs in every corner that looped reruns of NFL games nonstop, and a game room with pool and foosball tables. One time we went, each of us ordered a beer, and they served us.
  It was Saturday night, so there was a lineup to get in, twenty people or so standing alongside the plate-glass window with the pink '55 Chevy in it. Three bouncers—a North African and two black guys—each with a neck as thick as my thigh, monitored the front door, letting one or two people pass, then blocking the entrance. Freeman was chatting up two preppy girls in front of us. Aïda and Yasmina stood together, kind of sheepish, whispering. Sidi was still brooding, off to the side. "They're not going to let us in," he said.
  One of the bouncers signaled the girls talking to Freeman. Free tagged behind them, and I followed him. As I passed through the entrance, I heard one of the bouncers saying, "Sorry, private party." The guy draped his huge arm across the doorway. Moose and the others stood on the other side.
  The bouncers didn't seem open to negotiation. One kept his arm across the doorway, and another repeated, "Private party."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs. End with the sentence ' Profound thanks.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The pursuing officers saw them enter the site. One commented, "If they enter the EDF compound, they're as good as dead." Still, despite recognizing the danger, the police left the scene without attempting to go to the aid of the boys—a violation of French law. They later reported not having pursued them at all.
  Not long after, the entire neighborhood went suddenly dark. One of the boys must have misstepped. A blue charge—twenty thousand volts of current—engulfed the three youths. Zyed and Bouna died instantly. Muhittin, his clothes burned into his skin, managed to climb out and stagger back to his high-rise.
  News of the deaths sparked violent riots, first in Clichy-sous-Bois and neighboring suburbs, then throughout the entire country. Over the course of the following month, dozens of public buildings were vandalized and burned, and thousands of cars were set ablaze. Five people died. Though three thousand rioters were arrested, no police officers were found guilty of any wrongdoing, not even those who saw the boys enter the substation and fled the scene.
  Many thanks to Paul Rodeen of Rodeen Literary Management, an old friend who had the vision to imagine this as a work of fiction when we were struggling to write it as nonfiction, and to Sarah Harvey, our editor at Orca, whose sharp eye helped make the narrative work. Thanks also to our former teammates from the Flash de la Courneuve—notably François Leroy, Jacques Tillet, Fabrice Delcourt and François Rouat—and to Frédéric Martin, for giving us access to people who had been involved in the rioting as well as to police officers assigned to those neighborhoods.
  The English Department at the University of Illinois provided generous support from the start, and residencies from the Blue Mountain Center, the MacDowell Colony, the Texas Institute of Letters and the Yaddo Foundation gave us the time to get the work done. Profound thanks.