conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled Summer on the Short Bus about Cricket, UpRich, Constance with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 8 UpRich, spoiled, and entitled, the last thing 17-year-old Constance, aka Cricket, wants to do is work as a counselor at a special needs summer camp. She had been planning on spending her vacation in Maui with best friend Katie, but after the ill-advised party she hosted at the riding stables, her furious dad ships her off to Camp I Can for a two-week stint as a counselor. Cricket spends the first part of her stay scheming escape routes while trying to have as little to do as possible with the campers, who, for the most part, have Down syndrome and cerebral palsy. On the bright side, there is fellow counselor Quinn, a Zac Efron doppelgnger, who is as nice as he is cute. Over the course of two very bumpy weeks, Cricket develops an appreciation for the camp and its denizens and matures a great deallargely due to Quinn's positive influence. The special needs kids are not particularly well-developed characters, although they are endearing and quirkyand two weeks is perhaps an unrealistic amount of time for the protagonist's personality transformation. Despite this, the novel is heartwarming and funny, mainly because of Cricket's scathingly honest politically incorrect internal and external dialogue. Highly entertainingthis book will appeal to reluctant readers.Ragan O'Malley, Saint Ann's School, Brooklyn, NY
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Summer on the Short Bus
  Less than forty-eight hours ago I was in the comfort of my room, thick in a conversation with my best friend about those red patent Miu Miu ballet flats we saw in the Neiman's catalog, when in full, dickhead parent mode, my dad stormed in and single-handedly destroyed my entire summer.
  We'd had conversations like this before, so I knew there was no reason to get my panties all twisted up. I just responded the same way I always do: I dropped my head slightly and conjured up my best Bambi eyes. "Aw... come on, Dad. It wasn't that bad."
  Looking back, I admit having an impromptu party in the riding stables wasn't the best idea, but I'm seventeen. If I can't screw off a little now, when can I? And who was that stable hand to call me out anyway? Doesn't he know my father practically owns that place?
  He sighed deeply and his face contorted into that sad, wounded puppy look he hasn't worn since the last time I asked about my mom. "Honestly, Cricket... I'm not sure what I'm going to do with you."
  Well, he might not have known right that minute, but he figured it out pretty fast. The next morning he chewed my ass about the privileged life I lead, going on about how I have no concept of what happens in the real world and how my selfish behavior is getting out of hand. He puffed up like a bullfrog and croaked something about making sure I leave for college next year with a good head on my shoulders and my feet planted firmly on the ground. It was one of those lame, parental speeches that was supposed to motivate me to change my ways, or start journaling my feelings. In the end, all it did was piss me off.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We sit quietly for a moment, before he says, "Well, if it makes any difference, I don't think you're a brat."
  On instinct, I open my mouth to retaliate against his words. But as they roll around in my head, I realize there might be some truth to them. I do sort of live in a bubble. A very posh, fancy bubble, but a bubble nonetheless.
  The next afternoon I claw my way up cell phone hill in search of a little Windy City pick-me-up. As I feared, my dad hasn't left any messages, but I am grateful to find a voice mail from Carolyn. Other than informing me that Mr. Katz has gone schizo and is barking at his own tail, there's nothing particularly informative about her call. I still manage to get a little choked up, though. Her accent never sounded so beautiful.
  I'm halfway through the second play-through of the message, when the beeping in my ear alerts me that someone is calling me right now. I glance down at the screen and see Katie's picture pop up.
  I hear a chorus of laughter in the background, and by the muffling sound against the phone, can tell Katie's joining in with them. I suddenly feel very alone.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I suddenly feel very alone."
  On instinct, I open my mouth to retaliate against his words. But as they roll around in my head, I realize there might be some truth to them. I do sort of live in a bubble. A very posh, fancy bubble, but a bubble nonetheless.
  The next afternoon I claw my way up cell phone hill in search of a little Windy City pick-me-up. As I feared, my dad hasn't left any messages, but I am grateful to find a voice mail from Carolyn. Other than informing me that Mr. Katz has gone schizo and is barking at his own tail, there's nothing particularly informative about her call. I still manage to get a little choked up, though. Her accent never sounded so beautiful.
  I'm halfway through the second play-through of the message, when the beeping in my ear alerts me that someone is calling me right now. I glance down at the screen and see Katie's picture pop up.
  I hear a chorus of laughter in the background, and by the muffling sound against the phone, can tell Katie's joining in with them.We sit quietly for a moment, before he says, "Well, if it makes any difference, I don't think you're a brat.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The YA Valentines. This has been an incredible debut year. Your support of me, and each other, is astounding.
  Laura Walker and Heather Hernandez for braving the Peggy Flemming waters and encouraging me to keep swimming no matter how long it took. And Andrea Riklin, you should charge me for cut, color, and therapy.
  The girls on the fourth floor. On our own, we're just quirky individuals, but together we are a beautiful, dysfunctional mess—with very nice handbags.
  My WrAHM sisters. Your support, banter, and motivational images saved me on more than one occasion. The talented writers at OneFour KidLit, and on Query Tracker and Twitter. This experience has been so much better because I got to share it with all of you.
  There are so many more, but since the band has started to play, I'll conclude with the most important: my Heavenly Father. Maybe one day I will learn that your timing is better than mine. Until then, your grace is enough.