conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Cameron, Storm, Anna with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Someone Else's Summer'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Someone Else's Summer
  I remember the rain most of all. The day had been beautiful, the sun just peeking through the clouds and falling across the grass where the graduates sat on metal folding chairs. A light breeze played with tassels hanging from mortarboards and fluttered cheap polyester robes as the speakers passed token words of wisdom from the podium.
  Suddenly, just as hundreds of maroon caps took to the sky, the clouds opened up and rain washed the earth.
  It was just a sprinkling at first, enough to scatter dark spots across shoulders and cool sunburned skin. As the day wore on, the skies darkened more, until it looked like dusk at midafternoon. By the time the all-night party started, the gutters had filled with small rivers and our backyard was a swamp.
  Hours later, the rain still pattered a steady rhythm on the roof as a shrill ring pulled me from sleep. Mom and Dad insisted on keeping a landline with receivers throughout the house, even though we rarely used it. The ancient, corded phone blaring just outside my bedroom door should have been my first indication something was wrong; I should have known right away. That's the way it always happens in movies—there's intuition, a feeling deep in the gut. I had none of that, just a mild irritation at whoever was calling. And the constant, insistent rain.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Someone Else's Summer
  I remember the rain most of all. The day had been beautiful, the sun just peeking through the clouds and falling across the grass where the graduates sat on metal folding chairs. A light breeze played with tassels hanging from mortarboards and fluttered cheap polyester robes as the speakers passed token words of wisdom from the podium.
  Suddenly, just as hundreds of maroon caps took to the sky, the clouds opened up and rain washed the earth.
  It was just a sprinkling at first, enough to scatter dark spots across shoulders and cool sunburned skin. As the day wore on, the skies darkened more, until it looked like dusk at midafternoon. By the time the all-night party started, the gutters had filled with small rivers and our backyard was a swamp.
  Hours later, the rain still pattered a steady rhythm on the roof as a shrill ring pulled me from sleep. Mom and Dad insisted on keeping a landline with receivers throughout the house, even though we rarely used it. The ancient, corded phone blaring just outside my bedroom door should have been my first indication something was wrong; I should have known right away. That's the way it always happens in movies—there's intuition, a feeling deep in the gut. I had none of that, just a mild irritation at whoever was calling.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs. Start with the sentence 'We zip and clip into our life vests'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We zip and clip into our life vests. Mine fits like a second skin, and I twist side to side, making sure it doesn't hike up. Perfect. As soon as I'm done with my checks, Leroy stands in front of me, a complicated-looking harness in hand. He helps me step into the leg holes then sets to work wrapping straps around my torso. He tugs so tight, I fall forward, bracing myself on his shoulders.
  Once Leroy is satisfied I'm not going to fall out of my harness, he does the same to Cameron and ushers us into the boat. He offers a hand when I step in and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I accept. His palm is rough and calloused and so hot it almost burns to touch. "There you go, dear," he says.
  We troll out of the marina, drifting our way past dozens of boats docked in neat rows. We glide by a buoy marking the end of the no wake zone, and Leroy pushes the throttle flat. The boat rockets off, zooming parallel to the shore, dancing over the waves.
  The wind rushes through my hair. I close my eyes and feel the salty air caress my skin. Cameron sits next to me; I can feel him there, an ever-steady presence next to my frantic being. I relax my legs until my knee rests against his.
  The boat slows, and I open my eyes. We are in open water, bobbing gently. A tiny hamlet is cozied into the coast to our left, and the vast, wide ocean lies to our right, stretching out forever.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I look at Cameron. He's watching me, face soft, apprehensive. With one step, I'm standing against him, my hand grasping his T-shirt. I pull him to me.
  My mouth meets his, a kiss that's a promise. A promise to be brave with my life and with my heart. A promise of a thousand kisses to come. We stand there, arms wrapped around each other, lips connected, as the rain slows to a drizzle, the storm moving on as quickly as it came, and then we kiss a bit longer, until Cameron breaks away from me and disappears into the garage.
  We stand together, like we have for so many pictures this summer, with the pools and makeshift movie screen behind us. I hold the camera at arm's length, and when Cameron leans down to kiss me, I click the shutter.
  Together, we set our chairs upright. Then we lower into them, side by side, and watch as the photo develops.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He's watching me, face soft, apprehensive. With one step, I'm standing against him, my hand grasping his T-shirt. I pull him to me.
  My mouth meets his, a kiss that's a promise. A promise to be brave with my life and with my heart. A promise of a thousand kisses to come. We stand there, arms wrapped around each other, lips connected, as the rain slows to a drizzle, the storm moving on as quickly as it came, and then we kiss a bit longer, until Cameron breaks away from me and disappears into the garage.
  We stand together, like we have for so many pictures this summer, with the pools and makeshift movie screen behind us. I hold the camera at arm's length, and when Cameron leans down to kiss me, I click the shutter.
  Together, we set our chairs upright. Then we lower into them, side by side, and watch as the photo develops.