conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled Bronx Masquerade about [students], Latino, Rich with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "All of the [students], black, Latino, white, male, and female, talk about the unease and alienation endemic to their ages, and they do it in fresh and appealing voices. Rich and complex."- Kirkus Reviews
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Reading, Arizona, International with the genre: New, Used & Rental Textbooks?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Bronx Masquerade'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bronx Masquerade
  But maybe that's the point. Mom's not too keen on my plans to work in the theater, which is no surprise. She's still trying to get over my wearing an earring, even though I bought the smallest one I could find. (She freaked anyway.) I don't think Dad is too stoked about my plans either, although he doesn't say it because he knows I remember him telling me how he used to want to be an entertainer. He played drums in a band when he was my age, and had big-time plans of hitting the road like Ringo Starr and the Beatles, and doing shows across the country. Then his family moved to Binghamton, away from all his band mates, and eventually, his dream faded away.
  Just the thought of maybe never working in the theater makes me crazy, and one day, I tell this story about my father to Raul and I tell him I don't understand how my father's dream could just die like that, when what I really want to know is, can mine. And Raul says something that sticks with me. "Maybe your father's dream wasn't really in his heart. If a dream is in your heart, you never lose it."
  After we had that conversation, I kicked my doubts to the back of the closet. (Well, almost. I still go in there now and then.) Part of me continues to be afraid of following in my father's footsteps. These days, though, I try to concentrate on keeping my grades up so I can get into NYU when the time comes, because one thing I know for sure is that my dream is in my heart.
  Whether I finish up school here, or in Yorktown Heights depends on my folks. Either way, there's a set designer's job on Broadway with my name on it, and I'm not giving it up for anybody.
  Either that boy's been hanging out with some brothas, or he wish he had. He must've grown up round here, the way he talks. But I hope he ain't studying on hanging out with me. We can peacefully coexist, but I don't have no white boys in my crew.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I've got an exam tomorrow, so I better put in an extra hour of study. I don't know what the questions are going to be, but I want to make sure I'm ready for whatever they throw at me.
  Something's different about Lupe's voice. It's still soft, but it's like there's steel running through it now. I don't think I'm making that up. Anyway, I know one thing for sure. I don't catch her staring off the way I used to. She's always looking straight up now, paying attention to whatever the teacher is saying, like she's afraid to miss a word. I see her running off to the library a lot lately too. Something new is definitely up with that girl.
  It was an accident. I didn't mean to leave them out for my father to find. At least, I don't think I did. That's what I told Lupe when she asked me what was wrong this morning. I was still upset about my father throwing a fit when he found my art school brochures last night. You'd think I'd stabbed him in the heart, the way he looked at me.
  I'm sorry he feels so bad, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've made up my mind. If I can get into an art school, I'm going. Mr. Ward thinks I have a good chance of getting a scholarship. We'll see. Mom says my dad will come around. Eventually. I'm not so sure. Before I left home today, I slipped a poem and a drawing of Michael Jordan in my father's easy chair, under the remote. That way, he wouldn't miss them. I was planning to give him the drawing for his birthday, but after seeing those brochures, he looked like he needed a transfusion, so why wait? Maybe a drawing of his hero will make him feel better. Besides, doing basketball portraits is the closest I'll ever get to my father's dreams for me, so I might as well let him enjoy one now.
  The future is ours. Let us have it. That's what she's saying. That's what we're all saying. But I'm lucky. These days my moms ain't trying to push me in one direction or another. She's just glad I have one.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I've got an exam tomorrow, so I better put in an extra hour of study. I don't know what the questions are going to be, but I want to make sure I'm ready for whatever they throw at me.
  Something's different about Lupe's voice. It's still soft, but it's like there's steel running through it now. I don't think I'm making that up. Anyway, I know one thing for sure. I don't catch her staring off the way I used to. She's always looking straight up now, paying attention to whatever the teacher is saying, like she's afraid to miss a word. I see her running off to the library a lot lately too. Something new is definitely up with that girl.
  It was an accident. I didn't mean to leave them out for my father to find. At least, I don't think I did. That's what I told Lupe when she asked me what was wrong this morning. I was still upset about my father throwing a fit when he found my art school brochures last night. You'd think I'd stabbed him in the heart, the way he looked at me.
  I'm sorry he feels so bad, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've made up my mind. If I can get into an art school, I'm going. Mr. Ward thinks I have a good chance of getting a scholarship. We'll see. Mom says my dad will come around. Eventually. I'm not so sure. Before I left home today, I slipped a poem and a drawing of Michael Jordan in my father's easy chair, under the remote. That way, he wouldn't miss them. I was planning to give him the drawing for his birthday, but after seeing those brochures, he looked like he needed a transfusion, so why wait? Maybe a drawing of his hero will make him feel better. Besides, doing basketball portraits is the closest I'll ever get to my father's dreams for me, so I might as well let him enjoy one now.
  The future is ours. Let us have it. That's what she's saying. That's what we're all saying. But I'm lucky. These days my moms ain't trying to push me in one direction or another.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mr. Ward welcomes me into class quietly, which I'm happy about. He motions me to the back, where there are a couple of empty seats. I take one near a pretty blond girl. I don't know how I'm going to feel about poetry, but I know I like the scenery!
  Jenesis, huh? That name makes me think of beginnings. A new class. A new year. This is going to be interesting.
  I copy down everything Mr. Ward says, word for word. After school, I pull out my paragraphs about Papi and me reading the newspaper, and I start working on a brand-new poem. This time, I give up worrying about rhyme and start paying more attention to lining up words with the same letters, and turning words into pictures.
  They still have a little rhyme in them, though. Still, I can't wait to show the latest poem to Mr. Ward.
  The following day, some kid named Tyrone drops in to kick things off for our first Open Mic Friday poetry reading. I thought I knew what to expect. Not even close.