conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled More Happy Than Not about Aaron, Thomas, UpDebut with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Science Fiction & Fantasy
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 9 UpDebut author the author pulls readers into the gritty, (near-future) Bronx world of 16-year-old Puerto Rican, Aaron Soto, with a milieu of tight-knit, sometimes dysfunctional relationships. Aaron struggles to find happiness despite the presence of his mother, older brother, and girlfriend, as well as a set of childhood buddies and a new, intriguing friend, Thomas. He is haunted by painful physical and emotional scars: the memory of his father's suicide in their home, his own similar failed attempt with its resulting smiley face scar, not to mention his family's poverty and his personal angst at an increasingly strong attraction for Thomas. This first-person narrative raises ethical, societal, and personal questions about happiness, the ability to choose to eradicate difficult memories (through a scientific procedure), and gender identity. The protagonist is as honest with readers as he is able to be, and it is only after Aaron is brutally beaten by friends attempting to set him "straight," that he remembers the entirety of his life story through shocking, snapshotlike revelations. More surprising is the knowledge that his family and girlfriend have known his backstory all along. VERDICT A gripping read-the author skillfully weaves together many divergent young adult themes within an engrossing, intense narrative.Ruth Quiroa, National Louis University, IL
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Aaron struggles to find happiness despite the presence of his mother, older brother, and girlfriend, as well as a set of childhood buddies and a new, intriguing friend, Thomas. He is haunted by painful physical and emotional scars: the memory of his father's suicide in their home, his own similar failed attempt with its resulting smiley face scar, not to mention his family's poverty and his personal angst at an increasingly strong attraction for Thomas. This first-person narrative raises ethical, societal, and personal questions about happiness, the ability to choose to eradicate difficult memories (through a scientific procedure), and gender identity. The protagonist is as honest with readers as he is able to be, and it is only after Aaron is brutally beaten by friends attempting to set him "straight," that he remembers the entirety of his life story through shocking, snapshotlike revelations. More surprising is the knowledge that his family and girlfriend have known his backstory all along. VERDICT A gripping read-the author skillfully weaves together many divergent young adult themes within an engrossing, intense narrative.Ruth Quiroa, National Louis University, IL
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book. End with the sentence ' Ana Beltran, for dinners (which she always cooked) and debates (which I always won).'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: More Happy Than Not
  Luis Rivera, for everything I learned from our nothing, and for everything he could give me. He sort of, kind of, maybe, definitely knew how to make a guy more happy than not during the Code Adam era, and he continues to keep the good times and fist-bumps coming every day.
  Corey Whaley, who must never stop existing. I'm super grateful he gave me a summer home so I could write my story, and for the crazy amount of happiness he energized within me so I could survive reliving it.
  Cecilia Renn, my best friend and wilder half. Fingers crossed the world doesn't end on June 6th or I'll never hear the end of it from her. Our Gemini handshakes will echo across infinity—or at least across her kitchen where she's surely left another cabinet open.
  Hannah Colbert Kalampoukas, for being the perfect first person to come out to, and for the strawberry frosted birthday cake she baked me and shaped like an A. The cake was a small gesture that meant as much to me as The Great Coming Out of 2009.
  Amanda Diaz, who not only passed along her love of literature and fan fiction, but also read this story more times than was necessary. Michael Diaz, for countless nights of gaming and playing "Draft" with our candy. Ana Beltran, for dinners (which she always cooked) and debates (which I always won).
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conversations.value: five more paragraphs
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conversations.value: A minute or so later, though, I hit a grid of the market that seems to speak Theo's language. A dream catcher with a willow hoop dyed his favorite shade of green. An entire table of tiny ships inside bottles. He was recently reading up on their impossibilities in the hopes of making one himself, except I know he wants his to have a spaceship inside because he always has to put his Theo twist on things.
  I still have all the time in the world—if the world only has twelve minutes to offer, at least. It's too bad he's not more of a fantasy fan because the letter openers here are pretty boss, and I'm sort of hoping he's found this table already and will surprise me with one, preferably the one designed like a sword sheath, or this one with the bone handle. It's okay, I still have all the time in the world... Actually, no, I don't because according to my phone I only have nine minutes, an odd number that's getting me really anxious, so I scratch my palm while running again. I somehow return to a world of more home goods. Theo has no current use for breakfast-friendly pots and pans since he's pretty happy eating bowls of cereal with orange juice, and he definitely doesn't need gardening tools unless they come with instructions on how he can grow more video games and computer apps for free.
  I glance at my phone again: six minutes left, and I'm no longer anxious; I'm excited. I know from being over at Theo's enough that he doesn't own any of these: a steampunk barn house gliding away on wings built of scraps from a satellite; Santa's sleigh being pulled by dolphins underwater (I don't want to know what's in those wrapped gifts, but I'd also love to hear Theo's guesses); a 3D puzzle of a soccer ball (the 3D part is cool, but the sports part is less cool). I'm not sure where Theo stands on 3D puzzles but this doesn't seem like the one "to kick it off"—ha.
  Boom, got it. The fourth one in the row on the table: Doomed Pirate Ship. The pirates are being thrown overboard by stormy weather and a raging sea, trying to climb back up, while another hangs from the plank. I know Theo will create a kickass story behind this one. The vendor drops the puzzle in a brown plastic bag and even though it costs nine bucks, I just shove the ten in her hands and jet away.
  Theo is waiting by the exit, pressed against the wall to hide in the shade, like a vampire who stayed out too late—too early? I don't blame him. We're both sweating. He looks at his sundial watch and says, "Two minutes to spare! Let's get the hell out of here before we go up in flames, or worse, you get sunburn."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The hallway is lined with photographs in the cheap frames we received from my aunt last Christmas, the kind of present my mother thinks isn't thoughtful but is too nice to not put up. She still drinks out of the Yoda mug you bought her two years ago, no occasion at all, just because. You're always going to be a presence for my parents, even if now they can't see your history on our walls. I'm hoarding all the photographs and their cheap frames in my room: the one of us sitting in your childhood living room on Columbus Avenue, putting together a puzzle of the Empire State Building; us at sixteen/fifteen, you wrapping your arms around my waist after some joke from Wade about boys not being able to hug other boys; you smiling at me from across another park bench as I toasted to my parents' tenth anniversary; and my favorites—side-by-side in the same frame—the first of us a blank-faced photo taken by Wade, doing our damn best to keep our smiles in but failing, and the second of us holding each other and smiling after we came out to our parents at Denise's birthday party. You were always a fan of the sun glare above your head. "Like a cool, bad-ass angel of destruction," you said. "The angel that gets a blazing sword while you get a harp."
  In the living room my parents are already in their jackets, my father holding his baked goods in his lap as they stare at the muted news on TV. Mom sees me first and pops up, which I know is bad on her back, especially on rainy days like today, but she approaches me cautiously, unsure which Griffin she's about to get. I feel a flash of anger. I'm a seventeen-year-old grieving his favorite person. I grab my jacket and turn for the door. "I'll be outside."
  When we're all settled in the car, my father puts on the radio to fill the silence. I stare out the window as we stop at a red light, counting pairs: two women in jackets, sharing a blue umbrella; two old guys pushing shopping carts out of a market; four beaten down trees in a community garden; two trashcans piled high with garbage.
  The counting brings me some relief, but it's not enough. I drop my right hand to the empty space beside me, imagining your hand on mine.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about I'm, supposed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The hallway is lined with photographs in the cheap frames we received from my aunt last Christmas, the kind of present my mother thinks isn't thoughtful but is too nice to not put up. She still drinks out of the Yoda mug you bought her two years ago, no occasion at all, just because. You're always going to be a presence for my parents, even if now they can't see your history on our walls. I'm hoarding all the photographs and their cheap frames in my room: the one of us sitting in your childhood living room on Columbus Avenue, putting together a puzzle of the Empire State Building; us at sixteen/fifteen, you wrapping your arms around my waist after some joke from Wade about boys not being able to hug other boys; you smiling at me from across another park bench as I toasted to my parents' tenth anniversary; and my favorites—side-by-side in the same frame—the first of us a blank-faced photo taken by Wade, doing our damn best to keep our smiles in but failing, and the second of us holding each other and smiling after we came out to our parents at Denise's birthday party. You were always a fan of the sun glare above your head. "Like a cool, bad-ass angel of destruction," you said. "The angel that gets a blazing sword while you get a harp. "
  In the living room my parents are already in their jackets, my father holding his baked goods in his lap as they stare at the muted news on TV. Mom sees me first and pops up, which I know is bad on her back, especially on rainy days like today, but she approaches me cautiously, unsure which Griffin she's about to get. 
  Mom reaches out to me, like I'm some toddler that's supposed to take his first steps into her arms. I feel a flash of anger. I'm a seventeen-year-old grieving his favorite person. I grab my jacket and turn for the door. "I'll be outside. "
  When we're all settled in the car, my father puts on the radio to fill the silence. I stare out the window as we stop at a red light, counting pairs: two women in jackets, sharing a blue umbrella; two old guys pushing shopping carts out of a market; four beaten down trees in a community garden; two trashcans piled high with garbage. 
  The counting brings me some relief, but it's not enough. I drop my right hand to the empty space beside me, imagining your hand on mine.