conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled My Dad Is Ten Years Old about Award, Mark, O'Sullivan with the genre: Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mark O'Sullivan is a writer whose work has won a Bisto Award in Ireland and an International Youth Library White Raven Award. His work has been translated into many languages. He is married with two daughters and lives in County Tipperary.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My Dad Is Ten Years Old
  So the other day when Jill broke her silence with me and texted to say she wouldn't be in school for a few days, that there was a major crisis at home, I didn't bother to answer.
  And yesterday, when Miss O'Neill asked me if I was going to audition for West Side Story, I nodded in a vague way that might have meant yes, no or maybe.
  And this afternoon, when I sang 'Tonight' on the stage of the school assembly hall, there was no music in me and the acoustics in there are so weird it was like more than one of me was singing.
  The bell for the mid-morning break is less than five minutes away. Mrs Doran is too young to have grey hair and too bouncy to be teaching something as boring as economics. At least you stay awake during her classes. She's always liable to fire a question at you out of the blue. But this morning I'm on the edge of my seat for a different reason. And, for the moment, it's not the court case. Jill is back in school.
  She wasn't here earlier on and arrived only after Mrs Doran's class had already started. The light sheen of foundation she's wearing doesn't mask the shadows under her eyes. I should feel sorry for her. I don't. I look across at her and all I can think of is her neighbour. Brian. It's not only our house he's disappeared from. I never see him around town these days and Sean hasn't mentioned his name since that night at the A and E. Maybe he's gone to college after all. Not that it matters. It's curiosity, like, nothing more.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know three more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mam laid into Sean after Mrs Casey left. She was terrified that the old woman might get a stroke or something after the upset she'd had. She still is. Sean refused to own up to killing Argos. I knew why she wanted to hear that confession so badly. I weighed in too.
  All day I've been trying to avoid the thought of Mrs Casey ringing the Guards and the ISPCA or whatever and the terrifying consequences. Terrifying if Sean is the guilty one. Terrifying times ten if it's Dad. We haven't heard anything yet, but I feel certain that we will. The few drinks I've had have lost whatever pleasant effect they had on me. I'm back to being cold sober. Very cold and very sober.
  He draws me closer and kisses me. His hands begin to move along my back, my stomach. I'm light-headed again, but more pleasantly. Some people pass by. A middle-aged couple, power-walking and tut-tutting. I don't care. We come up for air.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last two paragraphs? End with the sentence ' I must seem pure weird out here in the night with this stage make-up plastered all over my face.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The avenue is filling up with people. We let one another go and Jimmy's appeared again. He looks so nice in the grey shirt and new tweed jacket Mam bought for him. He's staring at me like he can't remember who I am.
  An uncertain smile flickers across his face as he studies me. He looks away, looks at me again. And suddenly I cop what it is that makes him so hesitant. I must seem pure weird out here in the night with this stage make-up plastered all over my face.