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272 pages, Hardcover
First published January 14, 2014
“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from everyone back home, too, but.”
“There are different ways to be different, Anne.”
“I don’t suppose you know all that much about being different, Ben," I say, careful to sound as indifferent.
“I’d say I know a lot about a lot, including being different,” he replies.

“I have seen your PT. You have in your aura a tendency toward—” Teddy hesitates, standing in the midst of a great, long, exaggerated pause “—seduction.”I am not fucking kidding.

Like four slightly oversexed dolls, they stand at arm’s length from me, thrusting out their cleavage, tossing their straightened silky hair over their shoulders, and pursing their pouty, glossy lips.So much for being accepting of others, since you were an outcast herserlf, right, Anne?
“Feast your eyes,” our model Trey exclaims, drawing his hand down his body. He’s a member of the faculty, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s nowhere near as hard on the eyes as most of the teachers here. “I am man. Hear me roar.”There is something strange going on in the island. The students are forbidden to talk to the villagers...the villagers themselves are tribalistic! They worship idols! They cremate figures! They have strange rituals!
“This is the final ceremony in the Festival of Fire and Life,” Mr. Watso bellows, “a tradition unique to the Abenaki of this island they call Wormwood, this island that is Ndakinna to our great ancestors. It is a tradition that is just decades old but more meaningful than any ritual we have ever performed.”Right. Very meaningful.
I pull out my California street-dancing swagger, which is insanely tough in this dress and heels, but I can’t help myself. This song is begging for some boom-pop, and I am all over that.But damn, girl, no, that ain't all.
“You ready to take this on?” she asks. Not asks. Demands.Oh snap!!!! Do you feel that? THAT'S RIGHT. IT'S A DANCE-OFF! Shit's gettin' REAL, yo!
“Take what on?”
“This!” She runs her hands up and down her body. “Right here. Right now.”
“Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
She wants to battle. She wants a dance-off.
I start it off, beginning by sliding into and out of an exaggerated S-shape formed by sitting deep in my right hip, rolling up to my left, arching my back, and smoothly busting out my chest. To warm things up. I pause for good measure, making deep eye contact with guys in the crowd, who clap when I do.
Finally, I wave my hand like you stink—steeped in swagger.

“Suppose,” Teddy offers, “your PT is to…be selfish to succeed in life.”WHAT THE FUCK?!
“I would grade your actions over the course of the next two years against that PT. I would expect you to skip to the front of every line, fail to share, sabotage the efforts of your peers, especially those who are most desperate, and—”
“Steal money from a beggar’s bowl,” I suggest.
“Precisely!” Villicus and Teddy exclaim.
Dropping my arms to my side and letting my hand hover at the hem of my pajama shirt. Holding my breath, I lift it slowly. Take it off. And blush at my reflection. Because my body is so unrecognizable to me, it’s almost pornographic.
“Not bad,” I whisper, looking at myself as I never really have before. Something inside me stirs—not because I’m attracted to myself. It’s something else. It’s realizing, for the first time ever, that I may possess a teensy tiny bit of sexual power.

Her followers—a Thai girl, an Indian girl, and a stark blonde—glare at me.A woman is "Japanese," a dark-skinned man is "Indian," somehow she knows a woman is from Quebec just by looking at her. And then there's the Mandarin. Wait, what?
Behind me, a Mandarin guy...WAIT, WHAT? Ok, let's get one thing straight. Mandarin is a language. Mandarin is an orange. You do NOT refer to a Chinese guy as a Mandarin unless he is a time traveler from 18th century who is a Chinese official. Fuck me.
"But I’m sure you know all about getting around.”"Gang o' skanks," "skanky cows," "coiffed skanks," "skanky awards." FUCK YOU, ANNE. FUCK YOU!!!!!
Their matching red bras busting out of their cleavage. Their sex-kitten hair. Every day, they replace their standard-issue boots with whatever ultra-expensive, ultra-hooker shoes they have; today, it’s Manolo Blahnik spiky boots.She accuses them of going down on faculty in order to earn their grades. Anne implies that they walk like they belong in the "red-light district." Fuck slut shaming, fuck Anne, fuck this book.
“I could rate you very favorably,” he says, his soft voice sending shivers up my spine, “if you could be so obliging.” Then he lowers his hands to his pants and undoes the top button.The Writing: Atrocious. Clothing is "as wrinkled as the cloak of a dead Franciscan friar." A French accent sounds like "eating peanut butter while fighting a head cold."
My mouth drops open, but not in the way he wants it to. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m your meal ticket.”
The one thought I have hasn’t quite reached me yet. It moves through the darkness of my room slowly, deliberately, like the Grim Reaper wading through a sludgy pond to reach me, like he’s been wading toward me for days, has jerked his way up the stairs, and is finally here, his slender, long arms extending toward me. I want to back away from him, from my one unavoidable thought, but he keeps approaching, nearer and nearer until I’m in his cold, wet grasp.If you still insist on reading this book, I have some recommended prerequisites. One simply does not









