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A daring first novel—both buoyant comedy and devastating satire by the author of Say You're One of Them. Click Here to find out who said this, as well as discovering other famous literary quotes! Your guide to exceptional books. BookBrowse seeks out and recommends the best in contemporary fiction and nonfiction—books that not only engage and entertain but also deepen our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.
Subscribe to receive some of our best reviews, "beyond the book" articles, book club info and giveaways by email. Young Adult. Write a Review. About this book Summary.
Book Summary. More about membership! Reviews Media Reviews Reader Reviews. Media Reviews "Mabry smoothly joins dreamy, fever-induced scenes with the lore of 'la ciguapa,' a beautiful creature that leads men to insanity or death with a kiss, and her atmospheric ending guarantees goose bumps.
Author Information Biography. Samantha Mabry Samantha Mabry grew up in Texas playing bass guitar along to vinyl records, writing fan letters to rock stars, and reading big, big books, and credits her tendency toward magical thinking to her Grandmother Garcia, who would wash money in the kitchen sink to rinse off any bad spirits.
More Recommendations More Books. Readers Also Browsed. Find out more. In the introduction to The Correspondents, author Judith Mackrell points out that although there had The broken sidewalk had never been fixed. The blue paint was still chipped and faded, and the tops of plants still waved over the courtyard walls, trying to tempt me, but my friends and I had gotten too old to care about wishes, curses, and green-skinned little girls. Up close, their skin smelled like warm, wet sand, and their mouths tasted like coconut water.
They wore the thinnest cotton dresses with the tiniest straps we could slip off their shoulders, and their long dark hair was always curled from all the moisture in the air. I was kissing one of those girls when the witch who grants wishes first threw stones at my face. This is how things typically went: A girl would come over and run her fingertips across the back of my hand or the top of my knee.
Marisol was different, though. She did come and sit by me, but after telling me her name, she said she remembered me from last summer, when she and Ruth—a giggling girl who was currently pawing at Rico—saw me at a party. She asked if I remembered her. Which was a shame. Marisol had a generous, loud laugh, a distinctive heart-shaped face, and straight, waist-length coffee-colored hair, the shade of which almost exactly matched her eyes.
My head was already swirling from the rum, and I was only half listening. The way Marisol was sitting caused her butter-yellow dress to ride up high on her thighs. I wanted to reach out and touch the place where hem met skin. We snuck away and stumbled down a steep path that would lead us closer to the water.
We faced a murky expanse of sea. Behind us was a section of the original walls of the city, built hundreds of years ago to protect San Juan from invaders. Forty feet up and on the other side of that wall was the dark and silent courtyard belonging to the house at the end of Calle Sol. This spot was a favorite of mine, quiet and isolated.
I could stand there for hours and wonder if I had the nerve to jump into that inky water and start swimming. I never told any of the girls about my dreams of floating in the ocean. She was leaning against the stone wall. Her fingers were lifted to her throat, where she was twirling a gold charm. It glinted twice in the moonlight. The rest of her was in shadow. Marisol dropped her charm as I approached her. I put my hand on her waist and felt the soft flesh under her dress give into my slight pressure.
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I ducked and covered my head just as several tiny pellets showered down on me. And then, everything was quiet.
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