By Lucy Silag
A narrative of 4 American adolescents in Paris? and the scandal that leads one lady to disappear.
This gleaming novel finds precisely the way it feels to be a youngster in love, in angst, in an enormous, attractive, unusual urban. Fall in love with the elusive model-gorgeous PJ, at the run from a mysterious earlier. Or Olivia, a hardworking ballerina whose fall from grace?both literal and figurative?lands her within the hands of the inaccurate boy. Witness the melodrama of jaded yet attractive Alex, whose seductions won't ever fill the void left by means of her father. eventually, permit fun-loving Zack hot your center along with his vulnerability and candy Memphis accent.
On their very own for the 1st time, those youngsters pass wild in Paris. but if PJ disappears, the others needs to face the lies they?ve instructed and the secrets and techniques they?ve saved so as to support locate her.
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Additional info for Beautiful Americans (Beautiful Americans, Book 1)
The axman, toward whom he had thrust, drew back; the other drove forward with his long knife. I was on my feet by then, watching the fight over the shoulder of a chalcedony angel, and I saw the knife come down, missing Vodalus by a thumb's width as he writhed away and burying itself to the hilt in the ground. Vodalus slashed at the leader then, but he was too near for the length of his blade. The leader, instead of backing off, released his weapon and clutched him like a wrestler. They were at the very edge of the opened grave—I suppose Vodalus had tripped over the soil excavated from it.
Orichalks I had seen in some plenty, and I had even possessed a few of my own. Silver asimi I had glimpsed once or twice. But chrisos I knew only in the same dim way I knew of the existence of a world outside our city of Nessus, and of continents other than our own to the north and east and west. This one bore what I at first thought was a woman's face—a woman crowned, neither young nor old, but silent and perfect in the citrine metal. At last I turned my treasure over, and then indeed I caught my breath; stamped on the reverse was just such a flying ship as I had seen in the arms above the door of my secret mausoleum.
Roche and I edged nearer the gate. Drotte actually stepped back from it. "If you won't let us gather the herbs, we'd better go. " "No you don't. " "All right," Drotte said reluctantly, and we stepped through, the volunteers following. Certain mysteries aver that the real world has been constructed by the human mind, since our ways are governed by the artificial categories into which we place essentially undifferentiated things, things weaker than our words for them. I understood the principle intuitively that night as I heard the last volunteer swing the gate closed behind us.