The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy
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Whip-smart dialogue and an inside look at the seedy underbelly of reality TV come together in this critically-acclaimed debut perfect for fans of Unreal, John Green, and Frank Portman.
Witty, sarcastic Ethan and his three best friends are students at Selwyn Arts Academy, which has been hijacked by For Art’s Sake, a sleazy reality-television show. In the tradition of Ezra Pound, the foursome secretly writes and distributes a long poem to protest the show. They’re thrilled to have started a budding rebellion.
But the forces behind the show are craftier than they seem. The web of betrayal stretches farther than Ethan could have ever imagined, and it’s up to him, his friends, and a heroic gerbil named Baconnaise to save Selwyn.
From the Hardcover edition.
listened as hard as I could to BradLee’s lecture. “Does anyone feel relief that he recanted his anti-Semitism?” There was a smattering of hands. “I’m sure we all do. But we need to be cautious about being relieved. Why?” Nobody answered. “Because, class, we argued that an artist’s life doesn’t matter when it comes to an evaluation of his work. And if Pound’s fascism doesn’t matter, his disavowal of that fascism doesn’t matter either. Not in terms of our critical appraisal of the Cantos.” I’ve
I.” She laughed. “We’re messed up, Luke and me. People are always messed up when they only want one thing.” I looked into her eyes again, but she looked away. “If you want lots of things, you can be happy when you get a few of them. But I only want one thing.” “What do you want?” “I want to make it. You know that. I want to go to New York. If I don’t go now, I’ll never go. I’m a ballerina and I’m eighteen and I’ve got maybe ten years before my body starts to give out on me. This is my life,
to do with my life, and Coluber called me up.” “So you lied,” I said. “There was no job in finance.” “He remembered me from Mind over Matter. He knew I’d been an English major. But he wanted our relationship to stay under the radar so I could spy for him.” “There was no dartboard.” “After all, he needs to know who’s glamorous, who should be on the show.” “There was no funny story about interrobangs.” BradLee looked wounded. “No! I have several—” “We get it. He asked you to do it,”
lives. On stage right, there were exuberant leaps and spins. On stage left, there was nothing. She ran maniacally between the two, and when the music ended—“stopped” would be a better word, because no chord resolved—she sprawled, as if falling, onto the middle of the stage. She stayed there. There were at least fifteen seconds of silence. All I could do was stare at her. That was all anyone could do. Slowly, the audience began to clap. The applause built until they were standing, and the camera
“Me too.” “ ‘I have to win this show,’ ” Damien was quoting. “But will she even make it to the finale?” said Trisha. “Contestants, let’s chat.” “I’m nervous for them!” said Damien. This whole agreeing-with-Damien-Hastings thing was making me uncomfortable. “Luke. Kyle. Miki. Maura,” said Trisha. “You all have impressed us so much. With your talent, with your dedication. But one of you has to go. Maura, please step forward.” Maura did so, with a defiant jut to her chin. “Maura, you