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An ambitious social-media climber captures "an absolutely remarkable thing" and realizes going viral is the least of her worries.
Who doesn't dream of the transformative powers of fame and fortune? I certainly do, and so does April May, the fiery narrator of Hank Green’s debut novel, a rags-to-social-riches-meets-science-fiction hybrid that kept me guessing from start to finish.
It’s 3am in New York City when April encounters a giant, armor-cladded sculpture of unknown origin. She dubs this bizarre curiosity “Carl” in a YouT...
The Carls just appeared.
Roaming through New York City at three a.m., 23-year-old April May stumbles across a giant sculpture. Delighted by its appearance and craftsmanship—like a 10-foot-tall Transformer wearing a suit of samurai armor—April and her friend, Andy, make a video with it, which Andy uploads to YouTube. The next day, April wakes up to a viral video and a new life. News quickly spreads...
Get an early look from the first pages of Hank Green's An Absolutely Remarkable Thing.Read a sample →
Look, I am aware that you’re here for an epic tale of intrigue and mystery and adventure and near death and actual death, but in order to get to that (unless you want to skip to chapter 13—I’m not your boss), you’re going to have to deal with the fact that I, April May, in addition to being one of the most important things that has ever happened to the human race, am also a woman in her twenties who has made some mistakes. I am in the wonderful position of having you by the short hairs. I have the story, and so I get to tell it to you the way I want. That means you get to understand me, not just my story, so don’t be surprised if there’s some drama. I’m going to attempt to come at this account honestly, but I’ll also admit to a significant pro-me bias. If you get anything out of this, ideally it won’t be you being more or less on one side or the other, but simply understanding that I am (or at least was) human.
And I was very much feeling only human as I dragged my tired ass down 23rd Street at 2:45 a.m. after working a sixteen-hour day at a start-up that (thanks to an aggressively shitty contract I signed) will remain nameless. Going to art school might seem like a terrible financial decision, but really that’s only true if you have to take out gobs and gobs of student loans to fund your hoity-toity education. Of course, I had done exactly that. My parents were successful, running a business providing equipment to small and medium-sized dairy farms. Like, the little things you hook up to cows to get the milk out, they sold and distributed them. It was good business, good enough that I wouldn’t have had a lot of debt if I’d gone to a state school. But I did not do that.