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You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
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9
The label came to me with a concept for the “… Baby One More Time” video in
which I would play a futuristic astronaut. The mock-up I saw had me looking
like a Power Ranger. That image didn’t resonate with me, and I had a feeling my
audience wouldn’t relate to it, either. I told the executives at the label that I
thought people would want to see my friends and me sitting at school, bored,
and then as soon as the bell rang, boom—we’d start dancing.
The way the choreographer had us moving was so smooth. It helped that
most of the dancers were from New York City. In the pop dance world, there are
two camps. Most people will say that LA dancers are better. No disrespect to
them, but my spirit has always liked New York dancers best—they have more
heart. We rehearsed at Broadway Dance Center, where I’d taken classes as a kid,
so I was comfortable there. When Jive Records executive Barry Weiss came to the
studio, I turned it on for him. In that moment, I showed him what I was capable
of.
The director for the video, Nigel Dick, was open to my ideas. In addition to
the school bell cuing the start of the dancing, I added that it was important that
there be cute boys. And I thought we should wear school uniforms to make it
seem more exciting when we started dancing outside in our casual clothes. We
even got to cast Miss Fe as my teacher. I found it hilarious to see her in nerdy
glasses and frumpy teacher clothes.
Making that video was the most fun part of doing that rst album.
That’s probably the moment in my life when I had the most passion for
music. I was unknown, and I had nothing to lose if I messed up. There is so
much freedom in being anonymous. I could look out at a crowd who’d never
seen me before and think, You don’t know who I am yet. It was kind of liberating
that I didn’t really have to care if I made mistakes.
For me, performing wasn’t about posing and smiling. Onstage, I was like a
basketball player driving down the court. I had ball sense, street sense. I was
fearless. I knew when to take my shots.
Starting in the summer, Jive sent me on a mall tour—to something like twenty-
six malls! Doing that form of promotion is not much fun. No one knew who I
was yet. I had to try to sell myself to people who weren’t that interested.
My demeanor was innocent—and it wasn’t an act. I didn’t know what I was
doing. I’d just say, “Yeah, hi! My song’s really good! You’ve got to check it out!”
Before the video came out, not a lot of people knew what I looked like. But
by the end of September, the song was on the radio. I was sixteen when, on
October 23, 1998, the “… Baby One More Time” single hit stores. The next
month the video premiered, and suddenly I was getting recognized everywhere I
went. On January 12, 1999, the album came out and sold over ten million copies
very quickly. I debuted at number one on the Billboard 200 chart in the US. I
became the rst woman to debut with a number one single and album at the
same time. I was so happy. And I could feel my life start to open up. I didn’t have
to perform in malls anymore.
Things were moving fast. I toured with NSYNC, including my old Mickey
Mouse Club friend Justin Timberlake, in tour buses. I was always with my
dancers or Felicia or one of my two managers, Larry Rudolph and Johnny
Wright. I acquired a security guard named Big Rob, who was unbelievably sweet
to me.
I became a regular on MTV’s Total Request Live. Rolling Stone sent David
LaChapelle to Louisiana to shoot me for the April cover story “Inside the Heart,
Mind & Bedroom of a Teen Dream.” When the magazine came out, the photos
were controversial because the cover shot of me in my underwear holding a
Teletubby played up how young I was. My mother seemed concerned, but I
knew that I wanted to work with David LaChapelle again.

Chapter 9 sped through the final days of May, marking the culmination of school activities, exams, and the buzzing anticipation of summer break at Albemarle Academy. With the arrival of June, the intense heat and relentless sunlight transformed the Old Village into a swelter of closed windows and air-conditioned interiors, where even the simplest chores felt like monumental tasks. Amidst this oppressive weather, Patricia found herself procrastinating on notifying her book club about the new guest, James Harris, until it was too late.

On the evening of the book club, as Patricia battled with her guilt and indecision, the heat seemed to leech all energy from her. By the time James Harris arrived, unexpected by all but Patricia, the meeting took an unforeseen turn. Introduction awkwardness aside, the group’s dynamic shifted with the presence of a new, male perspective. James Harris, with his unassuming manner and hints of a secretive financial arrangement with Patricia, mingled awkwardly into the predominantly female gathering.

The conversation veered between personal anecdotes, real estate ventures, and the community’s curiosity about James Harris’s background, interspersed with discussions on their monthly read, “The Bridges of Madison County.” The group’s attempt to stick to literary discourse crumbled when Kitty theorized about the book’s male protagonist leading a sinister double life—a suggestion that mirrored their wariness towards their new visitor.

The evening took a surreal turn with the appearance of Patricia’s mother-in-law, Miss Mary, in a state of undress and confusion, confronting James Harris with accusations and mistaken identities. The incident cast a pall over the gathering, abruptly concluding the meeting and leaving Patricia to contend with the aftermath and her embarrassment alone.

Through this chapter, the narrative weaves the tension of introducing an outsider into a close-knit community, the discomforts of summer in the South, and the unsettling realization that appearances may harbor deeper, possibly darker layers.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

9
APRIL
Whirlwind.
It’s hard not to use that word to describe my relationship with Eddie, but every time it comes into
my head, I remember Bea, meeting Eddie on vacation.
She called it a whirlwind, too.
But maybe that’s just what being with Eddie is like. Maybe every woman who’s ever come into
his life gets swept up in the same way because once he’s decided he wants you, it’s the only way he
knows how to behave.
I give Eddie the second chance he wanted, but set it on my terms. No dates in Mountain Brook.
Neutral territory. He thinks it’s because I’m worried about the other people in Thornfield Estates
finding out. I don’t want them to know about us yet—and I don’t want to risk another fuckup like the
thing with Chris—but it’s not because I’m worried about my job. My dog-walking days are ticking
down so steadily I can practically hear the click.
No, I don’t want anyone to know yet because I like having this secret. The biggest piece of gossip
in the neighborhood, and it’s mine.
They’ll find out eventually, I know, but I’m determined that when they do, I’ll be so deeply
entrenched there won’t be shit they can do about it.
So as February slides into March, March into April, we go to fancy restaurants with menus I can
barely read. We walk through parks, our shoulders and hips touching. We go to movies, and sit in the
back, like teenagers. His hand is always on me, resting against my palm, tracing the line of my
collarbone, a warm weight on my lower back so that I can feel his touch even when we’re apart.
That’s the strangest part to me, really. Not the dates, not the idea that someone like Eddie
Rochester might want to spend time with me. It’s how much I want him, too.
I’m not used to that.
Wanting things? Sure. That’s been a constant in my life, my eyes catching the sparkle of something
expensive on a wrist, around a neck; pictures of dream houses taped to my bedroom wall instead of
whatever prepubescent boy girls my age were supposed to be interested in.
But I’ve been dodging men’s hands since I was twelve, so wishing a man would touch me is a
novel experience.
I think I like it.
The first time he kissed me, it was beside his car outside a restaurant. His mouth tasted like the
red wine we’d shared, and his hands holding my face hadn’t made me feel trapped, but … safe. And
beautiful.
I’d liked the clear disappointment in his eyes when I pulled back. Because, of course, I pulled
back. Timing is everything here, and I’m not about to fuck up something this big by being an easy
conquest for him.
So, any intimacy is limited to kisses for now and the occasional heated touches, his palms sliding
over my upper arms, my thighs, my fingers resting on the hard muscles of his stomach but not going
lower.
He hasn’t had to wait for anything in a long time, I think, so he can damn well wait for me.
But it isn’t just the kissing, the desire I feel for him that has my head spinning. It’s how much he
notices things. Notices me.
On our third date—sandwiches at a place in Vestavia—I pick a bottle of cream soda from the
cooler, and before I can stop myself, I’m telling him the story of a foster dad I had early on, when I
was ten. He was obsessed with cream soda, bought giant cases of it from Costco, but never let me or
the other kid in the house at that time, Jason, touch any of it—which, of course, meant that cream soda
was all I ever wanted to drink.
It surprised me, how easily the story poured out. It hadn’t been that exact story, of course. I’d left
out the foster care part, just saying “my dad,” but it was the most truthful I’d been about my past with
anyone in years.
And Eddie hadn’t pried or looked at me with pity. He’d just squeezed my hand, and when I went
to his house the next day, the fridge was stocked with the dark glass bottles.
Not the cheap shit Mr. Leonard bought, but the good stuff they only sell in fancy delis and high-end
grocery stores.
I’ve gone so long trying not to be seen that there’s something intoxicating about letting him really
see me.
John knows something is going on, his beady eyes are even more suspicious than usual as they
follow me around the apartment, but even that doesn’t bother me now. I like keeping this secret from
him, too, the smug smile I wear, the different hours I’m keeping.
But all of that—kissing Eddie, fucking with John—is nothing compared to how I feel now,
crouched in front of Bear’s crate as I put him back after his walk, listening to Mrs. Reed on her cell
phone.
“Eddie is dating someone.”
I allow myself a small smile. I’d been waiting for this, but it’s even more satisfying than I’d
imagined, the thrill rushing through me similar to how I feel when I swipe a ring or put a watch in my
pocket.
Actually, it might even be better.
“I know!” I hear Mrs. Reed exclaim from behind me. There’s a pause, and I wonder who’s on the
other end of the phone. Emily, maybe? They go back and forth between friends and enemies, but this
week, they’re on the friends’ side of things. All it will take is one snide comment about someone’s
yoga pants being too tight, or a passive-aggressive dig at the lack of kids, and then they’ll be feuding
again—but for now, they’re besties.
And talking about me.
Except they don’t know that it’s me, and that’s the fun part, the part I’ve been waiting weeks for
now.
I smile as I turn back to Mrs. Reed, handing over Bear’s leash.
She takes it, then says, “Girl, let me call you back,” into the phone. Definitely Emily, then. They
do that “girl” thing with each other constantly when they’re friends again.
Putting her phone back on the counter, she grins at me. “Jane,” she practically purrs, and I know
what’s coming. She’s done this before about Tripp Ingraham, squeezing me for any stray info, anything
I’ve picked up from being around him. It kills me that she thinks she’s subtle when she does it.
So when she asks, “Have you noticed anyone new around the Rochester house?” I give her the
same bland smile as always and shrug.
“I don’t think so.”
It’s a stupid answer, and I take pleasure in the way Mrs. Reed blinks at me, unsure what to do
with it, before moving past her with a wave of my fingers. “See you next week!” I call cheerfully.
There are Chanel sunglasses on a table by the door, plus a neatly folded stack of cash, but I don’t
even look at them.
Instead, the second I’m on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone to text Eddie.
If Eddie was surprised that I actually initiated a date—and that I suggested we “eat at home”—he
didn’t show it. He had texted me back within minutes, and when I’d shown up at his house at seven
that evening, he already had dinner on.
I didn’t ask if he’d actually cooked it himself or if he’d picked up something from the little
gourmet shop in the village that did that kind of thing, whole rows of half-assed fancy food you could
throw in the oven or in some gorgeous copper pot and pass off as your own.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered is that he could’ve just ordered takeout, but instead, he’d put some effort into the
night, effort that told me I was right to take the next step.
I wait until after dinner, until we’re back in the living room. He’s lit a few candles, lamps spilling
warm pools of golden light on the hardwood, and he pours me a glass of wine before getting a
whiskey for himself. I can taste it on his lips, smoky and expensive, when he kisses me.
I think of that first day we were in here, drinking coffee, dancing around each other. These new
versions of us—dressed nicer (I’m wearing my least faded skinny black jeans and an imitation silk
H&M top I found at Goodwill), alcohol instead of coffee, the dancing very different—seem layered
over that earlier Jane and Eddie.
Jane and Eddie. I like how it sounds, and I’m going to be Jane forever now, I decide. This is
where all the running, all the lying, was leading. It was all worth it because now I’m here with this
beautiful man in this beautiful house.
Just one last thing to do.
Turning away from him, I twist the wineglass in my hands. I can’t see out the giant glass doors,
only my own reflection, and Eddie’s, as he leans against the marble-topped island separating the
living room from the kitchen.
“This has been the loveliest night,” I say, making sure to put the right note of wistfulness in my
voice. “I’m really going to miss this place.”
It’s not hard to sound sad as I say it—even the idea of leaving makes my chest tighten. It’s another
strange feeling, another one I’m not used to. Wanting to stay somewhere. Is it just because I’m tired of
running, or is it something else? Why here? Why now?
I don’t know, but I know that this place, this house, this neighborhood, feels safe to me in a way

In “Chivalry or Villainy,” the ninth chapter of “The Beasts of Tarzan,” Jane Clayton finds herself in a precarious situation aboard the Kincaid, isolated and at the mercy of the vile Nikolai Rokoff. After being marooned on Jungle Island, her husband, Tarzan, is now nowhere to aid her. Jane, trapped on the ship, receives unwelcome visits from Rokoff, who proposes to “save” her from her “savage” husband, Tarzan, in exchange for her affections—an offer she vehemently rejects, demonstrating her unwavering loyalty to Tarzan and her moral integrity.

Rokoff, infuriated by Jane’s rejection, threatens the life of their son, aiming to bend Jane to his will. However, Sven Anderssen, the Kincaid’s cook, becomes an unexpected ally for Jane. Despite his limited English and seemingly simple-minded demeanor, Sven reveals a surprising depth of courage and cunning. He overhears Rokoff’s threats and plans, deciding to aid Jane due to her kindness towards him, contrasted with Rokoff’s cruelty.

Late one night, Sven secretly prepares to escape with Jane and her baby. Disguising his true intentions with his usual nonsensical remarks about the weather, he cleverly smuggles Jane and the child off the ship and into a small boat, guiding them away under the cover of darkness. Their destination is unknown to Jane, adding to her anxiety and fear for her child’s safety despite the relief of escaping Rokoff’s clutches.

Navigating through the dark, treacherous waters of the Ugambi River, they encounter the wild sounds and dangers of the jungle. Their journey leads them to a village where Sven has prearranged for their arrival. Despite the harsh living conditions and the presence of curious villagers, Jane finds a moment of peace, cherishing the baby she fought so hard to protect. Sven’s unexpected heroism and the kindness from the villagers highlight themes of courage, resilience, and the unexpected forms that help can take in dire situations.

This chapter not only advances the plot by moving Jane and her child away from immediate danger but also deepens the exploration of character relationships under extreme stress. Jane’s strength and determination are matched by Sven’s surprising complexity and the simple yet profound humanity of the African villagers, setting the stage for the unfolding of further adventures and challenges in the wild heart of the jungle.