{"product_id":"how-i-paid-for-college-isbn-9780767918541","title":"How I Paid for College","description":"A deliciously funny romp of a novel about one overly theatrical and sexually confused New Jersey teenager’s larcenous quest for his acting school tuition\u003cb\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s 1983 in Wallingford, New Jersey, a sleepy bedroom community outside of Manhattan. Seventeen-year-old Edward Zanni, a feckless Ferris Bueller–type, is Peter Panning his way through a carefree summer of magic and mischief. The fun comes to a halt, however, when Edward’s father remarries and refuses to pay for Edward to study acting at Juilliard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEdward’s truly in a bind. He’s ineligible for scholarships because his father earns too much. He’s unable to contact his mother because she’s somewhere in Peru trying to commune with Incan spirits. And, as a sure sign he’s destined for a life in the arts, Edward’s incapable of holding down a job. So he turns to his loyal (but immoral) misfit friends to help him steal the tuition money from his father, all the while practicing for his high school performance of \u003ci\u003eGrease\u003c\/i\u003e. Disguising themselves as nuns and priests, they merrily scheme their way through embezzlement, money laundering, identity theft, forgery, and blackmail. But, along the way, Edward also learns the value of friendship, hard work, and how you’re not really a man until you can beat up your father—metaphorically, that is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHow I Paid for College\u003c\/i\u003e is a farcical coming-of-age story that combines the first-person tone of David Sedaris with the byzantine plot twists of Armistead Maupin. It is a novel for anyone who has ever had a dream or a scheme, and it marks the introduction to an original and audacious talent.\"Marc Acito’s rollicking first novel is, by turns, sweet, sexy, and outrageous. Powered by the author’s devious imagination, the story shows us a handful of teenagers driven to larceny, embezzlement, and impersonation—all in the name of higher education. Beneath the story’s beguiling shtick, though, is a more serious issue—the complications inherent in the difficult business of becoming ourselves. A great graduation gift.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Jennifer Finney Boylan, author of \u003ci\u003eShe’s Not There\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Witty... peppered with pitch-perfect, archly adolescent asides... The ease with which Acito has choreographed [these] crazy capers makes you hope there's a lot more where all this came from.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Acito has fantastic narrative chops, writing funny, fast, and satisfying chapters... This is a book for mature readers that reminds us what a blast immaturity can be.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003c\/i\u003eLike the class clown willing to do anything for a laugh, [\u003ci\u003eHow I Paid for College\u003c\/i\u003e is] funny, entertaining, and ultimately endearing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eDetails\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A coming-of-age, coming-out tale that escapes triteness and predictability thanks to Acito's eye for the absurd truth.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTimeOut New York\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dazzling... a thumbs-up winner from a storyteller whose future looks as bright as that of his young hero.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)Hailed as the \"gay Dave Barry,\" \u003cb\u003eMarc Acito\u003c\/b\u003e is a syndicated humorist, whose column, \"The Gospel According to Marc,\" appears in nineteen newspapers, including the \u003ci\u003eChicago Free Press\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eOutword-Los Angeles\u003c\/i\u003e. After being kicked out of one of the finest drama schools in the country, he went on to sing roles with major opera companies, including Seattle Opera. He lives in Portland, Oregon. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis website is \u003cu\u003ewww.MarcAcito.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cb\u003eone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe story of how I paid for college begins like life itself--in a pool of water. Not in the primordial ooze from which prehistoric fish first developed arms and crawled onto the shore but in a heavily chlorinated pool of water in the backyard of Gloria D'Angelo's split-level ranch in Camptown, New Jersey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAunt Glo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe's not my aunt, really, she's my friend Paula's aunt, but everybody calls her Aunt Glo and she calls us kids the LBs, short for Little Bastards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAunt Glo yells. Always yells. She yells from the basement where she does her son the priest's laundry. She yells from the upstairs bathroom, where she scrubs the tub to calm her nerves. And she yells from her perch behind the kitchen sink, where she stirs her marinara sauce and watches us float in the heavily chlorinated pool of water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike life itself, the story of how I paid for college begins with a yell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heeeeeey! Are you two LBs gonna serenade me or what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula and I mouth to each other, \"Ya' can't lie around my pool for nothin', y'know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI roll over on the inflatable raft, giving a tug on my PROPERTY OF WALLINGFORD HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETIC DEPT. shorts so they don't stick to my nuts. (I wear the shorts ironically--a tribute to the one purgatorial semester I spent on the track team.) I reach over to turn down the radio, where Irene Cara is having a \u003ci\u003eFlashdance\u003c\/i\u003e feeling for like the gazillionth time today, and turn to look at Paula.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShards of light spike off the water, so I have to shield my eyes with my hand to see her. Paula's poised on her floating throne, her head tilted \"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille\" upright, her eyes hidden by a pair of rhinestone-studded cat-lady sunglasses, a lace parasol over her shoulder to protect her white-white skin. She wears one of Aunt Glo's old bathing suits from the fifties, a pleated number that stretches across her flesh like those folds you see on Greek statuary; it's more of a birdcage with fabric, really, the desired effect being a Sophia Loren-Gina Lollobrigida-kind of va-va-va-voom sensuality. Frankly, though, Paula's a couple of vooms wide of the mark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe takes a sip from a virgin strawberry daiquiri, then eyes me over her sunglasses to say, \"What can we do? We've been summoned for a command performance.\" Then she throws her head back, unhinges her wide jaw, and lets flow the opening phrase of \"Ave Maria\" in a voice so warm and pure you want to take a bath in it. I join in, harmonizing like we did at her cousin Crazy Linda's wedding, our voices mixing and mingling in a conversation that goes on above our heads and into the thick New Jersey air. A pair of nasty-looking dogs on the other side of the chain-link fence bark at us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone's a critic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not Aunt Glo. Aunt Glo's a good audience and (since Paula's mother is dead and her father works so much for the highway department) a frequent one. \"Such voices you two have, like angels.\" She always tells us that. \"Oh, son of a bitch, look at the time,\" she yells. \"Now shaddap, will ya', my stories are almost on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can't see her through the screened window but I know she's lighting up a Lucky Strike and pouring herself a Dr Pepper before waddling down to the rec room to watch \u003ci\u003eGuiding Light\u003c\/i\u003e and do her ironing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAunt Glo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula deposits her glass on the side of the pool and twiddles her tiny fingers in the water to clean them off. \"\u003ci\u003eHonestly\u003c\/i\u003e, Edward,\" she says, flinging a meaty arm in the air, \"it is so \u003ci\u003epat\u003c\/i\u003eently un\u003ci\u003efair\u003c\/i\u003e.\" (Paula has a \u003ci\u003etendency\u003c\/i\u003e to \u003ci\u003espeak\u003c\/i\u003e in \u003ci\u003eitalics\u003c\/i\u003e.) \"I'm simply \u003ci\u003ewasting\u003c\/i\u003e my talent this summer, \u003ci\u003ewasting\u003c\/i\u003e it!\" Forever cast in the roles of postmenopausal women, Paula is continuing the trend this summer by playing Miss Lynch in the Wallingford Summer Workshop production of \u003ci\u003eGrease\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lay my head down on the raft. \"You're right, Sis,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe's not really my sister, but she might as well be. Apart from the difference in our complexions, we could be twins: Paula is the pure white twin; I'm the evil dark one. Otherwise, we're both all long curly hair, thick eyelashes, and high body-fat ratio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI also call her Sis because she uses her nun costume from our production of \u003ci\u003eThe Sound of Music\u003c\/i\u003e to buy us beer, on the entirely correct theory that no one would ask a nun for her ID.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula snaps her parasol shut and rows over to me using the handle end. \"The problem,\" she says, \"is that I've got a nineteenth-century figure. If I'd been born a hundred years earlier, I would have been considered \u003ci\u003edesirable\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe've had this conversation before. Some of us are born to run, others are born to be wild--Paula was born to wear a hoopskirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel the tap of a parasol on my shoulder. \"Look at \u003ci\u003ethese\u003c\/i\u003e,\" she says, mashing her boobs together like she's fluffing pillows. \"And \u003ci\u003ethis\u003c\/i\u003e.\" She turns sideways to grab a hunk of her fleshy butt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In the case of an emergency water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula tips my mattress over with one of her thick nineteenth-century legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bob up to the surface and try to capsize her by grabbing her tiny feet. \"No, no, no, \u003ci\u003eplease\u003c\/i\u003e, Edward,\" she says, \"the hair, the hair, I've got to be at work in an hour.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fine,\" I say, backstroking to the shallow end, \"but as far as the nineteenth century goes, I've got two words for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, yeah?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah: No anesthesia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can hear her deep, chocolaty laugh as I look up at the high-tension wires crisscrossing the baby blue sky. I love making Paula laugh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI step out of the pool. \"You're looking at this \u003ci\u003eGrease\u003c\/i\u003e thing all wrong, Sis. Think of us as guest stars, like Eve Arden and Frankie Avalon in the movie.\" (Fully aware that I wouldn't make a convincing Danny Zuko, I opted to play Teen Angel instead.) \"Let everyone else knock their brains out learning the frigging Hand Jive; in the end you and I are still going to come in and steal the show with our finely wrought comic interpretations.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula sighs. She knows I'm right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Besides, I, for one, have more important things to deal with.\" I'm speaking, of course, about my audition for Juilliard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJuilliard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow in case you live in Iowa or something and don't know anything about it, perhaps I should explain that Juilliard is the finest institution for acting in the entire country, the Tiffany's of drama schools. Everybody famous went there--Kevin Kline, William Hurt, Robin Williams--and ever since I starred in \u003ci\u003eThe Music Man\u003c\/i\u003e in the ninth grade I've known I wanted to go there, too. I've already got one surefire contemporary audition monologue (Mozart in \u003ci\u003eAmadeus\u003c\/i\u003e, a prankish man-boy I was born to play), but I need to come up with a classical one, too. So I've bought myself a brand-new \u003ci\u003eComplete Works of Shakespeare\u003c\/i\u003e--a really nice one, with a velvet cover and gold leaf on the ends of the pages--and I'm going to spend my entire summer reading it. Plus work on my tan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula parks her inflatable barge in the shallow end and extends her hand for me to help her up. She frowns at me, like I'm a dress she's trying to decide whether or not to buy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's wrong?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sighs and pats herself with a towel. (Always pats, never rubs. Rubbing is tough on the skin.) \"Can you keep a secret?\" she asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Of course not,\" I say. \"But when has that ever stopped you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe extends her pinky finger. \"Pinky swear.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI link mine with hers. \"Fine. Pinky swear. What is it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looks around like she doesn't want to be overheard. \"Do you remember how I told you about the night I let Dominick Ferretti take me behind the pizza oven?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I lied.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What? Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I didn't want you to think I was some kind of priss,\" she says. \"You and Kelly have done practically \u003ci\u003eeverything\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is an exaggeration. It's not like my girlfriend Kelly and I have gone all the way yet or even gone down on each other, but I guess compared to Paula's nunlike existence, we're something out of the \u003ci\u003eKama Sutr\u003c\/i\u003ea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(Incidentally, I never believed that story about Dominick Ferretti.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not a priss,\" I say. \"You're, uh . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Go ahead, say it. I'm too fat to get a boyfriend.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet the record show: she said it, not me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula flops down on a lounge chair like she's Camille taking to her sickbed. \"What am I going to do? What kind of actress can I \u003ci\u003epossibly\u003c\/i\u003e hope to be if I'm still a \u003ci\u003evirgin\u003c\/i\u003e?\" she says, grabbing me by the hand and yanking me down next to her. \"Edward, you have to help me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI adjust my shorts again. \"Uh, listen, Sis, I'm totally flattered, but I don't think Kelly would . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, don't be \u003ci\u003edaft\u003c\/i\u003e,\" she says, giving me a shove. \"You've got to help me with Doug Grabowski.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoug Grabowski? Doug Grabowski the football player I convinced to try out for Danny Zuko? Doug Grabowski who used to go out with Amber Wright, the single most popular girl in school? That Doug Grabowski?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What about him?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Do you know if he has a girlfriend?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula's capacity for delusion is astounding. It's partly what makes her such a great actress. \"Uh . . . I don't think so,\" I mumble, as I try to figure out how to tell her she stands a better chance of being crowned Miss America than of landing Doug Grabowski.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eSplendid\u003c\/i\u003e,\" she chimes, and she pirouettes onto the lawn in a manner that unfortunately calls to mind the dancing hippos in \u003ci\u003eFantasia\u003c\/i\u003e. \"I've got it all planned out: the four of us--you and Kelly and Doug and I--are going to go into the city this Saturday to see \u003ci\u003eA Chorus Line\u003c\/i\u003e. I can't imagine Doug's ever seen it and he must, he \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ereall\u003c\/i\u003ey must. If he's going to spend the entire summer hanging around us instead of those knuckle-draggers from the football team, then it's our duty, really, to expose him to the finer things in life, don't you think?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The poor boy must be positively \u003ci\u003estarved\u003c\/i\u003e for intellectual stimulation.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, Edward, it's going to be a night we'll remember the rest of our lives,\" she says, thrusting my clothes into my hands. \"Now all you need to do is drive over to play practice and ask him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Me? Why not you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePaula clicks her tongue. \"I don't want to appear\u003ci\u003e pushy\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod forbid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Besides, not all of us have rich daddies,\" she sniffs. \"Some of us actually have to \u003ci\u003ework\u003c\/i\u003e.\" She slips her tiny teardrop feet into a pair of pink plastic jellies and sashays toward the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I work,\" I call after her. \"What do you call choreographing the kids' show at the workshop?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe turns and points her pink feet, ballerina style. \"I call it \u003ci\u003eplay\u003c\/i\u003e,\" she says. \"Making calzones in a 120-degree kitchen while Dominick Ferretti makes lewd gestures with a sausage--\u003ci\u003ethat's\u003c\/i\u003e a job.\" With a regal toss of her head, she throws open the door. \"Now get dressed and get over there,\" she commands, sending me inside to change. \"My loss of innocence is \u003ci\u003edepending\u003c\/i\u003e on it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003etwo\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow outside it may be 1983, but inside Aunt Glo's it's forever 1972: harvest-gold appliances and orange linoleum counters in the kitchen, shag carpeting and wood paneling everywhere else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grab a Fudgsicle out of the freezer and pad down to the rec room where Aunt Glo is ironing and watching \u003ci\u003eGuiding Light\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImagine, if you will, a fire hydrant. Now put a black football helmet on top of that fire hydrant. Then wrap the whole thing in a floral-print housedress and that's Aunt Glo. She looks like the offspring of Snow White and one of the seven dwarves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAunt Glo is a MoP--Mother of Priest--and she expresses her gratitude for this good fortune by doing all of her son's ironing even though he's like forty or something. I plop down in the La-Z-Boy recliner, wrapping my towel around me so I don't get it wet. \"Who's breaking up today?\" I ask, trying to peel the wrapper off the Fudgsicle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, baby doll, these poor, poor people,\" Aunt Glo says, ironing and crying, crying and ironing. (Aunt Glo calls everybody baby doll, partly out of affection, but mostly because she can't remember jack shit.) \"I just thank the Virgin Mother that my Benny is dead, God rest his soul, so I'll never have to know the pain of divorce.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven before her stroke, Aunt Glo operated according to a logic all her own. She is, after all, the woman who named her only son Angelo D'Angelo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSweat and tears mix on Aunt Glo's pudgy face and her crepe-y arm jiggles as she irons back and forth. Behind her, Angelo's collars hang clipped to a clothesline like severed doves' wings. \"It's just so sad for the children,\" she sighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, please, not this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know that sad-clown-in-a-black-velvet-painting look, that sympathetic tone, that warm washcloth of pity that grown-ups are always trying to wipe all over me. What she really means, what they all really mean is, \"I'm sure your mom had her reasons, Edward, but what kind of mother leaves her own children?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm fine, I want to say, I'm fine. I have my career ahead of me. My art. My friends. Besides, it's not like I don't ever see my mom. True, I never know when she's going to show up, but that's part of what makes her so cool: she's a Free Spirit. Our bond is more spiritual than temporal. But still everyone treats me like I'm Oliver fucking Twist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAunt Glo keeps crying and ironing, ironing and crying, and we're quiet for a moment, which, being Italian, is unusual for us. My bathing suit is giving me the itch and I want to leave, but I want to stay, too. There's something kind of comforting about watching Aunt Glo cry; I guess because I can't cry myself. It's probably my biggest failing as an actor, but I can't seem to do it. Sometimes I'll try to force the tears out, pushing and grunting like I'm constipated, but I just end up feeling trapped inside my skin and desperate to get out. So instead I sit like this with Aunt Glo, \u003ci\u003eGuiding Light\u003c\/i\u003e casting shadows on the wall behind us, while she cries for both of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*   *   *","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303591137509,"sku":"NP9780767918541","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780767918541.jpg?v=1767729319","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/how-i-paid-for-college-isbn-9780767918541","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}