{"product_id":"very-nice-isbn-9780525565222","title":"Very Nice","description":"\u003cb\u003e“A juicy tale of bad behavior.... \u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e gets pretty mean—but gloriously so.”\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRachel Klein never meant to kiss her creative writing professor, but with his long eyelashes, his silky hair, and the sad, beautiful life he laid bare on Twitter, she does, and the kiss is very nice. Zahid Azzam never planned to become a houseguest in his student’s sprawling Connecticut home, but with the sparkling swimming pool, the endless supply of Whole Foods strawberries, and Rachel’s beautiful mother, he does, and the home is very nice. Becca Klein never thought she’d have a love affair so soon after her divorce, but when her daughter’s professor walks into her home, bringing with him an apricot standard poodle named Princess, she does, and the affair is ... a very bad idea. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zigzagging between the rarefied circles of Manhattan investment banking, the achingly self-serious MFA programs of the Midwest, and the private bedrooms of Connecticut, \u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e is an audacious, addictive, and wickedly smart take on the way we live now.“Brisk. . . . Seductive. . . . Very funny. . . . I’m in awe of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rumaan Alam, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dermansky is one of my favorite writers. I inhaled \u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e in a matter of hours. It’s a vicious novel, full of terrible people behaving terribly and I could not get enough.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Roxane Gay\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A tart lemonade of a summer read. . . . A decidedly modern update to John Cheever’s suburbia.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A messy, sexy, super fun drama. . . . Impossible to put down.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BuzzFeed\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e is so sexy and reads so smooth that I was utterly addicted. Trenchantly observed and darkly funny, it will stick with you long after you finish its final, ferocious sentence.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Maria Semple, bestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhere’d You Go, Bernadette?\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A mordant satire of wealth and art.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Subtly riotous. . . . \u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e is a wickedly fun and emotionally potent farce.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “\u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e features a very spoiled apricot poodle, very yummy breakfasts of avocado toast, and a very naughty mother-daughter-professor love triangle—it’s everything you need in your new favorite summer novel, and makes me very relieved I never got my PhD.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kevin Kwan, bestselling author of\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Crazy Rich Asians\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A juicy summer read with admirable substance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eGlamour\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “[An] addictive story of money, sex, and bad house manners.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “Marcy Dermansky is a light switch, a volume knob, a fire drill. Her novels are bright and attention-grabbing, from the first page to the last, and \u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e is her best yet. This smart, sexy, funny book is a balm for rattled nerves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Emma Straub, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eModern Lovers\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Vacationers\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hilarious. . . . Features a small cast of wickedly funny characters and a plot straight out a Shakespearean romance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eToday\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A smart yet wacky summer diversion . . . a book that will make you both laugh and gasp out loud.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNewsday\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eVery Nice\u003c\/i\u003e is deceptively polite, a gracious rebuke to every writer who has sworn it’s impossible to write about the times in which we live. Marcy Dermansky found the way in, spotted the connections holding our fragmented world together and made them sing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Laura Lippman, bestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSunburn\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A sardonic skewering of self-aggrandizing MFA programs, investment banking, and ‘nice’ wealthy suburbs that tend to have seedy secrets bubbling right underneath their shiny veneers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Thrillist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This is the buzzy, breezy summer read you’ve been craving all summer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sly, deceptively simple and thoroughly seductive. . . . [Dermansky’s] sharp satire spares none of the characters and teeters brilliantly on the edge of comedy and tragedy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers \u003c\/i\u003eWeekly (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “A hell of a lot of stylish fun. \u003ci\u003eCan you top this? \u003c\/i\u003eis the question posed by each chapter of this upmarket soap opera, and the answer is always yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eMarcy Dermansky is the author of the critically acclaimed novels \u003ci\u003eThe Red Car\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBad Marie\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eTwins\u003c\/i\u003e. She has received fellowships from the MacDowell Colony and the Edward F. Albee Foundation. She lives with her daughter in Montclair, New Jersey.\u003cb\u003eExcerpted from \u003ci\u003eVERY NICE\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was sitting outside at my café, drinking an iced coffee, Posey at my feet, waiting for Rachel’s day camp to let out. She was not eight, of course, she could find her way home, but Rachel seemed to like it when I picked her up. Her friend Agatha had not come home for the summer. The friends who had come home she claimed not to like anymore. This came as a surprise to me. Mollie and Bryn. They were very nice girls, all of them. I used to buy them pizza, drive them to the mall. I expected Rachel to moan and complain, but she didn’t. She had perfected, instead, the unhappy “don’t bother me” look. She wanted an audience for her misery and there I was. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had my sketch pad open, I was going to draw this summer, I was going to paint, and in fact, I had begun a sketch of Posey when I noticed a young man, a dark-skinned man wearing a long-sleeved shirt and linen shorts, stepping out of a silver car. Clearly he was not from here. It was a sad truth, the lack of diversity in our town, but there it was. You had to be married to a banker to afford a house here. That limited the population. The Armstrongs were African American; Donna and David were both lawyers. Of course, there were always exceptions. The silver car pulled away from the curb, and this young man simply stood there, arms at his sides. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reached into his pockets, retrieved a pair of sunglasses, and put them on. He proceeded to make a full circle, not leaving his spot on the sidewalk, and then he scratched his head. He looked rumpled, hungover even. His hair hung in his eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, Posey,” I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This, of course, had to be Rachel’s writing professor. It could be no one else. I recognized him from his author photo. He would want his dog back. It hadn’t even been two weeks. Rachel had said we would have her for the summer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I felt a panic. I stood up, sat down. Posey stood up, too, but I told her to sit. She hadn’t seen him yet. I could pretend not to have recognized my daughter’s professor. I could walk with Posey in the opposite direction, fast, and hope he did not see us. My daughter’s professor did not know me, but he would know his dog. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man obviously didn’t know where Rachel lived or he would have taken the car directly to our house. I tried to imagine what he was thinking. It was a small town. He could talk to some people here on the square and he would find my daughter, just like that. He was not too far off. He had been here for all of a minute and I had found him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was bad luck on my part. The idea of not greeting him was appealing. The man was obviously a mess. And he was attractive, enormously so. There was something lovely and lonely about him and suddenly I understood my daughter’s melancholy. Her writing professor. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anyone but him, I thought. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could feel other people’s eyes on this man. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Suddenly, I felt afraid for him. He seemed so ill at ease— there was a way he reached into his pocket, as if he was going to pull out a pack of gum and someone was going to think it was a gun. I was afraid someone would call the police. Like the two old biddies on the park bench across the street who had obviously noticed him and were whispering. Small-town America. Motherfuck. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Zahid,” I called out. I was not going to cross the street. I would not make it that easy for him. The least he could do was come to me. “Zahid Azzam.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What a funny name it was. Like a comic book character. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He looked at me, confused.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, you.” I gestured for him to come over. I wondered if he thought that there was another Zahid in this nearly all white town. Maybe I looked dangerous to him. I had been doing a lot of yoga over the years. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zahid crossed the street, and only then did he notice his dog beneath the table, her front legs crossed. \u003cbr\u003e “Princess,” he said, delighted. “Baby.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He knelt down and petted his dog. He put his face in her poodle hair. Oh gosh, this man was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot. His blue shirt was dirty. He was carrying a leather backpack that looked expensive. He was wearing loafers in the middle of summer. Without socks, at least. I wondered if that was uncomfortable. Posey licked him. Again, I was struck by the unfairness of it all. I felt tears well in my eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t know you,” Zahid said. “Do I?”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No,” I said with a fast smile. “You don’t.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zahid waited. I could make it easy. I could introduce myself, explain how I’d come into the possession of his poodle. I could ask him to join me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My name is Becca,” I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zahid’s face was blank. It made me wonder about him, as a writer. He should have been able to make the connection all on his own. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I am Rachel’s mother.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh.” Zahid laughed, and for a moment he was still at a loss. “Of course. Rachel. Rachel would have a mother.” I nodded. Depending on his relationship with my daughter, this could be problematic for him. “You look too young to be her mother.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I would take it. That was one of the ironies about being left for a younger woman. I had come into a style of my own around the time I turned fifty. My arms were toned. I liked all of my clothes, expensive and well made, simple. I had thrown out everything I didn’t wear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I could be her older sister,” I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, exactly.” Zahid smiled at me. He was still kneeling down, still petting his dog. “Or a cousin, maybe. Her favorite cousin. You are so pretty,” he said, thoughtlessly, maybe because I was older and so my prettiness was a surprise to him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I am Becca,” I said again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I did not want to be known to this man as somebody’s mother. I did not want to disappear. I was fifty-four. My life was not over. I held out my hand and Zahid took it. He had soft hands. Long fingers. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Zahid,” he said. “But you already know that.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His brow was sweaty. It was late afternoon in early July. I should get him something to drink, but that would be something a mother would do. He could figure it out himself, the fact that he was thirsty. We were at an establishment that sold beverages. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Zahid sat down at my table.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’t believe how easy it was to find you,” he said.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I found you.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,” he said. “That’s true.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you come for your dog?”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well.” Zahid paused, and I felt hopeful. He did not know what he had come for. I did not want to let Posey go, and maybe that meant I would have to keep Zahid, too. Two grown-up children for the summer. My own sleepaway camp. That would be fine. I had already begun to clean out Jonathan’s office. It could make a nice bedroom. My mind was going too fast. I had drunk all of that iced coffee, had also had a pot of hot coffee in the morning. But it wasn’t the coffee. I just wanted to blame my thoughts on the caffeine. I did not want to give up my poodle; it did not seem fair. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot fair, not fair, I kept thinking. Not fair.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,” Zahid said. “I wanted to see how my girl was doing.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI breathed out air. He had said nothing about taking her home. It was going to be fine.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, Posey is having a great summer.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Posey?” Zahid asked.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh,” I said, laughing to cover up my mistake. “It’s my pet name for her. Is that okay?”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure,” he laughed. “That’s okay.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe it wasn’t okay, but what was he going to say?\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I take her for long walks on the Sound.” I felt like there was something else I should say. “She sleeps on my bed,” I added, and then realized that of course I should not have said that. Was this the first time I had talked to a man since Jonathan left me? Was Zahid Azzam even a man? More like a grown-up boy. A Peter Pan. An asshole. An artist. Again, my brain, it had to slow down. Slow down, slow down. My left leg, I realized, was shaking. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I think Posey is having a better summer than I am,” Zahid said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She is having a great summer,” I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked at my daughter’s professor, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and I caved. This mothering instinct of mine. Maybe it was because I was a teacher. Maybe it was just because I was a human being. “Would you like something to drink? A lemonade. An iced coffee. I’m waiting for Rachel, actually. Is she expecting you?” \u003cbr\u003e I knew she wasn’t expecting him. Or I hoped that she wasn’t expecting him. I hoped that she wouldn’t keep something like that from me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” Zahid said. “She isn’t expecting me. I am just back from Pakistan and, well, the trip, it was a lot, and I wanted to see my dog. I didn’t want to wait, to go through the proper chains of communication. I just got on a train and then I took an Uber, which I didn’t need to, the drive was so short, and here I am.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And I found you.”\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You found me,” Zahid said.\u2028\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZahid Azzam was a writer. He seemed to understand that vthis was not any old tossed-off phrase. This was meaningful. We looked into each other’s eyes. He had dark brown eyes. My eyes were blue. He had beautiful eyes. Perhaps he thought my eyes were beautiful, too. \u003cbr\u003e Was I kidding myself? Had I become delusional? Was I in the land of make-believe? How had I dressed this morning? A sundress, my favorite sundress, a dress I wore three times a week. I had gone swimming in the Sound before coming to the café. Had I showered after? Was there still salt water in my hair? I forced myself to remember. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had showered. I was clean. Sun-kissed, even. I had brushed mascara onto my lashes for my walk into town. I had read somewhere that this was a good thing to do, all the makeup you ever needed. And moisturizer with a strong SPF. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had found him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304970899685,"sku":"NP9780525565222","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525565222.jpg?v=1767743426","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/very-nice-isbn-9780525565222","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}