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brothers
best friend.
A real-life
Prince
Charming.
The secret
admirer.
WHAT TYPE OF
#BOOKBOYFRIEND
The boy your
parents
dont like.
ARE YOU
SEARCHING FOR?
The rebel with
a cause.
The boy
next door.
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FINDING
AUDREY
SOPHIE
KINSELLA
D E L ACO RT E P R E S S
#FindingAudrey SophieKinsella.com
@SophieKinsellaWriter
@KinsellaSophie
@SophieKinsellaOfcial
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This is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2015 by Sophie Kinsella
Jacket art copyright 2015 by artist
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by
Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of
Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon
is a trademark of Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Datadatadata
The text of this book is set in 12.6-point Walbaum.
Jacket design by Alison Impey
Interior design by Heather Kelly
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the
First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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nicola yoon
ILLUS TR ATIONS BY DAV ID YO ON
DEL ACORTE PRESS
FirstInLineReaders #FirstInLine
5/17/16 12:28 PM
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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T H E W ELCO M E CO M M I T T EE
CARL A , I SAY, it wont be like last time. Im not eight years
old anymore.
I want you to promise she begins, but Im already at the
window, sweeping the curtains aside.
I am not prepared for the bright California sun. Im not prepared for the sight of it, high and blazing hot and white against
the washed-out white sky. I am blind. But then the white haze
over my vision begins to clear. Everything is haloed.
I see the truck and the silhouette of an older woman
twirlingthe mother. I see an older man at the back of the
truckthe father. I see a girl maybe a little younger than
methe daughter.
Then I see him. Hes tall, lean, and wearing all black: black
T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black knit cap that
covers his hair completely. Hes white with a pale honey tan
and his face is starkly angular. He jumps down from his perch
at the back of the truck and glides across the driveway, moving
as if gravity affects him differently than it does the rest of us.
He stops, cocks his head to one side, and stares up at his new
house as if it were a puzzle.
After a few seconds he begins bouncing lightly on the balls
of his feet. Suddenly he takes off at a sprint and runs literally six
16
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17
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MY W H I T E B A L LO O N
THAT NIGHT, I
dream that the house breathes with me. I exhale and the walls contract like a pinpricked balloon, crushing
me as it deflates. I inhale and the walls expand. A single breath
more and my life will finally, finally explode.
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N EI G H B O R H O O D WATC H
HIS MOMS SCHEDULE
6:35 AM - Arrives on porch with a steaming cup of
something hot. Coffee?
6:36 AM - Stares off into empty lot across the way
while sipping her drink. Tea?
7:00 AM - Reenters the house.
7:15 AM - Back on porch. Kisses husband good-bye.
Watches as his car drives away.
9:30 AM - Gardens. Looks for, finds, and discards
cigarette butts.
1:00 PM - Leaves house in car. Errands?
5:00 PM - Pleads with Kara and Olly to begin chores
before your father gets home.
KARAS (SISTER) SCHEDULE
10:00 AM - Stomps outside wearing black boots and a
fuzzy brown bathrobe.
10:01 AM - Checks cell phone messages. She gets a lot of
messages.
10:06 AM - Smokes three cigarettes in the garden between
our two houses.
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20
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I SPY
HIS FAMILY CALLS him Olly. Well, his sister and his mom call
him Olly. His dad calls him Oliver. Hes the one I watch the
most. His bedroom is on the second floor and almost directly
across from mine and his blinds are almost always open.
Some mornings he sleeps in until noon. Others, hes gone
from his room before I wake to begin my surveillance. Most
mornings, though, he wakes at 9 a.m., climbs out of his bedroom, and makes his way, Spider-Man-style, to the roof using
the siding. He stays up there for about an hour before swinging, legs first, back into his room. No matter how much I try, I
havent been able to see what he does when hes up there.
His room is empty but for a bed and a chest of drawers. A
few boxes from the move remain unpacked and stacked by the
doorway. There are no decorations except for a single poster for a
movie called Jump London. I looked it up and its about parkour,
which is a kind of street gymnastics, which explains how hes able
to do all the crazy stuff that he does. The more I watch, the more
I want to know.
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M EN T EU S E
IVE JUST SAT
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The thing about my moms Bundts is that they are not very
good. Terrible. Actually inedible, very nearly indestructible.
Between you and me.
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to purify the foreign air. A minute later she steps back into
the house. She doesnt notice me right away. Instead she stands
still, eyes closed with her head slightly bowed.
Im sorry, she says, without looking up.
Im OK, Mom. Dont worry.
For the thousandth time I realize anew how hard my disease
is on her. Its the only world Ive known, but before me she
had my brother and my dad. She traveled and played soccer.
She had a normal life that did not include being cloistered in a
bubble for fourteen hours a day with her sick teenage daughter.
I hold her and let her hold me for a few more minutes. Shes
taking this disappointment much harder than I am.
Ill make it up to you, she says.
Theres nothing to make up for.
I love you, sweetie.
We drift back into the dining room and finish dinner quickly
and, for the most part, silently. Carla leaves and my mom asks
if I want to beat her at a game of Honor Pictionary, but I ask
for a rain check. Im not really in the mood.
Instead, I head upstairs imagining what a Bundt cake tastes
like.
26
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t t e rs
and sha
a t li f t s
h
t
l
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T h e ra re
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a ll a t o n
and
f il ls y o u
K T IM E S
EW YOR
b es ts el li
ng
N
PLACES
er N iv en ,
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m a k e , IL
Sam
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liste n to my soul .
It will
k
verythingBoo
EverythingE
k
oo
verythingB
#EverythingE
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THE S U N S HINE S O N
Sonya Sones
NOVEMBE R 1, 2016
Nicola Yoon.
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TELL ME
THREE THINGS
Juli e B uxb au m
DELACORTE PRESS
#TellMeThreeThings
5/17/16 12:29 PM
This is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Julie R. Buxbaum, Inc.
Jacket art copyright 2016 by Getty Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of
Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Buxbaum, Julie.
Tell me three things / by Julie Buxbaum.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-553-53564-8 (trade hc) ISBN 978-0-553-53565-5 (library binding)
ISBN 978-0-553-53566-2 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-399-55293-9 (intl. tr. pbk.)
[1. High schoolsFiction. 2. SchoolsFiction. 3. Moving, HouseholdFiction.
4. StepfamiliesFiction. 5. GriefFiction. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.)Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.B897Tel 2016
[Fic]dc23
2015000836
The text of this book is set in 11.5-point Dante.
Jacket design by Ray Shappell
Interior design by Trish Parcell
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books
supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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CHAPTER 1
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promise this isnt a prank. and I dont think Ive ever even
seen a rom-com. shocking, I know. hope this doesnt reveal some great deciency in my character.
you do know journalism is a dying eld, right? maybe you
should aspire to be a war blogger.
34
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terminally lazy.
To: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)
From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)
Subject: NOW youre getting personal.
36
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See, thats the thing with email. Id never say something like
that in person. Crude. Suggestive. Like I am the kind of girl who
could pull off that kind of joke. Who, face to face with an actual
member of the male species, would know how to irt, and ip
my hair, and, if it came to it, know how to do much more than
kiss. (For the record, I do know how to kiss. Im not saying Id
ace an AP exam on the subject or, you know, win Olympic gold,
but Im pretty sure Im not awful. I know this purely by way of
comparison. Adam Kravitz. Ninth grade. Him: all slobber and
angry, rhythmic tongue, like a zombie trying to eat my head.
Me: all-too-willing participant, with three days of face chang.)
Email is much like an ADD diagnosis. Guaranteed extra
time on the test. In real life, I constantly rework conversations
after the fact in my head, edit them until Ive perfected my
witty, lighthearted, effortless banterall the stuff that seems
to come naturally to other girls. A waste of time, of course, because by then Im way too late. In the Venn diagram of my life,
my imagined personality and my real personality have never
converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few
additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the glorious intersection.
I should be more careful. I realize that now. Thats what
she said. Really? Cant decide if I sound like a frat boy or a slut;
either way, I dont sound like me. More importantly, I have
no idea who I am writing to. Unlikely that SN truly is some
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do-gooder who feels sorry for the new girl. Or better yet, a secret admirer. Because of course thats straight where my brain
went, the result of a lifetime of devouring too many romantic
comedies and reading too many improbable books. Why do
you think I kissed Adam Kravitz? He was my neighbor back in
Chicago. What better story is there than the girl who discovers
that true love has been waiting right next door all along? Of
course, my neighbor turned out to be a zombie with carbonated saliva, but no matter. Live and learn.
Surely SN is a cruel joke. Hes probably not even a he. Just
a mean girl preying on the weak. Because lets face it: I am
weak. Possibly even pathetic. I lied. I dont have a black belt
in karate. I am not tough. Until last month, I thought I was.
I really did. Life threw its punches, I got shat on, but I took it
in the mouth, to mix my metaphors. Or not. Sometimes it felt
just like getting shat on in the mouth. My only point of pride:
no one saw me cry. And then I became the new girl at WVHS,
in this weird area called the Valley, which is in Los Angeles but
not in Los Angeles or something like that, and I ended up here
because my dad married this rich lady who smells like fancy
almonds, and juice costs twelve dollars here, and I dont know.
I dont know anything anymore.
I am as lost and confused and alone as I have ever been.
No, high school will never be a time I look back on fondly. My
mom once told me that the world is divided into two kinds
of people: the ones who love their high school years and the
ones who spend the next decade recovering from them. What
doesnt kill you makes you stronger, she said.
But something did kill her, and Im not stronger. So go gure; maybe theres a third kind of person: the ones who never
recover from high school at all.
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e. lockhart
DELACORTE PRESS
PLEASE LIE:
WeWereLiars.com
#WeWereLiars
@elockhart
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4
ME, JOHNNY, MIRREN,
me.
The family calls us four the Liars, and probably we deserve
it. We are all nearly the same age, and we all have birthdays in
the fall. Most years on the island, weve been trouble.
Gat started coming to Beechwood the year we were eight.
Summer eight, we called it.
Before that, Mirren, Johnny, and I werent Liars. We were
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Johnny leapt off the boat and threw his own vest on the
dock. First thing, he ran up to Mirren and kicked her. Then he
kicked me. Kicked the twins. Walked over to our grandparents
and stood up straight. Good to see you, Granny and Granddad.
I look forward to a happy summer.
Tipper hugged him. Your mother told you to say that,
didnt she?
Yes, said Johnny. And Im to say, nice to see you again.
Good boy.
Can I go now?
Tipper kissed his freckled cheek. Go on, then.
Ed followed Johnny, having stopped to help the staff unload
the luggage from the motorboat. He was tall and slim. His skin
was very dark: Indian heritage, wed later learn. He wore blackframed glasses and was dressed in dapper city clothes: a linen
suit and striped shirt. The pants were wrinkled from traveling.
Granddad set me down.
Granny Tippers mouth made a straight line. Then she
showed all her teeth and went forward.
You must be Ed. What a lovely surprise.
He shook hands. Didnt Carrie tell you we were coming?
Of course she did.
Ed looked around at our white, white family. Turned to Carrie. Wheres Gat?
They called for him, and he climbed from the inside of the
boat, taking off his life vest, looking down to undo the buckles.
Mother, Dad, said Carrie, we brought Eds nephew to
play with Johnny. This is Gat Patil.
Granddad reached out and patted Gats head. Hello, young
man.
Hello.
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JOHNNY BEGGED TO
5
SUM MER FOURTEEN, GAT and I took out the small motorboat alone. It was just after breakfast. Bess made Mirren play
tennis with the twins and Taft. Johnny had started running
that year and was doing loops around the perimeter path. Gat
found me in the Clairmont kitchen and asked, did I want to
take the boat out?
Not really. I wanted to go back to bed with a book.
Please? Gat almost never said please.
Take it out yourself.
I cant borrow it, he said. I dont feel right.
Of course you can borrow it.
Not without one of you.
He was being ridiculous. Where do you want to go? I
asked.
I just want to get off-island. Sometimes I cant stand it
here.
I couldnt imagine, then, what it was he couldnt stand, but
I said all right. We motored out to sea in wind jackets and
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bathing suits. After a bit, Gat cut the engine. We sat eating pistachios and breathing salt air. The sunlight shone on the water.
Lets go in, I said.
Gat jumped and I followed, but the water was so much
colder than off the beach, it snatched our breath. The sun went
behind a cloud. We laughed panicky laughs and shouted that it
was the stupidest idea to get in the water. What had we been
thinking? There were sharks off the coast, everybody knew
that.
Dont talk about sharks, God! We scrambled and pushed
each other, struggling to be the rst one up the ladder at the
back of the boat.
After a minute, Gat leaned back and let me go rst. Not because youre a girl but because Im a good person, he told me.
Thanks. I stuck out my tongue.
But when a shark bites my legs off, promise to write a
speech about how awesome I was.
Done, I said. Gatwick Matthew Patil made a delicious
meal.
It seemed hysterically funny to be so cold. We didnt have
towels. We huddled together under a eece blanket we found
under the seats, our bare shoulders touching each other. Cold
feet, on top of one another.
This is only so we dont get hypothermia, said Gat. Dont
think I nd you pretty or anything.
I know you dont.
Youre hogging the blanket.
Sorry.
A pause.
Gat said, I do nd you pretty, Cady. I didnt mean that the
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way it came out. In fact, when did you get so pretty? Its distracting.
I look the same as always.
You changed over the school year. Its putting me off my
game.
You have a game?
He nodded solemnly.
That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. What is your
game?
Nothing penetrates my armor. Hadnt you noticed?
That made me laugh. No.
Damn. I thought it was working.
We changed the subject. Talked about bringing the littles to
Edgartown to see a movie in the afternoon, about sharks and
whether they really ate people, about Plants Versus Zombies.
Then we drove back to the island.
Not long after that, Gat started lending me his books and
nding me at the tiny beach in the early evenings. Hed search
me out when I was lying on the Windemere lawn with the
goldens.
We started walking together on the path that circles the
island, Gat in front and me behind. Wed talk about books
or invent imaginary worlds. Sometimes wed end up walking
several times around the edge before we got hungry or bored.
Beach roses lined the path, deep pink. Their smell was faint
and sweet.
One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock
with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he
was my particular person.
I got in the hammock next to him, silently. I took the pen
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48
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Finch is the
rebel with a cause in
All The Bright Places.
5/17/16 12:29 PM
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters (with
the exception of the creators of the Worlds Largest Ball of Paint and the Blue
Flash and Blue Too roller coasters), are products of the authors imagination.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2015 by Jennifer Niven
Jacket photographs (flowers) copyright 2015 by Neil Fletcher and Matthew
Ward/Getty Images
Hand-lettering and illustrations copyright 2015 by Sarah Watts
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an
imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House
LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House LLC.
Excerpt from Oh, the Places Youll Go! by Dr. Seuss, TM and copyright
by Dr. Seuss Enterprises L.P. 1990. Used by permission of Random House
Childrens Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random
House Company, New York. All rights reserved.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Niven, Jennifer.
All the bright places / Jennifer Niven.1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Told in alternating voices, when Theodore Finch and Violet
Markey meet on the ledge of the bell tower at schoolboth teetering on the
edgeits the beginning of an unlikely relationship, a journey to discover the
natural wonders of the state of Indiana, and two teens desperate desire to
heal and save one another.Provided by publisher
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-385-75588-7 (trade) ISBN 978-0-385-75589-4 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-385-75590-0 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-553-53358-3 (intl. tr. pbk.)
[1. FriendshipFiction. 2. SuicideFiction. 3. Emotional problems
Fiction. 4. IndianaFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N6434Al 2015
[Fic]dc23
2014002238
The text of this book is set in 11-point Simoncini Garamond.
Printed in the United States of America
January 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and
celebrates the right to read.
CD_BoysOfSummer_ChapSamp_WEB.indd 50
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51
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Jennifer Niven
I dont remember climbing up here. In fact, I dont remember much of anything before Sunday, at least not anything so
far this winter. This happens every timethe blanking out,
the waking up. Im like that old man with the beard, Rip Van
Winkle. Now you see me, now you dont. Youd think Id have
gotten used to it, but this last time was the worst yet because I
wasnt asleep for a couple days or a week or twoI was asleep
for the holidays, meaning Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New
Years. I cant tell you what was different this time around, only
that when I woke up, I felt deader than usual. Awake, yeah, but
completely empty, like someone had been feasting on my blood.
This is day six of being awake again, and my first week back at
school since November 14.
I open my eyes, and the ground is still there, hard and permanent. I am in the bell tower of the high school, standing on
a ledge about four inches wide. The tower is pretty small, with
only a few feet of concrete floor space on all sides of the bell
itself, and then this low stone railing, which Ive climbed over
to get here. Every now and then I knock one of my legs against
it to remind myself its there.
My arms are outstretched as if Im conducting a sermon
and this entire not-very-big, dull, dull town is my congregation.
Ladies and gentlemen, I shout, I would like to welcome you
to my death! You might expect me to say life, having just
woken up and all, but its only when Im awake that I think
about dying.
I am shouting in an old-school-preacher way, all jerking
head and words that twitch at the ends, and I almost lose my
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balance. I hold on behind me, happy no one seems to have noticed, because, lets face it, its hard to look fearless when youre
clutching the railing like a chicken.
I, Theodore Finch, being of unsound mind, do hereby bequeath all my earthly possessions to Charlie Donahue, Brenda
Shank-Kravitz, and my sisters. Everyone else can go f--- themselves. In my house, my mom taught us early to spell that word
(if we must use it) or, better yet, not spell it, and, sadly, this has
stuck.
Even though the bell has rung, some of my classmates are
still milling around on the ground. Its the first week of the
second semester of senior year, and already theyre acting as if
theyre almost done and out of here. One of them looks up in
my direction, as if he heard me, but the others dont, either because they havent spotted me or because they know Im there
and Oh well, its just Theodore Freak.
Then his head turns away from me and he points at the sky.
At first I think hes pointing at me, but its at that moment I
see her, the girl. She stands a few feet away on the other side
of the tower, also out on the ledge, dark-blond hair waving in
the breeze, the hem of her skirt blowing up like a parachute.
Even though its January in Indiana, she is shoeless in tights, a
pair of boots in her hand, and staring either at her feet or at the
groundits hard to tell. She seems frozen in place.
In my regular, nonpreacher voice I say, as calmly as possible,
Take it from me, the worst thing you can do is look down.
Very slowly, she turns her head toward me, and I know
this girl, or at least Ive seen her in the hallways. I cant resist:
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Jennifer Niven
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name a few. By the way, its apparently true that youll never use
it in the real world. Math, I mean.
I keep talking, but I can tell Im running out of steam. I need
to take a piss, for one thing, and so my words arent the only
thing twitching. (Note to self: Before attempting to take own life,
remember to take a leak.) And, two, its starting to rain, which,
in this temperature, will probably turn to sleet before it hits the
ground.
Its starting to rain, I say, as if she doesnt know this. I
guess theres an argument to be made that the rain will wash
away the blood, leaving us a neater mess to clean up than
otherwise. But its the mess part thats got me thinking. Im not
a vain person, but I am human, and I dont know about you,
but I dont want to look like Ive been run through the wood
chipper at my funeral.
Shes shivering or shaking, I cant tell which, and so I slowly
inch my way toward her, hoping I dont fall off before I get
there, because the last thing I want to do is make a jackass out
of myself in front of this girl. Ive made it clear I want cremation, but my mom doesnt believe in it. And my dad will do
whatever she says so he wont upset her any more than he already has, and besides, Youre far too young to think about this,
you know your Grandma Finch lived to be ninety-eight, we dont
need to talk about that now, Theodore, dont upset your mother.
So itll be an open coffin for me, which means if I jump, it
aint gonna be pretty. Besides, I kind of like my face intact like
this, two eyes, one nose, one mouth, a full set of teeth, which,
if Im being honest, is one of my better features. I smile so she
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Jennifer Niven
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She slowly looks at me and then reaches for the floor of the
bell tower with her right foot, and once shes found it, I say,
Now get that left leg back over however you can. Dont let go
of the wall. By now shes shaking so hard I can hear her teeth
chatter, but I watch as her left foot joins her right, and she is
safe.
So now its just me out here. I gaze down at the ground one
last time, past my size-thirteen feet that wont stop growing
today Im wearing sneakers with fluorescent lacespast the
open windows of the fourth floor, the third, the second, past
Amanda Monk, who is cackling from the front steps and swishing her blond hair like a pony, books over her head, trying to
flirt and protect herself from the rain at the same time.
I gaze past all of this at the ground itself, which is now slick
and damp, and imagine myself lying there.
I could just step off. It would be over in seconds. No more
Theodore Freak. No more hurt. No more anything.
I try to get past the unexpected interruption of saving a life
and return to the business at hand. For a minute, I can feel it:
the sense of peace as my mind goes quiet, like Im already dead.
I am weightless and free. Nothing and no one to fear, not even
myself.
Then a voice from behind me says, I want you to hold on to
the rail, and once youve got it, lean against it and lift your right
foot up and over.
Like that, I can feel the moment passing, maybe already
passed, and now it seems like a stupid idea, except for picturing
the look on Amandas face as I go sailing by her. I laugh at the
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10
Jennifer Niven
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11
but for Violet, the hero. Up close like this, I can see that her
skin is smooth and clear except for two freckles on her right
cheek, and her eyes are a gray-green that makes me think of fall.
Its the eyes that get me. They are large and arresting, as if she
sees everything. As warm as they are, they are busy, no-bullshit
eyes, the kind that can look right into you, which I can tell even
through the glasses. Shes pretty and tall, but not too tall, with
long, restless legs and curvy hips, which I like on a girl. Too
many high school girls are built like boys.
I was just sitting there, she says. On the railing. I didnt
come up here to
Let me ask you something. Do you think theres such a
thing as a perfect day?
What?
A perfect day. Start to finish. When nothing terrible or sad
or ordinary happens. Do you think its possible?
I dont know.
Have you ever had one?
No.
Ive never had one either, but Im looking for it.
She whispers, Thank you, Theodore Finch. She reaches
up and kisses me on the cheek, and I can smell her shampoo,
which reminds me of flowers. She says into my ear, If you
ever tell anyone about this, Ill kill you. Carrying her boots,
she hurries away and out of the rain, back through the door
that leads to the flight of dark and rickety stairs that takes you
down to one of the many too-bright and too-crowded school
hallways.
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12
Jennifer Niven
Charlie watches her go and, as the door swings closed behind her, he turns back to me. Man, why do you do that?
Because we all have to die someday. I just want to be
prepared. This isnt the reason, of course, but it will be
enough for him. The truth is, there are a lot of reasons, most
of which change daily, like the thirteen fourth graders killed
earlier this week when some SOB opened fire in their school
gym, or the girl two years behind me who just died of cancer,
or the man I saw outside the Mall Cinema kicking his dog, or
my father.
Charlie may think it, but at least he doesnt say Weirdo,
which is why hes my best friend. Other than the fact that I appreciate this about him, we dont have much in common.
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New from
JENNIFER NIVEN
New York Times bestselling author of
JenniferNiven.com #HoldingUpTheUniverse
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Oliver is a
real-life Prince Charming.
in Off The Page.
OFF
THE
PAGE
Jodi Picoult
&
Samantha van Leer
#OffThePage
5/17/16 12:29 PM
This is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2015 by Jodi Picoult and Samantha van Leer
Interior illustrations copyright 2015 by Scott M. Fischer
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ember, an imprint of
Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Originally published in hardcover with additional artwork in the United States by
Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, New York, in 2015.
Ember and the E colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-553-53559-4 (tr. pbk.) ISBN 978-0-553-53558-7 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Ember Edition 2016
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment
and celebrates the right to read.
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DELILAH
Ive been waiting my whole life for Oliver, so youd think another fteen minutes wouldnt matter. But its fteen minutes
that Oliver is alone on a bus, unmonitored, for the rst time,
with the most ruthless, malicious, soul-sucking creatures on
earth: high school students.
Going to high school is a little like being told you have to get
up each morning and run headlong at sixty miles an hour into
the same brick wall. Every day, youre forced to watch Darwins
principle of survival of the ttest play out: evolutionary advantages, like perfect white teeth and gravity-defying boobs, or a
football team jacket keep you from falling prey to the demons
that grow to three times their size when they feed on the fear
of a hapless freshman and bully him to a pulp. After years of
public school, Ive gotten pretty good at being invisible. That
way, youre less likely to become a target.
But Oliver knows none of this. He has always been the center
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O FF TH E PAG E
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You know how there are some moments in your life when
time just slows down? When you remember every minute detail: how the wind feels against your face, how the freshly cut
grass smells, how snippets of conversation become a dull background buzz, and how in that instant, theres only the beat of
your heart and the breath that you draw and the person whose
eyes lock with yours?
Oliver is the last one to step off the bus. His black hair is
rufed by the breeze. Hes wearing the white shirt and jeans I
picked out for him, and an unzipped hoodie. A leather satchel
is strung across his chest, and his green eyes search the crowd.
When he sees me, a huge smile breaks across his face.
He walks toward me as if there arent three hundred people
staring at himthe new kidas if it doesnt matter in the least
that the popular girls are tossing their hair and batting their
lashes like theyre at a photo shoot, or that the jocks are all sizing him up as competition. He walks as if the only thing he can
see is me.
Oliver wraps his arms around me and swings me in a circle,
like I weigh nothing at all. He sets me down, then gently holds
my face in his hands, looking at me as if he has found treasure.
Hello, he says, and he kisses me.
I can feel everyones eyes on me, their mouths gaping.
Not gonna lie: I could get used to this.
Y
I met Oliver inside a book. Last year, I got obsessed with a kids
fairy tale that I found in the stacks of the school libraryin
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O FF TH E PAG E
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O FF TH E PAG E
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O FF TH E PAG E
13
Cool, me too. Ill see you there? Chris shuts his locker
and, with a wave, walks down the hall.
Oliver watches him. How come hes allowed to wave?
I roll my eyes. Its 8:15 a.m. and Im already exhausted. Ill
explain later, I say.
I have enough time to drop Oliver off at his chemistry classroom before I have to head to French. As we turn the corner, Jules slips up behind us and links her arm through mine.
Guess who broke up, she says.
Oliver smiles. This must be the famous Jules.
Reports of my awesomeness are usually underrated, Jules
answers. She gives Oliver a once-over and then nods and turns
to me. Well done.
Im kind of in a rushIm trying to get him to Zhangs
room before the bell rings, I explain.
Trust me, you want to hear this. . . . Allie McAndrews and
Ryan Douglas?
Oliver looks at me, questioning.
Prom queen and king, I explain quickly.
He looks impressed. Royalty.
They think they are, Jules agrees. Anyway, they broke up.
Apparently being faithful comes as easily to Ryan as Shakespeare.
Having been in Ryans English class last year, I know thats
saying a lot.
Speak of the devil, says Jules.
As if were watching a soap opera, Allie turns the corner,
anked by her posse. From the opposite direction, simultaneously,
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O FF TH E PAG E
15
back his arm and socks Oliver hard so that he falls backward,
knocked out cold.
Oh yeah. This is gonna be a great year.
I y to Olivers side, crouching down. By now the crowd has
scattered, afraid of repercussions. I help him sit up; he winces
as he leans against the wall.
Let me guess, Oliver mutters. Fairy means something different here?
But I cant answer, because when I look at him I see it: the
trickle of black from his nose, the stains on his white shirt.
Oliver, I whisper. Youre inking.
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the moment you opened this tale, your mind awakened the characters. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does
it really fall? If a character sits in a book and no one reads it, is he
truly alive? As your eyes moved across the pages, as you heard the
story in your head, the characters moved for you, spoke for you, felt
for you.
So you see, its quite difcult to know who owns a story. Is it the
Jack
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writer, who crafted it? The characters, who carry the plot forward?
Or you, the reader, who breathes life into them?
Or perhaps none of the three can exist without the other.
Perhaps without this magical combination, a story would be
nothing more than words on a page.
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