Review
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: Top 20 YA Books of2016
Bustle: 18 Of The Best YA Books Of March 2016
YALSA 2017 Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers
CYBILS 2016 Nominee
Bustle: 18 Of The Best YA Books Of March 2016
Goodreads: Best Book of the Month
Paste Magazine: The Best YA Reads of 2016
Paste Magazine: 10 Best New Young Adult Books of March 2016
Justine Magazine's "Do Not Miss Books You'll Want To Share"
★ "An invaluable addition to any collection."School Library
Journal (*starred review*)
"(T)he novel's well-drawn charactersadd dimension to its taut
atmosphere. The result isn't a cautionary tale somuch as a
heart-pounding portrait of what it takes to escape from an
abusiverelationship." ~Booklist
"Reading the entire book in onesitting, in the wee hours of the
night, I can only say WOW. I SALUTEYOU, SHANNON PARKER!" ~The
Guardian
"S.M. Parker's The Girl Who Fellisn't just an entertaining
contemporary YA novel. This gripping story ofmanipulation and
abuse marks the first great book of March, and it's a shoo-infor
one of the best reads this year." ~BookRiot
"This debut novel will appeal tofans of Alex Finn's Breathing
Underwater (HarperCollins, 2001/VOYA June 2001)and other novels
that explore abusive relationships. . . . Readers willidentify
with the strong female characters and the conflict Zephyr feels
asher romance descends into something more sinister." ~VOYA
"Parker writes confidently andelegantly(.)"~Publishers Weekly
"Cinematic and compelling, Parker'sTHE GIRL WHO FELL is
terrifyingly vivid and breathless. This is anaction-packed story
that is impossible to put down or forget." Carrie Jones,New York
Times and International Bestselling Author of the NEED series.
"THE GIRL WHO FELL grabbed me in thevery first paragraph and
never let me go. An honest, raw, thought-provokingstory that
tackles a heartbreaking issue with grace and strength.Absolutely
beautiful." ~Marci Lyn Curtis, author of THE ONE THING.
"THE GIRL WHO FELL is an importantstory. It explores what it
means to lose yourself for love, and the dangerousline between
devotion and manipulation. Parker's writing is gripping, andwill
have you turning pages late into the night." ~Ingrid Sundberg,
authorof ALL WE LEFT BEHIND.
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About the Author
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S.M. Parker lives on the coast of Maine with her husband
and sons. She works as a literacy advocate and holds degrees from
three New England universities. She can usually be found rescuing
dogs, chickens, old houses, and wooden boats. She has a weakness
for chocolate chip cookies and ridiculous laughter—ideally at the
same time. The Girl Who Fell was her first novel. Find her at
ShannonMParker.com.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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The End
I pick up the landline, dial Mom’s cell. It takes too long to
connect. There is only the static silence of a dead line, and
that’s when I know I’m not alone.
I drop the phone onto its cradle and eye the door, my car keys
on the floor in my path. In seconds I calculate how my body will
need to scoop the keys as I run from the house. I move just as a
metallic snap echoes from under the house.
The breaker.
In the basement.
Someone has thrown the main switch, p me and this house
and my escape into blackness.
Fear roils in my blood. Becomes me. I kick around for my keys
but with each sweep, I am losing time.
I reach for the island, my eyes adjusting, carving light into
the shadows. The smell of spearmint bleeds through the air,
through my memory, as my senses conjure the last time panic
joined me in this space. And how my fingertips reached for the
set even then. But the block of knives is gone now. The
counter cleared. I open a drawer, for utensils, scissors.
My fingers meet with the smooth wood of inner drawer and nothing
else. I fumble around the sink, but even Mom’s pruning shears are
missing.
The phone rings and I freeze from the impossibility of its
sound. A second ring sears through silence. I wade across the
black, remove the handset, place it at my ear.
I pray that it’s anyone besides him.
Terror climbs the ladder of my spine. My voice, reluctant.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then the dial tone cries beep beep beep and I hang up, quickly
dial 911. But he’s quicker.
The line falls dead again.
He’s in the basement, where the phone line enters the house.
But then, no.
He could be outside. At the junction box.
All at once the woods outside feel too hungry, haunted.
My body tells me I need to flee, protect. My brain tells me to
fight, engage. I tuck into the forgotten corner of the laundry
room, quiet as my fear, and wrap my hands around the butt of my
field hockey stick. I hold it tight against my chest, a weapon.
I try to reverse my breathing. Make it soundless. Make it so I
cannot be found. The darkness is a comfort, a cloak. I blend into
it. For anonymity. For safety. There was a time when I feared
darkness. As a child. Alone.
Not now.
Darkness doesn’t have fingers that twist into my . Darkness
can’t stalk me. It can’t drive me into the shadows because
darkness is fleeting. Not like the threat before me.
The Girl Who Fell
Chapter 1
The Beginning:
Three Months Earlier
I’ve got one foot in this world and one in the next.
Stuck in the limbo of being a high school senior. Here, but
dreaming of next year, of college and freedom. Freedom from hall
passes, curfews, field hockey pressure, and conjugating French
verbs in a gray classroom on the most beautiful day of autumn. I
twist a ringlet of my too curly hair and stare at the lone sugar
le in the courtyard outside room 104. It’s early October and
most of the leaves have already fired into reds and golds. One
mad burst of flame at the end of a growing season. Just like
senior year.
A pale yellow finch settles onto a high branch and twitches its
head nervously. I watch it scan for what? Predators? Its mate? An
early acceptance letter from Boston College? Around me, the room
fills with the muffled sounds of students shuffling in.
Conversations hush and quicken. The metal legs of a dozen chairs
scrape the floor as the teacher writes “Learning Target for
Français” in flawless cursive on the whiteboard just as Gregg
fills the seat next to me like he’s sliding into home plate. His
chair glides a few inches closer and he’s in my face, all
shoulders and cologne.
“Bonjeer, Zephyr.” He winks. “Looking good,” he tells me, like
he tells every girl on the planet. Even so, a blush pushes onto
my cheeks, like always. It’s embarrassing how easily I embarrass.
Gregg Slicer is my oldest friend and a legend at Sudbury High
for being the best ice hockey player in the history of our
school. And I mean The. History. Colleges from all over the
Northeast have been scouting him since our sopre year. Today
he’s wearing his red mesh number 17 hockey jersey and even though
I can’t see the back, I know it reads SLICE in oversize white
block letters. Everyone in Sudbury, New Hampshire, calls him
Slice because the boosters have invested a fortune marketing “The
Slice on Ice.” We take our hockey seriously in these parts. So
seriously that Gregg’s parents even call him Slice. Me? I’m the
sole holdout for refusing to feed his ego.
“Did you—” I start, but he’s talking to someone on his site
side, someone I don’t recognize.
Mrs. Sarter begins in hitch-pitched French, “Bonjour mes
étudiants. Es-vous bien?”
Bien on a Monday? I don’t think so.
Her teacher-speak fades into background noise as I consider the
identity of the new student sitting next to Gregg. I lean back
and catch a glimpse of the boy’s neatly cropped, golden brown
hairline. Huh. I study the collar of his blue oxford shirt,
rumpled slightly. But Gregg’s wide frame blocks a clear view.
When did Gregg’s head get so big? I lean forward, glimpsing New
Boy’s footwear. Faded black Converse. Long legs. His jeans are an
Abercrombie shade of worn denim. His fingers drum a tune onto the
broad part of his thigh. I fixate on the song he’s tapping.
Old-school rock? Black Eyed Peas? Something from the Grease
soundtrack?
Next to me, Gregg opens his textbook. The room fills with pages
being fanned, the collective hunt for chapitre huit. I flip open
my book to a random page, but keep my eyes cut to New Boy.
There’s something about the boy’s elongated fingers, the steady,
sure rhythm that’s coursing through to his fingertips.
When Gregg drops his pencil and bends to retrieve it, New Boy
turns my way, stares at me across the void. His eyes flicker
cinnamon brown, like newly minted copper pennies. He shoots me a
casual head toss and my breath catches in my throat. Just as
Gregg blocks him again.
My head fills with New Boy’s face. Smooth as honey skin. Searing
gaze. My cheeks flush, and I’m certain I’m the color of a
pomegranate.
“Mademoiselle Doyle?” Mrs. Sarter calls, louder than necessary.
My eyes snap to the front of the room.
“Oui, professeur?” My voice crackles over the foreign words.
“Nombre dix, mademoiselle? Quelle est la reponse?” She rattles
her throat. Never a good sign.
Number ten? What is the answer to number ten? I search the pages
in front of me. There’s a picture of two teenagers at a sidewalk
café, each wearing a colorful beret. The word bubbles above their
heads tell me they’re chatting about homework.
“Mademoiselle Doyle?”
I scan the page, but can’t find a nombre dix. I’m lost. Totally
lost. I look up at Mrs. Sarter and know she’s expecting more from
an honors student, even though French is hands-down my worst
subject. “U-uh . . . ,” I stutter. The room falls quiet. The
clock marks mechanical seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. I swear I can
hear the steady rise and fall of New Boy’s breath, the smile that
lifts slightly along the corners of his mouth. Then I hear the
admissions board at Boston College, asking me about my goals and
aspirations and why I want to attend their institution. Their
questions are all in French-that-sounds-more-like-German,
unintelligible and alien. My nerves shatter.
My weak voice spills into the still air. “Uh . . . Je suis . . .
Je suis . . . stuck.”
The classroom skitters with laughter. In the front of the room,
Jeremy Lang repeats my words: “Je suis stuck! Classic!” Mrs.
Sarter winces with disappointment and reprimands him. She does
this in lowly English, and her scrunched expression makes me
think it physically pains her.
Suzanne Sharper’s arm flies into the air, pole straight—the
answer practically bubbling off her overeager lips. Mrs. Sarter
calls on Suzanne and nods at her correct la reponse. She turns to
the whiteboard, writes the answer in measured purple strokes.
Gregg leans over and whispers, “Page eighty-four, genius.”
“Right.” I flip to that section of my book.
“Way to have your head in the game.” He flashes me his
press-popular smile, now twisting with a smirk.
“You could have helped me out.”
He cuts his eyes to the front. “Who says I knew the answer?”
“Pa-lease.” Gregg speaks French better than Mrs. Sarter on
account of his dad being French Canadian. I straighten in my
chair and smooth the pages of my book. Gregg slips me a small
rectangle of a note, a makeshift business card. He’s printed
FRENCH TUTOR across the front using the red Sharpie marker he
carries for autographs. He’s scrawled his cell phone number on
the bottom right-hand corner. I snark a glance at him and his
self-satisfied grin. Then I can’t help the way my eyes move
beyond Gregg to find New Boy’s profile.
I pull my attention away. What am I doing? I tuck Gregg’s fake
business card into the pages of my textbook and find number ten.
I put my finger on it as if to physically my brain in this
lesson even as the sentences morph together, indecipherable. My
insides collapse into a warm sensation. Can a crush take hold
this quickly?
Lizzie likes to say I “crush without the mush,” which is her
headline-clever way of reminding me I steer clear of deep
commitment in the boyfriend department. Unless you count my two
years in a junior high nonrelationship with Matt Sanders, which I
don’t. Or going to the senior prom with Zach Plummer when I was a
freshman and being embarrassed by his drunk self all night.
But since my dad ditched me and Mom this summer, Lizzie’s
worried my inability to commit may have more to do with
burgeoning abandonment issues. “Crushing is safe,” she said. “It
only involves one person . . . you. And you can be in control.”
I prefer to believe my preference for remaining romantically
unattached stems from the fact that I have a carefully ped-out
plan for my future, and there’s no point in hijacking that with
unnecessary dating drama now. The best boyfriend in the universe
will be at Boston College. With me, next year. See? Perfect.
Hooking up with a guy in Sudbury will only anchor me to a place
I’ve wanted to escape since I was a freshman. So why can’t I help
but wonder . . .
If New Boy smells like oranges . . .
Has a British accent . . .
Plays sports . . .
Has secrets he’ll tell only me?
When the bell rings, I jolt.
“Twitchy much?” Gregg jokes while gathering his books.
I stuff my books into my bag, stand, and force myself not to
watch New Boy. I take one last look at the le tree outside.
The finch is gone. A spiral of panic swirls in my stomach.
Nothing seems grounded lately.
And then Gregg’s voice: “Zee, this is Alec.” I turn and New Boy
appears from behind Gregg like a shadow.
My heart quickens. The classroom goes fuzzy around the edges, as
if my brain is only capable of taking in this one boy and nothing
else. I try to appear calm. “Hey.”
“Your name is Z?” he asks, with a distinct lack of British
accent.
My pride ruffles. “Zephyr, actually.”
His eyes throw an apology. “What does it mean?”
“What does Alec mean?” I counter. I’m aware my reply is
obnoxious, but that question has always annoyed me.
“It means ‘gentle breeze,’ ” Gregg says. “But I called her
Zipper until we were about seven.”
I redden.
“Her parents were hippies.” Gregg knows my family story almost
as well as I do.
I think of my mother, stuck in her unmovable fierceness, and my
her, God knows where right now, and I don’t see a shred of
hippie. “They were young,” I clarify. They were only nineteen
when I was born. I can’t imagine having a kid next year. Talk
about hijacking college plans.
“Well, it’s a cool name,” Alec says. Damn if my blush doesn’t
deepen. But something else. Does his face redden too?
“Alec’s transferring from Phillips Exeter,” Gregg tells me.
My eyebrows knit. “To here?”
Alec laughs. “You don’t approve?”
“No. I mean . . . it’s just . . . why would you do that?”
“For Sudbury High’s world-class foreign language program.” A
smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry, I just meant . . . Exeter is such a better school.”
Gregg laughs. “How long are you gonna dig this hole, Zeph? We’ve
got a meeting with Coach.”
Alec’s gaze dips to my chest and I flatten my bag against me
like a shield. He lifts his eyes quickly, a blush definitely
blooming. “Do you play? Um . . . field hockey.” It’s impossible
not to see his feet shift with embarrassment.
That’s when I remember the emblem on my sweatshirt, the two
field hockey sticks crossed in an X. Duh. I clear my throat. “Um,
yeah. Forward.”
“Zeph’s the captain of our field hockey team,” Gregg says.
“Cocaptain.”
“Still, the best Sudbury’s seen,” Gregg adds.
Alec’s eyes widen. “Impressive.”
His acknowledgement sends a shiver racing across my skin, like
heat and ice tripping over one another.
“You playing this weekend?” Gregg asks.
“Thursday’s our last game of the regular season.”
“I’ll be there,” Gregg says as if this is news. He’s never
missed one of my games. “You coming to Waxman’s kegger on
Friday?”
“Probably.” Ronnie Waxman has a kegger every weekend. It’s
pretty much the apex of Sudbury’s social scene.
“Come. You can help me show Alec around.”
Alec is cute and new. He won’t need a tour guide. “Sure, but
keep in mind, this is Suckbury. You’re likely to be disappointed
by local customs.”
Alec draws up the softest of shy smiles. “I don’t know, I
thought French would be lame.”
My heart hiccups.
“Look, we gotta see Coach. Let’s roll.” Gregg slaps Alec’s back
before he slips out the door. The classroom empties except for me
and Alec, and Mrs. Sarter wiping down the board as if it’s an
aerobic workout.
Alec takes a step back and motions for me to go ahead. “Ladies
first.” He lowers his head as I pass, like I’m royalty. It makes
me wonder if chivalry is standard private school curriculum.
Just as I’m through the door, I hear, “Zephyr actually?”
I spin to face Alec. I should respond with something brilliant
but my voice betrays me.
“It was nice to meet you.” Alec’s damn shy smile softens his
every beautiful feature.
“Thanks.” Thanks? I can only imagine what Lizzie would say if
she were here. Not the most memorable first impression, Zee. I
manage a nod and dart down the hall thinking Alec’s Zephyr
actually was both adorable and clever. A dangerous mix.
When I get outside, Lizzie’s waiting for me in the courtyard,
sitting at our picnic table. Her cropped hair looks ice white in
the sun as she hunches over the small spiral-bound she
clutches with two hands. She flips a page, reviewing the
shorthand reporter code I have yet to break. This is her process,
the way she decides what story will appear on the front page of
the school’s Sudbury Sentinel.
“This seat taken?” I sit, and swipe an impeccably julienned
carrot from Lizzie’s lunch bag.
Lizzie lowers her with a sigh. “This place might kill
me, Zee.”
“Dramatic much?”
“I’m serious. There is exactly nothing going on at this school.
Unless I’m expected to use my professional genius to dissect the
ents in the caf’s tater tots or dig into the bizarre—and
might I add—disturbing flirting rituals of some of Sudbury’s
faculty.”
“Please spare us that.”
Lizzie smiles, her face softening. “I need to get out of here.”
“You and me both.”
Lizzie and I have wanted to be free of small-town Sudbury since
we met in fifth grade. She’s always had plans to be a reporter in
a big city. At twelve, she wore a fedora, complete with a tab of
paper that screamed PRESS in orange crayon. While other kids
played tag, Lizzie taught herself shorthand.
Me? A marine biologist working off the shores of Cape Cod. Or
Cape Town.
Lizzie peers over her New York cool black-rimmed glasses. “I
hear Sudbury’s snagged itself a transfer student.” She squints,
scans the crowd in the quad.
“Alec. He’s in my French class.”
Her mood perks. “You met him? Any scoop there?”
“I’m not trained in human observation the way you are, Lizzie.”
I pop the top of my Sprite and it hisses with release.
“Oh come on. There has to be something.”
I take a short sip. “He’s friends with Gregg. Plays hockey.
Moved here from a private school.”
Her smile winks. “But you weren’t paying attention, right?”
“I guess some might say he’s cute.”
“ ‘Cute’ does not a headline make, Zee. Rumor has it he got
expelled from his posh school for having a girl in his room.”
“I met him for, like, two seconds. It didn’t really come up.”
Lizzie stretches out along the table. I envy the way she’s
always seemed so comfortable in her own skin. “But he’s nice?”
“Like I said, our conversation wasn’t deep. He could be a total
player for all I know.”
“News flash: All guys are players. It’s called having a Y
chromosome.” Lizzie arches her neck toward the sun in a way I
never could. Not without feeling everyone’s eyes critiquing me.
“Perhaps we should investigate. See if this boy is crush-worthy.”
“Not interested.”
“In him or any crush?”
“Come on, Lizzie. I’ve got, like, zero time for any of that. All
that matters is getting my ass to Boston next year.”
She turns to narrow her eyes, study me. “Maybe. I mean, I get
it. But we’re here now and he might be an attractive prospect. He
could help keep your mind off some things.”
I shoot her a look, one that warns she’s going too far.
“I’m on your side, Zee.” She throws up her hands. “I just don’t
want you to shut out rtunity now because you’re thinking a
thousand steps ahead about how your heart might get hurt.”
Lizzie’s been dating Jason since sopre year. He’s a year
older and attends NYU. He comes home a lot, or she goes to New
York. Each time they meet up it’s like no time has passed between
visits. I can’t imagine getting lucky enough to share that depth
of trust with another person. “And how is Alec an rtunity?”
“I’m not talking about Alec, Zee. I’m talking about taking
chances. Making this year a little more than doing time.” Her
voice softens. “It’s our senior year, our last chance to do
whatever we want without consequences. Promise me you’ll at least
be open to different. Whatever form it takes.”
I cringe at the thread of pity I hear in Lizzie’s voice.
And her words don’t leave me for the rest of the day. All
through the grueling sprints of field hockey practice I can’t
wrestle free of Lizzie’s advice: embrace different. But she
doesn’t get how hard different has been without Dad. I’ve kind of
had my fill of different for a while.
Ugh. Maybe I have turned into a sad abandonment cliché.
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