The Girl Who Fell

Informationen zum Autor 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. Klappentext When the new boy in school sweeps Zephyr Doyle off her feet, an intense--and volatile--romance develops in S.M Parker's gripping debut. Zusammenfassung In this invaluable addition to any collection ( School Library Journal , starred review) high school senior Zephyr Doyle is swept off her feetand into an intense and volatile relationshipby the new boy in school. His obsession. Her fall. Zephyr Doyle is focused. Focused on leading her team to the field hockey state championship and leaving her small town for her dream school, Boston College. But love has a way of changing things. Enter the new boy in school: the hockey team's starting goaltender, Alec. He's cute, charming, and most important, Alec doesn't judge Zephyr. He understands her fears and insecuritieshe even shares them. Soon, their relationship becomes something bigger than Zephyr, something she can't control, something she doesn't want to control. Zephyr swears it must be love. Because love is powerful, and overwhelming, andterrifying? But love shouldn't make you abandon your dreams, or push your friends away. And love shouldn't make you feel guiltyor worse, ashamed. So when Zephyr finally begins to see Alec for who he really is, she knows it's time to take back control of her life. If she waits any longer, it may be too late.

Texte du rabat

When the new boy in school sweeps Zephyr Doyle off her feet, an intense--and volatile--romance develops in S.M Parker's gripping debut. 

Résumé
In this “invaluable addition to any collection” (School Library Journal, starred review) high school senior Zephyr Doyle is swept off her feet—and into an intense and volatile relationship—by the new boy in school.

His obsession.
Her fall.

Zephyr Doyle is focused. Focused on leading her team to the field hockey state championship and leaving her small town for her dream school, Boston College.

But love has a way of changing things.

Enter the new boy in school: the hockey team’s starting goaltender, Alec. He’s cute, charming, and most important, Alec doesn’t judge Zephyr. He understands her fears and insecurities—he even shares them. Soon, their relationship becomes something bigger than Zephyr, something she can’t control, something she doesn’t want to control.

Zephyr swears it must be love. Because love is powerful, and overwhelming, and…terrifying?

But love shouldn’t make you abandon your dreams, or push your friends away. And love shouldn’t make you feel guilty—or worse, ashamed.

So when Zephyr finally begins to see Alec for who he really is, she knows it’s time to take back control of her life.

If she waits any longer, it may be too late.

Échantillon de lecture
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 maple 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 sophomore 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 opposite 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 expec…