Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Price set by seller.
The Sky Is Everywhere Kindle Edition
|New from||Used from|
|Length: 251 pages||Word Wise: Enabled||Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled|
|Page Flip: Enabled||
Switch back and forth between reading the Kindle book and listening to the Audible book with Whispersync for Voice. Add the Audible book for a reduced price of $7.49 when you buy the Kindle book.
|Age Level: 14 and up|
|Grade Level: 9 - 12|
Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number.
Customers who bought this item also bought
"Nelson's first novel is tender, romantic, and loaded with passion."—The Horn Book
"The author brilliantly navigates Lennie's course between despair and hope, sorrow and humor... a gripping love triangle."—Shelf Awareness
"In this amazing tale of love and loss, Nelson introduces a cast of characters who make the reader laugh and cry."—NPR's The Roundtable
"Nearly everyone who's staggering through life in the wake of a loved one's death will recognize themselves in this brilliant, piercing story."—The Denver Post
* "This is distinguished by the dreamy California setting and poetic images that will draw readers into Lennie's world..."—Publishers Weekly, starred review
"A joy to read. You'll remember [it] long after you've turned the last page."—The Romantic Times
* "It's romantic without being gooey and tear-jerking without being campy—what more could a reader want?"—BCCB, starred review
* "This is a passionate, vulnerable, wonderfully complete and irresistible book."—VOYA, starred review
"[Nelson] writes with abandon... it's a headlong kind of book, preferably devoured at a single setting."—Los Angeles Times
"Brimming with humor and life, full of music and the poems Lennie drops all over town, The Sky is Everywhere explores betrayal and forgiveness through a vibrant cast of characters."—SLJ
"Those who think young adult books can't be as literary, rich, and mature as their adult counterparts will be disabused of that notion after reading The Sky is Everywhere... A finely-drawn portrait of grief and first love."—The Daily Beast
"A story of love, loss, and healing that will resonate with readers long after they've finished reading."—Booklist
"A story about love and loss... both heartfelt and literary."—Kirkus Reviews
"Sky is both a profound meditation on loss and grieving and an exhilarating and very sexy romance. The book deserves multiple readings simply to savor Nelson's luscious language..."—NPR (chosen by Gayle Forman as one of the top five teen reads of 2010)
"How grief and love run side by side is sensitively and intensely explored in this energetic, poetic, and warm-blooded novel."—The Guardian
"An addictive, romantic, heartbreaking, and wise tale of one girl's epic loss—and equally epic self-discovery. Seriously, stop reading this blurb; start reading this book!"—Gayle Forman, author of the New York Times Bestseller If I Stay
"Wow. I sobbed my eyes out and then laughed through the tears. I have not fallen in love with a story and its characters like this in a long time. Stunning, heartbreaking, hilarious. A story that shakes the earth."—An Na, winner of the Michael L. Printz Award and National Book Award Finalist
"Okay, I admit it. I have a huge crush on this book—it's beautiful, brilliant, passionate, funny, sexy, and deep. Come to think of it, I might even want to marry this book."—Sonya Sones, author of What My Mother Doesn't Know
"Full of heart, quirky charm, and beautiful writing, The Sky Is Everywhere simply shines."—Deb Caletti, National Book Award Finalist and author of The Secret Life of Prince Charming
"Jandy Nelson's story of grief somehow manages to be an enchantment, a celebration, a romance—without forsaking the rock-hard truths of loss."—Sara Zarr, National Book Award Finalist and author of Story of a Girl and Sweethearts
"The Sky Is Everywhere evokes the intensity of desire and agony of heartache with breathtaking clarity. This beautifully written story will leave an indelible impression upon your soul."—Susane Colasanti, author of When It Happens
A Publishers Weekly Flying Start Title
A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Nominee
A Junior Library Guild Selection
Translated into seventeen different languages
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Gram is worried about me. It’s not just because my sister Bailey died four weeks ago, or because my mother hasn’t contacted me in sixteen years, or even because suddenly all I think about is sex. She is worried about me because one of her houseplants has spots.
Gram has believed for most of my seventeen years that this particular houseplant, which is of the nondescript variety, reflects my emotional, spiritual, and physical well-being. I’ve grown to believe it too.
Across the room from where I sit, Gram—all six feet and floral frock of her, looms over the black-spotted leaves.
“What do you mean it might not get better this time?” She’s asking this of Uncle Big: arborist, resident pothead, and mad scientist to boot. He knows something about everything, but he knows everything about plants.
To anyone else it might seem strange, even off the wall, that Gram, as she asks this, is staring at me, but it doesn’t to Uncle Big, because he’s staring at me as well.
“This time it has a very serious condition.” Big’s voice trumpets as if from stage or pulpit; his words carry weight, even pass the salt comes out of his mouth in a thou-shalt-Ten-Commandments kind of way.
Gram raises her hands to her face in distress, and I go back to scribbling a poem in the margin of Wuthering Heights. I’m huddled into a corner of the couch. I’ve no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.
“But the plant’s always recovered before, Big, like when Lennie broke her arm, for instance.”
“That time the leaves had white spots.”
“Or just last fall when she auditioned for lead clarinet but had to be second chair again.”
“This time it’s different.”
I glance up. They’re still peering at me, a tall duet of sorrow and concern.
Gram is Clover’s Garden Guru. She has the most extraordinary flower garden in Northern California. Her roses burst with more color than a year of sunsets, and their fragrance is so intoxicating that town lore claims breathing in their scent can cause you to fall in love on the spot. But despite her nurturing and renowned green thumb, this plant seems to follow the trajectory of my life, independent of her efforts or its own vegetal sensibility.
I put my book and pen down on the table. Gram leans in close to the plant, whispers to it about the importance of joie de vivre, then lumbers over to the couch, sitting down next to me. Then Big joins us, plopping his enormous frame down beside Gram. We three, each with the same unruly hair that sits on our heads like a bustle of shiny black crows, stay like this, staring at nothing, for the rest of the afternoon.
This is us since my sister Bailey collapsed one month ago from a fatal arrhythmia while in rehearsal for a local production of Romeo & Juliet. It’s as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.
The morning of the day Bailey died,
she woke me up
by putting her finger in my ear.
I hated when she did this.
She then started trying on shirts, asking me:
Which do you like better, the green or the blue?
You didn’t even look up, Lennie.
Okay, the green. Really, I don’t care what shirt you wear . . .
Then I rolled over in bed and fell back asleep.
I found out later
she wore the blue
and those were the last words I ever spoke to her.
(Found written on a lollipop wrapper on the trail to the Rain River)
My first day back to school is just as I expect, the hall does a Red Sea part when I come in, conversations hush, eyes swim with nervous sympathy, and everyone stares as if I’m holding Bailey’s dead body in my arms, which I guess I am. Her death is all over me, I can feel it and everyone can see it, plain as a big black coat wrapped around me on a beautiful spring day. But what I don’t expect is the unprecedented hubbub over some new boy, Joe Fontaine, who arrived in my month-long absence. Everywhere I go it’s the same:
“Have you seen him yet?”
“He looks like a Gypsy.”
“Like a rock star.”“A pirate.”
“I hear he’s in a band called Dive.”
“That he’s a musical genius.”
“Someone told me he used to live in Paris.”
“That he played music on the streets.”
“Have you seen him yet?”
I have seen him, because when I return to my band seat, the one I’ve occupied for the last year, he’s in it. Even in the stun of grief, my eyes roam from the black boots, up the miles of legs covered in denim, over the endless torso, and finally settle on a face so animated I wonder if I’ve interrupted a conversation between him and my music stand.
“Hi,” he says, and jumps up. He’s treetop tall. “You must be Lennon.” He points to my name on the chair. “I heard about—I’m sorry.” I notice the way he holds his clarinet, not precious with it, tight fist around the neck, like a sword.
“Thank you,” I say, and every available inch of his face busts into a smile—whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o’-lantern happy, which couldn’t be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect. He has scores of messy brown curls that flop every which way and eyelashes so spider-leg long and thick that when he blinks he looks like he’s batting his bright green eyes right at you. His face is more open than an open book, like a wall of graffiti really. I realize I’m writing wow on my thigh with my finger, decide I better open my mouth and snap us out of this impromptu staring contest.
“Everyone calls me Lennie,” I say. Not very original, but better than guh, which was the alternative, and it does the trick. He looks down at his feet for a second and I take a breath and regroup for Round Two.
“Been wondering about that actually, Lennon after John?” he asks, again holding my gaze—it’s entirely possible I’m going to faint. Or burst into flames.
I nod. “Mom was a hippie.” This is northern Northern California after all—the final frontier of freakerdom. Just in the eleventh grade we have a girl named Electricity, a guy named Magic Bus, and countless flowers: Tulip, Begonia, and Poppy—all parent-given-on-the-birth-certificate names. Tulip is a two-ton bruiser of a guy who would be the star of our football team if we were the kind of school that had a football team. We’re not. We’re the kind of school that has optional morning meditation in the gym.
“Yeah,” Joe says. “My mom too, and Dad, as well as aunts, uncles, brothers, cousins . . . welcome to Commune Fontaine.”
I laugh out loud. “Got the picture.”
But whoa again—should I be laughing so easily like this? And should it feel this good? Like slipping into cool river water.
I turn around, wondering if anyone is watching us, and see that Sarah has just walked—rather, exploded—into the music room. I’ve hardly seen her since the funeral, feel a pang of guilt.
“Lennieeeee!” She careens toward us in prime goth-gone-cowgirl form: vintage slinky black dress, shit-kicker cowboy boots, blond hair dyed so black it looks blue, all topped off with a honking Stetson. I note the breakneck pace of her approach, wonder for an instant if she’s going to actually jump into my arms right before she tries to, sending us both skidding into Joe, who somehow retains his balance, and ours, so we all don’t fly through the window.
This is Sarah, subdued.
“Nice,” I whisper in her ear as she hugs me like a bear even though she’s built like a bird. “Way to bowl down the gorgeous new boy.” She cracks up, and it feels both amazing and disconcerting to have someone in my arms shaking from laughter rather than heartbreak.
Sarah is the most enthusiastic cynical person on the planet. She’d be the perfect cheerleader if she weren’t so disgusted by the notion of school spirit. She’s a literature fanatic like me, but reads darker, read Sartre in tenth grade—Nausea—which is when she started wearing black (even at the beach), smoking cigarettes (even though she looks like the healthiest girl you’ve ever seen), and obsessing about her existential crisis (even as she partied to all hours of the night).
“Lennie, welcome back, dear,” another voice says. Mr. James—also known in my mind as Yoda for both outward appearance and inward musical mojo—has stood up at the piano and is looking over at me with the same expression of bottomless sadness I’ve gotten so used to seeing from adults. “We’re all so very sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say, for the hundredth time that day. Sarah and Joe are both looking at me too, Sarah with concern and Joe with a grin the size of the continental United States. Does he look at everyone like this, I wonder. Is he a wingnut? Well, whatever he is, or has, it’s catching. Before I know it, I’ve matched his continental U.S. and raised him Puerto Rico and Hawaii. I must look like The Merry Mourner. Sheesh. And that’s not all, because now I’m thinking what it might be like to kiss him, to really kiss him—uh-oh. This is a problem, an entirely new un-Lennie-like problem that began (WTF-edly?!) at the funeral: I was drowning in darkness and suddenly all these boys in the room were glowing. Guy friends of Bailey’s from work or college, most of whom I didn’t know, kept coming up to me saying how sorry they were, and I don’t know if it’s because they thought I looked like Bailey, or because they felt bad for me, but later on, I’d catch some of them staring at me in this charged, urgent way, and I’d find myself staring back at them, like I was someone else, thinking things I hardly ever had before, things I’m mortified to have been thinking in a church, let alone at my sister’s funeral.
This boy beaming before me, however, seems to glow in a class all his own. He must be from a very friendly part of the Milky Way, I’m thinking as I try to tone down this nutso smile on my face, but instead almost blurt out to Sarah, “He looks like Heathcliff,” because I just realized he does, well, except for the happy smiling part—but then all of a sudden the breath is kicked out of me and I’m shoved onto the cold hard concrete floor of my life now, because I remember I can’t run home after school and tell Bails about a new boy in band.
My sister dies over and over again, all day long.
“Len?” Sarah touches my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod, willing away the runaway train of grief barreling straight for me.
Someone behind us starts playing “Approaching Shark,” aka the Jaws theme song. I turn to see Rachel Brazile gliding toward us, hear her mutter, “Very funny,” to Luke Jacobus, the saxophonist responsible for the accompaniment. He’s just one of many band-kill Rachel’s left in her wake, guys duped by the fact that all that haughty horror is stuffed into a spectacular body, and then further deceived by big brown fawn eyes and Rapunzel hair. Sarah and I are convinced God was in an ironic mood when he made her.
“See you’ve met The Maestro,” she says to me, casually touching Joe’s back as she slips into her chair—first chair clarinet—where I should be sitting.
She opens her case, starts putting together her instrument. “Joe studied at a conservatory in Fronce. Did he tell you?” Of course she doesn’t say France so it rhymes with dance like a normal English-speaking human being. I can feel Sarah bristling beside me. She has zero tolerance for Rachel ever since she got first chair over me, but Sarah doesn’t know what really happened—no one does.
Rachel’s tightening the ligature on her mouthpiece like she’s trying to asphyxiate her clarinet. “Joe was a fabulous second in your absence,” she says, drawing out the word fabulous from here to the Eiffel Tower.
I don’t fire-breathe at her: “Glad everything worked out for you, Rachel.” I don’t say a word, just wish I could curl into a ball and roll away. Sarah, on the other hand, looks like she wishes there were a battle-ax handy.
The room has become a clamor of random notes and scales. “Finish up tuning, I want to start at the bell today,” Mr. James calls from the piano. “And take out your pencils, I’ve made some changes to the arrangement.”
“I better go beat on something,” Sarah says, throwing Rachel a disgusted look, then huffs off to beat on her timpani.
Rachel shrugs, smiles at Joe—no not smiles: twinkles—oh brother. “Well, it’s true,” she says to him. “You were—I mean, are—fabulous.”
“Not so.” He bends down to pack up his clarinet. “I’m a hack, was just keeping the seat warm. Now I can go back to where I belong.” He points his clarinet at the horn section.
“You’re just being modest,” Rachel says, tossing fairy-tale locks over the back of her chair. “You have so many colors on your tonal palette.”
I look at Joe expecting to see some evidence of an inward groan at these imbecilic words, but see evidence of something else instead. He smiles at Rachel on a geographical scale too. I feel my neck go hot.
“You know I’ll miss you,” she says, pouting.
“We’ll meet again,” Joe replies, adding an eye-bat to his repertoire. “Like next period, in history.”
I’ve disappeared, which is good really, because suddenly I don’t have a clue what to do with my face or body or smashed-up heart. I take my seat, noting that this grinning, eye-batting fool from Fronce looks nothing like Heathcliff. I was mistaken.
I open my clarinet case, put my reed in my mouth to moisten it and instead bite it in two.
At 4:48 p.m. on a Friday in April,
my sister was rehearsing the role of Juliet
and less than one minute later
she was dead.
To my astonishment, time didn’t stop
with her heart.
People went to school, to work, to restaurants;
they crushed crackers into their clam chowder,
fretted over exams,
sang in their cars with the windows up.
For days and days, the rain beat its fists
on the roof of our house—
evidence of the terrible mistake
God had made.
Each morning, when I woke
I listened for the tireless pounding,
looked at the drear through the window
and was relieved
that at least the sun had the decency
to stay the hell away from us.
(Found on a piece of staff paper, spiked on a low branch, Flying Man’s Gulch) --This text refers to the paperback edition.
- Publication Date : March 9, 2010
- File Size : 1542 KB
- Print Length : 251 pages
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Publisher : Speak; 1st Edition (March 9, 2010)
- Language: : English
- ASIN : B003A0012Y
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Enhanced Typesetting : Enabled
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Lending : Not Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #285,342 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
Top reviews from the United States
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
Through-out the book, Lennie writes notes, poems, thoughts on any piece of paper and lets them go, buries them, tapes them to things, throws them away in different places. Maybe someone will read them. I loved how the book was filled with these and underneath it would say where they were found.
Lennie doesn't want to get rid of anything of Bailey's. She even keeps her dirty clothes in the hamper. Lennie is also having a strange attachment to Bailey's boyfriend, Toby. She learns secrets about Bailey that she couldn't image. The secrets hurt her because she thought they were the best of friends. They lived in the same room together and were very close. Then things start getting out of control with Toby. They are both looking for an outlet from the pain. At least one day that all settles itself because it almost cost her Joe. Almost cost her sanity.
Joe is the new boy at school. He is beautiful and has beautiful brothers and everyone wants to be with them. But Lennie and Joe have something different. They play music together, they found each other in the music class. But, can Lennie let everything go enough to find love with Joe? I'm guessing you need to read the book to find out the whole story, but there is always a way . . .
I really enjoyed this book. It's about love and loss. It's about family and the people you meet. It's crazy and awesome. It's sad, not only because of the loss, but because Lennie and Bailey never knew their mother or their fathers. There are some revelations. There are tears of sadness and tears of joy. I'm glad I went on this journey with the characters in this book. It was magical in it's own way.
Four weeks earlier 17-year-old Lenny lost her sister, Baily (19-years-old) from a fatal heart arrhythmia. Lenny and Baily were very close and had been taken care of by their grandmother for the last 16 years, after their mother abandoned them. Their mother was always something of a free spirit and so neither Baily nor Lenny ever knew who their read dad was.
Lenny is trying to figure out who she is without Baily. Baily became part of Lenny's identity as she always identified as Baily's younger sister. Lenny always felt insignificant and small compared to her older sister. Toby (Baily's boyfriend) continues to come around Lenny and her family after Baily's death. Lenny and Toby are going through a confusing time and in their grief they kiss. Lenny' feels guilty and imagines her sister's disappointing in her struggle to identify separately from her grief and move on. About the same time she also runs into Joe Fontaine in her school band, and realizes she has feelings for him that she has never felt before.
This is kind of a love triangle between Lenny, Toby and Joe. The love triangle is actually pretty short lived though. Lenny didn't actually have real feelings for Toby, she used affection from him to redirect her grief into another outlet (I do not feel this is a spoiler because I feel this story centered more around grief than the actual romance). She realizes Toby does not make her feel good and she is no longer satisfied with things between her and Toby once she has her feelings for Joe to compare it to. Her feelings for Joe become a wake up call to how she really feels.
You can also see very early on that Joe is very into Lenny. His care for Lenny seems more compassionate and less sensual in nature and feels softer and more fragile. He takes care not to rush his feelings for Lenny. In the moments he could have kissed her, he touches her tenderly or hugs her. He never crosses a line or makes a move before they are both comfortable. Joe is a huge contrast emotionally to all of Lenny's other relationships in her life.
I really loved the Grandmother, she is a fun and mystical woman. She uses sage to bring positive energy into their house. She radiates positivity and love throughout the book and brings hope and love to Lenny. We also see her as an individual who is also grieving for her lost granddaughter.
This story was actually very heartwarming and it was very straight forward in the way of grief and finding yourself and your place in the world when you are not near someone who is close to you anymore. I overall enjoy it. It is a YA contemporary book and I accepted it as such. It is not long, but the emotional investment is there. This was really enjoyable.
Top reviews from other countries
Her uncle and grandma are great fun and I could almost imagine myself sat in the kitchen with them drinking tea as the story progressed.
A lovely read, and a very thoughtful look at grief and life after a loved one is gone. I found a lot of my own grief reflected in Lennie's.
On one hand I loved it - it is emotional, funny at times, yet the scene of unusual household dealing with grief is so poignantly real that it gives you shivers. Joe is wonderful - and all interactions with John Lennon are brilliant.
The poems, the music, best friend... Simply brilliant.
But at the same time the Toby/Lennie bit and the drama it causes did not make sense to me. I tried, really tried to accept the premise of it being the result of two people that being close and not quite themselves because of their loss, but... I simply did not get it.
So despite enjoying the book overall I could not give more than three stars since the only drama driver throughout felt out of place :(
I have 'I'll give you the sun' on my to-read list, so definitely sticking with Ms Nelson.
PS - this book 'felt' like Rainbow Rowell to me
really close to me, but through Jandy Nelson's poetic words I have had a glimpse into a world where
you are drowning in grief. Where the pain and sadness is so consuming you don't know if you can even
We meet Lennie, who has very recently lost her big sister Bailey, very suddenly and tragically. One day
Bailey was rehearsing for a play and her heart just stopped. Lennie lives with her Gram and her uncle big
who were both such marvelously written characters. All trying to deal with their grief in their own way
and all making their own mistakes. I loved Lennie and I loved the Bailey who we only got to know through
her sisters words, but it was so apparent that Lennie was truly lost without her, haveing in her own words
always been the companion pony to Bailey the "racehorse". We watch as Lennie blooms and realises that
she is just as special and also "the colour of extraordinary".
Expectedly Lennie makes mistakes along the way, she confuses her grief at the loss of her sister and her
desperation to have her sister back with her feelings for her Baileys boyfriend. So wanting to have some
part of her back, Lennie ends up kissing Toby even though she's falling head over heals, crazy in love
with Joe. Her dispair when Joe finds out and won't talk to her is almost that of the despair she felt
when she realised she would never see or speak to her sister again. Its all so beautifully written you
can almost feel your own heart break as you're reading this. Its rare that you come across something so
beautiful and touching and heartfelt. I'm so sad I have finnished this book, but then I remember that I can
read it again, whenever I want to.
Also, if you can, buy the hardcover edition of this, blue cover with the elastic band around. It looks like
it could be Lennies real diary, and the pictures and the use of colour makes this far more enjoyable.
It doesn't effect the story obviously, but this books is a beautiful in its presentation as it is in its
words. I have seen the paperback and in comparison it is so dull, this hardcover edition really adds to the
reading experience. It just looks so gorgeous and realistic. Defo go for this one if you can.
I can't see that Ms Nelson has anynore books yet and I impatiently wait for her to write more.
She's an exceptional writer with an amazing talent. One hell of a debut!