{"product_id":"breathless-isbn-9781524701963","title":"Breathless","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll the Bright Places\u003c\/i\u003e comes a compulsively readable novel about a teen girl determined to write her own story--sex, heartbreak, family dramas, and all.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A coming-of-age story that \u003cb\u003ewill make your heart ache\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith high school coming to an end, Claudine Henry is focused on four things: sex, starting college, becoming a famous writer, and... sex. But when her parents announce they're splitting up, her entire world begins to fall apart. The epic road trip she planned with her best friend is cancelled, and she finds herself stuck on a remote island off the coast of Georgia with her mom - an island with no WiFi, no cell service and no friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil she meets the free spirited, mysterious, and beautiful Jeremiah. He infuriates and intrigues her. Their chemistry takes her by surprise, and when Claude decides he should be her first, she tells herself it's just sex. Exactly what she wanted, right? They both know that what they have can't last forever, but maybe the time they have can be enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Romantic and sexy.\"\u003c\/b\u003e —Judy Blume, acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eForever\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Romantic and sexy.\"\u003c\/b\u003e —Judy Blume, acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eForever\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A coming-of-age story that \u003cb\u003ewill make your heart ache\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] bittersweet summer romance.... Discussions about love, sex, family, and the conflicting emotions caused by change are \u003cb\u003erefreshingly honest.\u003c\/b\u003e\" —\u003ci\u003eSLJ, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eA sex-positive summer romance\u003c\/b\u003e that’s worth reading.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eNiven describes this as her most personal novel.\u003c\/b\u003e... [She] intimately and sensually depicts Claude’s determination to know herself and her body, and to genuinely connect not just with Miah but with herself.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eBreathless \u003c\/i\u003eis\u003cb\u003e a frank and tender novel of self-discovery\u003c\/b\u003e that fans of Sarah Dessen’s transformational summer romances and John Green’s stories of poignant self-discovery and difficult growth will enjoy.” —\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003eJENNIFER NIVEN is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll the Bright Places, Holding Up the Universe\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBreathless\u003c\/i\u003e. Her books have been translated in over 75 languages and have won literary awards around the world. An Emmy-award winning screenwriter, she co-wrote the script for the All the Bright Places movie— currently streaming on Netflix and starring Elle Fanning and Justice Smith. She is also the author of several narrative nonfiction titles and the Velva Jean historical fiction series. Jennifer divides her time between coastal Georgia and Los Angeles with her husband and literary cats.\u003cp\u003e8 days till graduation \u003cbr\u003e I open my eyes and I am tangled in the sheets, books upside down on the floor. I know without looking at the time that I’m late. I leap out of bed, one foot still wrapped in the sheet, and land flat on my face. I lie there a minute. Close my eyes. Wonder if I can pretend I’ve fainted and convince Mom to let me blow off today and stay home.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It’s peaceful on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But it also smells a bit. I open an eye and there’s something ground into the rug. One of Dandelion’s cat treats, maybe. I turn my head to the other side and it’s better over here, but then from outside I hear a horn blast, and this is my dad.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e So now I’m up and on my feet because he will just keep honking and honking the stupid horn until I’m in the car. I can’t find one of my books and one of my shoes, and my hair is wrong and my outfit is wrong, and basically I am wrong in my own skin. I should have been born French. If I were French, everything would be right. I would be chic and cool and ride a bike to school, one with a basket. I would be able to ride a bike in the first place. If I were living in Paris instead of Mary Grove, Ohio, these flats would look better with this skirt, my hair would be less orange red--the color of an heirloom tomato--and I would somehow make more sense.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I scramble into my parents’ room dressed in my skirt and bikini top, the black one I bought with Saz last month, the one I plan to live in this summer. All my bras are in the wash. My mom’s closet is neat and tidy, but lacking the order of my dad’s, which is all black, gray, navy, everything organized by color because he’s colorblind and this way he doesn’t have to ask all the time, “Is this green or brown?” I rummage through the shelf above and then his dresser drawers, searching for the shirt I want: vintage 1993 Nirvana. I am always stealing this shirt and he is always stealing it back, but now it’s nowhere.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I stand in the doorway and shout down the hall, toward the stairs, toward my mom. “Where’s Dad’s Nirvana shirt?” I’ve decided that this and only this is the thing I want to wear today.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I wait two, three, four, five seconds, and my only answer is another blast of the horn. I run to my room and grab the first shirt I see and throw it on, even though I haven’t worn it to school since freshman year. Miss Piggy with sparkles.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e At the front door, my mom says, “I’ll come get you if Saz can’t bring you home.” My mom is a busy, well-known writer--historical novels, nonfiction, anything to do with history--but she always has time for me. When we moved into this house, we turned the guest room into her office and my dad spent two days building floor-to-ceiling bookcases to hold her hundreds of research books.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Something must show on my face because she rests her hands on my shoulders and goes, “Hey. It’s going to be okay.” And she means my best friend, Suzanne Bakshi (better known as Saz), and me, that we’ll always be friends in spite of graduation and college and all the life to come. I feel some of her calm, bright energy settling itself, like a bird in a tree, onto my shoulders, melting down my arms, into my limbs, into my blood. This is one of the many things my mom does best. She makes everyone feel better.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In the car, my dad is wearing his Radiohead T-shirt under a suit jacket, which means the Nirvana shirt is in the wash. I make a mental note to snag it when I get home so I can wear it to the party tonight.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e For the first three or four minutes, we don’t talk, but this is also normal. Unlike my mom, my dad and I are not morning people, and on the drive to school we like to maintain what he calls “companionable silence,” something Saz refuses to respect, which is why I don’t ride with her.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I stare out the window at the low black clouds that are gathering like mourners in the direction of the college, where my dad works as an administrator. It’s not supposed to rain, but it looks like rain, and it makes me worry for Trent Dugan’s party. My weekends are usually spent with Saz, driving around town, searching for something to do, but this one is going to be different. Last official party of senior year and all.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My dad sails past the high school, over Main Street Bridge, into downtown Mary Grove, which is approximately ten blocks of stores lining the bricked-paved streets, better known as the Promenade. He roars to a stop at the westernmost corner, where the street gives way to cobbled brick and fountains. He gets out and jogs into the Joy Ann Cake Shop while I text Saz a photo of the sign over the door. Who’s your favorite person?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In a second she replies: You are.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Two minutes later my dad is jogging back to the car, arms raised overhead in some sort of ridiculous victory dance, white paper bag in one hand. He gets in, slams the door, and tosses me the bag filled with our usual--one chocolate cupcake for Saz and a pound of thumbprint cookies for Dad and me, which we devour on the way to the high school. Our secret morning ritual since I was twelve.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As I eat, I stare at the cloudy, cloudy sky. “It might rain.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My dad says, “It won’t rain,” like he once said, “He won’t hit you,” about Damian Green, who threatened to punch me in the mouth in third grade because I wouldn’t let him cheat off me. He won’t hit you, which implied that if necessary my dad would come over to the school and punch Damian himself, because no one was going to mess with his daughter, not even an eight-year-old boy.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It might,” I say, just so I can hear it again, the protectiveness in his voice. It’s a protectiveness that reminds me of being five, six, seven, back when I rode everywhere on his shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He says, “It won’t.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In first-period creative writing, my teacher, Mr. Russo, keeps me after class to say, “If you really want to write, and I believe you do, you’re going to have to put it all out there so that we can feel what you feel. You always seem to be holding back, Claudine.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He says some good things too, but this will be what I remember--that he doesn’t think I can feel. It’s funny how the bad things stay with you and the good things sometimes get lost. I leave his classroom and tell myself he doesn’t begin to know me or what I can do. He doesn’t know that I’m already working on my first novel and that I’m going to be a famous writer one day, that my mom has let me help her with research projects since I was ten, the same year I started writing stories. He doesn’t know that I actually do put myself out there.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e On my way to third period, Shane Waller, the boy I’ve been seeing for almost two months, corners me at my locker and says, “Should I pick you up for Trent’s party?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Shane smells good and can be funny when he puts his mind to it, which--along with my raging hormones--are the main reasons I’m with him. I say, “I’m going with Saz. But I’ll see you there.” Which is fine with Shane, because ever since I was fifteen, my dad has notoriously made all my dates wait outside, even in the dead of Ohio winter. This is because he was once a teenage boy and knows what they’re thinking. And because he likes to make sure they know he knows exactly what they’re thinking.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Shane says, “See you there, babe.” And then, to prove to myself and Mr. Russo and everyone else at Mary Grove High that I am an actual living, feeling person, I do something I never do--I kiss him, right there in the school hallway.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When we break apart, he leans in and I feel his breath in my ear. “I can’t wait.” And I know he thinks--hopes--we’re going to have sex. The same way he’s been hoping for the past two months that I’ll finally decide my days of being a virgin are over and “give it up to him.” (His words, not mine. As if somehow my virginity belongs to him.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Knopf Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300671312101,"sku":"NP9781524701963","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524701963.jpg?v=1767723064","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/breathless-isbn-9781524701963","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}