{"product_id":"the-sky-is-everywhere-isbn-9780142417805","title":"The Sky Is Everywhere","description":"\u003cb\u003eJandy Nelson's beloved, critically adored debut is now an Apple TV+ and A24 original film starring Jason Segel, Cherry Jones, Grace Kaufman, and Jacques Colimon.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Both a profound meditation on loss and grieving and an exhilarating and very sexy romance.\" —NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdrift after her sister Bailey’s sudden death, Lennie finds herself torn between quiet, seductive Toby—Bailey’s boyfriend who shares Lennie’s grief—and Joe, the new boy in town who bursts with life and musical genius. Each offers Lennie something she desperately needs. One boy helps her remember. The other lets her forget. And she knows if the two of them collide, her whole world will explode.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs much a laugh-out-loud celebration of love as a nuanced and poignant portrait of loss, Len­nie’s struggle to sort her own melody out out the noise around her makes for an always honest, often uproarious, and absolutely unforgettable read.\"Nelson's first novel is tender, romantic, and loaded with passion.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The author brilliantly navigates Lennie's course between despair and hope, sorrow and humor... a gripping love triangle.\"—\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"In this amazing tale of love and loss, Nelson introduces a cast of characters who make the reader laugh and cry.\"—NPR's \u003ci\u003eThe Roundtable\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nearly everyone who's staggering through life in the wake of a loved one's death will recognize themselves in this brilliant, piercing story.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"This is distinguished by the dreamy California setting and poetic images that will draw readers into Lennie's world.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"It's romantic without being gooey and tear-jerking without being campy—what more could a reader want?\"—\u003ci\u003eBCCB\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e \"This is a passionate, vulnerable, wonderfully complete and irresistible book.\"—\u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"[Nelson] writes with abandon... it's a headlong kind of book, preferably devoured at a single setting.\"—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Brimming with humor and life, full of music and the poems Lennie drops all over town, \u003ci\u003eThe Sky is Everywhere\u003c\/i\u003e explores betrayal and forgiveness through a vibrant cast of characters.\"—\u003ci\u003eSLJ \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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 \u003ci\u003eThe Sky is Everywhere . . .\u003c\/i\u003e A finely-drawn portrait of grief and first love.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A story of love, loss, and healing that will resonate with readers long after they've finished reading.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A story about love and loss . . . both heartfelt and literary.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eSky\u003c\/i\u003e 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 the year)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How grief and love run side by side is sensitively and intensely explored in this energetic, poetic, and warm-blooded novel.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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!\"—\u003ci\u003eGayle Forman\u003c\/i\u003e, author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eBestseller \u003ci\u003eIf I Stay \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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 \u003ci\u003emarry\u003c\/i\u003e this book.\"—Sonya Sones, author of \u003ci\u003eWhat My Mother Doesn't Know\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Full of heart, quirky charm, and beautiful writing, \u003ci\u003eThe Sky Is Everywhere \u003c\/i\u003esimply shines.\"—Deb Caletti, National Book Award Finalist and author of \u003ci\u003eThe Secret Life of Prince Charming \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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 \u003ci\u003eStory of a Girl\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSweethearts \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Flying Start \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Nominee\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A Junior Library Guild Selection\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Translated into thirty different languagesJandy Nelson is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eI’ll Give You the Sun\u003c\/i\u003e, which received the prestigious Printz Award and was a Stonewall Honor Book. Her critically acclaimed debut, \u003ci\u003eThe Sky Is Everywhere\u003c\/i\u003e, is now an AppleTV+ and A24 original film for which Jandy wrote the screenplay. Together, \u003ci\u003eSun\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSky\u003c\/i\u003e have sold over a million copies worldwide. Both have been YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults picks and on multiple best of the year lists, have earned many starred reviews, and continue to enjoy international success. Currently a full-time writer, Jandy lives and writes in San Francisco, California, not far from the settings of her novels.\u003cb\u003echapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGram 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGram 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcross the room from where I sit, Gram—all six feet and floral frock of her, looms over the black-spotted leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This time it has a very serious condition.” Big’s voice trumpets as if from stage or pulpit; his words carry weight, even \u003ci\u003epass the salt\u003c\/i\u003e comes out of his mouth in a thou-shalt-Ten-Commandments kind of way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGram raises her hands to her face in distress, and I go back to scribbling a poem in the margin of \u003ci\u003eWuthering Heights\u003c\/i\u003e. 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But the plant’s always recovered before, Big, like when Lennie broke her arm, for instance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That time the leaves had white spots.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Or just last fall when she auditioned for lead clarinet but had to be second chair again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brown spots.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Or when—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This time it’s different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glance up. They’re still peering at me, a tall duet of sorrow and concern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGram 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI put my book and pen down on the table. Gram leans in close to the plant, whispers to it about the importance of \u003ci\u003ejoie de vivre\u003c\/i\u003e, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is us since my sister Bailey collapsed one month ago from a fatal arrhythmia while in rehearsal for a local production of \u003ci\u003eRomeo \u0026amp; Juliet\u003c\/i\u003e. It’s as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003echapter 2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe morning of the day Bailey died,\u003cbr\u003eshe woke me up\u003cbr\u003eby putting her finger in my ear.\u003cbr\u003eI hated when she did this. \u003cbr\u003eShe then started trying on shirts, asking me: \u003cbr\u003eWhich do you like better, the green or the blue? \u003cbr\u003eThe blue. \u003cbr\u003eYou didn’t even look up, Lennie. \u003cbr\u003eOkay, the green. Really, I don’t care what shirt you wear . . . \u003cbr\u003eThen I rolled over in bed and fell back asleep. \u003cbr\u003eI found out later\u003cbr\u003eshe wore the blue\u003cbr\u003eand those were the last words I ever spoke to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e(Found written on a lollipop wrapper on the trail to the Rain River)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Have you seen him yet?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He looks like a Gypsy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like a rock star.”“A pirate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I hear he’s in a band called Dive.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That he’s a musical genius.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Someone told me he used to live in Paris.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That he played music on the streets.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Have you seen him yet?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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 \u003ci\u003ewow\u003c\/i\u003e on my thigh with my finger, decide I better open my mouth and snap us out of this impromptu staring contest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everyone calls me Lennie,” I say. Not very original, but better than \u003ci\u003eguh\u003c\/i\u003e, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod. “Mom was a hippie.” This is \u003ci\u003enorthern\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah,” Joe says. “My mom too, and Dad, as well as aunts, uncles, brothers, cousins . . . welcome to Commune Fontaine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laugh out loud. “Got the picture.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut whoa again—should I be laughing so easily like this? And should it feel this good? Like slipping into cool river water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is Sarah, subdued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah 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—\u003ci\u003eNausea\u003c\/i\u003e—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).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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 (\u003ci\u003eWTF-edly?!\u003c\/i\u003e) 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sister dies over and over again, all day long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Len?” Sarah touches my shoulder. “You okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod, willing away the runaway train of grief barreling straight for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone behind us starts playing “Approaching Shark,” aka the \u003ci\u003eJaws\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe opens her case, starts putting together her instrument. “Joe studied at a conservatory in \u003ci\u003eFronce\u003c\/i\u003e. Did he tell you?” Of course she doesn’t say \u003ci\u003eFrance\u003c\/i\u003e so it rhymes with \u003ci\u003edance\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRachel’s tightening the ligature on her mouthpiece like she’s trying to asphyxiate her clarinet. “Joe was a \u003ci\u003efabulous\u003c\/i\u003e second in your absence,” she says, drawing out the word \u003ci\u003efabulous\u003c\/i\u003e from here to the Eiffel Tower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I better go beat on something,” Sarah says, throwing Rachel a disgusted look, then huffs off to beat on her timpani.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRachel shrugs, smiles at Joe—no not smiles: twinkles—oh brother. “Well, it’s true,” she says to him. “You were—I mean, are—\u003ci\u003efabulous\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re just being modest,” Rachel says, tossing fairy-tale locks over the back of her chair. “You have \u003ci\u003eso\u003c\/i\u003e many colors on your tonal palette.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know I’ll miss you,” she says, pouting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’ll meet again,” Joe replies, adding an eye-bat to his repertoire. “Like next period, in history.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open my clarinet case, put my reed in my mouth to moisten it and instead bite it in two.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt 4:48 p.m. on a Friday in April,\u003cbr\u003emy sister was rehearsing the role of Juliet\u003cbr\u003eand less than one minute later\u003cbr\u003eshe was dead. \u003cbr\u003eTo my astonishment, time didn’t stop\u003cbr\u003ewith her heart. \u003cbr\u003ePeople went to school, to work, to restaurants; \u003cbr\u003ethey crushed crackers into their clam chowder, \u003cbr\u003efretted over exams, \u003cbr\u003esang in their cars with the windows up. \u003cbr\u003eFor days and days, the rain beat its fists\u003cbr\u003eon the roof of our house—\u003cbr\u003eevidence of the terrible mistake\u003cbr\u003eGod had made. \u003cbr\u003eEach morning, when I woke\u003cbr\u003eI listened for the tireless pounding, \u003cbr\u003elooked at the drear through the window\u003cbr\u003eand was relieved\u003cbr\u003ethat at least the sun had the decency\u003cbr\u003eto stay the hell away from us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e(Found on a piece of staff paper, spiked on a low branch, Flying Man’s Gulch)\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Dial Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305028833509,"sku":"NP9780142417805","price":11.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142417805.jpg?v=1767741548","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-sky-is-everywhere-isbn-9780142417805","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}