{"product_id":"isla-and-the-happily-ever-after-isbn-9780142426272","title":"Isla and the Happily Ever After","description":"\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBestseller!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stephanie Perkin’s characters fall in love the way we all want to, in real time and for good.” —Rainbow Rowell, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Stephanie Perkins is the Jane Austen of our generation. Her stories ache, soothe, and leave you breathless with joy; there's true magic in these pages.” —Tahereh Mafi, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the glittering streets of Manhattan to the moonlit rooftops of Paris, falling in love is easy for hopeless dreamer Isla and introspective artist Josh. But as they begin their senior year in France, Isla and Josh are quickly forced to confront the heartbreaking reality that happily-ever-afters aren't always forever. Their romantic journey is skillfully intertwined with those of beloved couples Anna and Étienne and Lola and Cricket, whose paths are destined to collide in a sweeping finale certain to please fans old and new.“Fans of literary heart flutters will love it.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Realistic characters, spot-on dialogue, and a truly delightful romance make for a novel that will delight the author’s fans and win her legions of new ones.” —\u003ci\u003eSLJ\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Engaging characters with page-turning love lives offer ample vicarious pleasures.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dazzling and full of raw emotion.” —\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, Top PickStephanie Perkins is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author and anthology editor of multiple books, including \u003ci\u003eAnna and the French Kiss\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLola and the Boy Next Door\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eIsla and the Happily Ever After\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as contemporary horror novels \u003ci\u003eThere’s Someone Inside Your House\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Woods Are Always Watching\u003c\/i\u003e. She has always worked with books—first as a bookseller, then as a librarian, and now as a novelist. Stephanie lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband. Every room of their house is painted a different color of the rainbow.It’s midnight, it’s sweltering, and I might be high on Vicodin, but that guy—that guy \u003ci\u003eright over there\u003c\/i\u003e—that’s him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis posture is as familiar as a recurring dream. Shoulders rounded down, head cocked to the right, nose an inch from the tip of his pen. Absorbed. My heart swells with a painful sort of euphoria. He’s close, only two tables over and facing my direction. The café is boiling. The atmosphere is clouded with bittersweet coffee. Three years of desire rip through my body and burst from my lips:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Josh!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis head jolts up. For a long time, a very long time, he just stares at me. And then. . . he blinks. “Isla?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know my name. You can \u003ci\u003epronounce\u003c\/i\u003e my name.” Most people call me Iz-la, but I’m Eye-la. Island without the \u003ci\u003end\u003c\/i\u003e. I erupt into a smile that immediately vanishes. \u003ci\u003eOuch.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosh glances around, as if searching for someone, and then cautiously sets down his pen. “Uh, yeah. We’ve sat beside each other in a ton of classes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Five classes beside each other, twelve classes together total.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pause.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Right,” he says slowly. Another pause. “Are you okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA guy who looks like a young Abraham Lincoln with a piercing fetish tosses a single-page laminated menu onto my table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t look at it. “Something soft, please.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbe scratches his beard, weary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But no tomato soup, chocolate pudding, or raspberry applesauce. That’s all I’ve had to eat today,” I add.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ah.” Abe’s mood lightens. “You’re sick.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis mood darkens again. “Whatever.” He snatches up the menu. “Allergic to anything? You kosher? Vegetarian?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huh?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll have a look in the kitchen.” And he stalks away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy gaze returns to Josh, who is still watching me. He looks down at his sketchbook, and then back up, and then back down. Like he can’t decide if we’re still having a conversation. I look down, too. I’m getting the increasingly alarming notion that if I keep talking, tomorrow I might have something to regret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut. . . as if I can’t help it—because I \u003ci\u003ecan’t,\u003c\/i\u003e not when I’m around him—I glance up. My veins throb as my eyes drink him in. His long, beautiful nose. His slender, assured arms. His pale skin is a few shades darker from the summer sun, and his black tattoo peeks out from underneath his T-shirt sleeve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoshua Wasserstein. My crush on him is near unbearable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looks up again, too, and I blush. Blushing. The curse of redheads everywhere. I’m grateful when he clears his throat to speak. “It’s strange, you know? That we’ve never run into each other before.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI leap in. “Do you come here often?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh.” He fidgets with his pen. “I meant in the city? I knew you lived on the Upper West, but I’ve never seen you around.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy chest tightens. I knew that about him, but I had no idea that \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e knew that about \u003ci\u003eme.\u003c\/i\u003e We attend a boarding school for Americans in Paris, but we spend our breaks in Manhattan. Everybody knows that Josh lives here, because his father has one of the New York seats in the United States Senate. But there’s no reason for anyone to remember that I live here, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t get out often,” I blurt. “But I’m starving, and there’s nothing to eat at home.” And then, somehow, I’m dropping into the empty seat across from him. My compass necklace knocks against his tabletop. “My wisdom teeth were removed this morning, and I’m taking all of these medications, but my mouth is still sore so that’s why I can only eat soft foods.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosh breaks into his first smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccomplishment puffs up inside of me. I return the smile as full as I can, even though it hurts. “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Painkillers. It makes sense now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, shit.” I tuck up a leg and smack my kneecap on the table. “Am I acting that loopy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughs with surprise. People always laugh, because they don’t expect words like \u003ci\u003eshit\u003c\/i\u003e to come out of someone so petite, someone with a voice so quiet, so sweet. “I could just tell something was different,” he says. “That’s all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Side effects include the cruel combination of exhaustion and insomnia. Which is why I’m here now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosh laughs again. “I had mine extracted last summer. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Promise?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not really. But definitely in a few days.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur smiles fade into a reflective silence. We’ve rarely spoken to each other at school and never outside of it. I’m too shy, and he’s too reserved. Plus, he had the same girlfriend for, like, forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey broke up last month, right before her graduation. Josh and I still have our senior year to go. And I wish there were a logical reason for him to show a sudden interest in me, but . . . there’s not. His ex was tenacious and outspoken. My opposite. Maybe that’s why I’m startled when I find myself pointing at his sketchbook, eager to prolong this temporary state. This miracle of conversation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you working on?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis arm shifts to block the exposed drawing, someone resembling a young Abe Lincoln. “I was just. . . messing around.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s our server.” I grin. \u003ci\u003eOuch.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looks a bit sheepish as he pulls back his arm, but he only shrugs. “And the couple in the corner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’re not alone?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI twist around to discover a middle-aged man and woman, all the way in the back, sharing a copy of the\u003ci\u003e Village Voice.\u003c\/i\u003e There isn’t anyone else here, so at least I’m not too out of it. I don’t think. I turn back to Josh, my courage rising.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“May I see that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked. I can’t \u003ci\u003ebelieve\u003c\/i\u003e that I asked. I’ve always wanted to look inside of his sketchbooks, always wanted to \u003ci\u003ehold\u003c\/i\u003e one. Josh is the most talented artist at our school. He works in several mediums, but his real passion is the comic form. I once overheard him say that he’s working on a graphic novel about his life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn autobiography. A diary. What secrets would it contain?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI content myself with doodles viewed over his shoulder, paintings drying in the art studio, sketches tacked to the doors of his friends. His style is almost whimsical. It’s melancholy and beautiful, completely his own. The lines are careful. They reveal that he pays attention. People don’t think he does, because he daydreams and skips class and neglects his homework, but when I see his drawings, I know they’re wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wish he would look at me the way that he looks at his subjects. Because then he’d see there’s more to me than \u003ci\u003eshy\u003c\/i\u003e, just like I see there’s more to him than \u003ci\u003eslacker.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy cheeks burn again—as if he could hear my thoughts—but then I realize. . . he \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e studying me. Have I overstayed my welcome? His expression grows concerned, and I frown. Josh nods toward the table. His sketchbook is already before me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laugh. He does, too, though it’s tinged with confusion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis book is still open to the work in progress. A thrill runs through me. On one page, Abe’s face stares with boredom at the sketchbook’s spine. Even the rings in his septum, eyebrows, and ears seem dull and annoyed. On the opposite page, Josh has perfectly captured the middle-aged couple’s studious, gentle frowns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI touch a corner, one without ink, oh so lightly. To prove to myself that this moment is real. My voice turns reverent. “These are amazing. Is the whole thing filled with portraits like this?” Josh closes the sketchbook and slides it back toward himself. Its pages are thick with use. On the cover is a blue sticker shaped like America. A single word has been handwritten across it: \u003ci\u003eWELCOME\u003c\/i\u003e. I don’t know what that means, but I like it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks.” He gives me another smile. “It’s for whatever, but yeah. Mainly portraits.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And you’re allowed to do that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis brow creases. “Do what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like, you don’t need their permission?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To draw them?” he asks. I nod, and he continues. “Nah. I’m not using these for anything special. This isn’t even my good sketchbook. See? I can’t remove the pages.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you do this a lot? Draw strangers?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure.” He reaches for his coffee cup with an index finger. There’s a splotch of black ink near his nail. “To be good at anything you have to practice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you wanna practice on me?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePink blossoms across Josh’s cheeks as Abe slaps down two dishes. “Chicken broth and cheesecake,” Abe says to me. “That’s all we had.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Merci,”\u003c\/i\u003e I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“De nada.”\u003c\/i\u003e Abe rolls his eyes and walks away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s with that guy?” I ask, shoveling in the cheesecake. “Ohmygod, sogood.” I mumble this through a full mouth. “Youwannabite?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh. No, thanks.” Josh seems flustered. “You look hungry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI begin happily devouring the rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So you live close by?” he asks, after a few moments.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI swallow. “Two minutes away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me too. Ten minutes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must look surprised, because he continues. “I know. Weird, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s cool.” I glug my broth. “Ohmygod. This is incredible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe watches me quietly for another minute. “So. . . you were serious? You wouldn’t mind if I sketched you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, I’d love that.” \u003ci\u003eI love youuuuuuuuu. \u003c\/i\u003e“What should I do?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry about it. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ha! You’ll draw me eating like a horse. No. A pig. I meant pig. Do I mean a pig or a horse?” Josh shakes his head in amusement. He opens the sketchbook to a new page and looks up. His eyes lock on to mine. I’m dumbstruck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHazel.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe word adds itself to my internal list of Facts About Josh. Sometimes his eyes had seemed green, sometimes brown. Now I know why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHazel.\u003c\/i\u003e Josh’s eyes are \u003ci\u003ehazel.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI float into a green-brown fog. The \u003ci\u003escritch\u003c\/i\u003e of his pen mingles with the \u003ci\u003escratch\u003c\/i\u003e of an old folk song coming from the speakers. Their combined tune is yearning and turmoil and anguish and love. Outside, storm clouds burst. Rain and wind join the score, and I hum along. My head clunks against a window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sit up, startled. My bowl and plate are empty. “How long have I been here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A while.” Josh smiles. “So. Those drugs you’re on. Good stuff, huh?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI moan. “Tell me I wasn’t drooling.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No drool. You look happy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I \u003ci\u003eam\u003c\/i\u003e happy,” I say. Because. . . I am. My eyes dim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Isla,”\u003c\/i\u003e he whispers. “\u003ci\u003eIt’s time to go.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lift my head from the table. When did it get there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kismet is closing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s Kismet?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fate,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The name of this café.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh. Okay.” I follow him outside and into the night. It’s still raining. The drops are fat and warm. I cover my head with my bare hands as Josh stuffs his sketchbook underneath his shirt. I catch a glimpse of his abdomen. \u003ci\u003eYummy.\u003c\/i\u003e “Yummy tummy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe startles. “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hmm?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA smile plays in the corners of his lips. I want to kiss them, one kiss in each corner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, Loopy.” He shakes his head. “Which way?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Which way to what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To your place.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re coming over?” I’m delighted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m walking you home. It’s late. And it’s pouring.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. “You’re nice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe traffic lights glow yellow on the wet asphalt. I point the way, and we run across Amsterdam Avenue. The rain pours harder. “Up there!” I say, and we duck underneath a city block covered in scaffolding. Weighty raindrops clang against the aluminum like a pinball machine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Isla, wait!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it’s too late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScaffolding is generally ideal for escaping bad weather, but occasionally the bars will cross together to create a funnel, which can collect water and soak a person completely. I am soaked. Completely. My hair clings to my face, my sundress clings to my figure, and water squishes between my sandals and the soles of my feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ha-ha.” I’m not sure it’s real laughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you okay?” Josh stoops under the scaffolding, swerves around the waterfall, and then stoops back in beside me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI \u003ci\u003eam\u003c\/i\u003e laughing. I clutch my stomach. “Hurts. . . mouth. . . to laugh. My mouth. My mouth and my stomach. And my mouth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughs, too, but it’s distracted. His eyes suddenly, pointedly move up to my face, and I realize he’d been looking elsewhere. My smile widens. \u003ci\u003eThank you, slutty funnel. \u003c\/i\u003eJosh shifts away, his posture uncomfortable. “Almost there, yeah?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gesture toward a row of gabled buildings across the street. “The second one. With the copper green windows and the tiled roof.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve sketched those before.” His eyes widen, impressed. “They’re gorgeous.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy parents’ apartment is located in a line of Flemish-inspired homes built in the late nineteenth century. We live in one of the only neighborhoods that’s nice enough for residents to have flowers on their stoops, and passersby won’t destroy them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maman likes them, too. She likes pretty things. She’s French. That’s why I go to our school.” My voice drifts as Josh guides me toward the entrance with the climbing pink roses above the door. Home. He removes his hand from the small of my back, and it’s only then that I realize it was there in the first place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Merci,”\u003c\/i\u003e I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re welcome.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“De rien.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe air is heavy with the perfume of rain-dripped roses. I fumble my way inside the building, and he waits on the sidewalk, statuesque. His dark hair is as wet as mine now. A stream of water cascades down his nose. One arm clutches the sketchbook against his chest, underneath his T-shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you,” I say again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe raises his voice so that I can hear him through the glass door. “Get some rest, Loopy. Sweet dreams.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sweet,” I echo. “Dream.”","brand":"Speak","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233275687141,"sku":"NP9780142426272","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142426272.jpg?v=1767730211","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/isla-and-the-happily-ever-after-isbn-9780142426272","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}