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Stay by DEB CALETTI Simon Pulse NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical. Stay - Deb Caletti. Also by Deb Caletti. The Queen of Everything. Honey, Baby, Sweetheart. Wild Roses. The Nature of Jade. The Fortunes of Indigo Skye. caletti librarydoc79 pdf this our library download file free pdf ebook. stay by deb caletti - caletti if searched for a ebook by deb caletti stay in pdf format, then you .

Stay By Deb Caletti Pdf

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Stay by Deb Caletti - Now in paperback, a dark, romantic novel of love and obsession from National Book Award finalist Deb rainbowgiraffe.info's relationship with. . Website of Deb Caletti, bestselling author of What's Become of Her. Stay. * Best Fiction for Young Adults * Junior Library Guild Selection. In Stay, Deb Caletti masterfully tackles one of the most disturbing trends in YA literature: obsessive, Free download or read online Stay pdf (ePUB) book.

What I loved about Clara is that she understood that. Once she saw Christian for what he was - a psychologically disturbed young man, she was scared, and rightfully so.

And she wasn't weak for falling for him in the first place. Perhaps as a reader, we were able to look into her life, as she did in retrospect, and pick out all the clues and warning signs, but I don't think anyone should blame her or assign guilt. I just like how the relationship and its aftermath was portrayed. Realistically, yet somehow sympathetically. I've never been in anything close to such a destructive romance, but I was still able to relate to Clara perfectly.

I understand that it was not her fault, it was something that happened to her, and she was brave to handle it as she did. Quite a refreshing outlook in comparison to other YA novels that portray abusive because either emotionally or physically, it is abusive relationships as romantic, can't-live-without-you, I-know-what's-best-for-you, let-me-watch-you-while-you-sleep love.

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I also love the relationship between Clara and her father. I wish I had such an awesome relationship with my father. Kind of like the relationship between Lorelai and Rory Gilmore. Clara's father was an influential and active part of Clara's life, and was his own character with his own complexities.

Unlike most YA novels, he is not just a plot device.

One thing I've loved about every Caletti novel I've read is the writing. I just think she is spectacular.

Although some of her syntax may be clumsy, her prose is overall lyrical and very, very truthful. Every chapter is like a goldmine, with little nuggets of awesome found everywhere.

She has a way of taking the most ordinary, every day things and relating it to the meaning of the universe or something. People have a way of not noticing ordinary things, just because we become so accustomed to them.

Caletti has a habit of pointing out the overlooked things, and casting them in a new, sometimes bittersweet, light. I also loved the footnotes.

They were so cute. And often very, very funny. Clara is quirky, charming, and real. The only aspect of the novel that didn't exactly hit home with me was the rather optimistic relationship between Clara and Finn. It was cute and all, but perhaps a bit too fast and unrealistic. I think perhaps it sends the wrong message that in order to get over one relationship, one must enter a new one.

I didn't think it was necessary to the story, and the book would have been just as powerful if they had stayed friends. He was right.

It was almost shocking the way nature can be so suddenly before you in all its enormity and beauty. Out of the forest, and then—wow. Just, wow—this deep, steep down-ness, this drop to the sparkling waters of Deception Pass, a thin bridge spanning the impossible distance. Got it. A metaphor, right?

Dad was a writer down to his cells, and he loved metaphors. Everything was a metaphor. Your dirty laundry could be one. Unexpected encounters with dog shit, definitely. How does one make that crossing, at least permanently? I said. I stepped outside. I breathed in—the air felt huge. The blue-gray-green waters that stretched out before us sparkled in the sun.

It smelled great out there. I keep feeling like we have to go.

Like we have to hurry. We can relax now, he said. He took a big dramatic breath. This is magnificent, eh? Christ, I should set a book out here. The rock wall that dropped to the water was sheer and craggy, and as we stepped out onto the narrow footpath of the bridge itself, my stomach seemed to tumble and fall the million miles down to the jagged waves below.

The landscape was moody and dangerous. It was too far down. We were safe; our feet were on the solid ground of the bridge and I gripped the iron rail, but my heart still felt the long, long drop. Look right at it. Know you can, Dad said. Look right at that fear. Fear is the biggest bullshitter. This was not just some motivational rah-rah to get me through what was happening right then. This was how my father talked a good lot of the time.

He was curious and playful and hungry for meaning, and his speech reflected that. My friends said he sounded like a writer. You had to walk single file on that bridge, and so I followed him across, the cars whipping past us on one side, the sheer drop below us on the other. We made it to the far end, where a matching set of warning signs were posted along the cliffs, as if anyone would be stupid enough to climb there.

I felt a little sick and a little proud.


We got back in the car and wound our way down the island. You could practically follow the wet and salty air and that tangled underwater smell right down to the sea. The house was small and gray and shingled and sat at the tip of the peninsula. My father had found the house in the back of Seattle magazine, where the travel ads are. Some guy was renting it out while he was working in California. The man who owned the house had good taste—his shirts were expensive and the cupboard had flavored vinegars and fancy olives and a bottle of Scotch.

Something to do with the film industry, my father guessed. California, right? It makes sense. He was standing by the bookshelf, the first place he always went to find out about a person. I looked, too. Elia Kazan: But wait. The Art of Closing Any Deal? Some sort of businessman? What do you know about the guy? Not a thing, my father said, pleased.

This was a game that could last us the three months, easy. Feel free to gather more clues about our host. Instead of gathering more clues, though, I sat down on the bed in my crisp, clean room. The bed had the kind of sheets and down comforter you could sleep years in. A million years tired. The sheets smelled good, like spring. I looked out my large window, trimmed in blue paint. I could see the coastline from my bed, the blue-gray sea, though that night after dinner, it would become unbelievably dark out there.

The dark of the ocean was an endless dark. It started to sink in: It was a fantastically freeing feeling. I could be anyone at all. I could be someone with an entirely different past, and a wide open future. Of course I went to the next basketball game our school played against his.

I thought about him every day until then. I started having those conversations with him in my head that you have when you first meet someone you sense is going to be important in your life. I told him things about me I thought he should know.

That I was a mostly shy person concealing that fact; too straight, probably. I read too much.

Deb Caletti

Something with words like my father, I said to him in my head, because words were hills and valleys you traveled, so lovely sometimes that they hurt your eyes.

I imagined him telling me other things. His first memory. Who had hurt him and who had loved him best.

His dreams. I imagined us traveling to the place he had come from.

We would visit museums with paintings in heavy gold frames or watch the northern lights with wool mittens on our hands. Clothes piled up and I knew I was going to be late, and finally I put on something I wore all the time—my old jeans and a soft green shirt, my hair taken from its barrette and worn straight. Right away I felt better—feeling confident at a time like that was hard enough without having to get to know some new outfit, too.

I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror at the stoplights. My stomach felt giddy and tumbling. The parking lot was packed. I think we were in some sort of basketball playoffs—I could never quite follow all of the specifics when Shakti told me. It was dark already and there was that parking lot excitement of a big event, headlights and shouts and loud laughter, people crossing into the paths of idling cars and running to the curb.

Shakti met me out front by the bike rack, our usual place. Her eyes were bright in the streetlights. This is it, she said, and gave a little squeal.

She was smart and thoughtful and dinners at her house were careful and quiet, though the huge plates of food served by her mother were steaming and delicious and somehow passionate. Poor guy, I said. What I felt was my own disappointment. A million people. The chances of me seeing him again in a crowd like that were next to zero. We squeezed our way through the mob. Our band was playing a pounding, rousing something, and your ears just thrummed with noise. The blare of contemporary tribal warfare.

Shakti had her place she liked to stand, right near the team benches, where she could keep an eye on Luke and on the assistant coach, our old history teacher, Mr. This was fine by me. I had it all planned out for us. The whistle screeched; the game began.

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There was the rumble of running and the slams of the ball being dribbled down the court. Everyone was shouting. But I was in that strange place of heightened awareness that makes you feel both more a part of your surroundings and completely lifted out from them. The scoreboard was flashing and Shakti shouted things my way and one of our good friends, Nick Jakes, came over to stand with us, but I felt only that single presence in the room somewhere, his eyes on me, that sense of being watched that makes your every move feel acted out with a charged self-consciousness.

He was in the room, I was in the room, and we both knew it. This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue? Upload Sign In Join. Save For Later. Create a List. Stay by Deb Caletti. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere. Simon Pulse Released: Apr 5, ISBN: Book Preview Stay - Deb Caletti.

So here is the story. Sit back and make yourself comfortable and all that. I met him at a basketball game. I held my hands up near my ears. Loud, I said to him. I actually hate sports.

I laughed. How many people here are secretly wishing they were somewhere else? He looked around. Shook his head. Just us. Right, he said. Chapter 2 That was before.

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It all seems too big, I said. God, Dad.You have past and future colliding in the present, your own personal Big Bang, and nothing will ever be the same. Stay is the first book I have read by Deb Caletti, who has written several books for young adults.

His made his voice really high. I thought about him every day until then. He was shouting a little. This was not just some motivational rah-rah to get me through what was happening right then. But if fate is a shape-shifter, then love is too.

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