ILL GIVE YOU THE SUN JANDY NELSON EPUB

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I ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson. “We were all At first, Jude and her twin brother Noah, are inseparable. Noah draws Free Epub Book Download. FREE EPUB EBOOK DOWNLOADS: I'll Give You the Sun - Jandy Nelson on libra xumodaperma.tk "I'll Give You the Sun" by Jandy Nelson A brilliant, luminous story of first love, family, loss, and betrayal for fans of John Green, David Levithan.


Ill Give You The Sun Jandy Nelson Epub

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The New York Times Bestselling story of first love, family, loss, and betrayal for fans of John Green, David Levithan, and Rainbow Rowell Jude and her twin. Read ebook Ebook download I'll Give You the Sun For Android Download file Book Details Author: Jandy Nelson Pages: Binding. I'll Give You the Sun: eBook (reflowable ePub). By Jandy Nelson. From the critically acclaimed author of The Sky Is Everywhere, a radiant novel.

I turn around and watch him stroll along like he should have a piece of hay in his mouth. Which I am. I leave the church a few minutes later feeling warmer, drier, and like I narrowly escaped something. I press down the street looking for the address of the sculpture studio. Well, I am and must remain that way. My mother was right after all. What someone says to you right before they die will come true I was on my way to a party and she said to me: It was the night before she died.

Do you really want to be that girl, Jude? Well, yeah, I did, because that girl got her attention. Especially the attention of the older guys on the hill, like Michael Ravens, aka Zephyr, who made me feel faint every time he spoke to me, every time he let me jump the line to catch a wave, every time he texted or messaged me at night, every time he casually touched me in conversation — above all, the time he looped his finger through the plastic ring of my bikini bottoms and pulled me to him so he could whisper in my ear: Come with me.

I went. You can say no, he said. His breath was ragged, his giant hands all over me, his fingers in me, the sand burning into my back, my brand-new cherub tattoo burning into my belly.

The sun burning up the sky. You can totally say no, Jude. It seemed like he weighed as much as the ocean, like my bikini bottoms were already bunched in his hand, like I was being sucked into that wave you hope never finds you, the one that takes you under, takes your breath, your bearings, disorients you completely and never brings you back to the surface again.

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You can say no. The words rumbled between us. It seemed like my mouth was filling with sand. Then the whole world filled with it. Not aloud anyway. We were a few coves down from everyone else, hidden from the beach traffic by rocks.

He was almost four years older than me. Then we stopped talking and he kissed me. Our first kiss. I kissed him back. His lips tasted salty. He smelled like coconut suntan lotion. In between kisses, he started saying my name like it was this scalding thing in his mouth. Then he slipped the cups of my yellow bikini top to the sides and swallowed hard as he looked at me. It was the first time any guy had ever seen me without a bra or anything and my cheeks flamed.

He smiled. His pupils were big and black, his eyes so dark as he lowered me onto my back in the sand and slowly pushed the fabric of my top again to the sides. This time I let him. I let him look at me.

I'll Give You the Sun: eBook (reflowable ePub)

I let my cheeks flame. I could hear his breathing in my own body. He started to kiss my breasts. Then his mouth was on mine so hard I could barely breathe. Then his whole body was pressing me into the hot sand, burying me in it. I can. And then it was over. And then everything was. Just know: I cut off three feet of blond hair and swore away boys forever because after this happened with Zephyr, my mother died.

Right after. It was me. I brought the bad luck to us. How very neighborly. I cross the fingers of my left hand for luck and knock on the door with my right.

And what my mother said about the walls? Actually, what the hell am I thinking stopping in like this? And in this fog, which is totally creepy and cold and foreboding. I cast around, jump down the step, ready to leap into the mist and disappear, when I hear the door creak open.

Horror movie creak. Hair crawls all over his head, culminating in a black wiry beard uncoiling in every direction at once. An abundance of facial hair indicates a man of an ungovernable nature No question. Whoever this is, no offense, but he eats puppies.

He brushes hair out of his eyes and color jumps from them — a light green that is near fluorescent like in the picture. It is him. Is he drunk? I inhale deeply, and yes, smell faintly the sweet acrid smell of alcohol. Something happened to him, Sandy had said. No one knows what the deal is. He looks me over as if inventorying my whole being. Sandy and Mom were right. This is not a normal dude.

I stand there for a long time letting the fog erase me piece by piece. Then, I knock again. I need to make this sculpture. Holy effing hell. Surprise sparks in his mismatched eyes as he recognizes me. I hear banging and clattering and breaking from within the studio, like some super-humans are having a furniture-throwing contest. The English guy looks over his shoulder, then back to me, his wild face wild with worry now.

All his cocky confidence, his cheerfulness, his flirtatiousness have vanished. The last time I stepped foot in the water was to drag him out of it. When I finally got his body — twice my size, chest still as stone, eyes slung back — to shore, and to revive, I was so furious at him I almost rolled him back into the surf. Surrounded by water on three sides and forest everywhere else, Lost Cove is the end, the farthest point west you can go before falling off the world. I scan the bluff for our red house, one of many ramshackles up there, clinging to the edge of the continent.

I used to love living on the cliffs — surfed and swam so much that even when I was out of the water, I could feel the ground rocking under my feet like a moored boat. I check the ledge again. Still no Noah. How am I ever going to convince that hairy, drunken, furniture-throwing, scary-ass Igor to mentor me? And if I do, how will I steer clear of that unremarkable, plain-faced, dull-witted English guy who turned boycotting-me into a molten mess in a matter of minutes — and in a church!

A flock of gulls swoops down to the breakers, wings outspread, crying. Grandma releases her parasol into the air. I look up, see the pink disc whirling off into the steely sky. He was supposed to be the next Chagall, not the next doorstop.

One time, she made me do this guided meditation where I had to imagine myself walking in the woods and tell her what I saw. I saw woods. But then, a house appeared, only there was no way to get in it. No doors or windows. Major heebie-jeebies. She told me the house was me. Guilt is a prison, she said. I stopped going to see her. Makes such a glamorous hem.

Wait until you see. And partners in luck-hunting: I bet. I wished. I was her disciple. I still am. Noah and Heather are standing on the ledge gazing out over the whitecaps. She never goes in the water. I feel a surge of adrenaline. And then what always happens: He slows down. I blink a few times at him suspended there midair as if on a tight rope. I did read once that anxiety can significantly alter space-time perception.

Our boy has returned. Is this why he keeps jumping, then? To become for the briefest moment who he used to be? Because the worst thing that could ever happen to Noah has happened. He has the proper amount of buttons. Except for this. I tell him: Come in, but our twin-telepathy is long gone.

When Mom died, he hung up on me. I see his arms flail once. Is he struggling? The water must be freezing. I watch him scramble up the beach, then the bluff, with his head down, shoulders hunched, thinking about Clark Gable knows what. No traces of what I just saw in his face, in his very being, remain. His soul has crawled back into its trench. This is what I want: I have to be down the hill at CSA in an hour and now I can take the streets, for once, instead of tearing through the woods, trying to give Fry the slip.

Zephyr, for some reason Into Jude? The concrete dork? I mentally send a school of famished great white sharks their way, then find Jude on the beach and zoom in. Pretty hornet-girls in bright bikinis with suntans that glimmer for miles.

I know all about hornets: If one sends out a distress signal, it can trigger a whole nest attack. This can be deadly to people like me. She stopped going to museums with us ages ago, which is probably a good thing, because when she did, her shadow kept trying to strangle mine. Sometimes lately, I catch her shadow creeping around my bed at night trying to pull the dreams out of my head. I have a good idea what she does instead of coming to the museum, though.

Bug bites, she said. I heard while spying that she and Courtney Barrett have been riding bikes down to the boardwalk on weekends, where they see who can kiss more boys. It would change everything. Not that I want that. Not one bit. The other day, I was watching her make one from the bluff.

She was at her place, three coves away. This time it was a big round woman, done has relief, like always, except she was halfway turned into a bird — so incredible it made my head vibrate. I got sand everywhere, in my eyes and ears and down my throat. I kept finding it on me days after, in my bed, in my clothes, under my nails.

But I had to do it. It was too good. What if Mom had gone for a walk and seen it? She surfs waves as big as houses and jumps off anything. She has skin that fits and friends and Dad and The Sweetwine Gift and gills and fins in addition to lungs and feet. She gives off light.

I give off dark. Where the hell is Ralph? I zoom in until I can see the sweat on their flushed foreheads, dripping down their necks, leaving wet transparent patches on their white shirts, which stick to them like skin. These binoculars are so awesome. I sit down, rest my elbows on my bent knees, and watch and watch, the swimming, thirsty feeling taking me over. How long has he been there? I peek up at him through my hair.

Great, another surftard. Is he laughing at me? Does he know I was watching the movers? Does he think. He must, he must. I clench up, dread rising in my throat. But maybe not. Maybe he thinks I was checking out the piano? And that hat? I stand, watching as he takes something out of his pocket, winds his arm back, and then lobs whatever it is into the air over the house between us.

I stick out my palm and as I do, something slaps hard in the center of it. I wish Dad heard. I wish a reporter for the Lost Cove Gazette heard. I have an allergy to catching and throwing and kicking and dribbling of any kind.

Noah is not a team player. Well, duh. I examine the flat black rock in my hand. What am I supposed to do with it? I look back at him. Maybe a white Bengal tiger with that hair? I slip the rock into my pocket. That would be it. I start to run, start to turn into air, the blue careening off the sky, careening after me, as I sink into green, shades and shades of it, blending and spinning into yellow, freaking yellow, then head-on colliding into the punk-hair purple of lupine: I vacuum it in, all of it, in, in — Self- portrait: When school got out two weeks ago, I started doing recon down here, peering in the studio windows when no one was around.

I had to see the student artwork, had to find out if it was better than mine, had to know if I really had a shot. I did, however, stumble onto a life drawing class being taught in one of the studio buildings off the main campus — a building with one whole side of it tucked into thick old-growth trees.

A freaking miracle. Because what could stop me from taking this class? Covertly, you know, from outside the open window? So here I am. We do speed drawings of her every three minutes. Totally cool, even if I have to stand on tiptoe to see in and then bend down to draw, but so what.

I take the black stone out of my pocket. Why did the kid on the roof give me this? Why was he smiling at me like that? I wait a bit, then sneak to the other side of the building and peek around the corner: I go back to the bag wishing I had X-ray eyes, then crouch down and with one hand, shake it open. I take it out: Sapphire gin, half full. I quickly stuff it back in the bag, place it on the ground, and return to my side of the building. The teacher, who has a white beard and holds his balloon belly when he talks, is by the door with a student.

The rest of the class is setting up their pads on their stands. I was right too. All the students have glowing blood.

All revolutionaries. A room of Bubbles. A guy. He undoes the robe, hangs it on a hook, walks naked to the platform, jumps the step, almost falls, then makes some joke that causes everyone to laugh. A face in a broken mirror. I wedge my pad against the wall, holding it in place with my right hand and knee.

When my left hand finally stops shaking, I start to draw. I work on his body, feeling the lines and curves, muscle and bone, feeling every last bit of him travel through my eyes to my fingers. I hear nothing. I catch an English accent. He shakes his arm out, then his legs. A minute later, he lazes across the classroom in his robe toward the door — he moves like glue.

He looks younger than she did. He rounds the corner and immediately lowers to the ground, his back sliding down the building, not noticing me standing just yards away.

He stubs the cigarette out in the dirt, then drops his head into his hands — wait, what? And then I see it. This is the real pose, head in hands with sadness leaping off of him all the way to me.

Boy Blows into Dust He reaches for the bag, takes the bottle out and uncaps it, then starts chugging with his eyes closed. He takes another sip, then opens his eyes and turns his head my way.

My arms fly up to block his gaze as he scoots back, startled. He composes himself quickly. Then he laughs and hiccups at the same time. He looks from me to my pad resting against the wall, the sketch of him facing out. He recaps the bottle. Or wait — do you Americans even say that? Good to know. Only been here a few months.

He fumbles a cigarette out of a pack that was in his robe pocket. The sadness seems to have evaporated right off him. I notice something remarkable. He speaks! He lights the cigarette, inhales deeply, then makes the smoke come out his nose like a dragon. He nods toward my pad. I swallow it all, say nothing. He puts his cigarette out on the building, causing a shower of red sparks. This is fire season. Then he holds up his hand, points his index finger at me.

I nod, smiling. English people are so not asshats! William Blake was English. Frances freaking-the-most-awesome-painter Bacon too. Before he turns the corner, I think of something.

I pick up the pad and look at the drawing I did of him, his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, long legs, the trail of hair on his navel going down, down, down. A bloody mess. And on the next break, he brings me a stand and a footstool so I can really see in.

The teacher meets the model at the door and motions for him to go out into the hall. He crosses the classroom to the dressing area, and when he emerges in clothes, he seems even more lost and out of it than he did on the last break.

He never once looks up at the students or at me on his way out. He tells us to finish our drawings from memory. A few steps into the walk, I see the kid from the roof, leaning against a tree, the same grin, the same dark green hat spinning now on his hand. I blink because sometimes I see things. Blinking still. Then to further confirm his existence, he speaks. He collects rocks?

And carries them around in a suitcase? I look at him more closely. None at all. Today is definitely the day of the supremely excellent-eyed people. His are such a light brown, practically yellow, or copper maybe, and all splintered with green. But you can only see flashes of the color because he squints, which is cool on a face. Maybe not a Bengal tiger after all.

I drop my gaze, embarrassed, a total whale dick dork, my neck prickling and hot. I start shuffling some pine needles into a pyramid with the toe of my shoe. Was he spying on me the whole time? I try to keep my face calm. I think about him watching me watch the movers, about him following me down here.

He glances at my pad again. Does he want me to show him the naked drawings of the English guy? I think he does. And I want to. A heat storm, way more intense than the one before, is whipping through me. Then he smiles but only with half his mouth, and I notice he has a space between his front teeth, also supremely cool on a face.

I tried and ended up back here. I point in the direction we need to go and make my hijacked body start walking. He latches the suitcase full of rocks hello?

I try not to look at him as we walk. I want to be rid of him. I think. I keep my eyes on the trees. Trees are safe. And quiet. Next to me, even with the suitcase of rocks, which must be heavy, because he keeps switching it from arm to arm, the guy bounces along under his hat, like his legs have springs in them. After a while, the trees settle me back into my skin. Or maybe he has. This is highly weird. He keeps stopping to pick up rocks, examining them, and then either tossing them back or stuffing them in his sweatshirt pocket, which is starting to sag with the weight.

Wanting to ask why he followed me. Wanting to ask about the telescope and if he can see the stars during the daytime.

A few times I try to form a question so it sounds casual and normal, but each time the words get caught somewhere in my throat and never make it out. Finally, I give up and take out my invisible brushes and just start painting in my head. We walk and walk through the gray ashy dusk and the forest starts to fall asleep: The trees lie down side by side by side, the creek halts, the plants sink back into the earth, the animals switch places with their shadows, and then, so do we.

When we break out of the woods onto our road, he spins around. Like in my life! It was like holding my breath!

I was having a contest with myself. Are you always like this? She goes to these silent retreats. She should just hang out with you instead. He heard me! Talking to the trees! When we finally get it back together, I realize I have no idea what just happened to me. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I feel like I just flew or something.

He points to my pad. I wish the world would stick like a clock so I could look at him for as long as I want. His soul might be a sun. I feel so good, the freaking green leafy kind of good.

Just yards away, my house is a lighthouse.

Free read! I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson

I turn around. I can only see a shadowy shape in the road. This is how he came out: He floated into the air high above the sleeping forest, his green hat spinning a few feet above his head.

In his hand was the open suitcase and out of it spilled a whole sky of stars. I finally got the color so perfect, the squint just right, that looking at his eyes in the picture gives me the same hijacked feeling the real ones did.

I got so excited when I nailed it I had to walk around my chair about fifty times before I could calm down. I pick up a pastel and pretend to work on a portrait of the naked English guy that I finished last night. Jude teeters in wearing high heels and a tiny blue dress. She has makeup all over her face. They fight about this too. Basically, everything. And because we left her.

It was the Jackson Pollock exhibit. Mom and I had spent forever in front of the painting One: Number 31 — because holy shit! All my organs were out of my body. When we screeched up to the museum, Jude was sitting on the sidewalk, her head tucked into her knees. She looked like a crumpled-up piece of paper. Truth is: I think Mom and I had gotten used to not noticing her when the three of us were together. A damp rope of hair lands on my neck. I flick it off. I wanted to catch the unglued schizo way he looked before he got run over by misery, so I went way more abstract than usual.

What if she starts sneaking down to stealth-take classes at CSA too? She comes around to my side and leans in to better study the drawing. She never responds like this when she sees my stuff anymore. She usually looks like she has a turd in her mouth. She knows how badly I want the sun and trees.

So lame. The antennae are waving back and forth on her forehead. They wait until their enemies like hornets are close enough, then detonate themselves into a poison bomb. I begin countdown to detonation. She throws her hands up.

Neither do the ones you draw. I reach into my pocket and wrap my fingers around the rock he gave me. He has a suitcase of rocks! I look at the Chagall print on the wall in front of me and try to dive into the swirly dream of it. Real life blows. Now it feels like the very worst strangling, toilet-licking kind.

When Jude speaks again a moment later, her voice is sharp and tight. I had to make other friends. All you do is hole up making your lame drawings and obsessing about that stupid school with Mom. Here I go. Three, two, one: I detonate with the only thing I have. My Hornet Sister , no: When the silence between us has just about broken my ears, I turn around to look at her. Her big blue eyes are shining on me. I put the pencil down. I turn back to the Chagall, begging it to suck me in, please, just as Dad fills up the doorway.

He has a towel around his neck, his suntanned chest is bare. They do everything together now. He tilts his head in a questioning way, like he can see the body parts and bug guts all around the room.

Dad puts one hand on either side of the frame, filling the entire doorway, filling the Continental United States. How can I hate him and wish I were more like him at the same time? When we were little, Jude and I used to sit on the beach like two ducklings, his ducklings, waiting and waiting for him to finish his swim, to rise out of the white spray like Poseidon. But that was before he realized I was me. This happened the day he did a U-ey on the beach and instead of heading up the bluff, he took the two of us, perched there on his shoulders, back into the ocean.

The water was rough and white-capped and waves were hitting us from all sides as we walked deeper and deeper in. I held on to his arm, which was belted securely around me, feeling safe because Dad was in charge and it was his hand that pulled the sun up each morning and down at night.

He told us to jump. I sank. More talks followed: You need to act tough, sit up, stand straight, fight hard, play ball, look me in the eye, think before you speak. Okay already. Shut up! It does. Do you have to be so you all the time, Noah? So too bad. Why should I share Mom? Looking pretty pre-Raphaelite there with all those long, dark locks. Before our soul even got delivered. I smile. She and I did it once. We can ask it stuff and it gets the answers. The spirits.

I feel my lips curving into a grin. I so want to be on a team with Jude again! I want things to be like they used to be with us. How can everything change so quickly? I start to laugh. Grandma taught me.

This is my question for you: Does M. She spreads her arms and asks the spirits again, then puts her hands on the pointer. I put mine on too. It beelines to No. It goes to No. Will I get into CSA next year? Now spill. Each time it goes to No. Finally, she flips the board.

I want to go to Roosevelt like everyone else. They have a swim team. It goes to Yes. But I was wrong.

And so dreary, I think, taking in all the gray huddled-up old men disguised as trees. What if I have to go to Roosevelt with 3, toilet-licking Franklyn Fry clones? If I suck at painting? If Mom and Mr. Grady just feel sorry for me?

And Dad thinks. I drop my head in my hands, feel the heat of my cheeks on my palms, reliving what happened in the woods with Fry and Zephyr last winter. Self-portrait, Series: Broken Umbrella No. I get up on my elbows. Several seconds that feel like several years later, he cruises down the driveway.

Across his chest is a duffel-like black sack. The meteorite bag? He has a bag for meteorites. He carries pieces of the galaxy around in a bag. Oh man. Even if that guy carries the galaxy around in a bag!

Our eyes lock and electricity rides up my spine. But why? He followed me all the way to CSA yesterday! People make friends. Everyone does it. I can too. I mean, we already are — we laughed together like hyenas. I slide my sketchpad into my backpack, climb down the ladder, and take off for the trailhead. I listen for footsteps, hear nothing but my pulse hammering in my ears.

I continue down the path, clearing the first bend to find him on his knees, hunched over the ground. What a toilet-licking idea this is. I need to get home. Most of the time people look less like you remember when you see them again. Not him. He starts walking toward me. Was hoping. This guy is just not an asshat. How come everyone else seems to know what to do with them? Pockets, I remember with relief, pockets, I love pockets! I slip the hands to safety, avoiding his eyes.

His eyes are lingering on me. I can tell this even with my undivided attention on his mouth. Did he ask me something? Noah Sweetwine. My hands are totally and completely trapped now.

Pockets are hand jails. Looking at his mouth is a bad idea too, especially when he speaks. Again and again his tongue returns to that space between his front teeth. He nods, believing me, of course, because why would I lie? I have no idea! I sneak a look at him. It says California School of the Arts on practically every freaking wall of that freaking place.

He saw me outside the building, not in it. I have two choices: I just want to. Like badly.

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Almost fourteen. Well, in five months. November twenty-first. And the one where another guy has a birdcage instead of a body. Supremely cool and twisted. Maybe I used up all the words? I need to sit down. Making friends is supremely stressful. I swallow a few hundred times. Finally, he just shrugs. After that, the forest, which had stayed out of it, joins in. I take a deep breath of pine and eucalyptus, hear mockingbirds and seagulls and the rumbling surf in the distance.

I spot three deer munching on leaves just yards from where Brian is now rummaging through the meteorite bag with both hands.

I love bears! Brown or black? At Yosemite. He holds up an ordinary rock. Magnetized nickel — an exploded star. I brought an extra magnifying glass for you. He knew I was going to come even before he left his house. He knew. And I knew. We both knew. He takes the extra magnifying glass out of his back pocket and holds it out to me.

People have no idea. Not from another realm like Mom, but probably from some exoplanet I just learned this word with six suns. It explains everything: The Realm of Calm is real. Hummingbirds laze around him. Fruit falls out of trees right into his open palms. Not to mention the drooping redwoods, I think, looking up.

And me. I keep forgetting my body and then have to go back and get it. He half smiles. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story. Noah draws constantly and is falling in love with the charismatic boy next door, while daredevil Jude wears red-red lipstick, cliff-dives, and does all the talking for both of them.

Years later, they are barely speaking. Something has happened to change the twins in different yet equally devastating ways. The early years are Noah's to tell; the later years are Jude's. But they each have only half the story, and if they can only find their way back to one another, they'll have a chance to remake their world.

This radiant, award-winning novel from the acclaimed author of The Sky Is Everywhere will leave you breathless and teary and laughing—often all at once. Jandy Nelson's writing is so electric, so alive, her pages practically glow in the dark.

Her prose is vivid, breathtaking , and drenched in passion , and her stories remind me why words can change the world. Jandy Nelson is my new writing hero. Read this book. She'll be your favorite author as well. More importantly, Nelson weaves a novel that seeps into your bones like fire on a cold day.I mean, how lucky do two people really have to be for them to fall in love with each other at exactly the right time in exactly the right way?

The problem is how to remain an artist once one grows up. I sigh. Three words actually: Broken Umbrella No. Oh boy. He composes himself quickly. Death — Fiction. He gets it.