by McCall Hoyle
PRAISE FOR
The Thing with Feathers
“Filled with poignancy, sparkling wit, and Southern charm, The Thing with Feathers made my heart absolutely soar! It’s everything I love in a YA contemporary.”
Darcy Woods, award-winning author of Summer of Supernovas
“The inspiring story of one girl’s struggle not to be defined by her illness, The Thing with Feathers soars as it explores what it means to live—and love—without fear,”
Kathryn Holmes, author of How It Feels to Fly
“Heartfelt and affecting. Hoyle tells a familiar story, but does so in a voice that is rarely heard, and that makes all the difference.”
Leah Thomas, William C. Morris Award finalist and author of Because You’ll Never Meet Me and Nowhere Near You
“Epilepsy is a quiet but serious disorder that needs more awareness, and I’m so very excited to see that McCall Hoyle is bringing it to the YA community in this stunning debut. The Thing with Feathers is a gorgeous, hope-filled novel!”
Stephanie Elliot, author of Sad Perfect
“A refreshing, quality debut—meaningfully woven and beautifully engaging, from the first page to the last.”
YA Books Central, five-star review
“The Thing with Feathers is a story of hope and acceptance. Emilie’s struggle will remind us all of the courage it takes to show the world who we are—flaws included.”
Award-winning author Amy Fellner Dominy
“Poetic and raw, The Thing with Feathers portrays the reality for many teens with epilepsy. But more importantly, Emilie’s story articulates the desire we all have to be known and loved just as we are.”
Stephanie Morrill, author of The Lost Girl of Astor Street
“Very highly recommended for personal reading lists, The Thing with Feathers will prove to be an ideal and enduringly popular addition to school and community YA fiction collections.”
Midwest Book Review
“A heart-warming debut that will leave readers filled with hope.”
Holly Bodger, author of 5 to 1
“AMAZING. The writing is so good, the characters are real and relatable, and the story is sweet and swoony and everything you want in a YA romance.”
Amy Patrick, author of Hidden Deep
BLINK
The Thing with Feathers
Copyright © 2017 by McCall Hoyle
This title is also available as a Blink ebook.
This title is also available as a Blink audio edition.
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Blink, 3900 Sparks Drive SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
Epub Edition July 2017 ISBN 9780310758303
ISBN 978–0–310–75851–8
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Any character resemblances to persons living or dead are coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Epigraphs taken from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Cambridge, Mass.; The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard Collage. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson. Used with written permission of Harvard University Press.
Epigraphs taken from The Letters of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Associate Editor, Theodora Ward, Cambridge, Mass.; The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, copyright © 1958 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1986 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1924, 1932, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952 by Alfred Leete Hampson. Copyright © 1960 by Mary L. Hampson. Used with written permission of Harvard University Press.
BLINK™ is a registered trademark of the Zondervan Corporation.
Cover design: Brand Navigation
Interior design: Denise Froehlich
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 /LSC/ 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To girls past, present, and future—especially
Frances McCall Haynsworth, Emilie Beattie
Hildebrand, and Emilie Beattie Hoyle.
Contents
Praise for The Thing with Feathers
Chapter One: I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Chapter Two: I hide myself within my flower . . .
Chapter Three: . . . I tasted life. It was a vast morsel.
Chapter Four: The Sky is low—the Clouds are mean.
Chapter Five: Come slowly—Eden!
Chapter Six: It’s such a little thing to weep—
Chapter Seven: Saying nothing . . . sometimes says the Most.
Chapter Eight: Our journey had advanced—
Chapter Nine: Finite—to fail, but infinite to Venture—
Chapter Ten: The Soul selects her own Society . . .
Chapter Eleven: Adrift! A little boat adrift!
Chapter Twelve: The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
Chapter Thirteen: An awful Tempest mashed the air—
Chapter Fourteen: Much Madness is divinest Sense—
Chapter Fifteen: The Heart asks Pleasure—first—And then—Excuse from Pain—
Chapter Sixteen: I breathed enough to take the Trick—
Chapter Seventeen: Are Friends Delight or Pain?
Chapter Eighteen: My friends are my “estate.”
Chapter Nineteen: My River runs to thee—
Chapter Twenty: We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise.
Chapter Twenty-One: That it will never come again Is what makes life sweet.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Will there really be a “Morning”?
Chapter Twenty-Three: Each Life Converges to some Centre—
Chapter Twenty-Four: For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay . . .
Chapter Twenty-Five: Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
Chapter Twenty-Six: Silence is all we dread.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Chapter Twenty-Eight: I should not dare to leave my friend . . .
Chapter Twenty-Nine: My Cocoon tightens—Colors teaze—I’m feeling for the Air—
Chapter Thirty: Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed.
Chapter Thirty-One: I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—A Ribbon at a time—
Chapter Thirty-Two: Each that we lose takes part of us . . .
Chapter Thirty-Three: Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise.
Chapter Thirty-Four: It was not Death, for I stood up . . .
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
Chapter Thirty-Six: A charm invests a face—
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Triumph—may be of several kinds—
Chapter Thirty-Eight: I read my sentence—steadily—
Acknowledgments
The Thing with Feathers Discussion Questions
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
E
MILY DICKINSON
My mother lost her mind today, and I’m going to prison.
Some people call it North Ridge High School, but believe me: it’s this girl’s worst punishment. I drive past it every week on the way home from my counselor’s office. Sparkly girls with sun-kissed cheeks spill out its front doors. Boys with shaggy haircuts surround them, toting lacrosse sticks, backpacks, and the occasional band instrument. They look comfortable in their skin, like they walked off the cover of Seventeen or like they’re ready to burst into a peppy musical number at a moment’s notice.
“Emilie.” My mother’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I jump, cracking my knuckles on the passenger-side window. Shaking off the pain in my hand, I glance over at her in the driver’s seat without speaking. Her white fists clench the steering wheel. A muscle twitches in her jaw. Good. She’s on edge. She should be. She and Dr. Wellesley are ruining my life.
“Honey, please try to keep an open mind.” She studies my face. “Public school won’t be that bad.”
“The light’s green.” I point to the stoplight swaying in the breeze. Someone behind us honks, and we lurch forward. I’ve lived in Crystal Cove on the coast of North Carolina for sixteen years, and I’m still not used to sharing my home with tourists like the one behind us in the expensive convertible. Apparently, neither is my mother.
Mom readjusts her death grip, exhaling through gritted teeth. “And stop biting your fingernails. They look awful.”
Like I care about appearances when my life is crumbling around me. I chew another hangnail, wincing when a drop of blood forms at the cuticle. When Hitch paws at my seat, I unbuckle and crawl into the backseat with him. His tail swishes the sandy floor mat.
“You’re going to cause an accident,” Mom snaps.
Biting my tongue, I run a hand through the thick fur behind Hitch’s right ear. My shoulders relax a tiny bit. When he rests his blocky head on my thigh and flashes his toothy golden retriever grin, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Dr. Wellesley has your best interests at heart. He doesn’t think homeschooling is meeting your social and emotional needs.” She sounds like a recording, repeating word for word what my therapist said less than an hour ago.
“I don’t care what he thinks.” I enunciate each word, careful not to let the emotions rising in my throat escape my mouth. I don’t mean to be difficult. Really. It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m about to explode. And with no dad, no siblings, no real friends, there’s no one else to explode on.
Hitch raises concerned eyes to my face while I rub tiny circles on his floppy ear. “I’m not going to North Ridge next Monday.” My voice cracks on the last word. So much for sounding tough.
“Yes, you are.” Mom pauses—the scary pause, reserved for when she’s reached emotional meltdown. Now she’ll either cry to make me feel guilty or switch to her serious-mom voice to pressure me into doing whatever she wants.
“Emilie, please. I only want what’s best for you.” Her eyes glisten in the rearview mirror.
Here we go. All aboard for a ride on the guilt train.
Seventy-two hours’ worth of crying, bargaining, and promising I’ll go to Harvard accomplish almost nothing. All I can do is convince Mom to send me to school on a trial basis—three months and then we’ll reevaluate. In three months she’ll probably just force me to go back, so it’s not exactly a win. But it’s a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. I’ll endure ninety days without forming attachments and prove to her that my social and emotional needs are just fine. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
We’re back in the Honda this morning, heading south on the beach road. I study the teetering cottages to my left. Their lives are like mine. They’ve survived countless hurricanes, but no one knows if they’ll survive the next big storm. They could make it another hundred years, hunched like gnomes on the dunes with nothing to protect them but sea oats, or the next big wind gust could wash them into oblivion.
But unlike the cedar-sided shacks, I’ve got a mom to protect me. A mom who cares a little too much about my well-being sometimes. A mom who’s sending me to school today for my own good. No matter what.
“It’s going to be all right.” She nods and tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear with a shaky hand. “And we agreed to give it three months.”
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with epilepsy. She’s not the one with grand mal seizures. She’s not the one at risk of convulsing in front of a bunch of strangers, of puking all over herself with her eyes rolled back in her head . . . or worse. For me, three months might as well be a lifetime sentence in Alcatraz.
I don’t answer. She squeezes my arm as I stare out the passenger window.
Less than twenty minutes later, she hugs me and abandons me in the guidance office. I’m like half of Hansel and Gretel, except I forgot to drop the breadcrumbs and there’s no way out. The hum of air from the ceiling vent is the only distraction in the dimly lit room as I wait for the secretary to return with a student ambassador to show me around the building.
As I pick at the cuticle on my index finger, the door bangs open. A boy with blue eyes and dimples barges in.
“You must be Emilie.” He scoops my backpack off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder as he offers me his hand. “Chatham York, at your service.”
His eyes and T-shirt match the color of the Atlantic Ocean on a cloudless day. He’s tall—really tall. I’m eye level with his chest and a shirt that reads Keep Calm. We’ve got this. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of what I feel.
“So what brings you to the Ridge?” His hand brushes my arm as he reaches for the door.
“I, uh . . .” My voice trails off. I blink, reminding myself he’s just a boy and I have bigger concerns today than melting into a puddle of goo at the feet of the first cute guy to cross my path.
He flashes me a bright smile that could be totally genuine or totally practiced. I have no idea which. The counselors probably chose him to give tours specifically because of that smile. If this were one of my favorite movies, there’d be clues to his intentions in the sound effects or the lighting or the background music or something. Here, I’m on my own—a fish out of water with no clues to guide me.
“I was tired of homeschool,” I say, because of course the first thing you should do when you meet a cute boy is lay a foundation of half-truths. I’m not about to tell Prince Charming that I’d gladly stay holed up in the safety of my own home for the rest of my life. That I’d rather hang out with my dog than my peers. That I’d rather be isolated than risk being humiliated.
He pushes open the door leading out to the rotunda. “Oh, man. I hear you.” He pauses, waiting for me to walk out ahead of him. “My mom and I would kill each other. I don’t see how people do that.”
“It’s not that bad.” I force a smile, avoiding the eyes of two perky girls hanging a banner for a canned-food drive. They watch us as we head up the right hall. The place is eerily quiet, but in less than half an hour it will swarm with hundreds of kids.
I hand over my schedule when Chatham asks for it, praying he doesn’t notice the moisture from my palm on the paper.
“Oh, cool.” He points at the second block.
The adjective cool hasn’t applied to anything in my life since my diagnosis.
I glance at the schedule clasped in his hand. He has nice hands. My stomach twists. The last real memory I have of my dad is holding his hand in the hospital before he died. Dad had good hands too—gentle but firm, with a few calluses to prove he wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Hands tell a lot about a person.
“We have second period together.” Chatham pauses, waiting for me to look up. “You’ll like Ms. Ringgold. She’s awesome.”
“Yeah?” I force what I hope resembles a smile. This guy is nice. Too nice—not at all like the guys on the mean-girl movies I binge watch.
The few students and teachers we pass greet Chatham by name. As we walk up the firs
t hall, a girl in a strapless dress that has to be breaking every dress code known to public education stops to greet him. She glances at my face, then down at my bland T-shirt and shorts, sizing me up.
“Maddie, this is Emilie. She’s new,” Chatham explains.
“Cool. Where did you move from?” Maddie asks, her attention drifting to Chatham before I’ve ever answered.
“Nowhere,” I say to the side of her face.
Her head swivels in my direction. Now she seems intrigued. “Nowhere?”
“What I mean is, I’ve lived here all my life.”
Her perfectly tweezed eyebrows lift in a question. I answer it. “I’ve been homeschooled for a while.”
“Oh, that’s . . . interesting,” she says, clearly losing interest as she turns back to Chatham. I’ve been dismissed in a millisecond, which might be some kind of record. Obviously, I’m unworthy of her attention—not good enough to make friends and not threatening enough to be competition. Maybe the mean-girl movies were right after all. This place could be brutal.
She flips her hair, smiling up at Chatham. “Don’t forget you promised to help me set up for the debate tomorrow.”
“Got it.” He smiles back. It’s like he’s the sun. He’s this bright ball of light at the center of his own universe, and everyone’s drawn to his energy. I just met him, but somehow I know that if I’m not careful, I’ll be sucked into orbit too. As tempting as it feels right this second, I know better than to let it happen. If Chatham, or anyone else here, gets too close, they’ll learn my secret, and I’d just as soon keep my skeleton locked securely in her closet.
Maddie’s agenda settled, we head farther away from the counseling office. Chatham points out my second- and third-period classrooms, which are still dark. Then we double back to the next hall.
“Swimming’s not on your schedule, but we have the best indoor pool in eastern North Carolina,” he explains, pointing to two sets of double doors at the end of the hallway.
“Really?” I say, trying to sound casual. I want to run. Me and water don’t mix.
“You’ve got to see it.” He swings open one of the heavy metal doors, waits for me to pass, then points toward the pool. “I’d swim every day if I could.”