The Night Fox - Hardcover

Wilda, Ashley

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593618920 ISBN 13: 9780593618929

Verlag: Rocky Pond Books, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

This luminous, haunting debut, alternating between now and then, reality and magic, tells the story of a girl confronting heartbreak while at a mysterious recovery program in the wilderness.

When seventeen-year-old Eli arrives at Raeth, a remote mountain retreat for teens with mental health issues, her mind is made up—she is not interested in participating, and she doesn’t need to “heal.” Still reeling from a breakup that left both her heart and faith shattered, she is determined to fake being “fine” so that the program’s warden will clear her to return home.

But the retreat itself has other ideas. The valley’s magical surroundings transform each time she ventures out, playing with her mind and dredging up her grief-laden memories. Despite the warning signs, Eli explores more of the area than she had ever planned, even venturing into the dangerous night realm.

This spellbinding novel mixes prose and poetry into an exquisite and evocative portrait of love, grief, depression, and the slow path toward healing.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ashley Wilda has an MFA in Creative Writing for Children and Young Adults from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. In addition to writing, she loves painting, making ceramics, playing music, rock climbing, and hiking with her husband, Ethan, and rescue pup, Phoenix.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I
The fox sleeps by my bed.
Small, with a curled, quiet tail. Smiling.
Its fur is a warm, earthy brown, hints of red. Smooth under my reverent fingers.
It smells of some faraway spice, and magic, and wood—for that is what it is made of.
More perfect for its tiny imperfections—the notch by the head, the ripple on the left side
of the nose—for they tell me it was made by you.
The fox fits in the palm of my hand—where yours used to rest.
I don’t run anymore. Feet bound to hard, barren, gray earth.
But the fox flies in my dreams,
      always,
                  always,
                              trying to find
                                                   a way home.

                  It never does.

1
Mornings are unpleasant enough without a suitcase landing on your feet.

Kicking, I shove myself up, clawing at the tangled hair falling into my face. My heart ricochets in my chest from the abrupt awakening.

“Mom, seriously?”

My mother stands there, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes gleam, determination on the surface hiding something more vulnerable underneath. Pity? Concern?

I hate both.

“Pack what you’ll need for the next few weeks. You’re leaving in less than an hour.”

I’ve only been home a few weeks since my senior year at the Carwick Boarding Academy ended.
Granted, all I’ve done is sleep, and occasionally eat, same as over winter break, but still—

Bubbles of panic slowly rise in my sleep-numbed brain. “Where are we going?” My stomach lurches with unease.

Mom sighs. “We aren’t going anywhere, Liz.” Her gaze softens. There’s sadness too. “Just you.”

The words slam into me. “Wait, what? You can’t do that.” I’m not sure what she’s planning, but I’m positive I don’t want it.

She tucks an errant strand of blond hair behind her ear and turns to go.

I know there’s no use in arguing with her. The sooner you stop resisting Ren Maven, the more time you get to live your life. You’re fated to agree with her at some point anyway. But this time, what she is asking of me is different.

And I’ll never agree.

“Where am I going?” I call after her, a last-ditch attempt at information.

“Don’t forget to pack your retainer” is all I get from down the hall.

“Just wonderful!” I holler back.

No response.

Fan. Freaking. Tastic.

I get to spend an indeterminate amount of my summer at an undisclosed location. Me, the girl who doesn’t talk to strangers, or friends, or really anyone at all.

Who sleeps and reads and watches Netflix and sleeps again.

Who hides in her room.

Who cries herself to sleep each night.

Yes, this sounds precisely like a recipe for disaster.

My suitcase gapes at my feet, an open mouth. I sit beside it, curl my legs into my chest, wrap my arms around them tightly. I look around the room, trying to decide what to pack while my brain struggles to compute what is happening. I’m leaving. Leaving my room, the only place I feel safe.

The green walls are dusty, except for odd, brighter patches where school photos used to rest, stuck on with tape. They’re stacked in a shoebox under my bed now, where the faces of all the people who used to be my friends can’t see me, taunting me with their happy eyes. Next to the box lie rolled poem posters, never put up. My dirty hiking shoes peek out from under my dresser, my stuffed monkey sprawled next to them. The room of a girl who used to be. A girl who used to go to boarding school in the mountains. Used to have friends who made music and played Frisbee and roamed the campus at night. Used to plan movie nights with her mother. Used to be happy she believed in God. Used to be yours.

What would that girl have packed if she had to leave? Is there anything that matters to both the girl I was and the girl I am now? I know the answer before I’m done thinking the question.

My gaze lands on the carved wooden fox resting atop the open journal on my nightstand, a reddish-brown figure shorter than my index finger is long. Standing, I close the notebook, covering the poem I wrote the night before. I kiss my two fingers and touch them to the fox’s smooth head, like I do every morning. Every night.

“I love you,” I say.

They’re probably the only true words I’ll speak all day.

II
I don’t remember meeting you.
We just kind of
f
      e
            l
                  l
                        together,
like two atoms forming a molecule, or stars drawn into each other’s orbits.
By the time you notice, it’s too late—you can’t go back.
I don’t remember falling in love with you.
I mean, I do, but not like in the movies, or the books, or the fairy tales.
No earth-shattering beginning in which I laid eyes on you and
      knew
that I had fallen 
hopelessly,          tragically,         mystically,
            helplessly,         brilliantly,          in love with you.
But I have more memories of that time, that slow, surreal f l o a t i n g, than I do of any other
time in my life.
Do you know how much you made me bloom?
Do you know how deeply and irrevocably you scarred me?
I don’t remember the moment I first saw you.
But the first moment 
I remember you,      singularly,
separate from anyone else—

      Sitting up in the balcony at a basketball game. End of our sophomore year. Neither of us           very interested, but we had to go once, right? It was athing. Sitting with our friends, the             group that absorbed us both. Three of us—you caught between me and a friend of mine—          talking about crushes. About what we found attractive in someone.

      I said, Blue eyes. Smile lines in the corners. (Like yours,
      which I hadn’t noticed yet. Somehow.)

      She asked you. You shrugged, shoulders rising like 
      always when you didn’t know what to say—which you 
      said. We pushed you, teasing.
      Finally, you said something like, I don’t know, dimples,      
     
      I guess. When pressed, you wouldn’t say more.
      You were unassuming and adorable, and Iremember you. 
      The same understatedness that made me not 
      remember meeting you is the very thing I began to find 
      endearing. I never found out whether you noticed my 
      shy dimples or not.
 ...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Rocky Pond Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593618920
• ISBN 13: 9780593618929
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar