Risk everything . . . for love with this #1 New York Times bestseller.
What if you couldn’t touch anything in the outside world? Never breathe in the fresh air, feel the sun warm your face . . . or kiss the boy next door? In Everything, Everything, Maddy is a girl who’s literally allergic to the outside world, and Olly is the boy who moves in next door . . . and becomes the greatest risk she’s ever taken.
My disease is as rare as it is famous. Basically, I’m allergic to the world.
I don’t leave my house, have not left my house in seventeen years. The only people I ever see are my mom and my nurse, Carla.
But then one day, a moving truck arrives next door. I look out my window, and I see him. He''s tall, lean and wearing all black—black T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black knit cap that covers his hair completely. He catches me looking and stares at me. I stare right back. His name is Olly.
Maybe we can’t predict the future, but we can predict some things. For example, I am certainly going to fall in love with Olly. It’s almost certainly going to be a disaster.
Everything, Everything will make you laugh, cry, and feel everything in between. It''s an innovative, inspiring, and heartbreakingly romantic debut novel that unfolds via vignettes, diary entries, illustrations, and more.
And don’t miss Nicola Yoon''s
The Sun Is Also A Star, the #1
New York Times bestseller in which two teens are brought together just when it seems like the universe is sending them in opposite directions.
A #1 New York Times bestseller
A #1 Publishers Weekly bestseller
A #1 Indie bestseller
A USA Today bestseller
A Wall Street Journal bestseller
A New York Public Library Best Book for Teens
A Miami Herald Best Book of the Year
A School Library Journal Best Book of the Year
“Gorgeous and lyrical.” --
The New York Times Book Review
"[A] fresh, moving debut."--
Entertainment Weekly, A-
"YA book lovers, your newest obsession is here."--MTV.com
★ "This heartwarming story transcends the ordinary by exploring the hopes, dreams, and inherent risks of love in all of its forms." —
Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review
"Everything, Everything is wonderful, wonderful.
"—SLJ, Starred Review
Everything, Everything is everything, everything—powerful, lovely, heart-wrenching, and so absorbing I devoured it in one sitting. It’s a wonder. The rare novel that lifts and shatters and fills you all at once.” —Jennifer Niven,
New York Times bestselling author of
All the Bright Places
“With her stunning debut,
Everything, Everything, Nicola Yoon has constructed an entirely unique and beautiful reading experience. Gorgeous writing meshes with original artwork to tell a love story like no other. You’ve never read a book like this.” —David Arnold, author of
has everything . . . romance, heart, and intelligence. Nicola Yoon''s book and voice stayed with me long after I finished reading.” —Danielle Paige,
New York Times bestselling author of
Dorothy Must Die
“There''s a quiet beauty about
Everything, Everything that kept me captivated from start to finish. Olly and Madeline''s love story stole my heart.”--Katie McGarry,
Nowhere But Here
"This extraordinary first novel about love so strong it might kill us is too good to feel like a debut. Tender, creative, beautifully written, and with a great twist,
Everything, Everything is one of the best books I''ve read this year." --Jodi Picoult,
#1 New York Times Bestselling author of
"A do-not-miss for fans of John Green and Rainbow Rowell (aka everyone)."--
"A vibrant, thrilling, and, ultimately, wholly original tale that''s bound to be an instant hit."--Bustle.com
"This is an easy romance to get caught up in."--
"Nicola Yoon’s first novel will give you butterflies."--
“Not only was I totally hooked . . . by the end I was totally blown away.”—Arun Rath, NPR Weekend’s
All Things Considered
“Heartwarming and inventive.”—Mashable.com
“Readers will root for the precocious Maddy as she falls hard for the boy next door . . . teens in search of a swoonworthy read will devour.”--
"I just couldn''t put it down . . . If you’re a fan of
The Fault in Our Stars,
If I Stay or
Before I Die, then this book is for you."--TheGuardian.com
Selected as one of the Best Multicultural Books of the Year by the Center for the Study Multicultural Children’s Literature
NICOLA YOON is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Everything, Everything and The Sun is Also a Star, a Michael L. Printz Honor book and a National Book Award finalist. She grew up in Jamaica and Brooklyn and lives in Los Angeles with her husband, who created the artwork in these pages, and daughter, both of whom she loves beyond all reason. Everything, Everything, her debut novel, is now a major motion picture.
Follow Nicola Yoon on Instagram and Tumblr and @NicolaYoon on Twitter.
“MOVIE NIGHT OR Honor Pictionary or Book Club?” my mom asks while inflating a blood pressure cuff around my arm. She doesn’t mention her favorite of all our post-dinner activities—Phonetic Scrabble. I look up to see that her eyes are already laughing at me.
“Phonetic,” I say.
She stops inflating the cuff. Ordinarily Carla, my full-time nurse, would be taking my blood pressure and filling out my daily health log, but my mom’s given her the day off. It’s my birthday and we always spend the day together, just the two of us.
She puts on her stethoscope so that she can listen to my heartbeat. Her smile fades and is replaced by her more serious doctor’s face. This is the face her patients most often see— slightly distant, professional, and concerned. I wonder if they find it comforting.
Impulsively I give her a quick kiss on the forehead to remind her that it’s just me, her favorite patient, her daughter.
She opens her eyes, smiles, and caresses my cheek. I guess if you’re going to be born with an illness that requires constant care, then it’s good to have your mom as your doctor.
A few seconds later she gives me her best I’m-the-doctor- and-I’m-afraid-I-have-some-bad-news-for-you face. “It’s your big day. Why don’t we play something you have an actual chance of winning? Honor Pictionary?”
Since regular Pictionary can’t really be played with two people, we invented Honor Pictionary. One person draws and the other person is on her honor to make her best guess. If you guess correctly, the other person scores.
I narrow my eyes at her. “We’re playing Phonetic, and I’m winning this time,” I say confidently, though I have no chance of winning. In all our years of playing Phonetic Scrabble, or Fonetik Skrabbl, I’ve never beaten her at it. The last time we played I came close. But then she devastated me on the final word, playing JEENZ on a triple word score.
“OK.” She shakes her head with mock pity. “Anything you want.” She closes her laughing eyes to listen to the stethoscope.
We spend the rest of the morning baking my traditional birthday cake of vanilla sponge with vanilla cream frosting. After it’s cooled, I apply an unreasonably thin layer of frosting, just enough to cover the cake. We are, both of us, cake people, not frosting people. For decoration, I draw eighteen frosted daisies with white petals and a white center across the top. On the sides I fashion draped white curtains.
“Perfect.” My mom peers over my shoulders as I finish up. “Just like you.”
I turn to face her. She’s smiling a wide, proud smile at me, but her eyes are bright with tears.
“You. Are. Tragic,” I say, and squirt a dollop of frosting on her nose, which only makes her laugh and cry some more. Really, she’s not usually this emotional, but something about my birthday always makes her both weepy and joyful at the same time. And if she’s weepy and joyful, then I’m weepy and joyful, too.
“I know,” she says, throwing her hands helplessly up in the air. “I’m totally pathetic.” She pulls me into a hug and squeezes. Frosting gets into my hair.
My birthday is the one day of the year that we’re both most acutely aware of my illness. It’s the acknowledging of the passage of time that does it. Another whole year of being sick, no hope for a cure on the horizon. Another year of missing all the normal teenagery things—learner’s permit, first kiss, prom, first heartbreak, first fender bender. Another year of my mom doing nothing but working and taking care of me. Every other day these omissions are easy—easier, at least—to ignore.
This year is a little harder than the previous. Maybe it’s because I’m eighteen now. Technically, I’m an adult. I should be leaving home, going off to college. My mom should be dreading empty-nest syndrome. But because of SCID, I’m not going anywhere.
Later, after dinner, she gives me a beautiful set of watercolor pencils that had been on my wish list for months. We go into the living room and sit cross-legged in front of the coffee table. This is also part of our birthday ritual: She lights a single candle in the center of the cake. I close my eyes and make a wish. I blow the candle out.
“What did you wish for?” she asks as soon as I open my eyes.
Really there’s only one thing to wish for—a magical cure that will allow me to run free outside like a wild animal. But I never make that wish because it’s impossible. It’s like wishing that mermaids and dragons and unicorns were real. Instead I wish for something more likely than a cure. Something less likely to make us both sad.
“World peace,” I say.
Three slices of cake later, we begin a game of Fonetik. I do not win. I don’t even come close.
She uses all seven letters and puts down POKALIP next to an
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Apocalypse,” she says, eyes dancing.
“No, Mom. No way. I can’t give that to you.”
“Yes,” is all she says.
“Mom, you need an extra
A. No way.”
“Pokalips,” she says for effect, gesturing at the letters. “It totally works.”
I shake my head.
“P O K A L I P S,” she insists, slowly dragging out the word.
“Oh my God, you’re relentless,” I say, throwing my hands up. “OK, OK, I’ll allow it.”
“Yesssss.” She pumps her fist and laughs at me and marks down her now-insurmountable score. “You’ve never really understood this game,” she says. “It’s a game of persuasion.”
I slice myself another piece of cake. “That was not persuasion,” I say. “That was cheating.”
“Same same,” she says, and we both laugh.
“You can beat me at Honor Pictionary tomorrow,” she says.
After I lose, we go to the couch and watch our favorite movie,
Young Frankenstein. Watching it is also part of our birthday ritual. I put my head in her lap, and she strokes my hair, and we laugh at the same jokes in the same way that we’ve been laughing at them for years. All in all, not a bad way to spend your eighteenth birthday.