Love and First Sight

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By Josh Sundquist

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In his debut novel, YouTube personality and author of We Should Hang Out Sometime Josh Sundquist explores the nature of love, trust, and romantic attraction.

On his first day at a new school, blind sixteen-year-old Will Porter accidentally groped a girl on the stairs, sat on another student in the cafeteria, and somehow drove a classmate to tears. High school can only go up from here, right?

As Will starts to find his footing, he develops a crush on a charming, quiet girl named Cecily. Then an unprecedented opportunity arises: an experimental surgery that could give Will eyesight for the first time in his life. But learning to see is more difficult than Will ever imagined, and he soon discovers that the sighted world has been keeping secrets. It turns out Cecily doesn’t meet traditional definitions of beauty–in fact, everything he’d heard about her appearance was a lie engineered by their so-called friends to get the two of them together. Does it matter what Cecily looks like? No, not really. But then why does Will feel so betrayed?

Told with humor and breathtaking poignancy, Love and First Sight is a story about how we relate to each other and the world around us.

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Vice Principal Larry Johnston extends his hand.

To clarify: I don't see this. I hear the swish of his shirtsleeve.

"Nice to meet you, William."

The fabric sound plays again—the hand retracting.

"I'm sorry, I guess you can't do that now, can you? You probably want to feel my face?"

He grabs my arm and smacks my palm against his cheek, knocking me off balance so I have to step into the musk of his aftershave.

"Where do you normally start? Eyes? Nose? Mouth?"

He shifts my fingers across the front of his face with each suggestion. His skin is rough and pockmarked, like the outside of an orange.

"No, actually, I don't do that," I say, pulling my hand away. "I identify people based on their voices."

"And… also…" I add. I can't resist.

"Yes?" he asks, all eager to please.

"Well, I don't usually touch faces, but I am gifted with a heightened sense of smell that allows me to recognize a person's pheromones, which are concentrated just below the ear, so if you wouldn't mind…?"

I touch my pointer finger to my nose.

His excitement drops. "Oh… you want to… smell… my ear?"

"Pheromones are like faces to me. Only if it's not too much trouble, sir."

"Oh, no, no trouble at all. I just… No trouble, certainly I would like to accommodate you."

He steps close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, which is a signal that (a) he is falling for it—sighted people always do, the suckers—and (b) I've taken the joke far enough. I don't actually want my nose anywhere near his old-guy earwax, after all.

"Mr. Johnston, I'm kidding." I hold a hand up to stop him. It sinks deep into fat rolls, presumably around his midsection. I hope. "A joke, sir. I don't want to smell your ear."

When I pull my hand away, I wonder if it leaves a visible handprint or even fingerprints in his squishy flesh. I've heard that happens when you press an open palm against a soft surface like sand, dough, or wet paint.

"Oh, right, yes." He lets out a forced chuckle that sounds like a wheezy smoker's cough. "A joke. Yes. Very funny."

Mr. Johnston's voice is deep and grizzly. If you listen carefully, you learn that a particular set of vocal cords produces audio vibrations unlike any other in the world. Voices are the fingerprints of sound.

"Shall we head to your first class?" he asks.

He grabs my arm from behind and starts to push me out of the front office. I'm sure he thinks it's helpful to lead me like that, but I instinctively swap our positions so I am holding his arm instead.

"I'd prefer we walk like this," I say. Now I'm in control. I can let go at any time.

"Yes, all right, that's fine," he says.

I've spent most of my sixteen years around other blind and visually impaired people, so this is the first time I've actually had to execute a Hines Break in real life. Fortunately, Mrs. Chin made me practice so many times I could do it automatically with Mr. Johnston. The main purpose of this little arm reversal is that it puts me in charge. To put it in dating terms, I can now be the dumper rather than the dumpee.

I've heard the horror stories: Blind people standing on street corners waiting for a crosswalk light to change, only to have a well-meaning but annoying stranger come up from behind, grab their arm, and say (overly loud, of course, because they always assume we are all deaf, too) "LET ME HELP YOU!" and shove them across a street they were not intending to cross. And then the stranger lets go and disappears into the void ("YOU'RE WELCOME!"), leaving the blind person stranded on an unknown street corner.

I feel the floor change from the carpet of Mr. Johnston's office to the hard tile of the hallway as I follow him through the doorway.

"Can we start at the front door?" I ask. "That's where I'll be coming in each morning, I assume."

"Isn't that where you came in today?" he asks.

"Yes, but my mom took me from there to your office."

"Well, then, simply imagine that instead of turning into the office, you walked in this direction toward the stairwell, and you'll be on your way to first period."

He starts to walk, presumably toward said stairwell. But I stand still, gripping his arm tightly so he is forced to stop. (Behold the mighty power of the Hines Break!)

"It doesn't work like that. I can't…" I drift off.

I hate sentences that start with "I can't."

But as it happens, I was born completely blind, so one thing I truly can't do is imagine an overhead map and then make up different routes or shortcuts. I can walk from A to B, yes, but only if I memorize a list of actions: How many steps to take and when to turn and then how many more steps to take before I'm there. I can sniff odors like a bloodhound and echolocate sounds like a bat, but it is simply impossible for me to infer a new route using my imagination.

"Look, Mr. Johnston, can we just start at the front door, please? That would be much easier for me."

"Are you sure you don't want us to assign you a full-time aide? The state would gladly pay—"

"I know, I know, but that's not why I transferred here. Having a babysitter walk me around school every day is not going to help my street cred."

Honestly, it's not just about my street cred. I transferred because I want to prove that I can live independently in the sighted world. No dependence on charity. No neediness.

My parents sent me off to the school for the blind back when I was little. Right after the Incident. It was "for my own good," to "protect me," and blah, blah, blah. But if I want to eventually land my dream job, to make a name for myself as the Stevie Wonder of journalism, it's not going to happen within the confines of the blind bubble—excuse me, the visually impaired community. I have to go mainstream.

I hear Mr. Johnston sigh. But when he speaks, there's a hint of sympathy in his voice, as if maybe he was once young enough to care about his own street cred. Or maybe he still does. "Very well, William, to the front door we shall go."

He guides me there.

"First I need to get my bearings," I say.

"Well, the door is in front of you, the wall is beside—"

"No," I say, pulling my iPhone out of my pocket. "I literally need compass bearings."

My compass app tells me I will enter the building facing west.

Got it: west. (Seriously, how did anyone get by before talking smartphones?)

"Mr. Johnston, let's head to English. If possible," I say, "please walk in a straight line and tell me when we are going to change directions."

"Very well."

We walk twelve steps west, twenty-three steps south, and then turn west again. Mr. Johnston tells me we are at the base of a stairwell. I hear footsteps rushing by on both sides of us, students in a hurry to get to first period.

Up to this point, I've kept my white cane folded in my back pocket. No use drawing attention to myself if I don't have to. But I'll feel safer using the cane on stairs than relying on a vice principal with a lifetime total of three minutes' experience guiding a blind person.

I pull it out and, with a quick flick of my wrist, snap the whole thing open. People have told me this looks like a Star Wars lightsaber turning on. That's not a particularly helpful description for me, though. Which also makes me wonder why it's called a "white cane" in the first place, since the people who use them can't see its color.

Anyway, I reach out for the handrail, but my fingers grab something soft instead. A body part. Chest level. Boob alert.

"Oh, my God, I am SO sorry, I tooootally didn't see you there," says a female voice.

That's what a white cane will do for you: Not only can you get away with copping a feel, the girl assumes it was her fault and apologizes for it. Let me assure you, random girl, you have nothing to be sorry about. Completely my fault. And my pleasure.

"No problem," I tell her. "I didn't see you, either."

She doesn't laugh. She is already gone before I say it, the sound of her footsteps lost in the shuffle.

I hate that. When I discover I'm talking to someone who has already walked away. Feels like when you tell some long story into your cell phone and you wonder why the person has been silent for a while and then you realize the call was dropped at some point.

At the top of this flight of stairs, Mr. Johnston tells me we are going to turn 180 degrees and go up another. I continue to climb with one hand on the rail and the other pencil-gripping my cane as it surveys the next step. Once we've reached the second floor, I fold the cane and return it to my right back pocket. I can feel how the fabric of my jeans has stretched around that shape, the form of my folded cane. For the first time, I wonder if this distortion is visible.

Footsteps drop all around us like a heavy rainstorm. As Mr. Johnston guides me eighteen steps east through the crowded hallway, he shouts, "Clear a path, people! Blind student coming through! Blind student coming through!"

Wow, thanks, Mr. Johnston. I'm sure this is gaining me so many popularity points at my new school. My election as Prom King is now all but assured.

We pause at the door to my classroom so I can dictate the directions into my phone. ("Enter building, walk twelve steps west, turn south, walk twenty-three steps…") I'll have Siri read them back to me after school until I've got the route memorized.

"Attention, everyone!" Mr. Johnston says as soon as we cross the threshold. His voice sounds pleased, maybe even surprised, by its ability to silence the chattering room. "This is Will, a student who has transferred to our school this year. He's blind."

Perhaps because this is English class, he adds a helpful definition of the word: "He can't see anything… nothing at all." He pauses to allow the gravity of my tragic situation to sink in. "Life is very difficult for him. Please offer him your assistance whenever you can, because—"

"You know I'm still standing right beside you, right?" I interrupt.

There's a snort of laughter from the students, and Mr. Johnston's arm stiffens against my fingers. It's probably unwise to make fun of your guide, the guy who has the capacity to lead you, say, directly into a brick wall. But come on, I don't need eyesight to know his speech was making the entire room squirm.

"Yes, William, I—I…" he stammers.

"Listen, sorry, I appreciate your help," I say. "Can you guide me to the teacher?"

"I'm right here, William. Or do you prefer Will?" asks a female voice standing maybe two arm lengths away.

"Most people call me Will," I say.

"I'm Mrs. Everbrook. I'll take it from here, Larry."

"Very well," says Mr. Johnston. "William… er, Will, I will meet you at the end of this period to escort you to your next class."

He shuffles out.

"The bell hasn't rung yet, boys and girls," says Mrs. Everbrook. "Until it does, you can go back to texting underneath your desks and I'll go back to pretending I don't notice you have your cell phones out of your lockers."

Unlike Mr. Johnston's, hers sounds like a voice people listen to.

"Will, there's a desk open immediately to your right," she says. I sit. She continues, "I was told you'd be in my class, so I've already talked to the library, and they can get you all the books we'll be reading this term. Do you prefer braille or audiobooks?"

"Braille, please. And thank you. For talking to the library, I mean."

"No problem. Whatever else you need, just ask. I'm happy to help. Otherwise, you get the same treatment as everyone else. This is Honors English, and I expect honors-level work from you."

"Thank you," I say. "That's very nice."

"You may change that opinion after I grade your first paper. No one has ever accused me of being nice. But I try to be fair."

"Then I hope this request appeals to your sense of fairness: I type notes into my phone during class so that it can read them back to me later. Is that all right?"

"Fine by me. Just don't let me catch you texting your girlfriend during class."

If I had a girlfriend, I think.

I dated several girls back at the school for the blind. But it would be different here. Dating a girl without a visual impairment, I couldn't help but be beholden to her. Dependent. Needy.

"Oh, no girlfriend, huh?" she asks.

"How can you tell?"

"Your inability to see doesn't stop your face from speaking what's on your mind."

"Hmmm. Well, I did meet a girl downstairs this morning. She seemed nice."

"Anything else?"

"She was also very apologetic."

"I don't care about the personality of your crush, Will. I mean any other accommodations you need?"

"I wear one earbud in my ear."

"Because?"

"My phone reads everything on-screen to me—the names of apps, the selections on menus, all that. The earbud will let me hear the phone without disturbing the class."

"How about that? Anyway, it's fine. You can use your headphones. Just don't—"

"Let you catch me listening to music in class? Got it."

"I was actually going to say anything other than country."

"What?"

"Don't let me catch you listening to anything other than country music during my class."

"I'm not into country, so I guess I'll just be listening to you teach."

"I like you, Will. I think we're going to get along just fine."

Which is good, because it turns out I have her again for third period. And that class begins with a major social disaster.




CHAPTER 2

In between each class, Mr. Johnston takes me by my locker so I can learn the route from each classroom. On my locker, the school has replaced the standard spinning numerical padlock with one that opens when you press in a certain combination of up, down, right, and left on the face of the lock. Like unlocking a cheat-code with a controller on an old video game system.

On the way to third period, Mr. Johnston asks why I'm not wearing sunglasses.

"What do you mean?" I ask, playing dumb.

"Well, you know, many individuals with, um, your condition wear sunglasses. Are your people maybe sensitive to sunlight?"

"I think you are getting us confused with vampires," I say, and leave it at that.

He does his fake laugh-snort, but I know he's still desperately curious. Probably also wants to know if I can have dreams. Whatever. He can Google it later.

I don't wear sunglasses for the same reason I left the school for the blind: The vast majority of the world doesn't wear sunglasses indoors, and I want to fit in. I'm not trying to fake anything, but there's no reason to call attention to what makes me different.

I ask Mr. Johnston to leave me at the doorway to Mrs. Everbrook's classroom, and then I walk to the same desk I sat in during Honors English. I already know the route, after all.

When the bell rings, Mrs. Everbrook addresses the class.

"Boys and girls, welcome to journalism. This is unlike any other class you will take during high school. We don't have textbooks. We don't have tests. We don't have lectures. We work together to write, edit, print, and distribute a newspaper, and you will be graded based on how well you contribute to that goal."

I hear quick footsteps as someone walks in late.

"Do you have a note for being tardy, Xander?"

"No."

I recognize the sound of his voice from the morning announcements that played on the television in English during first period.

"Then don't let it happen again." She continues to the class, "As I was saying. In my English classes, you all are always asking me how diagramming sentences will help you in the real world. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: It probably won't. But everything we do in this class is real world. We're running a real business funded by the real money from the ads we sell. Our end product is a real print publication. Plus, as the school's most esteemed group of student journalists from each grade, some of you will play a role in producing the morning announcements show at the start of every day. You can even audition to be one of the hosts if you want to try to end the three-year streak of our tardy friend Xander and his cohost, Victoria."

I hear her get up from her desk and step in front of it.

"This is your staff handbook and our publishing schedule for the year. Take one and pass it on."

Something heavy thuds onto a desk several arm lengths in front of me. Sheets slide off, and I hear another thud, this time a little closer, on the desk in front of me. Paper is removed, and the pile hits my desk. It's not like I can do much with a printed handbook, but I don't want to stand out for not taking one, so I tug at the top sheet, and it pulls with it a stapled packet about ten pages thick. I pick up the remainder of the stack, which is big and heavy enough to require both hands, rotate in my seat, and drop it on the desk behind mine.

Only, there's no thud. I suppose if you calculated the acceleration due to gravity, you'd find that the time the stack traveled to reach the floor was inconsequentially longer than it would have had to travel to reach a desk, but in that millisecond, I live a thousand lives and die a thousand social deaths. The thump when the pages finally hit the ground—since apparently I am at the end of a row—is followed by the racket of pages bouncing and sliding off the pile.

The class erupts in laughter. After all, they don't yet know that I can't see. If they did, they probably wouldn't find it funny.

"Calm down, everyone, all right, that's enough," says Mrs. Everbrook. She's coming toward me, and she squats to rake up the pages. "That could happen to anyone on his first day at a new school. This is Will. He's… well… as you can tell, he's… a transfer student. So be nice to him."

She sets a soft hand on my shoulder as she walks by and returns to her drill sergeant voice.

"Now, some of you"—she pauses and repeats herself, projecting to various sections of the room—"some of you took this class because you thought it sounded easy… or maybe even fun. Well, it's only fun if you like hard work, because it certainly ain't easy. And yes, I know ain't isn't proper grammar, but we ain't in English class anymore. This here's journalism. So if you're looking for an easy A, go to your guidance counselor today and switch to one of those 'fun' electives"—she makes fun sound downright offensive—"like finger painting or basket weaving or yearbook or whatever they are offering these days."

There are some snickers, but they are interrupted by a shriek from directly across the room.

"Stop staring!" shouts a female voice.

I hear a chair push back with a screech before someone runs by me and out into the hall, crying.

"All right, boys and girls, I guess I should have told you this earlier, but I was trying to respect Will's privacy. Seems I made a mistake. Anyway, Will, our new transfer student, is blind."

There are several loud gasps. It's a stronger reaction than I'm used to.

"Don't worry, people, it's not contagious," I say.

But no one laughs.

"All righty, then, big first day," says Mrs. Everbrook. "I guess this is as good a time as any to let you all know that Victoria is going to be our editor in chief this year. Her duties will include, among other things, chasing down crying staff members. Victoria, would you please see to it that Cecily is all right?"

"No problem," says a voice I assume belongs to Victoria. She marches efficiently out of the room.

Mrs. Everbrook approaches my desk and says quietly, "Will, you were staring at Cecily."

"I thought we just established—"

"Yes, I know that, but she didn't. So she thought you were staring."

"And that made her cry?" I ask.

"I'm sure you've heard before that some people are sensitive about being stared at," says Mrs. Everbrook. "Cecily is… she's just one of those people. Do you understand?"

"I guess."

But I don't, not really. I feel my face getting hot, and I wonder if the other students can see the temperature change on my skin. Are they all staring at me right now?

Mom hates it when people stare at me. Especially when I was little, before the Incident and thus before I went to the school for the blind. She would take me grocery shopping or whatever, and I'd be walking down the aisle with my little tiny white cane in one hand, the other holding her by the wrist—she always insisted I grip her like that instead of holding hands so that I would grow up comfortable with being guided—and some other kid would look at me funny, and Mom would go all Mama Bear, roaring, "If you stare, you'll go blind, too!" And the kid would run off crying.

She's always been that way. Overprotective. Not for my sake as much as for hers. I think she wants my life to be easy because it will make her life easy. She can't let me fail because then everyone would think she failed as a mother.

So that's why she yells at people for staring. And why she tries to make me "fit in" so they don't stare in the first place. She's actually always wanted me to wear sunglasses in public.

And I guess she was right about that one, because here I am now, making some girl cry because she thought I was staring at her. Wouldn't have happened if I had been wearing the glasses.

• • •

After journalism is lunch. Mr. Johnston invites me to eat with him in the staff lounge, but I decline. He deposits me in the cafeteria, where I stand holding my cane in one hand and a bag lunch in the other. Is the entire room staring at me? Or am I invisible to them? I don't know. All I have to go on is the sound of hundreds of people talking at once, the voices blending together so that I can't pick out individual conversations.

The noise of the cafeteria is not unlike the smell of the cafeteria. It combines the long list of foods that are being consumed today, or have been consumed in this room at some point in the past, into one overpowering yet nondescript odor that welcomes you like a smack across the face.

I walk forward until my cane clinks against the metal legs of a chair. Further cane taps determine that the chair is already pulled out from a circular lunch table.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting at this table?" I ask the void.

In return, I get nothing but the chattering voices of the room.

"No one?"

No response.

So I sit. But instead of a chair, my butt makes contact with another animate life-form. A pair of legs, I think. I jump.

"What the—" I holler, completely startled.

"AHHHH!" comes from the owner of the legs.

I drop my cane.

Mrs. Chin always said that a blind person losing a cane is like a sighted person dropping a flashlight and having it turn off after it hits the ground in a dark room. Not only will I have to find the cane, I will have to do so on hands and knees because I've lost the very thing that normally helps me detect lost objects.

"Dude, let me get that for you," says the owner of the legs. With enviable quickness, he retrieves the cane and places it in my hand. "There you go. Sorry, bro. So sorry. That was majorly awkward and totally my fault."

"It's all right. But, I mean, did you hear me ask if anyone—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Like I said, I'm sorry, it was totally messed up not to answer you. I just… I don't know, I saw you walking over here and froze. Look, you wanna sit down? The chair next to me is empty."

I hesitate.

He says, "I swear, no surprise occupants."

I sit down. "Okay, sure, thanks."

"I'm Nick, by the way."

"Will."

I reach my hand toward his voice, and he shakes it. (Side note, Mr. Johnston: I am perfectly capable of shaking hands.)

I hear more people sit down at the table.

"So, Will, before we have any more awkward butt contact, I should introduce you to my friends," says Nick. He's loud. Loud enough that I assume much of the cafeteria is forced to listen to his nasally proclamations.

"Friend. Singular," says a female voice to my right. "I'm retracting my friendship with you, so you've only got one left."

"That's Ion. We've been feuding recently," Nick says to me. "Argument about time travel. Won't bore you with the details. She's just pissed because she knows I'm right."

"Please. Another dimension is the only explanation that—" says Ion.

"If you had the technology to travel in time, you could obviously figure out how to remain—" interrupts Nick.

"WHOA, WHOA," I say, overpowering their voices. "Too much talking at once. You are welcome to bore me with the details, but at least take turns, please."

"Okay," says Nick. "SparkNotes version: A while ago some geeks made a permanent monument out of stone or whatever that was inscribed with an invitation to a party that would be thrown in honor of time travelers from the future. The idea was that millions of years from now, when time travel exists, the stone invitation thingy would still be around, and humans of the future would see it and travel back in time to attend the party. The only problem was—"

"No one showed up," interrupts Ion. She continues at what I assume is the maximum words per minute a human is capable of pronouncing without compromising diction or dropping syllables. "From the future, I mean. But that doesn't mean that time travel will never be invented. Because anyone who has consumed any science fiction knows that there are paradoxes created when you travel back in time and meddle with the past. So it stands to reason that if humans did travel back in time, they would be entering a time line of a parallel dimension. The first dimension would be the way things are now, without time travel. That's where we are living, obviously. The next dimension would be the version of reality that was created when they traveled back in time. So maybe a bunch of time travelers attended the party; it just happened in a different dimension."

"Which obviously makes no sense," says Nick. "Because—"

"It is the only explanation that makes—"

"Wow. So, Ion? Is that your given name?" I ask, trying to change the subject to something less volatile.

"Yeah," she says.

"No!" says Nick. "Tell him the truth!"

"Why do you always have to tell people this story?" she asks.

"It's endearing!" says Nick.

"It's embarrassing. That's why my parents started calling me Ion in the first place."

"So your given name is…" I prompt.

"It's Hermione, all right?" says Ion, eliciting peals of laughter from Nick. "Yes, like in Harry Potter. Only my parents were living under a rock and had never even heard of the books. It was, like, my great-aunt's name or something. Anyway, after the first movie came out, it didn't take long for my parents to get tired of hearing jokes about how my baby talk was probably a spell I was casting."

"I can see how that would get old," I say.

"Right, so my parents decided to make a nickname out of Hermione. They couldn't use Her or Nee, obviously, so they used the middle sound: Ion."

"I like it," I say. "It's unique."

"Thanks," says Ion.

Nick says, "Will, I still feel bad about earlier, and I want to make it up to you by serving as your eyes at this table. Cool?"

"I guess."

Genre:

  • "Sensitively explores disability and its influence on identity...The juxtaposition of blindness with (not) judging by appearances is common, but the author gives depth to the trope by highlighting the betrayal Will feels at the exploitation of his blindness. Thought-provoking and insightful."—Kirkus Reviews

  • "Unique...Readers will enjoy the humor and romance of the story while gaining a better understanding of life with a visual disability...A highly recommended and engaging story for most YA collections."—SLJ

  • "Sundquist writes eloquently about what it might be like for someone who was born blind to be given sight...thoughtful and evocative...providing readers with a fresh perspective on how humans interact with each other and the world around them."—Publishers Weekly

  • "Rich in sensory detail, this novel pulls readers into Will's world. Sundquist deftly shows the difference between the act of seeing and truly seeing. This fresh and funny coming-of-age story presents an opportunity for readers who take certain abilities for granted to take stock of challenges facing peers."—Booklist

  • "Sundquist does a nice job of getting inside the head of a person who has absolutely no visual frames of reference...without it feeling intrusive or overly clinical. For budding scientists and future doctors, these details offer new thoughts as well as context for understanding the real stories of people gaining eyesight after blindness and then wishing they hadn't; even readers who just came for the romance will find themselves understanding the "tyranny of the visual" in new ways."—BCCB

  • "In his debut novel, memoirist Josh Sundquist proves he's as adept at making up new stories as he is at recounting his old ones as he explores overcoming adversity, seeing the world through fresh eyes (literally), and keeping a sense of humor in the midst of life's tribulations. An exciting new voice in the world of YA fiction."—Tommy Wallach, New York Times bestselling author of We All Looked Up

  • "Is love blind? Should it be? With an intricate, intimate fiction debut, Josh Sundquist aims to find out."—Barry Lyga, New York Times bestselling author

  • Praise for We Should Hang Out Sometime:

    An Amazon.ca Best Books of December 2014 for Children and Teens Selection
    A YALSA 2015 Teens Top Ten Nominee
    2015 Goodreads Choice Awards Nominee

    "You should read this book sometime. I loved it so much!"—Justine Ezarik, New York Times bestselling author of I, Justine: An Analog Memoir

  • "[A] laugh-out-loud memoir..."—SLJ

On Sale
Jan 2, 2018
Page Count
304 pages
ISBN-13
9780316305365

Josh Sundquist

About the Author

Josh Sundquist is a Paralympic ski racer, cancer survivor, popular YouTube vlogger, motivational speaker, and Halloween enthusiast. He is the author of We Should Hang Out Sometime, Love and First Sight and the bestselling Just Don't Fall. As a motivational speaker, Josh speaks to schools, conventions, and corporations across the world. He invites you to visit him at joshsundquist.com or follow him at @JoshSundquist.

Learn more about this author