This Side of Falling

by Eunice Chan

Genres: Young Adult; YA Social Themes

Synopsis

In a devastatingly honest coming-of-age debut, a Chinese American teen navigates grief in the wake of her first love’s death by suicide.

Not real. The mantra seventeen-year-old Nina repeats to herself the morning after her almost-boyfriend, Ethan Travvers, jumped onto the tracks in front of a freight train. The two words that keep the truth just far enough away so the loss can’t touch her, grief can’t break her. After all, there is the family image to uphold, especially when her dad’s startup begins to flounder. Maintaining the illusion of wholeness and success is everything to Nina’s mom and grandma.

The pretense is working—until Nina’s all-star older sister, Carmen, is dismissed from college and abruptly returns home. Carmen’s arrival and strange behavior dig up buried memories, leading Nina to wonder if there is more to the story of Ethan than even she knew. The truth is not what she wants to believe: about Carmen, about Ethan, but mostly, about herself.

Emotionally layered and unflinchingly honest, this novel will resonate with readers who love deeply affecting stories that tackle teen heartache in the vein of Kathleen Glasgow and Laura Nowlin.

Release date: June 17, 2025

Publisher: Soho Teen

Print pages: 268

Sample

Chapter 1

Not real, I tell myself. Not real.

My fingers tighten around the handle of my violin case. I see heads turn as I pass the art building and sense the sudden hush. Like this isn’t some twisted joke, like Ethan Travvers really—

“Nina!” Someone calls my name.

I glance behind me. Roger Kishimoto is pushing through the crowd, one long, skinny arm waving wildly. He wants me to slow down. Stop.

“Nina Yeung!” he calls again, louder, and even from this distance I can see the worry in his eyes—

No. This isn’t real. I need to find Beatrice Ryzhenkov. I need to see her. I need to know.

“Nina, wait!” Roger shouts.

But I’m jogging now, my new sneakers slipping on the worn concrete, violin case thumping against my leg. It’s the first day back after winter break, the halfway point of my senior year. Lockers slam, voices shout across the outdoor halls.

“You went to Paris for New Year’s?”

A short scuffle followed by a burst of laughter. “Hey! That’s my new phone!”

“Sorry, I have basketball practice until six. What about tomorrow?”

Bits and pieces of conversations. A collage of lives: past, present, future—

I push past them, turning down one hall then another. She could be anywhere, I tell myself. But the familiar bitterness rising in my throat reminds me otherwise.

Just past the history building, I see her: muscular frame, purple hair, tall combat boots.

Before I can cover the ground between us, the warning bell sounds for first period. I’m caught in the sudden exodus from the girls’ bathroom. I’m spun around, feet tripping one over the other, falling—

I hit the bank of lockers behind me with a sharp thunk. Send the doors rattling against their thin frames. The couple making out just down the row look up, annoyed.

“You okay?”

Someone reaches out to steady me. I don’t turn to give an answer because Bea stands just a few feet away at another bank of lockers, her jaw set, fists clenched, knuckles bloody.

“Bea?” I begin, but instead of turning, she slams her fist into Ethan’s locker, over and over. Like she’s been doing this all morning. Like she’s going to do this all day.

“Bea,” I say again, needing her to look at me.

But it’s as if she doesn’t hear me, doesn’t see the people who’ve gathered to stare.

I take a step toward her, my body tense, already bracing for her barbed comment. She never thought I belonged with Ethan.

Slam.

The force of impact makes me flinch.

Slam.

Black mascara runs down Bea’s cheeks. I’ve never seen her cry, didn’t think she knew how.

Slam.

Bea’s arm drops and she staggers back, gasping for air. In that split second, our eyes meet and I see it. The Truth.

“No—” My voice is lost in the roaring that has started in my ears. Axles jolting, gravel scattering. Steel wheels screaming along steel tracks, picking up speed.

Davis High Senior Ends Life on Tracks. The news app headline on my phone this morning that went on to give a name. Ethan’s.


Chapter 2

Both passenger and freight trains pass through Davis, a university town in northern California located on Interstate 80 between Sacramento and the Bay Area.

The train station downtown, the railroad tracks, the blast of the train horns are all familiar to me, as much a part of life as the surrounding farmland and the fifty-plus miles of trails and bike lanes connecting the community.

But nothing felt familiar as I biked to school this morning. Instead of the rumble of the early morning trains passing through, the only sound I could hear was the heavy thudding of my own heart.

It wasn’t him, I told myself as I biked past the gourmet grocery store, the bank, the donut shop. The name in the news release had to be a mistake. After all, there are over five hundred seniors at Davis High—

I skidded to a stop, my way blocked.

Road Closed. The large rectangular sign was mounted on the traffic barricades at the bottom of the overpass bridging the tracks. The same overpass Ethan and I often crossed on our bikes, fighting our way up the steep incline and coasting down the other side.

Behind me, cars turned, following the smaller black and orange signs marking the detour.

No. I shook my head. No. But the thudding in my chest only grew heavier.

Now, as I approach the double doors to first period orchestra, I swallow hard, trying and failing to block out the image of Bea in front of Ethan’s locker, mascara tracks running down her cheeks, her knuckles bloody.

Not real, I tell myself.

Those words are a wall, a wedge, between me and the Truth I saw in Bea’s eyes.

“You heading in?” the timpani player asks, holding open the door.

Yes. No. I don’t know.

Somehow, I force a nod, and holding tight to the handle of my violin case I step inside.

Symphony orchestra is always chaos the first day back after winter break. Folding chairs topple. The bassoonists and bass clarinetist brawl, three against one. The flautists shelter behind a bank of music stands a respectable distance away.

At the other end of the orchestra room, the violists cluster in solidarity, whispering furiously. Apparently, their section leader has turned in her viola, picked up the sousaphone, and joined the pep band. Who does that?

I head straight for the violin section. But out of the corner of my eye, I see the lights on in the small office by the double doors. Mr. Martinez, our orchestra teacher, works on his laptop, a tin of breath mints and three cups of coffee lined up on his desk. Fuel for the morning ahead.

I draw in a shaky breath—Not real.

Davis High is a nationally ranked high school with a reputation for strong academics—and an exceptional music program. Mr. Martinez’s standards for performance are high, and getting his letter of recommendation for my college and music-intensive applications last fall meant everything to me.

I know I should go to his office and talk about the string quartet’s winter repertoire. Get his thoughts on any new pieces we should consider. After all, Mr. Martinez has given me the lead role for the string quartet this year, a role I’ve been fumbling.

I desperately need to get back on track and in his good graces. At least that’s what I told myself all winter break. But now I can’t think, can’t speak. In my head I’m replaying that split second when Bea’s eyes met mine this morning.

Not real.

“Excuse me . . . Sorry.” I jostle down the row of violinists, keeping my gaze averted, sheet music clutched to my chest. I don’t want them to talk to me. Don’t want them to look at me.

“Hey, Nina! What’d you do over break?”

“I like your jacket.”

“Are those new sneakers?”

I do love my new high-top sneakers, the down jacket that makes it look like I actually spend time outside. Likely on a glacier. But I don’t smile, don’t say a word. Their question marks hang in the air as I take the second chair next to Roger’s girlfriend, Lucy Beyers.

Not first, but second chair.

Setting the sheet music on the stand between us, I open my violin case and check the tension of the bow hairs, apply rosin. Try to ground myself in the familiar, the routine. I remind myself that second chair is fine, just fine, even though it’s not.

The challenge for Lucy’s first chair was held the first week of December. Three of us in the violin section competed for her spot as the concertmistress. There was a blind audition, everyone playing the same passage. Even though my thoughts were tied up with Ethan—the significance of our kiss—I was certain I had it this time, that edge. Enough to oust Lucy, who just transferred to our high school from Boise, Idaho, this school year.

The results were posted the last day before winter break.

I bite my lip, fighting the rising panic spreading across my chest, down my arms, to my fingertips.

Next to me, Lucy crosses and uncrosses her tiny penny-loafered feet. She’s wearing another hand-embroidered sweater from her Etsy shop, which features clothing with messages like Be Kind or Empathy Is Cool. Today, it’s Just Breathe.

I shudder.

Twisting a strand of her glossy shoulder-length red hair, Lucy clears her throat with a delicate “A-hem.” I pretend not to notice.

See you tomorrow, then?

My text to Ethan at ten last night as I was getting ready for bed.

Yeah.

He’d texted back at ten-forty. Where was he then? At home, getting ready to leave? On his bike? On the overpass?

He was pronounced dead at eleven-fifteen.

My knuckles tighten as if, like Bea, I too need to punch something, anything. I feel the cake of rosin in my palm flex, crack.

“So,” Lucy chirps, louder this time, forcing her way back into my peripheral vision. “How was the Young Musicians Intensive? You just got back, right?”

I know it’s not the question she wants to ask. Are you okay? I am so, so sorry to hear what happened. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Anything.

“Right,” I manage, teeth gritted, fingers still gripping the rosin. “It was fine.”

Lucy’s smile widens. An invitation to elaborate on my week and a half in Colorado eating, sleeping, and breathing with some of the best teen musicians in the United States.

I don’t.

“Great!” she exclaims, reaching for her sheet music. “So glad to hear! I mean, the bios for the YMI instructors are amazing. I wanted to go just for Andre Valdecci but I had the embroidery conference in Texas and couldn’t do both . . .”

The can lights above me are too bright. My fingers tremble as I slip my cracked rosin back into its drawstring bag. I shouldn’t have gone to the Intensive over the break. I should have stayed here with Ethan. Maybe if I had, everything would be different.

“Seats!” Mr. Martinez takes the stand and motions for Lucy.

My stomach sinks as Lucy walks primly to the front of the room. Lifting her violin, she plays the perfect A.

Section by section we tune to her instrument. Hers, not mine. Woodwinds first, then brass, then lower strings, then violins. The sounds dissonant at first, then melding together into one.

I pretend to study the sheet music as Lucy returns to her seat beside me. But the pages are just a jumble of meaningless lines and dots instead of notes and staff, rhythm and sound.

Mr. Martinez directs us to the third movement of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. As if on autopilot, my fingers move along the fingerboard of my violin, my bow pulling and tugging against the strings. Every movement practiced, mechanical—empty.

The notes rise higher, faster. The music swelling, wailing, crashing against me.

I wait. For that moment when the tangle of my thoughts unravels. When the music takes over and I’m lost in its sweetness and power. But all I feel is pain.