Random House: Bringing You the Best in Fiction, Nonfiction, and Children's Books
Newletters and Alerts

Buy now from Random House

  • High Dive
  • Written by Tammar Stein
  • Format: Trade Paperback | ISBN: 9780440239031
  • Our Price: $7.99
  • Quantity:
See more online stores - High Dive

Buy now from Random House

  • High Dive
  • Written by Tammar Stein
  • Format: eBook | ISBN: 9780375849510
  • Our Price: $7.99
  • Quantity:
See more online stores - High Dive

High Dive

    Select a Format:
  • Book
  • eBook

Written by Tammar SteinAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Tammar Stein


List Price: $7.99


On Sale: June 10, 2008
Pages: 0 | ISBN: 978-0-375-84951-0
Published by : Knopf Books for Young Readers RH Childrens Books
High Dive Cover

Share & Shelve:

  • Add This - High Dive
  • Email this page - High Dive
  • Print this page - High Dive
This book has no tags.
You can add some at Library Thing.


Arden has a plane ticket to Sardinia to say goodbye to her family’s beloved vacation home after her father’s sudden death and her mother’s deployment to Iraq as an army nurse. Lonely for her father and petrified for her mother’s safety, Arden dreads her trip to the house in Sardinia—the only place that has truly felt like home to her. So when she meets a group of fun, carefree, and careless friends on their summer break, she decides to put off her trip and join them to sample the sights and culinary delights of Europe. Soon they are climbing the Eiffel Tower, taking in the French countryside on a train chugging toward the Alps, and gazing at Michelangelo’s David in Florence, all the while eating gelato and sipping cappuccino. Arden tries to forget about the danger her mom faces every day, to pretend she’s just like the rest of the girls, flirting with cute European guys and worried only about where to party next.
But the house in Sardinia beckons and she has to make a choice. Is Arden ready to jump off the high dive?


The phone rang at 6 a.m. Even though I expected it, my heart leapt at the shrill sound. I lunged for the receiver, picking it up before the ring ended, and looked over at my roommate. She'd burrowed deeper undercover. I could only see a skein of hair on the pillow. Good.

I glanced at the clock to begin the countdown. My mom and I had exactly fifteen minutes for the phone call.

Technically, everyone was allowed two fifteen-minute DSN, the military phone system, calls a week, but we rarely managed two. Usually it was one call, which you might think meant we could talk for thirty minutes, but the army didn't work that way.

"Hi, sweetie," my mom said. Sometimes the connection was clear; other times it crackled and buzzed, her voice fading in and out. We had a good connection this time. I closed my eyes at the sound of her voice, trying to breathe it in, trying to soak in it. "How are you?"

I spent three minutes telling her about a paper I'd turned in and an upcoming final that worried me. "How are you doing?" I asked. I couldn't skip that even though I knew she wouldn't tell me anything important.

"It's 120 degrees today," she said. "Don't believe what people say about 'dry heat.' It's like stepping into an oven. And summer's just starting. Just another beautiful day in Baghdad. Oh, and yesterday we had a sandstorm."

"Was it as bad as everyone said it would be?" A deployment to Iraq sucked on many levels. For my mom, the weather was high on the list.

"It was worse. The sky turned orange. It was like the thickest fog you've ever seen, like a fine misty rain, but it was sand." I winced. "The sand whipped so hard even the birds couldn't fly."

I glanced at the clock. Five minutes down. Ten to go. And I hadn't brought up the trip to Sardinia.

Two months ago an Italian real estate agent contacted my mom about selling our vacation house in Sardinia. It took a few weeks before my mom had told me. I think she worried about my feelings, but I didn't blame her for wanting to sell.

"When we bought the place, Dad and I joked we'd retire there," she had said. That was during a phone call five weeks ago, when she finally filled me in. "That's not going to happen now, is it?"

"Plus, the roof's going to go any day now," she'd said, going on. Her voice had dropped out, then came back. "The plumbing all needs to be replaced."

I'd grown up on the story of how my parents bought the little house on their honeymoon. They knew my mom's military career would keep them moving a lot. A permanent place, they reasoned, even a vacation home they'd visit only once a year, was like having a real home.
"It's okay, Mom. It makes sense."

"I can't believe those people are offering so much money for such a dump," she'd said, trying to laugh.

"It's not a dump." I couldn't help defending the house. But it was a lot of money, enough to give my mom a comfortable nest egg when she finally left the army.

"You've always loved it best. We can keep it if you want," she had said in a rush. Because of the delay, her reply and mine came on top of each other.

Silence again. I wasn't sure if she'd heard me. But there wasn't time to get into long discussions. There were too many other important things to worry about.

"No, it makes sense to sell it," I'd said, pragmatic and practical. I ignored the deep pang that said I was turning my back on the place of my best memories, my favorite vacations, the promise my dad made to me every year if I was good.

I managed to convince her that since I already had a ticket to visit her in Germany--I'd purchased it before we knew she'd be deployed--I'd use my ticket and make my way down to Sardinia to close up the house. She didn't interrupt me much. Partly because it was easier to let one person talk instead of having a conversation full of time delays and dead air, and partly because I was saying everything she needed to hear.

I didn't lie to my mom when I had told her I wanted to do it; it was just that I hadn't really thought it through.
Then last week, as school was winding down and my trip was coming up, it finally occurred to me it might be really awful to go to Sardinia alone.

I had less than ten minutes to try and explain.
"So about the house," I said now, keeping an eye on the roommate and on the clock.

"I worry about you going to Sardinia alone," she said, echoing my thoughts. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
With a sinking heart, I realized that I couldn't burden her with my doubts. She'd been in Iraq for five months; I couldn't tell her that I was scared to go alone. That the beach house in Sardinia was the closest thing I had to a childhood home and I didn't want to be the one to turn off the lights and lock the door.

"Really, Mom, it's no problem."

"You'll be so lonely there. And how will you manage without a car?"

Perhaps she had also agreed to my offer without fully thinking it through. But I couldn't back down now. I volunteered to close the house to take one worry off her shoulders. I wasn't about to put it back on.

"Yeah, it's such a hardship to go spend a couple of weeks at a beach house in Sardinia. Honestly, Mom, it'll be awesome to travel to Europe. Hang out at the beach, eat great food. All my friends are so jealous."

Five minutes left.


From the Hardcover edition.
Tammar Stein

About Tammar Stein

Tammar Stein - High Dive

Photo © Fred Stein

"Stories are what take us away from traffic jams and ketchup stains
and allergies and all the other mundane or unpleasant life events that we go
through. Stories inspire us to be better."--Tammar Stein

Tammar Stein has lived in Israel, Europe, and the United States. Light Years is her first novel.

I’ve always loved stories. Fairy tales, adventures, tragedies, heroes and
villains, stories are what take us away from traffic jams and ketchup stains
and allergies and all the other mundane or unpleasant life events that we go
through. Stories inspire us to be better. They lift us away from our
problems. And if they’re really good, they help us see the world through
someone else’s eyes. That’s the best part for me. Because I always wonder
about other people, about their life, about their feelings. What’s it like
to grow up in Pakistan? What’s it like to be an orphan, or a prisoner of
war, or an insane genius? Reading a good book lets you inside the head of
this stranger that you have nothing in common with. You live together and
get to know each other. You laugh with them or maybe cry for them and it can
open your eyes to things you never noticed before.

Reading is one my favorite things to do. Unfortunately, it’s kind of tough
to make a career just from reading. Being a writer is the next best thing.
I get to stay in my pajamas until noon and I get to play with imaginary
friends all day long and even talk about them with other people–all without
being considered certifiably insane. That’s a pretty sweet deal. But writing
isn’t easy. There are days when my imaginary friends don’t come. Then I’m
stuck there, alone in front of a blank screen with the curser just blinking,
waiting for me to write something down. But on the days when they do decide
to visit, and the writing flows, it all comes together. I’m transported away
from sitting in a chair, in an office, in a house, to a place that exists
only in my imagination. And if I’m lucky, when I’m done, other people who
read my book could go there too.

Your E-Mail Address
send me a copy

Recipient's E-Mail Address
(multiple addresses may be separated by commas)

A personal message: