Page 1 of Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls #1)

Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event.

If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat.

But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin.

So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.

A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos.

Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces.

Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors.

Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.

And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.

“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side.

He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what I hope looks like a grin.

“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.

“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.

I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.

“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.

“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”

This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media.

I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity.

And although this is my first summer at the company in an official capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias.

Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place.

All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.

In other words, the Streets.

“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”

The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.

“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”

“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”

I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.

“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”

“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”

Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true, but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”

“I would love that,” I say.

“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”

He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.

“Is that one of your… creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.

I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.

“It is…,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.

“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”

I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”

“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”

I nod. “I did.”

Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”

Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.

My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.

Foodie Fernie: hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)

I put my phone back into my purse and sigh.

I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change.

I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight.

But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work.

I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.

So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.

Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop.

Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing.

Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.

Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.

I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. I want this.

I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page.

Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggested I look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion.

Of course, that’s not part of my life plan.

Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life.

But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.

I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.

The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.

I’m reading through the essay prompt— Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration— when there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”

“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”

“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”

“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”

“Uh-huh…” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”

“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”

Even if it was just my name and address.

“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”

I draw my eyebrows together. Something is off . “Okay…”

I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.

She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”

“Morning…” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Mom begins, “we wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sure you’ve noticed that things between your dad and me have been…”

“Rough?” I supply.

“Exactly. Things have been rough lately. There’s no easy way to say this, but… we’ve decided to take some time apart.”

Panic seeps into my chest. “Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Dad says quickly.

Mom shoots him a glare, then settles her eyes on me. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shake my head. “Okay, well, I know you two have been fighting a lot, but can’t you work it out?”

“No, we can’t. Not this time,” Mom says. “But your aunt Naomi has some extra space at her house, and I think some time apart will be best for all of us.”

I look at Dad, hoping he’ll object. Hoping he’ll have some other solution. He always has a solution to everything.

But he only continues to stare at the wall, his jaw twitching.

“Dad? Say something. Do something.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ellis. The decision’s been made,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. Stubble shadows his face, and his hair looks as though he’s run his hand through it a hundred times. He looks defeated .

“It’ll be tough for the family not to be together, but we’ll get through it,” Mom says, offering a weak smile.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, some realization dawning on her. “Oh. Well, you’re coming with me to Bramble Falls.”

“What?” I stop breathing. “No, I’m not. School starts this week,” I remind her.

“You’ll go to school in Bramble Falls for a little while,” she says. “We’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not s tarting at a new school. Dad, tell her.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, the decision’s been made, Ellis. You heard your mother.”

I stand, now hovering over Mom, who sits with her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding looking at me.

“I’m not going to freaking Connecticut. You can’t make me leave my home and my friends and my school during my senior year !

What about my commitments? I mean, I’m volunteering at the nursing home, and I’m still doing my internship at Street Media after school three days a week.

And I’m finally the editor of the school newspaper this year!

I’m sorry, but no. I can’t leave. Being here is imperative to my getting into Columbia. Why can’t I just stay with Dad?”

Mom finally looks at me, her face hard and unreadable. “This isn’t up for debate.” She stands. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so you better go pack.”

“ What? I don’t even get to say goodbye to Fern or give my jobs any notice? I’m supposed to have lunch with Mr. Street this week. Please, Mom, don’t do this.”

My heart thuds wildly and unshed tears blur my vision. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Staying isn’t an option,” she says, her eyes glassing over. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my back to her. “Dad, please,” I beg, walking over to him, blinking rapidly in my refusal to cry.

Dad pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “It’s only temporary, Ellis. Your internship will be waiting for you, okay? I’m sure Mr. Street would love to have lunch when you get back.”

I pull out of his arms, shaking my head in disbelief. How can he just let this happen?

I clench my teeth as my eyes dart between my parents. “I hate you both for doing this.”

“Ellis—”

My bare feet pound against the hardwood floor with each step toward my bedroom, cutting off whatever empty argument my mom was about to offer. I slam my door behind me and walk over to my window, where, finally, I let my tears zigzag freely down my cheeks.

Outside, the sun washes over the city. People go about their Saturday morning as if the whole world didn’t just flip upside down and catch fire. As if my whole life weren’t just upended. As if my whole future weren’t just crushed.

Until I started high school, my parents and I used to visit my aunt Naomi and my cousin Sloane every summer. So I already know what I’m walking into.

I already know there’s nothing for me in Bramble Falls, Connecticut.