书名：If I Stay 如果我留下/徘徊人世间
难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数830L
作者：Gayle Forman盖尔·福尔曼
出版社名称：Speak
出版时间：2010
语种：英文 
ISBN：9780142415436
商品尺寸：14 x 2.2 x 21.1 cm
包装：平装
页数：320

If I Stay《如果我留下》（也译作《徘徊人世间》）是美国作家盖尔·福尔曼作的第二部小说，入选2009年美国优佳三十部青少年读物、美国亚马逊网上书店2009年度十大青少年小说、《出版家周刊》2009年度青少年图书。
其同名电影由《暮光之城》导演凯瑟琳·哈德威执导拍摄，于2014年上映。电影的热映让《如果我留下》在出版五年后再次冲上美国亚马逊畅销排行榜榜首达数月。
精彩书评：
“这是一部非常感人的小说，读者会不由自主地打量起自己的生活，那些值得为之活下去的人和事。”——《出版人周刊》
“暮光之城”的读者一定会喜欢这本书。”——《今日美国》
“你一定会被这本青少年小说深深吸引，即使你不是青少年。”——《旧金山纪事报》
“令人心碎的精彩小说……小心！它一定会让你流泪。”——《圣荷西水星报》
“《如果我留下》一定会成为畅销书，这是肯定的。”——《俄勒冈人报》
“我还从来没有为一个小说人物陷得这么深。”——SELF Magazine.com网站书评
“非常出色的小说……真实极了。”——美国在线
What would you do if you had to choose? A haunting novel about the power of love and loss - a story that won’t quite let you go.
NOW A MAJOR FILM STARRING CHLOE GRACE MORETZ
“Just listen,” Adam says with a voice that sounds like shrapnel. “I open my eyes wide now. I sit up as much as I can. And I listen.
“Stay,” he says.
Everybody has to make choices.
Some might break you.
For seventeen-year-old Mia, surrounded by a wonderful family, friends and a gorgeous boyfriend decisions might seem tough, but they’re all about a future full of music and love, a future that’s brimming with hope.
But life can change in an instant.
A cold February morning… a snowy road… and suddenly all of Mia’s choices are gone. Except one.
As alone as she’ll ever be, Mia must make the most difficult choice of all.
Haunting, heartrending and ultimately life-affirming, If I Stay will make you appreciate all that you have, all that you’ve lost—and all that might be.

If I Stay《如果我留下》讲述的是一个令人心痛又感动得落泪的关于生命、爱情、亲情的美丽故事。前一秒钟，大提琴演奏家米娅还和家人坐在车上，下一秒钟，她就站在那辆残破的别克车外，看着已经死去的父母和陷入昏迷的自己和弟弟，不禁迷惑于自己的存在状态（我死了吗？）她追随着自己的身体被送往医院。看着呼吸器下的自己，游魂般的她开始回忆往昔，犹豫着要不要独自活下去……
In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen­year-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being taken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put together the pieces—to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly beautiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and family. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia’s story will stay with you for a long, long time.

盖尔·福尔曼（Gayle Forman），一位备受赞誉的作家和记者，在许多杂志和期刊上发表文章，包括《十七岁》《大都会》《国家杂志》《伊人》和《纽约时报》等。

Gayle Forman is an award-winning author and journalist whose articles have appeared in numerous publications, including Seventeen, Cosmopolitan and Elle in the US. She lives in Brooklyn with her family.

7:09 A.M.
Everyone thinks it was because of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that’s true.
I wake up this morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. It isn’t even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the county gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky—and drops and drops and drops—not the frozen kind.
It is enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets out a war whoop when Mom’s AM radio announces the closures. “Snow day!” he bellows. “Dad, let’s go make a snowman.”
My dad smiles and taps on his pipe. He started smoking  one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartorial or sardonic—Dad’s way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a teacher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves.
“You can make a valiant try,” Dad tells Teddy. “But it’s hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe you should consider a snow amoeba.”
I can tell Dad is happy. Barely an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are closed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad works, so it’s an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who works for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours herself a second cup of coffee. “Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I’m going to work. It’s simply not right.” She picks up the telephone to call in. When she’s done, she looks at us. “Should I make breakfast?”
Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad’s the cook in the family.
Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisquick. “Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes?”
“I do! I do!” Teddy yells. “Can we have chocolate chips in them?”
“I don’t see why not,” Mom replies.
“Woo hoo!” Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air.
“You have far too much energy for this early in the morning,” I tease. I turn to Mom. “Maybe you shouldn’t let Teddy drink so much coffee.”
“I’ve switched him to decaf,” Mom volleys back. “He’s just naturally exuberant.”
“As long as you’re not switching me to decaf,” I say.
“That would be child abuse,” Dad says.
Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper.
“There’s a nice picture of your young man in there,” she says.
“Really? A picture?”
“Yep. It’s about the most we’ve seen of him since summer,” Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul-searching stare.
“I know,” I say, and then without meaning to, I sigh. Adam’s band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, is a great thing—mostly.
“Ah, fame, wasted on the youth,” Dad says, but he’s smiling. I know he’s excited for Adam. Proud even.
I leaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There’s a small blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge picture of the band’s lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is opening for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini’s national tour. It doesn’t mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shooting  Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place.
“Are you going tonight?” Dad asks.
“I was planning to. It depends if they shut down the whole state on account of the snow.”
“It is approaching a blizzard,” Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth.
“I’m also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up.” Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I’ve been working with for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. “Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it’s really done,” she says.
I haven’t gotten into Juilliard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and the Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I’d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing together so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn’t happen very often. As I’d shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had “seen an Oregon country girl.” Professor Christie had taken that to mean a guaranteed acceptance. I wasn’t so sure that was true. And I wasn’t 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shooting Star’s meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard—if it happens—will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would compound the complications that have already cropped up in the last few months.
“I need more coffee. Anyone else?” Mom asks, hovering over me with the ancient percolator.
I sniff the coffee, the rich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perks me up. “I’m pondering going back to bed,” I say. “My cello’s at school, so I can’t even practice.”
“Not practice? For twenty-four hours? Be still, my broken heart,” Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years—“it’s like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese”—she’s been a not-always-delighted captive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals.
I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum kit. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he’d played drums in a big-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he’d worked at a record store.
Dad grins at Teddy’s noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it’s silly but I have always wondered if Dad is disappointed that I didn’t become a rock chick. I’d meant to. Then, in third grade, I’d wandered over to the cello in music class—it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It’s been almost ten years now and I haven’t stopped.
“So much for going back to sleep,” Mom yells over Teddy’s noise.
“What do you know, the snow’s already melting.” Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I go to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has broken through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting. I close the door and go back to the table.
“I think the county overreacted,” I say.
“Maybe. But they can’t un-cancel school. Horse is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off,” Mom says.
“Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unexpected boon and go somewhere,” Dad says. “Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow.” Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad’s old music friends who’d also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That’s the real reason Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned eight and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt.