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128 pages

English

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When Imogen, a sixteen-year-old black belt in Tae Kwon Do, freezes during a holdup at a local diner, the gunman is shot and killed by the police, and she blames herself for his death. Before the shooting, she believed that her black belt made her stronger than everyone elsemore responsible, more capable. But now that her sense of self has been challenged, she must rebuild her life, a process that includes redefining her relationship with her family and navigating first love with the boy who was at the diner with her during the shoot-out. With action, romance, and a complex heroine, Bruised introduces a vibrant new voice to the young adult worldfull of dark humor and hard truths. Praise for Bruised STARRED REVIEW "Offering psychological drama and an introduction to martial-arts code of behavior, the book has a meaningful message about power, control, and the internal bruises carried by victims." Publishers Weekly, starred review "Her story is compelling, and readers will stick with her as new insights bring about a believable shift in her behaviorThis distinctive debut will be appreciated by fans of contemporary fiction." Kirkus Reviews "This layered first novel explores the aftereffects of the trauma, convincingly depicting why Imogen blames herself for a situation over which she had no control. Skilton also sensitively depicts the bond and tentative romance that develops between Imogen and Ricky. The main story line about Imogens struggle to come to terms with what she did (and did not do) is nuanced and honest." Horn Book "This is a useful exploration of the difference between fantasy-style omnipotence and the complexity of real-life human strength." Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books "Skilton does a fine job capturing how a psychological process after trauma can take time and might manifest in unique, sometimes unexpected, ways." VOYA Magazine "Poignant and emotionally raw at times and humorous at others, this debut novel adeptly portrays a shattered life in the wake of an unexpected act of violence and the road back to normalcy." School Library Journal "Here is a writer to watch who handles complex issues with sensitivity in the vein of Deb Caletti and Sarah Dessen." Booklist

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	05 mars 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781613124574
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0330€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

IMOGEN HAS ALWAYS BELIEVED THAT her black belt in Tae Kwon Do made her stronger than everyone else-more responsible, more capable. But when she witnesses a holdup in a diner, she freezes. The gunman is shot and killed by the police. And it s all her fault.
Now she s got to rebuild her life without the talent that made her special and the beliefs that made her strong. If only she could prove herself in a fight-a real fight-she might be able to let go of the guilt and shock. She s drawn to Ricky, another witness to the holdup, both romantically and because she believes he might be able to give her the fight she s been waiting for.
But when it comes down to it, a fight won t answer Imogen s big questions: What does it really mean to be stronger than other people? Is there such a thing as a fair fight? And can someone who s beaten and bruised fall in love?

PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Skilton, Sarah. Bruised / by Sarah Skilton. pages cm Summary: When she freezes during a hold-up at the local diner, sixteen-year-old Imogen, who always believed that her black belt in Tae Kwan Do made her better than everyone else, has to rebuild her life, including her relationship with her family and with a certain boy. ISBN 978-1-4197-0387-4 [1. Tae kwon do-Fiction. 2. Martial arts-Fiction. 3. Self-perception-Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S6267Br 2013
[Fic]-dc23 2012042801
Text copyright 2013 Sarah Skilton Photograph copyright 2013 Jonathan Beckerman Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Published in 2013 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

115 West 18th Street New York, NY 10011 www.abramsbooks.com
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Contents
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Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
BY THE TIME MY BROTHER ARRIVES, HE CAN T GET TO ME .
The cops have barricaded the diner-two blocks in all directions. Blood and worse coats my hair, my face, and my clothes, sticking to me like chunks of blackberry jam. They had to cut me out of my shirt, but since they can t cut me out of my skin, I don t see how I ll ever be clean.
It took me six years to get my black belt.
Two fifty-five-minute classes every Monday and Wednesday after school, plus Friday night sparring and Saturday morning demo-team practice. Two belt tests per year, spring and fall, like a pendulum swinging ever higher.
I memorized the colors, chanted them to myself in bed at night. The walls of the dojang were white except for a section at the front of the room, underneath the Korean and American flags, where a brightly painted chart in the shape of a ladder, one fat brick per color, reached up to the ceiling. As if I d ever forget.
White belt, yellow belt, orange belt, purple belt, green belt, light blue belt, dark blue belt, red belt, red with black stripe, brown belt, brown with black stripe, black belt.
And guess what black is? Hint: It s not the end. It s not the highest level, not even close. Black belt means now you get to start. Now you get to learn martial arts. You re back at the beginning: first degree. There are twelve degrees, and each one takes years and years to achieve, maybe even a decade. Only like five people in the world are twelfth-degree black belts, and they re ancient and live on top of mountains and stuff.
My instructor, Grandmaster Huan, is a ninth degree. Chief Master Paulson is a fourth degree. I was the first female to earn a black belt at my school, and the youngest.
I ve heard that in Korea there are no colors. You start out as a white belt, and then one day your instructor decides you re a black belt. No rhyme, no reason. At least, none that you d understand. There s no guarantee you ll be good enough, and no set time when they have to promote you. You have to prove yourself. You have to earn it beyond a doubt.
You have to accept that it might never happen.
But when all those Korean masters came to the United States, they added colors in order to teach and make a living, because they knew American kids wouldn t be able to stand working hard without anything to show for it. They knew American kids couldn t handle waiting for something that might never come. Most of all, they knew American parents wanted their monthly checks to translate into evidence that their kid was making progress, that all the yelling and kicking and punching in formation had a point.
My black belt wasn t the end, and it wasn t the beginning.
It doesn t represent six years of hard work, constant practice, anxiety attacks on test day, stacks of certificates, a cabinet full of trophies, sweat, pain, and elation-or Friday nights spent sparring while my friends went to the movies.
My black belt represents everything I could ve done and everything I didn t do, the only time it really mattered.
GRETCHEN S IN THE BATHROOM WHEN THE GUNMAN comes in.
Everyone else has gone home after tossing a bunch of crumpled bills on the table, saying good night and how they hope they ll see me tomorrow at the homecoming game. They were just being nice; Gretchen and the rest of her senior friends only invited me out because my older brother, Hunter, had to work, and she s only waiting around so she can grill me privately about whether he s seeing anyone.
If he is, he ll be done in an hour.
That s how long it took him to date Shelly Eppes, who was my best friend until three weeks ago.
I m not going to say that, though.
No one s in the diner except the cashier and me. The table s been cleared and wiped down, but there are still bits of hash browns stuck to the corner of the lamination or whatever it is and some packets of ketchup scattered around. They were about to close, but Gretchen asked if she could use the bathroom first, so that s where she is when the gunman comes in, all twitchy and frenetic, with a black ski mask, long tangled hair, and a scruffy coat.
I see him from my position in the corner booth, but he doesn t know I m there. I m not close to the windows, so he must not have seen me when he was outside, deciding whether to come in. I see the bright silver glint of a gun in his hand, harsh and fake looking under the fluorescent lights. For a split second, everything seems unreal, like I ve wandered onto the set of a horror film. For a split second, I don t register what s going on.
And then I get under the table.
I tuck my knees under my chin and wrap my arms around my legs until I m a compact little ball. My heart bashes itself against the bars of my rib cage, trying to stage a prison break.
The table legs feel like widely spaced tree trunks in a field, leaving me exposed, so I contract further. I pull my breath in like I m shoving and cramming it into a drawer that s already full, and then I lock the drawer before anything spills out.
That s when I notice someone else is there, under a different table, across the aisle. He s crouched the same way as me, he looks about my age, and he s got dark hair and dark eyes.
Slowly, slowly his index finger comes up to his lips. Shh
I nod, never breaking eye contact. We don t blink because if we blink the other person might disappear, and then we ll be all alone.
My heart slams so hard I swear it s going to leave my body behind. (Take me with you.) My breath tumbles out in little puffs I fight to suppress.
Above us, the cashier argues with the gunman.
What the hell are you doing, Daryl? She sounds annoyed, not frightened.
Just empty the register, he yells back. Shut up.
What the hell? she says.
Please don t argue , I think, and I know my friend under the other table is thinking the same thing.
There s more yelling, and then a horrible noise, like a scream, but muffled. Worse than a scream, because we can t tell what s going on.
My friend and I look into each other s eyes and try to block out the fact that it sounds like the gunman has whipped the cashier across her face with the butt of his gun. It sounds like she s choking on teeth and blood. It sounds like she s pleading for her life. A high-pitched moan rolls toward us, piercing my eardrums.
It s horrible, the drawn-out moan, but it means she s still alive.
Please do as he says and maybe he ll go away and you ll be all right.
I ve never looked directly into someone else s eyes for this long before. Definitely not a guy s. It would be weird under other circumstances. As long as we re looking at each other, though, we have hope. If the gunman comes near our section, he won t be able to get both of us. One of us will help the other. I know this in my muscles and tendons, which are poised, taut, alert. I know this in the snapping valves of my heart, trying to dislodge from my chest.
I think about Gretchen, willing her to stay in the bathroom, guilty that I haven t thought about her before now. Oh God, she has a bunch of little sisters. I think she s the oldest of five. She s like a nanny crossed with a drill sergeant, because she s used to herding groups of people. Even her friends tonight seemed to agree that sitting back and letting her take charge-of ordering appetizers for the table, decidi