Bruised Read online

  U.S.A. $16.95 • CANADA $18.95 • U.K. £9.99

  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 [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  For Joe

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  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, deciding how to split the bill, figuring out how everyone should get home—was for the best. There was this sense that, with Gretchen around, things would get done and fun would be had.

  Oh God. Let her be safe.

  I don’t realize she’s already called the cops from her cell phone.

  All I did was hide.

  All I did was hide.

  I don’t remember what happens next.

  There’s a wall around that memory I can’t climb.

  So I’m gonna think about the shoes on my friend under the table. He’s wearing clean, bright white sneakers, the kind hip-hop artists wear. They look brand-new. They’re perfectly white all over, the laces and logo and sole, like they’ve been dipped in creamy vanilla, and then they’re red because that’s what happens next, and I can’t—I don’t—I don’t want to remember it.

  But neither of us is injured, which is more than the cashier can say; and neither of us is killed, which is more than the gunman can say.

  When the cops finally cut me out of my clothes, which are weighing me down like thick red tar, all I can think is, Who will pay for this shirt? Who will pay for these jeans?

  I rock back and forth and calculate their cost.

  “I don’t care if you never speak to me again,” Hunter says at 3 a.m., kneeling by the side of my bed like he’s praying. He’s not allowed in my room anymore, but he crept in after we got home, after the cops let me go. “Imogen, I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  His voice quivers on the last word, like he’s twelve, and for a second his sobbing reminds me of the cashier, all woeful and pleading. I picture a cat on a windowsill, begging for scraps, not realizing the house is empty because everyone’s moved away.

  WHEN I THINK OF BEFORE, I THINK OF ALL THE COLORS.

  The bright white cotton of my Tae Kwon Do uniform.

  The ruby-red strawberry smoothies I chugged at breakfast, straight out of the blender, so fast the juice dripped down my chin, so sweet and pure. The tiny seeds caught in my teeth.

  Closing up Glenview Martial Arts for the night under an orchid-pink sky streaked with orange like the sun’s been smeared by a finger-painting deity, digging his hands in, getting them wet.

  I remember the summer: Fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sparklers igniting in fountain-shocks of yellow. Ashy smoke and streamers.

  The clear blue chlorinated sheen of the Glenview community pool, where Hannah and DJ worked the concession stand, selling pizza, 7Up, and frozen Charleston Chews. During breaks, my friends would lie out, perfecting their tans. At night they went on double dates with the lifeguards.

  They thought about love.

  I did, too, but in a different way. For me, it wasn’t about finding the perfect guy.

  For me, it was about teaching.

  In August, Grandmaster Huan ran a three-week self-defense summer camp for kids, in the hope they’d join Glenview Martial Arts for the fall session. This year he asked me to help out.

  To get my black belt, I had to assistant-teach sixty hours of beginner and sixty hours of intermediate classes. Teaching makes you better, because in order to explain something to someone else, you have to know it cold.

  The camp kids made me nervous, though. Compared with my regular crew, the August kids were prisoners from the gen-pop, scary little brace-faced terrors, dropped off by parents in desperate need of an afternoon cocktail. These kids didn’t know to take off their shoes and sit quietly in the hall while the previous class finished up. They didn’t know how to bow or in what order to bow. They didn’t know the Children’s Home Rules or Five Tenets of Tae Kwon Do.

  Would they “respect ma authoritay” (as Cartman would say) or laugh at my attempts to control them? They probably had no idea how old I was. Sixteen? Twenty? Forty-five?

  I couldn’t let them down; it was my responsibility to demonstrate proper technique.

  There was this one new girl, Taylor, who was about to enter sixth grade. She had so much heart, and she cracked me up because she kiyap’ed (yelled) louder than anyone else when she kicked, but always a split second too late, like she’d almost forgotten to do it. She had trouble with blocks and counterstrikes because she didn’t like getting in other people’s space, especially boys’ space. Most girls don’t, and I wanted to change that.

  Her long straggly hair whipped her in the face when she punched. I showed her how to braid it and pin it underneath, all tidy and sneaky, and then I made it my mission to turn her into a fearless fighter.

  “Let’s say you’re at a U of I party, having fun, until a drunk frat boy corners you against the wall,” I said. I’d seen the U of I sticker on her mom’s car.

  Taylor smiled shyly and ducked her head.

  I grabbed the collar of her dobuk (uniform) and pretended to slam her against the wall.

  She twisted, anxious to pull away, but I held fast. “That’ll just make it worse. He’s bigger and stronger than you.”

  Taylor was frustrated. “So what do I do?”

  “You have to pull him toward you.”

  I placed Taylor’s hands around my wrists. “Pull me in closer.”

  “But I don’t want him to come closer.” She grimaced.

  “I know, it’s weird and it doesn’t seem logical, but it’s what he’s least expecting, right? If you pull him in, that throws him off-balance mentally and physically, and you can get the upper hand.”

  She nodded, but the way her throat moved, I knew she was trying to swallow her fear. It’s scary to go against your instincts.

  “Okay, so pull me in and, at the same time, drop to one knee and see what happens.”

  She tentatively did so, and I launched myself forward as if yanked, pretend-smashing my face into the wall above her.

  “You’re using his own momentum against him. You don’t have to be stronger than him, you just have to time it right. That’s the beauty of it. And he’ll never expect it.”

  She nodded again, eyes determined, looking more certain this time.

  “And check this
out,” I said. “In order to break my fall, I have to let go of you, see? And then you can run. Let’s try again.”

  We went over it every day for a week, and on the second-to-last day of camp, I saw the exact moment when she got it, when she realized she had more power than she ever imagined, when she saw all the possibilities slapped into her hand like tickets at a carnival.

  And I thought, this is what love is: all the possibilities.

  My life wasn’t perfect or anything before the diner.

  But there were so many colors.

  I WAKE UP SATURDAY AT ELEVEN, GROGGY AND OUT OF IT, to the sounds of the homecoming parade a few blocks over. The marching band is its usual loud, flute-heavy self. I haven’t slept this late in years. Normally I’d be home from practice, showered, and on my second strawberry smoothie by now.

  The brass and drum sections take over for a second, a fast, erratic, rat-a-tachycardia, and the band moves into the distance until it disappears completely. I try to stretch under the covers, but my leg muscles are killing me. At first I think it must be from sparring class yesterday, but that doesn’t make sense because I didn’t go to sparring class yesterday—Oh.

  It’s from crouching under the table at the diner, every fiber of my body tense and shaking.

  There’s a knock on my door, but I don’t know why they bother because a second later, Hunter and Mom plow inside without waiting for me to say “Come in.”

  They’re carrying trays of food. It’s like a parody of hotel room service. Orange juice, pancakes, milk, yogurt, fresh fruit, and muesli. Usually these are my favorites, but today the juice hurts my eyes and the food looks nauseating.