The Way I Used to Be by Amber Smith (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Way I Used to Be by Amber Smith "After fourteen-year-old Eden is raped by her brothers best friend, she knows shell never be the way she used to be"-- FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description A New York Times bestseller. In the tradition of Speak, this extraordinary debut novel "is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love, relationships, and life" ( School Library Journal , starred review). Eden was always good at being good. Starting high school didnt change who she was. But the night her brothers best friend rapes her, Edens world capsizes. What was once simple, is now complex. What Eden once loved--who she once loved--she now hates. What she thought she knew to be true, is now lies. Nothing makes sense anymore, and she knows shes supposed to tell someone what happened but she cant. So she buries it instead. And she buries the way she used to be. Told in four parts--freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year--this provocative debut reveals the deep cuts of trauma. But it also demonstrates one young womans strength as she navigates the disappointment and unbearable pains of adolescence, of first love and first heartbreak, of friendships broken and rebuilt, all while learning to embrace the power of survival she never knew she had hidden within her heart. Author Biography Amber Smith is the New York Times bestselling author of the young adult novels The Way I Used to Be and The Last to Let Go . An advocate for increased awareness of gendered violence, as well as LGBTQ equality, she writes in the hope that her books can help to foster change and spark dialogue surrounding these issues. She grew up in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her partner and their ever-growing family of rescued dogs and cats. You can find her online at AmberSmithAuthor.com. Review "This young adult novel is an unflinching look at the struggles of a rape victim to process her trauma and find the strength to rebuild her life." --Laurie Halse Anderson, New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of Speak and Shout"A poignant and painfully honest survival story about the aftermath of trauma. Amber Smith weaves Edens narrative with a deft, empathetic touch that doesnt shy away from difficult truths. This is a courageous, necessary, and beautiful book." --Kathleen Glasgow, author of Girl in Pieces, The Agathas, and How to Make Friends With the Dark"The Way I Used To Be is an intensely gripping and raw look at secrets, silence, speaking out, and survival in the aftermath of a sexual assault. A must-have for every collection that serves teens."-- "SLJ / Teen Librarian Toolbox""Edys exploration of the meaning of sexuality and intimacy will be thought provoking for teen readers of various experience levels, and this title is likely to find space alongside [Laurie Halse] Andersons Speak." -- "BCCB"STARRED REVIEW "This is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love, relationships, and life....Teens will be reminded of Laurie Halse Andersons Speak. VERDICT An important addition for every collection."-- "School Library Journal""The Way I Used to Be explores the aftermath of sexual assault with a precision and searing honesty that is often terrifying, sometimes eerily beautiful, and always completely true. It is The Heros Journey through a distorted circus mirror--one girls quest to turn desperation into courage, to become a survivor instead of a victim. Amber Smith gets it exactly right."--Amy Reed, author of BEAUTIFUL and CLEAN Review Quote "With an achingly beautiful narrative and carefully crafted plot, The Way I Used to Be is more than just an excellent book; its an important one." Excerpt from Book The Way I Used to Be I DONT KNOW A LOT of things. I dont know why I didnt hear the door click shut. Why I didnt lock the damn door to begin with. Or why it didnt register that something was wrong--so mercilessly wrong--when I felt the mattress shift under his weight. Why I didnt scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between my sheets. Or why I didnt try to fight him when I still stood a chance. I dont know how long I lay there afterward, telling myself: Squeeze your eyelids shut, try, just try to forget. Try to ignore all the things that didnt feel right, all the things that felt like they would never feel right again. Ignore the taste in your mouth, the sticky dampness of the sheets, the fire radiating through your thighs, the nauseating pain--this bulletlike thing that ripped through you and got lodged in your gut somehow. No, cant cry. Because theres nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream, a bad dream--a nightmare. Not real. Not real. Not real. Thats what I keep thinking: NotRealNotRealNotReal. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. I dont know that these images flashing through my mind--a movie of someone else, somewhere else--will never really go away, will never ever stop playing, will never stop haunting me. I close my eyes again, but its all I can see, all I can feel, all I can hear: his skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, muscles stretching, bones cracking, body breaking, me getting weaker, fading. These things--its all there is. I dont know how many hours pass before I awake to the usual Sunday morning clamor--pots and pans clanging against the stove. Food smells seeping under my door--bacon, pancakes, Moms coffee. TV sounds--cold fronts and storm systems moving through the area by midday--Dads weather channel. Dishwasher-running sounds. Yippy yappy dog across the street yips and yaps at probably nothing, as always. And then theres the almost imperceptible rhythm of a basketball bouncing against the dewy blacktop and the squeaky-sneaker shuffling of feet in the driveway. Our stupid, sleepy suburbia, like every other stupid, sleepy suburbia, awakens groggy, indifferent to its own inconsequence, collectively wishing for one more Saturday and dreading chores and church and to-do lists and Monday morning. Life just goes, just happens, continuing as always. Normal. And I cant shake the knowledge that life will just keep on happening, regardless if I wake up or not. Obscenely normal. I dont know, as I force my eyes open, that the lies are already in motion. I try to swallow. But my throats raw. Feels like strep, I tell myself. I must be sick, thats all. Must have a fever. Im delirious. Not thinking clearly. I touch my lips. They sting. And my tongue tastes blood. But no, it couldnt have been. Not real. So as I stare at the ceiling, Im thinking: I must have serious issues if Im dreaming stuff like that. Horrible stuff like that. About Kevin. Kevin. Because Kevin is my brothers best friend, practically my brother. My parents love him like everyone does, even me, and Kevin would never--could never. Not possible. But then I try to move my legs to stand. Theyre so sore--no, broken feeling. And my jaw aches like a mouthful of cavities. I close my eyes again. Take a deep breath. Reach down and touch my body. No underwear. I sit up too fast and my bones wail like Im an old person. Im scared to look. But there they are: my days-of-the-week underwear in a ball on the floor. They were my Tuesdays, even though it was Saturday, because, well, who would ever know anyway? Thats what I was thinking when I put them on yesterday. And now I know, for sure, it happened. It actually happened. And this pain in the center of my body, the depths of my insides, restarts its torture as if on cue. I throw the covers off. Kneecap-shaped bruises line my arms, my hips, my thighs. And the blood--on the sheets, the comforter, my legs. But this was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday. I was supposed to get up, get dressed, and sit down to breakfast with my family. Then after breakfast, I would promptly go to my bedroom and finish any homework I hadnt finished Friday night, sure to pay special attention to geometry. I would practice that new song we learned in band, call my best friend, Mara, maybe go to her house later, and do dozens of other stupid, meaningless tasks. But thats not whats going to happen today, I know, as I sit in my bed, staring at my stained skin in disbelief, my hand shaking as I press it against my mouth. Two knocks on my bedroom door. I jump. "Edy, you up?" My mothers voice shouts. I open my mouth, but it feels like someone poured hydrochloric acid down my throat and I might never be able to speak again. Knock, knock, knock: "Eden, breakfast!" I quickly pull my nightgown down as far as it will go, but theres blood smeared on that, too. "Mom?" I finally call back, my voice scratchy and horrible. She cracks the door open. As she peers in her eyes immediately go to the blood. "Oh God," she gasps, as she slips inside and quickly shuts the door behind her. "Mom, I--" But how am I supposed say the words, the worst words, the ones I know have to be spoken? "Oh, Edy." She sighs, turning her head at me with a sad smile. "Its okay." "Wh--" I start to say. How can it be okay, in what world is this okay? "This happens sometimes when youre not expecting it." She flits around my room, tidying up, barely looking at me while she explains about periods and calendars and counting the days. "It happens to everyone. Thats why I told you, you need to keep track. That way you wont have to deal with these . . . surprises. You can be . . . prepared." This is what she thinks this is. Now, Ive seen enough TV movies to know youre supposed to tell. Youre just supposed to fucking tell. "But--" "Why dont you hop in the shower, sweetie?" she interrupts. "Ill take care of this . . . uh . . . ," she begins, gesturing with her arm in a wide circle over my bed, searching for the word, "this mess." This mess. Oh God, its now or never. Now or never. Its now. "Mom--" I try again. "Dont be embarrassed," she says with a laugh. "Its fine, really, I promise." She stands over me, looking taller than she ever has before, handing me my robe, oblivious of my Tuesday underwear crumpled at her feet. "Mom, Kevin--" I start, but his name in my mouth makes me want to throw up. "Dont worry, Edy. Hes out back with your brother. Theyre playing basketball. And your fathers glued to the TV, as usual. Nobodyll see you. Go ahead. Put this on." Looking up at her, I feel so small. And Kevins voice moves like a tornado through my mind, whispering--his breath on my face--No one will ever believe you. You know that. No one. Not ever. Then my mom shakes the robe at me, offering me a lie I didnt even need to think up. She starts getting that look in her eye--that impatient, its-the-holidays-and-I-dont-have-time-for-this look. Clearly, it was time for me to get going so she could deal with this mess. And clearly, nobody was going to hear me. Nobody was going to see me--he knew that. He had been around long enough to know how things work here. I try to stand without looking like everything is broken. I kick the Tuesdays under the bed so she wont find them and wonder. I take my robe. Take the lie. And as I look back at my mother, watching her collect the soiled sheets in her arms--the evidence--I know somehow if its not now, it has to be never. Because he was right, no one would ever believe me. Of course they wouldnt. Not ever. In the bathroom, I carefully peel off my nightgown, holding it at arms length as I ball it up and stuff it in the garbage can under the sink. I adjust my glasses and examine myself more closely. There are a few faint marks on my throat in the shape of his fingers. But theyre minor, really, in comparison to the ones on my body. No bruises on my face. Only the two-inch scar above my left eye from my bike accident two summers ago. My hair is slightly more disastrous than usual, but essentially I look the same--I can pass. By the time I get out of the shower--still dirty, after scrubbing my body raw, thinking I could maybe wash the bruises off--there he is. Sitting at my kitchen table in my dining room with my brother, my father, my mother, sipping my orange juice from my glass--his mouth on a glass I would have to use someday. On a fork that would soon be undifferentiated from all the other forks. His fingerprints not only all over every inch of me, but all over everything: this house, my life, the world--infected with him. Caelin raises his head and narrows his eyes at me as I cautiously approach the dining room. He can see it. I knew he would see it right away. If anyone was going to notice--if I could count on anyone--it would be my big brother. "Okay, youre being really weird and intense right now," he announces. He could tell because he always knew me even better than I knew myself. So I stand there and wait for him to do something about this. For him to set his fork down, stand up and pull me aside, take me out to the backyard by the arm, and demand to know whats wrong with me, demand to know what happened. Then Id tell him what Kevin did to me and hed give me one of his big brother-isms, like, Dont worry, Edy, Ill take care of it. The way he did whenever anyone was picking on me. And then hed run back inside the house and stab Kevin to death with Details ISBN1481449362 Author Amber Smith Short Title WAY I USED TO BE R/E Edition Description Reprint Language English ISBN-10 1481449362 ISBN-13 9781481449366 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Year 2017 Publication Date 2017-03-07 Audience Age 13-17 Series The Way I Used to Be Audience Teenage / Young adult UK Release Date 2017-03-07 Publisher Simon & Schuster Imprint Simon & Schuster Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States US Release Date 2017-03-07 Pages 400 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:101792498;

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