Book : America - Frank, E. R.

-Titulo Original : America

-Fabricante :

Atheneum Books For Young Readers

-Descripcion Original:

For eighteen gritty years, a boy dodges the cracks in system in this “piercing, unforgettable novel” (Booklist) from E.R. Frank that Kirkus Reviews deemed “a work of sublime humanity.” America is mistaken for black, Asian, Native American, even white. He doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere, and, parentless, he is shunted for eighteen years from a foster home, to the street, and ultimately to the brink of despair. Can one doctor pull him back and bring America somewhere new-somewhere with a future? America was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and a YALSA Best Book for Young Adults and has received numerous other honors, and E.L. Frank’s extensive experience as a clinical social worker and therapist is why “the author’s ability to capture so much emotion in the details makes this book remarkable” ( Publishers Weekly, starred review). About the Author E.R. Frank is the author of America, Friction, Wrecked, and Dime. Her first novel, Life Is Funny, won the Teen People Book Club NEXT Award for YA Fiction and was also a top-ten ALA 2001 Quick Pick. In addition to being writer, E.R. Frank is also a clinical social worker and psychotherapist. She works with adults and adolescents and specializes in trauma. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. America Now YOU HAVE TO watch what you say here because everything you say means something and somebody’s always telling you what you mean. “Step off,” I tell this nurse when she tries to get me to eat. “You mean, thank you for caring,” she says. “You’re welcome.” “I need a lighter,” I tell her, and she goes. “You mean you want a lighter. Dream on, sweetheart.” So I take their medicine and walk around in socks the way they make you, and stay real quiet. * * * “Hello, America,” he goes. “I’m Dr. B.” He holds out his hand, but I play like I don’t even see it. “I’ll be your therapist while you’re here at Ridgeway.” He drops his arm like it’s no big thing and dumps his skinny butt in a chair behind his desk. “You can sit anywhere.” He doesn’t have any tennis balls or messed-up eyeglasses or an attitude like those other ones back at Applegate. He’s just regular. I stay standing. “We’ll meet at this time for forty-five minutes every Tuesday and Thursday.” I keep my back right up on the door. He’s all calm, like it’s cool with him. “Our sessions will be confidential. Are you familiar with the rules of confidentiality?” I don’t bother answering. “Confidentiality means what’s said in this room stays in this room.” He stops a second, looking at me, close. “Except for three things.” Looking at me straight up. “If you tell me that someone is harming you, if you express the intent to harm yourself, or do so, or if you express the intent to harm anyone else, or do so. Those three things don’t stay private between us.” “That’s it?” I go. “ ‘That’s it,’ what?” he goes. Not in my face. Just normal. “That’s all you’ve got, if I say I’m going to off myself?” “Is that what you’re planning?” “Huh?” “Are you planning to kill yourself?” “That’s not what I asked.” “I know that’s not what you asked.” He’s leaning forward on his elbows, like he’s interested, like he for real even cares. “It’s no big secret, doc,” I go. “How the hell do you think I got here?” * * * They try to make me do group. “Who wants to share with America what the purpose of this group is?” the lady goes. Nobody bothers, so she picks on some kid all bent over with his arms crossed looking like he’s got nails twisting up his stomach. “Don?” the lady goes, and he squeaks his chair and crosses his arms the other way. “Supposed to talk or something,” this Don goes. I’m out of here. “Please sit down, America,” the lady tells me. I head for the door. “America, you are required to participate in group,” the lady goes. I keep walking. “Privileges,” I hear her yelling. Points, tickets, privileges. You do this, they give you that many. You get that man