When You Trap a Tiger: (Winner of the 2021 Newbery Medal)

1



I can turn invisible.

It's a superpower, or at least a secret power. But it's not like in the movies, and I'm not a superhero, so don't start thinking that. Heroes are the stars who save the day. I just-­disappear.

See, I didn't know, at first, that I had this magic. I just knew that teachers forgot my name, and kids didn't ask me to play, and one time, at the end of fourth grade, a boy in my class frowned at me and said, Where did you come from? I don't think I've ever seen you before.

I used to hate being invisible. But now I understand: it's because I'm magic.

My older sister, Sam, says it's not a real supersecret power-­it's just called being shy. But Sam can be rude.

And the truth is, my power can come in handy. Like when Mom and Sam fight. Like right now.

I wrap myself in invisibility and rest my forehead against the back-­seat window, watching raindrops slide down the side of our old station wagon.

"You should stop the car," Sam says to Mom.

Except Sam actually says this to her phone, because she doesn't look up. She's sitting in the passenger seat with her feet slammed against the glove compartment, knees smashed into her chest, her whole body curled around her glowing screen.

Mom sighs. "Oh, please, we don't need to stop. It's just a little rain." But she ticks the windshield wipers up a notch and taps the brakes until we're going slug-­slow.

The rain started as soon as we entered Washington State, and it only gets worse as our car inches past the hand-­painted welcome to sunbeam! sign.

Welcome to Halmoni's town, a town of nonstop rain, its name like an inside joke.

Sam smacks her black-­painted lips. "K."

That's all. Just one letter.

She tap-­taps her screen, sending bubbles of words and emojis to all her friends back home.

I wonder what she's saying in those messages. Sometimes, when I let myself, I imagine she's writing to me.

"Sam, can you at least try to have a good attitude about this?" Mom shoves her glasses up on her nose with too much force, like her glasses just insulted her and it's personal.

"How can you even ask me that?" Sam looks up from her phone-­finally-­so she can glare at Mom.

This is how it always starts. Their fights are loud and explosive. They burn each other up.

It's safer to keep quiet. I press my fingertip against the rain-­splattered window and draw a line between the drops, like I'm connecting the dots. My eyelids go heavy. I'm so used to the fighting that it's practically a lullaby.

"But, like, you realize that you're basically the worst, right? Like, this is actually not okay-­"

"Sam." Mom is all edges-­shoulders stiff, every muscle tensed.

I hold my breath and think invisibleinvisibleinvisible.

"No, seriously," Sam continues. "Just because you randomly decided that you want to see Halmoni more, that doesn't mean we want to uproot our entire lives. I had plans this summer-­not that you care. You didn't even give us fair warning."

Sam's not wrong. Mom told us only two weeks ago that we were leaving California for good. And I'll miss it, too. I'm going to miss my school, and the sunshine, and the sandy beach-­so different from the rocky coast at Sunbeam.

I'm just trying not to think about that.

"I thought you should spend more time with your grandmother. I thought you enjoyed that." Mom's tone is clipped. The rain has gotten heavier, and it sucks up her focus. Her fingers white-­knuckle the steering wheel. None of us like the idea of driving in this weather, not after Dad died.

I concentrate on the steering wheel and squint a little, sending safety vibes with my mind, like Halmoni taught me.

"Way to deflect," Sam says, tugging at the single streak of white in her black hair. She's still angry, but deflated a little. "I do enjoy spending time with Halmoni. Just not here. I don't want to be here."

Halmoni's always visited us in California. We haven't been in Sunbeam since I was seven.

I gaze out ...