When You Trap a Tiger (Newbery Medal Winner)

by Tae Keller Narrated by Greta Jung

Overview

Notes From Your Bookseller

When Lily moves with her family to Washington to be with her ailing grandmother, or Halmoni, the last thing she expects to encounter is a magical tiger she's heard about in Halmoni's Korean folktales. When You Trap a Tiger is a powerful story about one of our greatest powers — storytelling — and the effects those stories have on who we become.

WINNER OF THE NEWBERY MEDAL ¿ WINNER OF THE ASIAN/PACIFIC AMERICAN AWARD FOR CHILDREN'S LITERATURE ¿ #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER ¿ A PARADE BEST KIDS BOOK OF ALL TIME ¿ A KIRKUS REVIEWS BEST MIDDLE GRADE BOOK OF THE CENTURY

Would you make a deal with a magical tiger? This uplifting story brings Korean folklore to life as a girl goes on a quest to unlock the power of stories and save her grandmother.

Some stories refuse to stay bottled up...

When Lily and her family move in with her sick grandmother, a magical tiger straight out of her halmoni's Korean folktales arrives, prompting Lily to unravel a secret family history. Long, long ago, Halmoni stole something from the tigers. Now they want it back. And when one of the tigers approaches Lily with a deal--return what her grandmother stole in exchange for Halmoni's health--Lily is tempted to agree. But deals with tigers are never what they seem! With the help of her sister and her new friend Ricky, Lily must find her voice...and the courage to face a tiger.

Tae Keller, the award-winning author of The Science of Breakable Things, shares a sparkling tale about the power of stories and the magic of family.

"If stories were written in the stars ... this wondrous tale would be one of the brightest." -Booklist, Starred Review

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Winner of the Boston Globe Horn Book Honor Award for Fiction and Poetry

"Roars to life with just a touch of magic.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“A heartfelt reminder of the wonder and beauty in our everyday lives.” —Booklist, starred review

“Deeply moving... vulnerable and mythic storytelling in the vein of Erin Entrada Kelly and Kacen Callender.” —School Library Journal, starred review

“Keller’s (The Science of Breakable Things) #OwnVoices journey through Korean mythology begins with a fantastical quest and slowly transforms into a tale about letting go and the immortality that story can allow.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

“It’s a complex, satisfying story, one that foregrounds family and healing alongside a love for Korean folklore.” —The Bulletin, starred review

"This beautiful book reminds us that, even in a world filled with stolen stars, crafty tigers, and family secrets that spring from folklore, the most powerful magic of storytelling is the story we decide to tell about ourselves." —Kat Yeh, author of The Truth About Twinkie Pie

"An intoxicating mix of folktale, fantasy, friendship and love (and tigers!). Through a series of challenges—and also a lot of laughter—Lily (a.k.a. Lily Bean, Eggi, Little Egg) finds out what she is made of. She is a character who'll stay with me—and whom I already miss!" —Marie Myung-Ok Lee, author of Finding My Voice and Somebody's Daughter

"An ambitious and bewitching brew of Korean folklore, magical realism, and classic coming-of-age story, When You Trap a Tiger is a tender tale as unique as it is universal. Keller's writing shimmers with magic, heart, and hope." —Ali Standish, author of Before I Was Ethan

Praise for Tae Keller's The Science of Breakable Things:

Named one of the Best Books of the Year by NPR, Kirkus Reviews, and the Chicago Public Library!

"A compassionate glimpse of mental illness accessible to a broad audience." —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

"A winning story full of heart and action." —Booklist, starred review

"Holy moly!!! This book made me feel." —Colby Sharp, editor of The Creativity Project

"Natalie is an engaging narrator whose struggles at home and with her peers ring true." —Deborah Hopkinson, award-winning author

"Inspiring, emotional, and heartwarming." —Melissa Savage, author of Lemons

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2019-09-29
A young girl bargaining for the health of her grandmother discovers both her family's past and the strength of her own voice.

For many years, Lily's Korean grandmother, Halmoni, has shared her Asian wisdom and healing powers with her predominantly white community. When Lily, her sister, Sam—both biracial, Korean and white—and their widowed mom move in with Halmoni to be close with her as she ages, Lily begins to see a magical tiger. What were previously bedtime stories become dangerously prophetic, as Lily begins to piece together fact from fiction. There is no need for prior knowledge of Korean folktales, although a traditional Korean myth propels the story forward. From the tiger, Lily learns that Halmoni has bottled up the hard stories of her past to keep sadness at bay. Lily makes a deal with the tiger to heal her grandmother by releasing those stories. What she comes to realize is that healing doesn't mean health and that Halmoni is not the only one in need of the power of storytelling. Interesting supporting characters are fully developed but used sparingly to keep the focus on the simple yet suspenseful plot. Keller infuses this tale, which explores both the end of life and coming-of-age, with a sensitive examination of immigration issues and the complexity of home. It is at one and the same time completely American and thoroughly informed by Korean culture.

Longing—for connection, for family, for a voice—roars to life with just a touch of magic. (Fiction. 10-14)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940173988768
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	01/28/2020
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	8 - 12 Years

Read an Excerpt

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 the windshield. The landscape that slips by is peaceful. Gray stone houses, green grass, gray restaurants, green forest. The colors of Sunbeam blur together: gray, green, gray, green—and then orange, black.

I sit up, trying to make sense of the new colors.

There’s a creature lying on the road ahead.

It’s a giant cat, with its head resting on its paws.

No. Not just a giant cat. A tiger.

The tiger lifts its head as we approach. It must have escaped from a circus or a zoo or something. And it must be hurt. Why else would it be lying out here in the rain?

An instinctive kind of fear twists in my stomach, making me carsick. But it doesn’t matter. If an animal’s hurt, we have to do something.

“Mom.” I interrupt their fight, scooting forward. “I think . . . um . . . there’s . . .”

Now, a little closer, the tiger doesn’t look hurt. It yawns, revealing sharp, too-­white teeth. And then it stands, one claw, one paw, one leg at a time.

“Girls,” Mom says, voice tense, tired. Her annoyance with Sam rarely bleeds onto me, but after driving for eight hours, Mom can’t contain it. “Both of you. Please. I need to focus on driving for a moment.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. This doesn’t make sense. Mom must notice the giant cat. But maybe she’s too distracted by Sam.

“Mom,” I murmur, waiting for her to hit the brakes. She doesn’t.

Sometimes the problem with my invisibility is that it takes a little while to wear off. It takes a little while for people to see me and hear me and listen.

Listen: This isn’t like any tiger I’ve seen in a zoo. It’s huge, as big as our car. The orange in its coat glows, and the black is as dark as moonless night.

This tiger belongs in one of Halmoni’s stories.

I lean forward until the seat belt slices into my skin. Somehow, Sam and Mom continue to bicker. But their words become a low hum because I’m only focused on—

The tiger lifts its enormous head—and it looks at me. It sees me.

The big cat raises an eyebrow, like it’s daring me to do something.

My voice catches in my throat, and I stumble over my words. They come out choked. “Mom—stop.”

Mom’s busy talking to Sam, so I shout louder: “STOP.”

Finally, Mom acknowledges me. Eyebrows pinched, she glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Lily? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t stop the car. We keep going.

Closer—

closer—

And I can’t breathe because we’re too close.

I hear a thud and I squeeze my eyes shut. The inside of my head pounds. My ears ring. We must have hit it.

But we keep going.

When I open my eyes, I see Sam, arms folded across her chest, phone resting by her feet. “It died,” she announces.

My pulse is a wild beast as I scan the road, searching for horrors I don’t want to see.

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