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MEET THE BULLY,
THE BULLIED, AND THE BYSTANDER.
WORDS ARE POWERFUL.
The Victim:
“I was the girl who got called fat every single day. The girl
who camouflaged her pain by laughing really hard and
talking too loud, drowning out the demeaning comments.
The girl fighting an internal battle to get up, get ready, and
go to school every morning . . .”
—Elizabeth Ditty
The Bully:
“. . . being a bully doesn’t save me from other bullies. I used
to think that, somehow, tormenting others would grant me
immunity from being tormented. It didn’t. Because being a
bully doesn’t make you scary; it makes you worthless.”
—Michael Ortiz
The Bystander:
“Sometimes changing a bully is difficult and even
impossible. But if you don’t try, those who are
bullied will never know how much you care, and
those who bully will continue to think their actions
are acceptable. You can choose to remain a silent
bystander, or you can take a stand to defend others.
It’s up to you.”
—Bridgette Rainey
ISBN 9780757317606 • Trade Paper • $13.95
Help Spread the Word
with Teen Ink’s videos to end bullying.
Go to TeenInk.com for details.
Available now at
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bookstores everywhere!
“Wow. The only book about the problem of
bullying entirely written by teenagers. I know
their personal stories will move you, anger you,
inspire you—even scare you.”
—R.L. Stine, author of the Goosebumps series
“This book is a unique wakeup call for teens,
parents, and teachers to stop, listen, and think
about the power of their words and actions.”
—Vanessa Williams, singer and actress
CONTENTS
TEENS, GET PUBLISHED!
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Or by E-mail – [email protected]
FEBRUARY 2014 | VOL. 25, NO. 6
THE FINE PRINT
4
• Submit your work through TeenInk.com. We no longer accept
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Feedback
18-19 College Directory
21 Art Gallery
Nonfiction
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• Anonymity. If, due to the personal nature of a piece, you don’t
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River of woe • Pickle tips • Believing in magic •
Tiger mother • Aftermath of grief • Debate competition • Alzheimer’s •
A friend remembered • Nothing matters
MEMOIRS
A Valentine’s date for one • Long-distance love • Childhood
friends reunited • Lovesick at 5 • Boyfriend on meth • Letter to
my ex • Abusive relationship • Seashells and regrets
LOVE
BULLYING
HEALTH
Fall of the class clown • Letter to my bully
The truth about therapy • Alcohol’s effects on my life
INTERVIEW
Author Jenny Hubbard
TRAVEL & CULTURE
Indian food • Black History Month
Sexist double standards • The benefits of
casual dating • Taylor Swift and codependency
POINTS OF VIEW
COMMUNITY SERVICE
Musical nonprofit • Horseback riding and happiness
EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR
Nominations for this year’s educator contest
New York University • Colby-Sawyer
College • Brigham Young University, Hawaii
COLLEGE REVIEWS
Reviews
29
BOOKS
30
MOVIES & TV
The Fault in Our Stars • The Last Song • Interpreter of Maladies •
Fitzwilliam Darcy, An Honourable Man • Far Far Away
Inside Job • Anna Karenina • Midnight in Paris •
Whodunnit?
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The Love Issue
I’m Only Me
When I’m With You
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Address: ■ School ■ Home ___________________________________________
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“Whether she is waiting around
for her love interest, being ‘saved,’
heartbroken, or cheated on by
him, Taylor Swift sings from the
point of view of someone who is
weaker.”
Points of View, page 25
Love and Meth
“I blamed myself for what he was doing.
He was the one with the problems, not
me. Right?”
page 15
Love-Struck
“Abuse became your nature. You found
pleasure playing games with my head
and, later, my body.”
page 16
Phone number: ________________________________________________________
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Cover photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
FEEDBACK
Vandalism vs. Activism
I can see that Gabe Fontes and I share
similar views on vandalism, as shown in his
article “Vandalism vs. Activism.” I too witness the childish and idiotic things students
do at my school that result in a big mess
and give them a small sense of satisfaction.
I agree that the student’s attitude of blatant disregard is “f**ked up,” as Gabe puts
it. The fact that a vandal has the audacity to
make such a mess, and acknowledge doing
so, really demonstrates that many youth today are taking more and more for granted.
I would like to believe that I am not
grouped with all those people, but I digress.
My main issue is that young people need to
learn the value of activities by, as Gabe suggests, joining clubs and causes that will not
only better the community but possibly help
better themselves.
Thank you, Gabe, for highlighting this
topic and showing such insight.
Amos Lomayestewa, Phoenix, AZ
Dear Teen Ink Editors,
Thank you.
Since becoming a member of the
TeenInk.com community, all I have thought
about is when a piece of mine might be
published and what I should write next.
Never did I stop to think that people like
you are sitting on the other side of the submit button, reading and sorting through all
these articles and art.
I just want to say that I, along with the
other teen users, appreciate that you never
get out of your editor’s chair and declare
that you have read or seen enough from the
twisted minds of teenagers, or you simply
do not care about our troubles, and that you
are exasperated after reading our lame attempts at sonnets and poorly written short
stories.
For that, thank you.
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
[email protected]
www.TeenInk.com
Publishers
Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
Senior Editor
Stephanie Meyer
Editor
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Production
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Associate Editor
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Production Assist. Alex Cline
Advertising
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Volunteer
4
Barbara Field
To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com
The teenage years are difficult. However,
through your creation of Teen Ink, you have
helped us release some of our burdens. You
don’t simply publish teenagers’ work, you
have given us a place – no, a home – where
we can share our thoughts, experiences, and
lives with the world.
And for that, thank you.
Manisha Singam, Northbrook, IL
Worst Job Ever
“Worst Job Ever” by Molly McKay was
one of the most moving articles I have ever
read. It gave me a whole new perspective on
jobs and what really happens behind the
register. It shocked me, and I found myself
feeling incredibly sympathetic to those who
are going through a tough time at work.
I didn’t really care about the narrator
when she began her story. I thought, If you
don’t like your job, get over it and quit. But
when I continued reading, I was totally
shocked by the conditions Molly worked in.
She couldn’t quit and was constantly put
down by her coworkers.
I can’t imagine being bullied at work. “It
came to a point where I would become
physically ill before going to work because
I was so nervous,” Molly wrote. This piece
really made me think about workers who
have to put up with mistreatment on the job.
Bullying is incredibly hard to endure. I
have seen this in my school, and I hate to
think that this happens to people at work.
No one should have to go through this, and
I feel sorry for anyone who does.
Hannah Telt, Brooklyn, NY
What It Will Take
to Stop Terrorism
I agree with Asad Ali in his article “What
It Will Take to Stop Terrorism.” It is true
that when we think of terrorism, we often
think of Pakistan. However, the Pakistani
CIRCULATION
Reaching millions
of teens in junior and
senior high schools
nationwide.
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EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
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publishing a variety
of works written by
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Inc. All rights reserved.
Publication of material
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people are not to blame. We in the Western
world only want to see what affects us and
do not look deeper into the real problem.
We should not judge what we do not
understand; we need to look at the bigger
picture instead of criticizing a group of
people who are not to blame.
Gustavo Vidrio, Phoenix, AZ
Diversify Images
Thank you for this awesome website!
TeenInk.com gives us a voice. And we’re
not limited to what we can achieve, if we
put our mind to it: VIP Badge, Editor’s
Choice Badge, Magazine Badge, and
Contest Winner Badge.
I’m writing because I’m concerned about
the images we can choose to accompany
our work. I don’t know if it’s just me (or if
others experience this too), but I always try
to pick the best image to match my work.
But often I can’t find what I’m looking for.
When I try searching terms like “bully,”
“food,” or “homeless,” I only get a few images, or “No results found”!
I’d like to suggest that you diversify the
images offered to accompany our work. We
should be able to search terms and have a
variety of options to choose from.
Thank you. Keep our voice alive!
Mark Jallayu, Louisville, KY
Editor’s note: Thanks for your feedback.
Users can help with this issue by tagging
their artwork (and writing) with keywords
at the time of submission.
Where’s the Humor?
To me, love is a good laugh. My brother
would probably tell me to marry it if he
heard that. But my junior high brother is not
what upset me most recently. Can you
imagine my horror when I could not find a
category on TeenInk.com for my humor
piece?
I understand that humor can be part of
any submission in just about any category,
but what about those pieces that just cannot
find their niche? I am sure there are some
comedians on TeenInk.com whose pieces
I’ve inadvertently passed over because I do
not realize the humor of their works.
I was going to submit “How to Get Rid of
Hiccups.” I know, it sounds like a gutbuster. I thought about putting it under “personal experiences,” which would be very
sarcastic, but really, what are my options?
I’m sure most readers are dying for cures
for their hiccups, and my confusion in posting will leave them at risk!
With all of the heavy subjects that fill the
pages of Teen Ink, shouldn’t there be a category for humor to balance them out?
Anonymous, Lonepine, MT
Editor’s note: Great idea! We’ll consider
it for the future.
Cetaphobia: Fear of Whales
Natalie Cackler’s article on cetaphobia
addresses her fear of whales and how others
don’t understand it. Just to be clear, I totally
understand and relate to her fear. In fact, I
have a relatively odd fear myself – caterpillars. This fear is so odd that it doesn’t even
have a name. Just the thought of those thick,
wriggling insects (not to mention their 12
eyes!) makes me want to curl up in a corner
and cry. Seeing a picture is even worse. I
have no idea why I have this fear – I just do.
I can handle other insects; it’s only the horrendous caterpillar that frightens me. Most
of my friends and family don’t understand
my fear. Just like Natalie’s friends, mine
think that my reaction to the caterpillar is
the most hilarious thing ever.
My fear can probably even be considered
weirder than cetaphobia. At least the fear of
whales could be explainable.
Carol Lin, Brooklyn, NY
MEET THE BULLY, THE BULLIED,
AND THE BYSTANDER.
“Wow. The only book
about the problem of
bullying entirely written
by teenagers. I know their
personal stories will move
you, anger you, inspire
you—even scare you.”
—R.L. Stine, author of
the Goosebumps series
PRODUCTION
Teen Ink uses Quark
Xpress to design the
magazine.
Available now at Amazon.com, BN.com & bookstores everywhere!
Teen Ink •
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
5
nonfiction
River of Woe
by Nicola Lee-Oesterreich,
Pittsburgh, PA
R
“What is that guy doing?” I yelled, to
emember when we were all innothe annoyance of the other tourists
cent? When we didn’t worry
around me. Slowly, people realized what
about dating, or money, or the fuI had noticed. “Is he working here? Oh
ture? Regardless of our circumstances of
my God, that’s dangerous!” I screamed.
birth, we had one thing in common: our
No one answered me.
innocence. We never had to face heartA man, dressed in black, had jumped
break, rejection, or the daily pressures of
the railing and was walking near the
living in our society. We didn’t grasp the
edge. Suddenly he sprinted and jumped
concept of death. We knew no evil.
over the edge, no hesitation involved.
Sadly, we have lost this innocence. We
“Did you guys see what I just saw?”
have all lost it. Most people couldn’t tell
Everyone nodded.
you when this happened. They wouldn’t
“What do we do? I mean, is
be able to pinpoint a specific
there a chance he could be
event, but I can.
alive?”
Beauty
My view on life, on famI’m known for asking the
ily, on death all changed in
would soon
questions no one wants to
just three seconds.
It was my grandparents’
turn to horror hear.
“It’s 170 feet down to water
fiftieth wedding anniversary.
that
will feel like concrete.
As a gift, we decided to take
Even if he survives the impact, he will
them to Niagara Falls. They had always
die of hypothermia within a minute,” my
talked about it but never had the opportudad answered.
nity to go. We arrived at night. The
The police arrived and started quesweather was dreary – windy and freeztioning witnesses. An officer explained to
ing. Regardless, we were having a great
my mom they had many suicides here
time.
every year. Meanwhile, I sat on the sideThe next day, we went to see the falls.
walk, looking at one of Mother Nature’s
The freshness of the air took my breath
most beautiful creations, wondering how
away. The mist slowly rising from the
anyone could suffer enough to want to
river and the roaring of the 600,000 galtake their life.
lons of water that each second fell over
I lost my innocence that day. That act
the cliff were awe-inspiring. But beauty
of horror will forever be embroidered in
would soon turn to horror.
my mind. But the incident also helped
My mom asked me to take a picture of
me mature.
my grandparents in front of the waterfall.
I leave you with this: be nice to each
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed
other. You never know if your simple act
something unusual. I grabbed my mom
of kindness could save a life. ✦
and pointed.
Magic
Pickle
T
here’s a jar of pickles on the counter.
Nobody’s going to eat them, because they’re not
just pickles; they’re giant pickles. And everyone
knows that giant pickles are soggy pickles.
I don’t like to brag, but I’m somewhat of a pickle connoisseur. I’ve tasted countless brands soaked in various
brines. And over the years, I’ve come to know the dos
and don’ts of pickle consumption.
Above all – beyond the importance of the word
“kosher,” the choice of proper zest, or the variety of
cucumber – is the gravity of the nature of the top pickle.
You know the pickle. It sits at
the top of the jar, pressed against
the lid like a bloated green slug.
Beware the
The top pickle rests slightly
top pickle
above the brine, and has been
lying there ever since the jar hit
the shelf. Due to the century-long
shelf life of pickles, this could be quite some time. And
so, by the time you open the jar, the top pickle has reverted to its cucumber-like state, minus the crunch.
Fear not, young pickle lover. There is a way to redeem
this sad fact of picklehood. You need only push the toppickle aside, back down into the brine, and instead eat
the one underneath. Now, take a good look at that top
pickle. Memorize its bumps and mushy indentations,
because you don’t want to mistakenly eat the top pickle
before its time. With any luck, one of your siblings will
happen along and eat the top pickle unwittingly. But, if
not, simply continue the process – move top pickle, eat
pickle underneath – until the top pickle becomes the bottom pickle.
At this point, the top pickle has returned to its picklelike state and can be consumed without excessive
gagging.
You’re welcome. ✦
by India Love, Bloomington, IN
“I know nothing with any certainty,
but the sight of the stars makes me
dream.”
–Vincent van Gogh
to duty, called to lead the armies into
battle and fulfill my destiny.
When I was at school, out to dinner
with my family, or anywhere surhen I was little, it felt like a
rounded by other people, I felt horrificrime if I didn’t make a
cally boring. But when I came home,
wish on a shooting star. I
I would lie on my bed and close my
wrote guides to fairies and journals
eyes and feel like the
about my encounters
most important person in
with dragons, and I
the world. I knew that if
talked aloud to no one,
I
still
believe
I waited, I would be the
just in case someone, or
most important person in
in magic
something, was listening.
the world. Just a bit
I believed in magic
longer.
with all my heart and
To be honest, I should
soul. I believed in fairies and elves
go back through this and change all
(the tall, handsome ones with bows
the past tense verbs to present tense,
and silk clothes, not the tiny, troublebecause I still believe in magic. I still
some ones). I believed in dragons,
believe in fairies and dragons,
wizards, and witches, and I believed
witches, wizards, and tall, beautiful
that the center of this web – the web
elves. But it’s more of “I hope” than
of a secret and beautiful world – was
“I believe,” and that doubt hurts. That
me. I thought that if I waited long
doubt makes me feel guilty. I no
enough, some day I would be called
W
Art by Christopher Moore, Elk Grove, CA
6
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
by Elizabeth Hull,
Battle Ground, WA
COMMENT
longer see myself at the center of a
magical web. Some would say that’s
just part of growing up. I don’t mind
growing up, I don’t mind responsibility, work, deadlines, or whatever
comes with being a “grown-up.” But
tell me, where in the definition of
grown-up does it say you have to give
up on magic?
I’m waiting to be called to duty; I
know I’ll probably always be waiting,
but if I give up on that and move on
with being a grown up, I will miss my
chance. Maybe I’ll just be miserable
until my dying day, but I know I’ll
never regret it. How could you regret
hours of time spent imagining a life
where you are the hero? That’s like
regretting rewatching your favorite
movie over and over. It was great
while it lasted, and it never ended,
not truly. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
7
nonfiction
A Tiger Mother’s Slumber
W
the morning, and her uncanny effihen I was little, there were
ciency in molding her children into
times I’d sit on the cold
perfection. My brother finished calcumarble steps in front of my
lus by the fourth grade, won national
room and cry for hours. Tears
math awards at 13, was scouted by
streaked in a kamikaze mission toschools all over the world, and at 19
ward the floor. The reason behind my
started his Ph.D. in astrophysics. My
sadness was largely a mystery; I had
sister walked at seven months, talked
never been able to place my chubby
at 10 months, started doing math at 21
baby finger on the problem, beyond
months, and was eventually accepted
pointing it weakly at my mother.
into Juilliard’s pre-college program.
She was the definition of a Tiger
And me? Well, I stood at an unflatMother. In fact, I’d go so far as to say
tering five feet, three
she was more than that.
inches. My allergies to
She could eat tigers for
various foods, combined
breakfast (and she someShe could
with my delicate imtimes did, ground into a
eat tigers for
mune system, only
fine powder and stirred
deepened my mother’s
into her morning coffee),
breakfast
confusion. But I dutiand still have strength
fully followed my sisleft to battle the fire and
ter’s footsteps and was also accepted
brimstone of my sister. While my sibinto Juilliard. I refused to talk for the
ling, only one year my senior, stood
first two years of school, and earned a
toe to toe and fought bravely against
C in math in fifth grade. I was a difher, from an early age, I was different.
ferent breed: a poodle in a family of
In my mother’s eyes I was merely
wolves.
the mushroom-minion she squashed
My one saving grace was my cowto reach the boss at the final level. I
ardice. Instead of viewing my meek
buckled under her fiery glare, and not
acceptance of her tyranny as a lack of
a word would slip from my mouth as
chutzpah, my mother saw it as a
she handed me my sentence: eight
glowing sign of a good daughter. I
more hours of violin practice. Even as
would never disrespect her, I would
the tears trailed down my instrument,
honor her in her old age, and I would
leaving grooves in the varnish and
take care of her in her times of need.
questions to be asked in the future, I
And I did.
never had the courage to oppose her.
•
•
•
I’d practice late into the night, my
I blame my father’s job for her
shoulders aching, my fingers blackdownfall.
ened and cut by my strings, my bow
His occupation requires constant
hair slowly losing its luster from overtravel to exotic places. An experience
use, as she chomped through a brimsome call a privilege has always been
ming bowl of briny kimchi, ready to
a necessary evil for my family. Howpounce if I dared stop or take a break.
ever, after moving from China to
In some ways, our discord was a reJapan to the United States, my mother
sult of the vast differences between
was finished moving and utterly demy mother and me. She was physitermined for us to continue our educacally an amazingly strong woman, a
tion in the United States. This selfless
fact she would prove with her aptitude
wish placed upon her two shoulders
for avoiding all ailments, her ability
the burden of three kids, an alien
to eat an entire watermelon at two in
Photo by Carrie Sun, Annandale, VA
8
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
by Chang Min Hahn, Tenafly, NJ
country, and cancer. My father travI stepped through the door at mideled alone to Mongolia, France, and
night, after working on a “project” we
Switzerland, while my mom singleboth knew didn’t exist. When I
handedly fed three children, fearlessly
reached the end of To Kill a Mockingwaged her war on cancer, and waited
bird and saw Atticus reading to Jem
hopefully for some genius to sprout
as he slept peacefully, it snickered at
within my spineless soul.
me, and I closed the book with a thud.
And just like the fate of every hero
My mom had lain expressionless as I
in literature, the strength I had hated
pulled her blanket up to her chin,
and admired in my mother, the
turned off the lights, and wished her
strength that had caused me buckets
good night.
of tears, the strength I had one day
For a year after my mom’s fall, I
hoped to inherit, waned. White domiresented her. I took care of her benated the previously black and unconcause I loved her, but I could never
trollable cloud of her hair, which fell
defeat the ugly monster that lunged
out from chemotherapy. Her eyesight
every time my mom’s weakness came
dimmed, and her ability to eat enorto light. After so many years of seeing
mous amounts of food disappeared.
her as a goddess, the reality of her deThe edicts, the demands, the pressure
bility was something I could not face.
disappeared too.
And of course no one else was to
She spent the mornings in her
know. When asked about my mom, I
room, curled up in a ball, her hand
rehashed edited versions of the times
reaching out toward my father’s side
of my youth: being woken up at four
of the bed. She cleaned the house
in the morning, practicing for hours,
with the silent tears of grief, tears we
getting yelled at. If I spoke the truth, I
never saw but felt on her sleeve when
believed the chances of her returning
we hugged her at night. She allowed
would fade and I would be stuck with
me to go to parties, wake up late,
this new mom forever. However, I
leave homework undone, and abandon
eventually broke down and told my
the violin she so loved to hear. But
best friend how difficult it was shoulabove all that, she let me help her.
dering my mom’s sadness, her loneliAt night, I would enter the kitchen,
ness missing my father, and the
add the unwrapped remnants of meals
pressures of academics, and she simto the towering stack of dirty dishes,
ply said, “Don’t worry, your mom’s
and then slowly work my way
strong.”
through them. As I washed, each
At the time I assumed she meant,
clang resonated the disappointment I
“Your mom used to be strong,” befelt in my mother. She acknowledged
cause there was no way my mom was
my help not as she once would have –
still strong. She wasn’t even my
by stating that it was a waste of valumother anymore. This woman of misable study time – but with stoic sitakes and melancholy was an imposlence, which I understood was the
tor, an interloper, an outsider.
only way she could express gratitude
Yet as the passing days dulled the
without admitting she was not indeed
pain of my losses, I found my mother
Superwoman.
again. I found the woman who, after a
Perhaps it was the
year of depression,
cancer, or the disapclawed her way back
pearance of her first
and tried to find her old
Her debility
and last true love, my
determined grimace.
was something
father, but slowly the
She started drinking
mother I had feared
I could not face her tiger-powder coffee
wasted away and this
again. She started
new mom took her
yelling at me to do betplace – a weaker, milder, and kinder
ter in school. My violin was watered
woman I slowly learned to hate.
once again with my tears.
Perhaps it would have been easier
Today, she is not back to the
to cope if I could have found respite,
mother she once was. I happily doubt
but the realities of my mom’s fragility
she will ever be that mother again.
haunted me at every turn. When I
But the cancer is in remission, and my
went to school and overheard teachers
mom once again eats her favorite
talking about how nice it was to meet
kimchi while berating me. Today I
the parents of their students, it
need only offer her my smile. Looklaughed at me. My mom had stayed
ing back, the battle we fought to dehome that night, shuffling through old
velop into the people we are today is
wedding pictures and sobbing her
crystal clear.
way through a box of tissues. When I
The Tiger Mother of my youth, I
hung out with friends and they comrespected. The mom of that lonely,
plained about how much trouble they
turbulent phase, I resented. The imgot into for staying out past curfew, it
perfect, fallible, resilient woman of
stood there, grinning evilly as I
today, I love. ✦
passed. My mom had nodded to me as
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Libby Hoefler, Jackson, NJ
S
Death has rules, but rules can
he fades away a bit more every day. I no
be
broken. She could break rules.
longer have skin cells that knew her touch. I
She used to make U-turns in the
can’t imagine her laugh in my head as permiddle of the road. She got away
fectly as I once did. I can’t recall the scent of her car
with not wearing sneakers to
or the glint in her eyes when she got excited. They
practice. Maybe if I love her
say the dead live on in your memory, so it’s like
enough, maybe if I miss her
she’s dying all over again.
enough – more than anyone else
I’ve washed her sweatshirt one too many times;
has ever been loved or missed –
it’s lost her scent, and it doesn’t feel like hers anythen she can break death’s rules
more. I’ve cried so many tears over the gaping hole
too.
she left in my life that I can’t cry anyalways told
more. All I can do is feel it and clench
Love can’t meEveryone
that love is permamy fists and grit my teeth and close my
nent, and I know that it
eyes and wait. Pain is like light. It’s both
bring her
is because I think of her
a particle and a wave. A tsunami hits me,
back
almost every second of
and I feel every single particle.
every day. I just always assumed that beThey say to be strong. They whisper
cause
love
is permanent, it would be enough. But
encouragement and stare at me and know it’s not
love isn’t enough, because it can’t bring her back;
enough. They know that a million words can’t stop
love couldn’t keep her here in the first place.
the tsunami, can’t fill the gaping hole. All of the
I measure time by how long she’s been gone. Four
“I’m sorry’s” can’t form a time machine, can’t permonths since the accident. That’s one-third of a
form a reincarnation.
year. That’s one-third of a year more than I thought I
Neither can the silence. They avert their gaze,
could live without her. Time doesn’t make sense
cough when her name slips from my chapped lips.
anymore. There used to be 24 hours in a day and
They rearrange their papers, experts at changing the
seven days in a week and around 30 days in a
subject. They know that words are not enough; they
month. Now sometimes there are 1,000 hours in a
know their tongues are not magic, their vocal chords
day; sometimes there are two. Time drags on, and
not holy. They know. But they do not know that sithen it speeds up.
lence is the shovel that dug the hole. Silence is the
Without her, nothing makes sense. Everything I
earthquake that caused the tsunami and then left me
do is a first now: first time eating yogurt without her,
alone in the wreckage.
Up for Debate
Photo by Maria Alvarez, Beachwood, OH
first chemistry test without her, first laugh without
her. October 9 – was a day of lasts. The last time I
woke up with her still in my life. The last time she
told me she would see me later. That was the first
time she broke a promise to me.
A common misconception is that grief has an expiration date. This is false for many reasons, the first
and foremost being that grief is not a tasty dairy
product. It seems like everyone else has moved on,
and they expect me to follow their lead. They think
it is time to throw away my grief, because it doesn’t
make sense to keep it around anymore. It is as useful
to me as rotten milk. But grief isn’t a dairy product.
Grief is me. I’ve become grief. And it doesn’t suit
me. ✦
by Allie Ives, Kingsville, ON, Canada
I
Maybe I was a little loopy after climbing up and down so
went to my first debate competition hoping I could remany flights of stairs. Maybe there truly was something
frain from losing tears, my lunch, or consciousness.
spectacular about my experience. I can’t explain how it
My jitters were worse than anything I’d ever felt, but
happened. I can only be glad it did.
the payoff was equally intense. After that
I found love at the debate competition.
first one, the relief of having not fallen on
I fell in love
Being appreciated for my mental abilities,
my face, literally or metaphorically, was
for my confidence and cunning, was rare.
overpowering. Having always been one to
with this feeling Being told I was the most eloquent person
learn quickly, I’d already gotten into the
in the room was a first. Being revered was
swing of things, and was more than ready
entirely foreign. But at the debate competition, I was all
for my second debate of the day.
of these things. There were no limitations on what I
It was during that second debate that I found love.
could be. I was an intelligent, selfPlaying this mental sport, prowlsufficient young woman. Not a Hot
ing ever closer to that metaphoric
Chick. Not a Nerd. I found love
checkmate, was thrilling. Watchfor myself where there was none
ing the looks of discomfort and,
before. I fell in love with the
once, even horror on the faces of
strength I found. I fell in love with
my opponents – and noticing the
this feeling.
smiles of the Speaker and Timer –
I found love at a debate competia hope rose inside me.
tion,
and no one and nothing can
The Speaker complimented me,
take that away from me. I learned to
telling me I had presented well.
be proud of who I am and never let
And that meant oceans more than
anyone inhibit me from being myteenage boys coming onto me
self. I don’t have to rely on barely
with crude words they couldn’t
literate teenage boys flirting with
even explain. That meant oceans
me in text-speak. I don’t have to
more than the praise of parents
rely on a family that doesn’t listen.
who’d used me as a status symbol
Not anymore. All I need is me.
and patted my back for achieveBefore the competition, I didn’t
ments they didn’t understand.
know who I was or who I could be.
Throughout the rest of the day, I
But now I do. I have found myself,
grew more and more exhausted by
and found love for myself. ✦
my mental feats, but I had hope to
cling to. Maybe it was fatigue.
Photo by Pete Barell, Locust Valley, NY
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nonfiction
The Aftermath
9 p.m. sadness
daily
scientists split atoms
but I am not able
to distance
myself from you
maybe because
when I fell in love
I fused
my arteries
to yours and
glued together
our intercostal muscles.
I wanted you
to always remember me
to never leave
me behind
like everyone else
does so perfectly
but I guess
your heart was
a few centimeters short
of being able
to love someone
with all the passion
a body can hold
and instead
you left
too.
by Monhé Van Der Walt,
Wilderness, South Africa
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
9
nonfiction
Déjà Vu
I
by Bianca Pettigrosso, Ventnor, NJ
gaze at her gray hair in the distance. Her spectacles shield her
deep blue eyes. She glowers eternally at the living room wall, resting
on the same chair, heedless of what
the time is. Sometimes I wonder what
she’s thinking, and other times I wonder if she’s thinking anything at all.
“Grandma, you just took your
medicine,” I screech as I yank the
container out of her hands.
“Are you sure?” she asks with a
perplexed look. I rifle through the
cabinets, hunting for another hiding
spot.
“This is where all my clothes are! I
was looking for these. I’ll take them
home tomorrow,” Grandma cackles.
She removes her blouses from the
closet and places them on the bed.
She hasn’t lived in her own home for
months, but I’ve learned to just play
nursing home and introducing myself
along.
to my own grandmother over and
“I guess they were here the whole
over? What if I can’t handle the
time. Why don’t you just sleep here
agony? What if I can’t take the truth?
tonight, and I’ll help you pack everyAll I can do is live now, in the mothing in the morning,” I say as I tuck
ment, before she is completely gone
her into bed and kiss her
from my life. She will
forehead. She calls it
forget, but I will rememspoiling, but I call it
ber. Everyone always
She will
love.
says, “Everything will be
forget, but I
It isn’t easy for me
okay” – but how? How
knowing that Grandma
life seem reasonable
will remember will
will eventually forget
when there’s no reason
who I am, what I’ve acbehind Alzheimer’s? She
complished, and how much of an inhas no idea what’s ahead of her, and I
fluence she has had on my life. All
remind myself that it’s probably betthe exotic birthday cards, comical
ter that way.
home videos, and beloved photos will
“You know you will forget everyeventually fade from her memory.
thing,” I gently whisper, and a tear
My main fear is the future – what if
spills down my cheek. She stares into
my eyes, looks down, and gloomily
I can’t handle visiting a cramped
225,000,000 Years
Sparrows
by Rachel Bird, Bethesda, MD
by Audrey Cleaver-Bartholomew, Manlius, NY
I
I
just realized that nothing matters. Literally nothing.
It takes 225 million years for the solar system to make one complete revolution around the Milky Way. How long are you alive – maybe eighty years,
ninety if you’re lucky? That’s nothing.
Your existence doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter if you’re fat or skinny, white or black, rich or poor. It doesn’t
matter who you date or how many people you kiss. It doesn’t matter what summer job you had or what you got for Christmas. It doesn’t matter which guy you
have a crush on or who your parents are, because in 500 years no one will remember you even existed.
You do not matter. Your money and clothes and
To an individual, weight and cars don’t matter. Your husbands and
wives and children don’t matter.
you may be
So slow down. Take a break. Stop worrying about
grades
and weight and clothes and material things.
the world
Look at the stars. Forget your disagreements and
petty fights. Put aside your pride, and apologize.
Understand that most of the things you worry about don’t really matter. Understand that you don’t really matter. Accept it. Move on.
Because once you realize that you don’t matter in the grand scale of the universe, you can start to see how much you matter right now. You might not be able
to change the Earth’s revolution around the Milky Way, but you can change
someone’s day. In the
cosmic sense of
things, you are less
than a speck of dust,
but to an individual,
you may be the world.
Find the people who
mean the world to
you, and never let
them go. Make your
own world the best it
can be, and stop worrying about things
that don’t matter.
Because, really,
nothing matters. And
because of that, every
moment matters. ✦
Art by Maya Kendrick, Tucson, AZ
10
nods. I clasp our hands in an unbreakable grip. Her smile transforms into a
frown, but I know in the back of my
mind that I’ve been waiting for a moment like this. We sob together, not
speaking a word, and then suddenly
she stops. I watch, perplexed, as she
opens a magazine and begins to look
at the pictures. She has forgotten why
she was crying. I wipe away my tears
and join her on a quest to find the best
picture in the Home magazine. We
laugh for hours, and I pretend that
there is no tomorrow.
“I love you, Grandma,” I say without hesitation as I giggle at her joke.
“I know you do … I love you too,”
she replies.
I smile, knowing that this moment
is genuine, and one that I will never
forget. ✦
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
can tell you how I floss, how I grind my teeth when I sleep, how I
press spoonfulls of peanut butter upside down on my tongue. I can
tell you why I have ulcers on my gums and calluses the size of quarters on both big toes. I can tell you that my logic curled up like the corners of burned books and died, but I can’t tell you why.
Maybe chewing on electrical cords as a child did it – or maybe normalcy splattered like blown wax as I painted my hands with decapitated
dandelions. I can tell you about the trapdoor I fell through on a fall afternoon when my mother sat me down to tell me my best friend had been
shot dead. That trapdoor swung open four more times before high school
was out. These trapdoors are the ink flicked across my cerebrum, and
when I was 17, I stopped trying to scrub it off.
The sparrow bracelet is silver and suspended. I scrounged it from a
box I hadn’t opened in a year and fastened it
on my wrist with its faded cord and ridged
tail. A week before was the fifth trapdoor; his
He was 15
name was Matt, and he was 15 when they
when they
found his body by a lake. My knees had
found his body smacked the floor when my friend told me,
and I can’t tell you why I still prayed “Oh
Jesus, please” from six hours away, but I did.
Three months earlier I had read that sparrows were the collectors of
lost souls, and I had spent twenty times as long trying to forget how
many lost souls were sutured into my life. I didn’t want to remember the
popping veins and red eyes and the scabs that puckered friends’ skin, but
I did, and I didn’t want to remember that, without them, I would have
had the same. They sculpted my 14-year-old psyche, and three years
later, my eyelids were still pinned open and vulnerable.
Since Matt died, I have kept the sparrow clasped on my wrist, warmed
by the pulse I owe to the people it collects. I can tell you that lost souls
are like candles whose heat wraps around elbows and knuckles after the
wind takes them. Sometimes when I can watch my breath billow and the
stars dangle close, I know lost souls were too alive to be contained by
thin skin. I have learned to fly because they fell, to see because their eyelids have shut, to scribble their stories because their fingers have gone
cold.
Some nights I wonder if I am a sparrow too, learning from a thistle
nest what can happen if I do not spread my wings soon. Until I do, I
know nothing is absolute – nothing but the truth that we are spirits in
bodies, words behind teeth, and life tethered to reality. ✦
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GET READY. GET SET. GO!
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
11
love
Valentine’s Day for One
I
awkwardly at my silverware, with the
am going to share a fact about mybest hot chocolate in the world steamself: I have never been on a date
ing at my fingertips, I was oddly
on Valentine’s Day. This year, I
happy, despite the stares from other
decided to break the lonely streak and
tables.
take myself out. I borrowed my sisI enjoyed my meal – as I always do
ter’s hottest dress, slipped on my
at Bob’s – and when I was done, my
highest heels, and curled my hair up
waitress left my bill and a to-go box,
all pretty. At 7:19 p.m. on February
and wished me a good night. But this
14, I opened my own car door and
was not our last farewell. She rewas off on my date.
turned to my table a
“How many
couple minutes later
tonight?” the hostess
and ripped up my bill.
asked when I arrived at
“Just
by
yourself
My lonely status must
Bob Evans, the only
have sparked compasrestaurant I would contonight?” my
sion in one of the
sider for a fancy date.
waitress asked
other patrons – some“Just one,” I told her,
one had paid my bill!
and she led me to a
Shocked and deeply
table near the back. I
touched, I looked around, searching
noticed that there were mostly
for the generous party, but she told
middle-aged couples and a few famime they had already left. I thanked
lies. Right away I felt out of place at
her profusely, although she was not
my family-sized table.
the rightful recipient of my gratitude.
“Just by yourself tonight?” my
(If you’re reading this and you paid
waitress asked when she came to inthe bill for a girl in a purple dress and
troduce herself. It seemed like everyred heels at Bob Evans, thank you for
one wanted to point out my solitude,
making my first Valentine’s Day date
but I didn’t mind. Even as I waited
unforgettable.)
for my dinner, sitting and staring
Next, I traveled to the mall, which
was not as busy as I expected. A few
couples wandered around with hands
intertwined while I had mine folded
in front of me. One girl with her
boyfriend at her hip – who either felt
bad for me or was truly amazed by
It was when I met you
my physique – told me that I had
I realized the weeds inside me
“really nice legs.” This, of course,
were roses waiting to bloom.
provoked my supermodel strut as I
continued my walk.
It was when I met you
The small confidence boost wore
my roses started to flourish
off
and I began feeling lonely again. I
even in the most deserted parts of my soul.
decided to go to Payless. What better
But lately they have started to die,
way to pick a girl up than shoe shopping? Surrounded again by pairs, I
I keep plucking their beautiful petals
pondering whether you love me
Blooming
by Madison Endicott, Findlay, OH
tried not to mind. All the
pretty colors and sparkling
patterns soon helped me
forget my solitude, and I
had fun trying on seveninch bright blue heels that
I thought made my legs
look really nice.
The cinema was my
final destination on my
date. I bought my ticket.
(“Yes, just one, please, for
‘Safe Haven.’”) That’s
right: I went to see a
Nicholas Sparks movie on
my date for one.
I found a seat between
two couples and looked
around only to find the
theater filled with my
classmates. Great, I
thought. Will I ever live
this down? One classmate
came up to me and asked
if I was waiting for someone. “No, I’m here alone,”
I replied. She laughed, assuming I was joking, but I just smiled.
“Safe Haven” was everything a romance film should be and more. As
the main characters started to fall in
love under the beautiful skies of
North Carolina, my lonely heart
began to tighten. Despite my efforts
to prove to myself that I could have a
good time alone on Valentine’s Day, I
was not having fun. Thanks to
Sparks’s well-crafted love story, I felt
the sting of loneliness like a blow to
the chest. Where were my flowers?
My chocolates? My kiss in the rain?
My hand to hold? Where was my
Romeo?
The tears finally fell when “She
Will Be Loved” came on the radio
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
during my drive home. I couldn’t pull
off this Valentine’s Day for one.
Valentine’s Day is meant for two people who care about each other to
spend an evening together enjoying
each other’s company. It’s meant for
sharing a popcorn and watching a stupid chick-flick so you can snuggle up
close at the romantic parts. It’s for
buying her flowers because you know
she’ll think of you every time she sees
them. It’s for being together and
growing in love.
The people who paid my bill at
Bob Evans were probably thinking,
No one should have to spend Valentine’s Day alone, but I’m glad I
tried it. ✦
not.
by Lucy Massad, Greenwich, CT
One Year Later
by Sara Haig, Los Altos, CA
T
Art by Devin Thornton, Cleveland, OH
12
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
my feet as I stepped out of the car after our good-bye, and
he time for him to leave was near; its imminence
the warm winter sun kiss my face as I watched his truck
loomed over us like a storm cloud. We were lying
pull away.
face to face in comfortable silence, studying each
And here we were, one year later, warm in each other’s
other and savoring these last few minutes together. I ran
embrace, somewhere neither of us imagined we would ever
my fingers over the stubble on his jaw and lower lip, wishbe. Here we were, one year later, sharing a love
ing we could stay in this moment forever. As he
neither of us expected we would find at this point
gently brushed his hands through my hair, I
We walked in our lives. But somehow it happened, and it was
closed my eyes and thought, How did this
weekend pass so quickly?
back into wonderful. Though we spent most days of the
year apart, it was moments like these that made
I thought back to the first time we went out. I
reality
all the waiting worth it. These moments of comthought back to our first genuine conversation
plete bliss we could only achieve with each other.
over that first meal, and how nervous I had
I opened my eyes slowly and met his. We both inhaled
been, yet how effortless it was. I thought back to the awe
deeply and released sighs in unison. He pressed his lips to
that overcame me at how natural it felt to be with him.
my forehead as I breathed him in one last time. “I love
Though time had passed since then and much had changed,
you,” he whispered tenderly in my ear. It was time for him
the memory of that first date was still fresh in my mind. I
to go. We rose quietly. Then, hand in hand, we walked
could still feel my heart fluttering, my mind racing, and
back into reality. ✦
my cheeks flushing. I could still feel the pavement beneath
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Reunited
by Erika Sorensen, Ormond Beach, FL
M
asked me if I wanted to talk to him on the phone. I
still remind me of him, like rice cakes or my fish
y long brown hair is perfectly curled and
was seven; I stood on the couch with our old-school
tank – things that have been around since he was.
tied up with a bow. I’m wearing a cotton
landline phone pressed to my ear. I remember asking
What propelled me to search for him one last
sundress. Although I look put-together, I am
him how old he was, since I hadn’t seen him in what
time, I don’t know, but reconnecting was a mirafilled with anxiety. My hands are shaking as I grab my
seemed like a long time. He said he was seven. I told
cle. We’ve been texting regularly for about a
keys.
him
that
I
was
seven
too.
And
that’s
all
I
remember.
month now, and he’s coming to visit Florida.
It’s a gorgeous, cloudless, 80-degree April day in
It wasn’t until six years later that Casey came back
He’s coming home. Everything it took leading
Florida, and it’s time for me to take a trip that’s 13
into my realm of consciousness. Of course I hadn’t
up to this trip has been worth it. Every thought,
years overdue. I slide into my Jeep, put on my playlist
forgotten him, but the news of the accident hit me like
every plan, every detail, every hope, and every
of indie dance music, and back out of my driveway.
a brick. I was at Friendly’s with my little sister and
dream was not in vain.
Here we go.
my grandmother. I was arguing with my sister over
•
•
•
•
•
•
crayons. She was annoying me so much, I almost
I’m in the car on the highway. It’s a miracle
Casey was my everything. “Casey” was the first
wished I didn’t have a little sister. I looked up from
my sweaty hands are gripping the steering wheel
word I learned to spell. If there was ever a perfect pair
the
crayons
to
meet
my
grandmother’s
disapproving
at all, I’m so nervous.
of best friends, it was Casey and me. I loved him more
gaze. “You should be more thankful for your little sisthan anything; he was a part of me. It wasn’t even a
ter. Think of what happened to that Casey’s little sisthought – everything I did revolved around Casey.
ter,” she said.
We were inseparable. I cried on the
I asked my grandmother what she was
days his mom didn’t pick me up from
talking about, half afraid to know. She
school to take me to his house to play.
“Casey” was told me there had been a car accident a
He was more than my friend even then. I
think I knew he was mine. Even when I
the first word I year or two before, and Maya had died.
I was in shock. I remember slipping out
was so young, I knew that Casey was
learned to spell of the booth, saying I had to go to the
my Casey.
restroom. I went into a stall and wept. I
When Casey and I were five, he
didn’t understand why no one had told
moved to Tampa. He moved around a
me, but I knew a world without my amazing talking
lot, and each time he went a little further away. Nothbaby was no longer as bright. All I could think was,
ing changed; my mom still drove me to his house on
Why isn’t Casey in my life? Where did he go? I had to
the weekends, and my family stayed with his like a
find him. I had to be there for him.
mini-vacation. We were still the very best of friends.
I was twelve when I heard about Maya’s death, old
We went to water parks, we went on the water slide in
enough to use Google. I found two articles about the
his backyard that I couldn’t get enough of, and we
accident, and each broke my heart into a million
teased our little sisters.
Art by Emma Nicholson, Hamilton, New Zealand
pieces. Casey’s mom was driving the car when it
I didn’t know at the time why I stopped seeing
flipped and caught fire. Bystanders struggled to free
Casey, but I remember when. I remember almost
Casey, Casey’s friend, and Maya from the burning car.
I’m going to meet Casey.
everything about the last time I went to his house. I
Casey’s friend and mom were taken to the hospital
Thirteen years is a long time to be apart, but best
called his baby sister, Maya, “The Amazing Talking
with minor injuries. Casey was airlifted to a hospital
friends forever are best friends forever, right?
Baby” because she was so little but could speak as
with a gash in his forehead and a broken arm; he was
As my hour-long drive to Orlando nears an end, I
well I could. We watched “The Magic School Bus”
ten. Maya – who was just six – died in the hospital
imagine how it’s going to go. I see myself nervously
for hours. We said grace before every meal, even
shortly after the crash. I remember my blinding anger
looking around the University of Central Florida camthough I didn’t know what it was. His mom was my
toward my parents. Why hadn’t they told me? I cried
pus, searching for him before he starts his college tour
mom and vice versa. I remember Casey got a sticky
and cried. I cried for Maya and for Casey, and for
(the real reason for his visit). Finally I catch a glimpse
strip meant for catching bugs stuck in my hair, and it
myself.
of his curly brown hair. As he turns, his dark brown
took both our moms to cut it out.
I missed him terribly. I needed him back in my life.
eyes meet my bright green ones for an intense instant
I remember the last time I spoke to Casey. My mom
I found out from my mom that Casey’s mom had
before I start to run. We’re both smiling as I leap into
turned to drugs, which led to his parents’ divorce
his arms, causing a scene. But I don’t care. I hug him
and was why our families had lost
fiercely and he hugs me back. I hug him
touch. I wish I could have been there
for all the times I wasn’t there and wish I
for him during those hard times.
had been. I hug him because he’s been
He’s been
For months I went on a seemingly
missing from my life for far too long. I
missing from breathe him in, never wanting to let go.
endless search for Casey. I called his
Do you like the Killers?
old house. I called the church where
It’s finally Casey.
I just kind of wanted to know.
my life for far It’sWeCasey.
I thought his father was preaching. I
part enough to see each other’s
Because I know you’re just one bad haircut
poured over articles about the accifaces. We stare at each other, drowning in
away from being an evil genius and you
too long
dent. My efforts lead nowhere until I
familiarity but swimming in change.
laugh like someone might hear you
tried MySpace. I searched his name,
We’ve grown up, but we’ve found our
But for five years we have led lives outside of
and there he was. I couldn’t believe it.
way back to each other. We walk around the campus
where we meet every July and
But Casey wasn’t interested in talking to me. I
holding hands, smiling, and laughing. Talking like
I kind of just wanted to know.
had missed too much; the divorce and the acciwe were never parted. Neither of us mentions the
What’s your favorite flavor of Life Savers and
dent and time severed us. Our friendship seemed
accident, but he knows I’m there for him. And that I
did you know I fell a little in love with
over, and I was crushed. I found out that he had
always have been, in spirit.
your sophomore self?
moved with his dad to New York. I wanted so
We’re quite possibly the cutest couple on the
And can you tell me where you go to eat
badly to be there for him, but I was too late, so I
planet. Nobody could ever be as happy as we are, seewhen you’ve got exactly $5.83 and
let it go.
ing each other for the first time since we were five.
can I tell you what I tell my friends
Now I am 18, and so is Casey. Recently I typed
For that day we will be us again. We will be Casey
about you?
his name into Facebook, just for fun. And of
and Erika, together as a single entity, and it will be the
Because for five years I have known only a
course, there he was. Through a series of semimost perfect day ever.
piece of your mind and now
awkward messages back and forth, I managed to
I park my Jeep and get out. The moment is finally
I want it all.
capture his attention.
upon me. I start to search for that boy with the curly
I just kind of wanted you to know.
He never really left my mind; after all these
brown hair and dark brown eyes who I’ve missed so
by Mahalia Sobhani, Brookfield, WI
years I still thought of him often. He was so imachingly for thirteen years. ✦
portant during my childhood, and so many things
Eleazar
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• Teen Ink
13
love
14
Lover Boy
I
by Harrison Bacon, Milton, MA
My time spent in the classroom was
a blur. I daydreamed about the Biblical figurines on the shelves and
looked out the window, but mainly
studied the lovely ladies who surrounded me. All of them, I posited,
were just like me: Catholic and single.
I was in love with every one of them.
The way they colored inside the lines,
put together puzzles, and wrote in
cursive – it drove me mad. I began to
suffer from stomach butterflies and
intense blushing. By the second day, I
decided the only way to end my woe
would be to let my feelings out.
But there was no chance to express
my earnest emotions with adults patrolling the halls and classrooms. It
became clear that recess was my time
to capitalize. It did not take long to realize what a commotion recess was at
my Catholic school: five hundred
kids, grades K-8, running amok in
what was essentially an unused parking lot. The boys played epic foursquare and basketball games of
warlike proportions. One was lucky to
return to the classroom without tears
in his eyes.
Nevertheless, recess was the romantic opportunity for which my
heart longed. ’Twas a glorious break
from the prison of emotion in which I
Photo by Gabrielle Gonzalez, Boling, TX
was confined. Finally, my time to
humbly approach the Goddesses had
arrived. Much like The Bachelor, I
I have come to the conclusion that
arranged generic dates with the obthe HR virus remained dormant in my
jects of my admiration. Each day I
system until it sensed the opportune
suavely begged a different dame to
moment to activate. This moment
join me by a quaint little spot I’d
was, naturally, when I began my forpicked out beneath an oak tree in the
mal education. The year was 1998, I
far corner of the blacktop, where stuwas in kindergarten, and my emotions
dents were not allowed.
boiled behind the beige brick walls of
Here we were beyond the hubbub,
St. Agatha’s School.
the riffraff, the brutality of the world,
My mother, an aggressive woman
and in a place of magic. Though there
behind the wheel, whipped the car
were no flowers, a rich aroma of roses
around corner after corner in fear that
filled the air, and though no birds
I would be late for school before I’d
were in sight, doves serenaded us
even started. It was only a half-day of
with a harmony so charmschool that didn’t begin
ing it would bring Mozart
until noon, but it was
paramount to her that I
I am a victim to tears. Even on the
cloudiest of New England
not miss a minute. The
of hopeless
days, the sun radiated
seatbelt around my chest
was chokingly tight, and
romanticism pure joy onto our flushed
faces. It was a dream.
the fact that it was shovBecause I had only fifing my tie and collar into
teen minutes each day to convey my
my neck only reminded me that I was
passion, I tended to get right down to
on my way to Catholic school.
business:
As we pulled up, a new bride and
“Do you love me?” I would ask imgroom emerged from the colossal
mediately upon arrival under the tree.
doors of the adjacent cathedral. Both
“Um, yeah, I think so,” was the
young. Both glowing. Church bells
typical response of Lady X.
rang and guests were cheering and
“Do you think we’ll get married
throwing confetti. And though my
some day?” I’d prod.
body was on the verge of whiplash as
“Um, yeah.”
the car swung in, this moment apOur eyes would lock as we beamed
peared to me in slow motion. It was,
for what felt like an eternity. Norwithout a doubt, the most magnificent
mally her nose would wiggle and
thing I had ever seen. And I thought, I
she’d ask, a little disgusted, “Harry,
want that.
was born sick. My rare condition
has dictated the majority of my
decisions, and though I’ve
searched the globe, there is no cure.
While the final diagnosis was only
revealed to me the summer between
my junior and senior years of high
school, I can recollect specific
symptoms that appeared as early as
age five. I do not ask for sympathy,
only that my voice is heard, so that I
may unveil some of the rationale behind the many seemingly unreasonable actions I take on a daily basis.
I am a victim of “HR”: hopeless
romanticism.
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
are you wearing perfume?”
such as this would have been trau“It’s my dad’s cologne. I wear it
matic for most five-year-old lads, I
because I love you. I brought you a
did not spend much time sulking.
gift as lovely as you are.” This is
Rather, the remainder of the day was
when I’d hand her the dandelion I had
spent contemplating her words. She
picked from the patch behind the
spoke of faith and God. An adult had
dumpster.
never challenged me to think about a
“Wow,” she’d say as she put it behigher power. I simply accepted my
hind her ear, “I love daisies!”
faith for what it was. I knew the baThen, if I was lucky, she would
sics of the Bible – Jesus’s whole
sneak me a peck on the cheek just as
“cross situation,” Goliath versus Davy
the bell would ring.
Crockett, and something about an aniThat was my daily romantic enmal cruise – but none of it had ever
counter, until the Lord
seemed to apply to my
caught wind of what I
life. Then it hit me.
Suddenly an
was up to.
Didn’t Jesus die beIt happened on a de- enormous shadow cause he loved us so
lightful day, just like
much? Didn’t Jesus die
fell over my
the others. I was proso we could be free to
fessing my adoration
Doesn’t it make
princess and me love?
for yet another young
sense to love as much
lady beneath the oak
as possible to honor
tree, when suddenly an enormous
Him? And I love at least twelve girls,
shadow fell over my princess and me.
so aren’t I a good Catholic? Aren’t I
I turned to discover our principal, Sisdoing the right thing?
ter Judy, looming over us like a garBy the time I arrived in Sister
goyle. Of all the nuns, she was the
Judy’s office and met my parents, I
most feared. While the others wore
was mentally all over the map. I do
blue robes, Sister Judy chose black,
not know how long the meeting lasted
and the deep lines on her face made
or what was discussed or what their
her a frightening sight. She yanked
ultimatum was. One simply does not
me up by my ear.
multitask while pondering the myster“Well, well, well … so the rumors
ies of love.
are true. Mr. Bacon, I had been told
The next day, my mother sped me
that you are a busy bee, but I had to
to school as usual. The halls were
see it for myself. And you, young
glum as usual. The teacher taught the
lady. My oh my. Get that wilted weed
lesson as usual. And my empresses
out of your hair and beat it.” I do not
were elegant as usual. And when reblame my sweet queen for fleeing.
cess came, I was right beneath my
The fearful presence of Sister Judy
oak tree, wafting in the aroma of
was too much to bear.
roses, enjoying the tunes of doves,
“The sisters tell me this has been a
and beaming into the eyes of another
regular occurrence since September.
beautiful girl, as usual.
Is that true, Mr. Bacon?”
“So even though you got in trouble
Frozen in her bottomless black
yesterday, you’re still here with me?”
eyes, I had no answer.
asked Lady Z.
“Mr. Bacon, you are disappointing
“I’d risk anything for our love.”
not only me but your faith. God does
“Wow,” she exclaimed, nearly
not wish for you to waste your time
speechless.
obsessing over the many girls here at
I pressed the freshly picked dandeSt. Agatha’s School. You will gain
lion to my face, took a deep breath,
nothing from our teachings if your
and held it out to her.
head is plagued by these perversions.
“Do you love me?” ✦
I cannot have such a poison
in my school, Mr. Bacon.
Do you understand? You
leave me no choice but to …
are you wearing cologne?”
“Maybe ….”
Beyond appalled, she
said, “You leave me no
choice but to call a meeting
with your parents. Come
straight to my office after
school. The four of us will
have a conversation about
this. Now go, boy.” She released my ear, and I strutted
away wearing the pout of a
thousand men.
Art by Rebecca Huang, Taipei, Taiwan
Though an experience
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love
Love and Meth
by “Amy,” Tustin, MI
I
was falling apart. He was my best friend. And
guess when you trust someone with your whole
maybe that’s why we worked well, at first. We both
heart, you’ll believe anything they tell you, no
had demons, and we saved each other. For a while.
matter how dumb their excuse is or how much
That summer started out innocently enough – at
evidence is right in front of you. When he’d go days
least, we were as innocent as two rebellious
without eating and said it was because of his depresteenagers in love can be. Mostly we talked. He was
sion medication, I believed it. The scratches on his
my neighbor, so at night we’d meet at the park, or
arm were just healing bug bites or eczema. The pipe
he’d come to my first-floor bedroom window.
was just for marijuana. I knew they were all lies,
Sometimes we’d drink, and usually
didn’t I? I’d been around enough
we’d smoke a whole pack of cigarettes.
meth to know what was going on.
talk about our parents, and our
It’s been almost a year, but I can
I was a voice on We’d
fathers leaving when we were young.
still feel the pain and regret. Why
For two months, everything was right.
the phone he
couldn’t I save him? I can still taste
when I think of him, that’s how I
the glass pipe on his lips. I can still
never answered And
want to remember him: smiling, hughear his screams when he saw creaging me, telling me he loved me.
tures that no one else could. I can still
anymore
Slowly, though, something changed.
feel the tears on my skin – his and
Sometimes he’d visit a friend and we’d
mine.
go a week or two without talking. He’d shut off his
I knew he was a little damaged right from the
phone, shut out the world. Trying to talk to him was
start. I just didn’t know how damaged. He smoked a
unbearable; he’d never reply. Sometimes he’d be
lot of pot and was addicted to nicotine, but never in
shaky, and sometimes he’d freak out. Some nights
a million years could I have imagined him turning
when I’d get too close, he’d jump up and start
into the monster he did. He wasn’t a bad person; he
screaming and throwing things. After a while, I
just wasn’t a lucky one.
learned to stop expecting him to show up when he
Although he had his demons, there were parts of
said he would. I was a voice on the phone he never
him that saved me from my own demons when I was
answered anymore.
too weak to fight them off myself. He’d stay on the
This continued for months. I never cried. I blamed
phone with me or hold me tightly on nights when I
Dear Lover
by Monhé Van Der Walt,
Wilderness, South Africa
I
speeding so fast not even God could keep up. It
’m sorry I couldn’t love you enough. I’m
wasn’t about my fading light or the memory of
sorry for painting the solar system on my
you that I tucked neatly under my
body and leaving you out of the
pillow because I could not bear being
process; you did not deserve that. I
Do you
alone after you left, even for a little
want nothing more than to feel
while.
your sticky lips against my calf
see why I
You cracked my limbs. You
again, your feather fingers across
need you? cracked my eyes. You turned my
my belly button, your heart next to
brain into TV static on nights the
mine.
lightning was so loud I had to hide under the
It was never about your silent eyes, or the
bed. I bet you didn’t know. I still develop torway you crashed into me on nights I was
nadoes where my lungs should be every time I
remember your sweet vanilla breath on my
taste buds.
You are stuck behind my teeth, embedded in
the roots. I’m scared to let you go because I
had not known happiness until I met you; I
also had not known heartache.
There are holes burned into my organs because of you. You recreated the universe inside
my body. The day you decided that I was no
longer good enough, the acid in my stomach
caused black holes to develop. Do you see why
I need you?
I don’t know how to make you love me
again. I have forgiven you for not saying happy
birthday. I don’t mind the violet paint splashes
that often covered my mangled body. You are
more beautiful than a van Gogh painting, and
you turned my veins into origami more than
once.
I am sorry I was never enough, and sometimes too much.
Photo by Susie Dutson, Tooele, UT
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Art by Monel Reina, Brooklyn, NY
myself for what he was doing. I thought crying was
letting him down, because he was the one with the
problems, not me. Right? He was the one who
should have been crying. Now, looking back, I see
how disgusting it was that he would try to blame
me. He was the one putting meth in his pipe. He was
the one screaming at me and hitting me.
“If you weren’t nagging me all the time to be better, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t be depressed. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m
never good enough for you.” I still remember where
I was when he said this. I hung up the phone, then
wished I had said what I was thinking: You’re always good enough for me. All I want is for you to
come home.
The pain became unbearable, but I still continued
to smile. I’m not sure if anyone knew how much it
hurt me. If they asked, I’d say, “I don’t care. I don’t
give a damn about him anymore.” But every night, I
wanted to run to his house and see if he was there. I
wanted to hold him one more time. But of course he
was never home. He was gone, without a good-bye,
or a backward glance.
Eventually, the pain began to heal. I met someone,
but had doubts about him. Would he end up like my
ex? He was a rebel too, but there was something different about him. I could sense that he wouldn’t
leave me for his demons, and he was trustworthy. He
told the truth, and to this day, always does.
My ex-boyfriend is long gone. Although I still
think of him and sometimes miss him terribly, I keep
my distance. We’ve made small talk on Facebook a
few times, but that’s the closest I’ve ever let myself
get.
He’s better now. He got the help he needed, but
he’s still dangerous to me. One word, and I could
fall for him all over again. And maybe I’m dangerous for him too. Maybe he really didn’t think he was
good enough for me. Maybe being around me would
make him turn back to drugs.
The day I decided to move on was the day I fell in
love again. Guilt no longer controls me, and the pain
is just a memory. His face, his smile, his smell, his
voice – it has all just faded away. ✦
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
15
love
Love-Struck
by “Carla,” MI
T
You told me that as soon as you saw me and knew
he size difference between us astounded
he captivated me, you craved my presence. Everyeveryone. One glance showed you to be twice
thing about us felt natural. I needed you as much as
my height and four times my weight. You
you wanted me. Everyone I met after you watched
were the fire and I was the pyromaniac tempted to
their words and back. They were intimientertain you. Our relationship resemdated by you, or rather, our relationship.
bled a building burning down. We both
went into the building at different
You were the It was something so rare, something neither of us had ever experienced.
times, always returning. Either I lit the
fire and I was
Your charm attracted me, and everymatch and threw it or you did. We distracted each other from the destruction the pyromaniac one around you. It was because your
love radiated with such intensity. You
happening all around us. However, in
cared so much about everyone; laughter
the midst of disaster is often beauty.
always following you. We met at a popular hangout,
Everyone says first impressions last and are
and we began to meet there weekly because it reburned into the brain. My first impression of you
mained secretive and innocent. Nothing about our
was fleeting and a little flirtatious. Eventually we
relationship was innocent though. You betrayed your
were introduced by someone we both knew: your
friend, and I ended the relationship with him for
best friend and my boyfriend.
you.
Our relationship perplexed even me. It was a
Romeo and Juliet love – deeply intense, going
from zero to a hundred miles per hour in no
time. We kept it secret because of the spiteful
Art by Sara Hyneman, Glasford, IL
words from those around us. So that Christmas,
when I got my first cell phone, my heart
frantically. With that, we disappeared into the night
pounded with happiness. Something as simple
by Alexis Fernandez, Isabela, Puerto Rico
like breath into the midnight air.
as a phone made our relationship that much
It took me two years to turn my back on you and
more intense. We texted often, and since I
knew I wasn’t over you when I saw that seashell.
speak up. This journey has left me brodidn’t have a texting plan, I
Walking hand in hand with my new boyfriend
ken and exhausted. I have learned that
quickly racked up a $1,500 bill.
along the shore, I stopped to pick up the beautiful
in the word justice, there is ice. It repBut our secretive romance
specimen, the colors catching my eye. I smiled and
Like all abusers, resents the court’s heart and how it
had an ugly side. Abuse was
turned to him, saying, “I wonder what kind of shell
rules. The judge was blind to your
your nature. You found pleasure
this is.”
your apologies
crimes. He let you go. I was the one
playing games with my head
A shoulder shrug. “I dunno.” And as he kept walkwere
perfect
left in the prison of my mind. The
and, later, my body. Like a map
ing, my smile faltered.
story ends with you moving on with
in a history book, my body
You would have known. You would have brought
your life, and with me stuck in the
showed the routes of your conme to the water’s edge, rattled
same chapter. I’m left in Pompeii, covered in ash
quest. Three incidents are the clearest for me:
off the names of dozens of sea
I would
and ruins.
June 10th, July 21st, and October 31st.
creatures, and explained where
I was naive and love-struck. Now everything is
June
10th:
I
awoke
early
and
sent
you
a
they
came
from.
You
would
have
have been
gone. ✦
“Happy birthday!” text. You had turned 18; I
had this joyous gleam in your
so happy
was still 14. At noon I snuck to your house.
eyes, blue as the ocean swirling
Everything about us was always kept in secret.
beneath our cuffed jeans, and the
As I entered your house the darkness took over.
beauty of our surroundings would be magnified one
I had planned on watching a movie with you,
hundred-fold by your attention. I would have laughed
but the plan dissolved into war. You began your
at you, and you would have splashed me with your
conquest and left scars. Just like all abusers’,
feet. I would have been so happy.
your apologies were perfect. You always got
Instead I stood there alone, letting the salt water run
i have traced
your hands back on me.
through my toes and down my cheeks. Before I knew
(with my tongue)
When July 21st came around, things had
what I was doing, the shell was in a million pieces bethe crooked places
been good between us. I was walking home
tween my fingers. A million tiny broken pieces I
in your smile
from a friend’s house on that blistering day,
hurled into the sea. ✦
you didn’t know existed
and I stopped to see you. I trotted into your
my hands are cold and
house again and told you I didn’t want anything
i steal from you
to happen, but malicious words left your cruel
(homeostasis i lack)
lips, and you printed another red mark on my
i was dragged across desert
body. This war lasted two hours and eventually,
as you skid across oceans
breaking free, I found my feet and slipped
(i have tied a string to
away. A few weeks passed before I talked to
your pinkie
you again. Once again, your exquisite words
and held you like a
soothed my wounds.
kite – can you tell the
The last battle took place on Halloween. I
sky from the ground?)
had dressed up as a bumblebee. We ended up at
i have lost sight of my kite and
a friend’s house. They went upstairs while we
most string
stayed downstairs. My plan was to watch TV,
from here extends into thin air
but as I turned it on, you began to whine and
but still, it’s not fallen,
complain. I kept resisting and fighting. The
so there is still a
usual pattern commenced, with me saying no
soul-crushing hope
and you not listening. The only thing that saved
i may still reel you in
me that night was my friend’s footsteps racing
by
Fadwa Ahmed, Safat, Kuwait
Photo by Grace Foster, Union City, CA
down in a panic.
“My mom is on her way home!” she said
Seashells
I
hoarding
16
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
bullying
For Abigail
by Josh Galvin, Glendale, AZ
I
the outfield, who all turned their
think it best to set the record straight from the
faces but erupted in giggles. Even
start: in elementary school, I was a bully.
the reprimand to end all repriThere are many types of bullies. For starters,
mands that followed did not kill
there are the Big, Bored Bullies – the junkyard dogs
my high.
of the bullying spectrum – kids who learned their
Walking into art class a few
formidable size can grant them sway early in life
hours later, I barely noticed Ms.
and utilize every inch and pound to their fullest deGustin’s instructions for the day.
structive potential. On the opposite side are the
Still feeling great, I cracked jokes
Small, Sad Bullies – short-statured boys and girls
and goofed around with Playwho may have been bullied themselves and thus
Doh. An hour later, my teacher
continue the cycle by dishing out what they have
shattered my thoughts by exbeen dealt. There are the Situational Bullies – scavclaiming, “Abigail, that is marengers biding their time to spinelessly swoop into a
velous!” My head
confrontation. The Bender Bullies ususwiveled to a nearby
ally have bad home lives and inferiortable where most of
ity complexes; their namesake derives
I noticed her
my classmates had
from the snarky rebel who epitomized
Art by Manu Avarthika, Chennai, India
congregated. My custrange gait
this subset in John Hughes’ “The
riosity won me over,
Breakfast Club.” And then there’s the
and I stretched to peer
meekness had slapped the bully from my bones.
label that describes me: the Class
over the crowd.
In fifth grade, Abigail transferred to another
Clown Bully.
My stomach immediately sank.
school. I overheard the news of her departure as I
As a Class Clown Bully, I cut my observational
The setting sun hung over a lake, casting hazy
had her arrival – in the teachers’ gossip corner.
teeth on everything around me for the sake of a
hues of pink and gold across the sky and over the
Although she had been given a tuition break, her
laugh. With each well-received joke, my bravado
glittering water. In the foreground rode Abigail atop
family just couldn’t afford our school.
and self-confidence increased until eventually everya brown speckled horse. The sinewy curves in the
To most, Abigail was just the girl with the toothing was fair game. I made a habit of building
horse’s stride made her straight, slender figure elesmall shirts, the girl who never spoke, the girl with
bridges by burning others, always advancing in my
gantly simple in comparison. Although she rode tocerebral palsy. To a few, she was a beloved daughter,
mind but actually running in place. Over time, little
ward the distant shoreline, her arms were held up
a trusted friend, a prodigious artist, an inspiration.
by little, the mature and good-natured Dr. Jekyll
and her head was tilted back, exposing her closed
But to me, Abigail was the embodiment of a hardcivility I usually displayed made more and more
eyes and uncontainable smile.
learned lesson in humility.
room for the sometimes-funny-but-mostly-tasteless
It was not overdone. It was not tacky. It was art –
Abigail was my cure. ✦
antics of Mr. Hyde. Here, in the mixed-up depths of
genuine, poignant, stirring art –
my miniature fourth-grade existential crisis, I met
and it was beautiful, not “fourth
Abigail.
grade” beautiful but “hanging
I first learned of the new student on the playframed in a gallery” beautiful.
ground. One excellent quality of elementary school
While I made vaguely recognizateachers is that they underestimate the snooping caby Indigo Kroll, Rogers, AR
ble clumps out of clay and
pacity of kids. At my school, the teachers produced
basked in cruelty fueled selfand relayed the juiciest rumors. And no rumor
importance, several seats away
don’t need your help figuring out my physical flaws. From my frizzy
spread quicker or created more anticipation than
Abigail had humbly deconhair, to my too big glasses, to the ugly splotch on my pinky toe, I can do
news of a newcomer.
structed my arrogance with her
it well enough on my own. I’ve had 14 years of practice, after all, picking
By the time morning break had ended, the fourthremarkable talent.
out every defect, odd freckle and zit; I’m sure there are thousands more
grade classroom vibrated with a palpable buzz.
My bubble burst. All of the
flaws I’ve missed, but don’t worry, I’ll find them. I promise.
Finally, as I took my umpteenth break from journalsmiling faces in my mind soured
I also don’t need you to point out that every day during lunch I tuck mying to check the clock, the new student walked in
one by one, reducing my ego to
self into the unlikeliest of places: empty classrooms, closets, the corners of
with her mother. The first red flag sprang up as I
its rightful size. Back in the real
dark hallways, even the bathroom. I do it for a reason, not for fun. It’s not
watched her mom hang up her bag, hand her her
world, someone scoffed. Mortinecessary to yell and laugh like a hungry hyena every time you find me. It’s
supplies, and kiss her loudly on the forehead. I am
fied, I snapped my head toward
not a game of hide-and-seek, so stop looking.
all for motherly love, but as a 10-year-old boy I was
the dissenter and met the eyes of
If I wanted to hear you scream and giggle
honor-bound to resent the entire display.
friends, who, unaware of my
about what a nerd I am, I’d ask you. Trust me, no
As the new girl found her seat, I noticed her
No one can
inner turmoil, were smugly
one can mock me better than you. Those B’s?
strange gait. It was as if she bounced rather than
mock me
awaiting my snide comments.
Yeah, they’re really hilarious, I know. Must be
walked, her legs springboards bending at strange,
I defied their expectations in
something about all those study sessions I poured
exaggerated angles. The shameful incident happened
better
than
you
the most fitting way possible: I
hours into that really cracks you up.
during P.E. two weeks later, when Coach Coates let
cried, and I cried hard. I bawled
If I ever need somebody to tear me down, I’ll
us choose our own teams. This lapse in judgment
out of immense shame and guilt.
call you. I’m sure if we put our destructive minds together we could turn me
spawned an extremely unbalanced matchup. BeMy sobs demanded to be heard –
into a wreck in no time. We could sit in front of a mirror and shred every last
cause the game was kickball, and I knew how to toesaving face was out of the quespiece of my self-esteem by analyzing the way I slouch when I walk, mockpoke rubber like no one’s business, the first team
tion. The entire class watched my
ing the hand-me-downs I wear, pointing out the extra bit of fat on my tummy
chose me. It was downhill for the others from there.
breakdown, and for once the
(which isn’t going anywhere, no matter how often I hit the gym), and mockThe more we succeeded, the grander my self-image
almighty slander-slinger became
ing my laugh. From my uneven skin to my long nose to my crooked teeth –
became, just as it did when I made people laugh.
the subject of ridicule.
every single ugly thing about me – we’ll find it all. It’ll be fun.
By the time Abigail’s turn arrived at home plate, I
Ms. Gustin hurriedly came to
One more thing. Don’t worry about last Tuesday. I won’t tell anyone. I
was coasting on cloud nine. As she steadied herself
my aid and directed me outside,
know how it feels when people say things you don’t want them to … but if
for the incoming ball, I felt infallible. And when she
but not before I caught the
you ever want to talk to me about it, I’d be all right with that.
missed the ball, lost her balance, and fell backwards
smirks of my friends, who could
Just don’t get in the way of what I’m so good at already.
onto the gravel, I nearly hacked up a lung with
not conceal their amusement. As
Sincerely,
laughter, too elated to care how she felt. As her
for Abigail, I can’t remember her
The dorky girl who heard your father screaming at you when he thought
teammates helped her up and escorted her to the
expression. She had risen alone
no one was around. (P.S. - No hard feelings, I promise.) ✦
nurse, Mr. Awesome Kickball Champion seized the
against me, and her ferocious
opportunity to imitate her blunder for everyone in
Dear Bully
I
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What Therapy Is Really Like
M
I was fairly surprised when I
ost people are afraid to see
walked in and saw a sandbox by the
a therapist, especially teens.
window. That was the first thing I noI know I was. All I saw
ticed – the waist-level sandbox with
were visions of what most teens think
tiny figurines in it. Then I saw the
when they hear “therapy” or “countherapist. She was young and kind,
seling”: inkblots and lots of tissues. I
and that wasn’t an act. I sat down and
thought I would be lying on a leather
sank into the leather couch, still
sofa while an old man who knew
afraid, despite the therapist’s promnothing about me asked how various
ises of confidentiality. I would rather
memories and scenarios made me
have been part of the sofa than myfeel.
self at that moment.
But I have never heard “Now, how
Over the next few weeks, my
does that make you feel?” and I only
apprehension disappeared. I discovlie down on the sofa in my therapist’s
ered that my therapist
office if I want to. She
watched “Glee” and had
has a very nice couch
read The Hunger Games.
and lets me put my feet
I thought I
She was someone I
on it. I do cry in therapy,
would be lying could trust and talk to,
yes, but I’m comfortable
doing it. Not once have
on a leather sofa who had my best interests at heart. She was a
I done a Rorschach inkfriend who could help
blot test. Even though I
me
through
my
problems, but unlike
was terrified to start therapy, it is one
“friends,” my doctor wouldn’t tell
of the best decisions I ever made.
anyone my issues or judge me. Since
At the beginning of seventh grade,
that first appointment, I’m now going
I went to therapy for the first time. It
to a different therapist, who I have
was brought on by a string of events,
just as good a relationship with, and
including sending texts to a close
who has given me even more of the
friend saying I was going to start cuthelp I need.
ting, and blowing up at my mother.
Through therapy, my mother and I
To this day, I don’t remember my
realized that my mood swings
thinking behind either of these. Still,
weren’t normal teenage hormones,
the dreaded Monday came when I
nor were they residual sadness from
walked into my therapist’s office for
being bullied in the sixth grade. I was
the first time. I expected a cold room
diagnosed with dysthymia, a form of
with broken pencils, that dark leather
depression that runs in my family. If I
bed-type sofa, and an elderly man sithad been diagnosed with it before
ting in the corner.
therapy, I would have thought I was
A Letter to Alcohol
by “Serena,” Somerset, NJ
crazy. I would have thought I belonged in a padded room with a
straitjacket. But now that I’m in therapy, I don’t hide from my issues; I
accept them and deal with them
through talking and medication.
Because of the stigmas and stereotypes the media portrays
about therapy, I feared going
more than being diagnosed
with depression or starting
medication. Because of the
fear of being dubbed “crazy,”
many young people do not
get the help they desperately
need. They refuse to set foot
in a therapist’s office because
they don’t want to be seen as
weak. But being in therapy
does not equate to being
crazy or showing weakness.
It is estimated that one in
eight teens has some form of
depression, according to kidshealth.org. How many of
them have the strength to talk
to a parent about getting help?
While exact statistics of teens
in therapy are unknown, it is
obviously not enough, or one
in twelve teens would not have
attempted suicide in 2012 (according to the CDC). If there
weren’t a stigma attached to
therapy, teens would get the
help they need before they
considered such a drastic act.
Stereotypes plague our
culture. You might not have
by “Cathy,” San Francisco, CA
T
for them, paying the drivers in advance. I spent all the
o Alcohol,
money I had from the last three months on cabs for
You’ve been in my life forever, but I’ve never
friends that night. But I had to clean up the mess you
met you, really. Never touched you, never
made. “This won’t happen again,” they said as they
come near you. Though I can’t remember life without
were carted to the hospital to have their stomachs
you, I can remember all the pain you’ve caused me.
pumped. Two 15-year-old girls slept in hospital beds
Do you remember the night you almost took my
that night, thanks to you.
father’s life? Because I do. He loves you. Sometimes I
Do you remember the night you took advantage of
think he loves you more than he loves me. He’s admy 17-year-old neighbor who drove to
dicted to the way you make him feel,
pick up his sister from her dance lesthe way you promise to rid him of his
problems, only to create more of them.
Do you remember sons? Do you know how we felt when
he hit another car head-on and killed
You just sat back and laughed as his car
the night you
the two people inside? He died too. His
went spinning through the street, crashsister, walking home from her lesson,
ing into two other vehicles and then
almost took my
passed police cars and a crowd gatherflipping over. There were lots of hospifather’s
life?
ing on the sidewalk. She didn’t realize
tal visits that week. He wasn’t the only
her brother was involved. She never
one hurt by you that night.
saw him again. And it’s all your fault.
Do you remember the night of my
I wish you’d walk out of my life forever. I certainly
first high school party? You were there. My friends
don’t want anything to do with you. Look at what
were intrigued by you and your deceptive ways. They
you’ve done. Look at all the pain you’ve caused.
couldn’t get enough of you. They treated you as if
Sure, you’ve made people happy too from time to
they were never going to see you again, consuming all
time. But the damage you’ve caused to the lives of
they could. I spent two hours helping my friends who
millions is inexcusable. Stop luring those I love. Stop
had fallen head over heels for you. “I’m so embarhurting me. Stop destroying lives, please.
rassed,” they said as I held their hair back so they
Sincerely,
could vomit. “I’m sorry,” they said when I called cabs
Me ✦
20
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
realized that therapy is stigmatized,
but it is. It is much more pleasant and
beneficial than what you see on television. If you think you are struggling, find the strength to reach out
and ask for help; there’s nothing
wrong with it. ✦
Photo by Kimberly Vance, Gilbert, AZ
Get Over It
I was taught to suck it up
And keep it all in
And when life gets tough
Grow some thicker skin
Keep your head up
There’s life after high school
I guess it’s easy to say
After you’ve been cut loose
Just get over it
They tell me
But you’ve got the upper hand
You’re free
Rub some dirt on it
Swallow some pills
You don’t have a fever
So you can’t be ill
All you need is positive thinking
And you’ll get well
But I’m trapped inside my head
There’s not much left
Heartbreak only comes
After the boy-girl romance
So I couldn’t know
It’s much too advanced
Smile for a while
Pretend that you’re not sick
Just get better
It’ll just take time for it to be fixed
Ice the bruise
There’s no excuse
For you to lash out this way
But I’m pretty tired
Of everyone saying
That I should feel okay
by “Susan,” Denver, CO
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
21
travel & culture
Cooking Up Happiness
I
t’s New Year’s Eve and my dad’s entire family
has come to visit. The house fills with chatter of
an unknown language. I feel alienated when surrounded by these people who are my own blood.
I’m different.
My father’s friends ask me questions, but I don’t
understand a word. Most of them speak English but
choose not to. All I can offer is a smile to fill the
awkwardness. “Punjabi neih boldnia,” I overhear
my father say. I’ve heard that so many times that I
understand it: She doesn’t speak Punjabi. “Ahh,”
his friends reply, as if it’s some sort of disgrace to
be half Indian and not speak their language.
To me, their language sounds like gibberish. Most
of the time I feel paranoid, wondering if they’re
talking about me. I see friends and family look at
me for a second then turn away, continuing their
conversations. That’s the look I hate the most.
Then again, I think about my mother. Unlike me,
she has no Indian blood. I wonder how she feels.
Most of my dad’s family judged my mother because
she is Mexican. They believed that she didn’t have
the skills that an Indian wife should, such as the
ability to cook Indian food. My mom was determined to prove them wrong.
The smell of spices and curry fills the air. Some
How Did You Feel?
Did it shock you?
Did you always know?
When they were little, did it show?
What were you thinking when they became a hero?
Did you try to stop them?
Did you try to help?
Did it kill you to know that they were running toward Death?
What were you thinking when she made the invisible
Railroad, mister?
Did you see her as incredible or just another sister
Trying to live a dream
That will one day be crushed?
Ma’am, could you see it? Did you see it?
Your son, your baby boy just spoke with the
voice of an angel!
With his voice and his courage he led many
into becoming one!
Did you know from the beginning?
From the moment they were born
Could you see around their heads the light
of greatness that was hung?
Surely the angels had sung.
They must have danced and cheered, for a
hero was born.
The pain, the suffering, the fears, and the
sorrow
Will soon be gone.
I ask the parents of the ones who have lived
and died
For what they believed was right.
How did it feel to know that you gave life to
A hero?
by Ayodele Mack, Wilmington, DE
Dedicated to the parents of Rosa Parks,
Martin Luther King Jr., and all other
great civil rights and human rights
leaders.
22
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
by Jasmine Gill, Torrance, CA
see my aunt with a huge smile on her face. Everyspices are so strong that they burn my throat as I inone exclaims in agreement. The alien language I had
hale them. I follow the trail into the kitchen and see
been hearing all day is gone. English fills the room.
my mother preparing food. I help her set the table.
Everyone is complimenting my mother. I can hear
There are large bowls of lentils, vegetables, and
shock and amazement in their voices. My mother,
curry, each with its own color and texture. I bring
having no experience with the Indian culture, can
out the dal – lentils boiled with spices and vegetamake much more than a decent Indian meal. As
bles. They look like small beans floating among the
everyone fills their stomachs, the chattering fades,
vegetable and spices. I can see green chilies, onions,
leaving a silent satisfaction in the room.
cilantro, tomato, all very small but mixing together
Now the house is quiet. I pick up the dishes and
to create a rainbow.
take them into the kitchen. My mother is outside
The next bowl I bring out is sabji. The curry
with my father saying good-bye to everyone. Even
drowns out the cooked peas and carrots, giving them
from inside the house, I can hear laughing. I hear
a new color. The small cheese cubes are added last.
one of my uncles yell in awkward English, “Next
They are easy to see, since they remain white.
time you cook to my house!”
I set a dish of sahg on the table.
Finally there is complete silence. I
At first glance, it looks like the most
The smell
look back at the dining table where most
disgusting food ever – spinach and
of the food is still set out. The large
mustard leaves boiled for hours
of spices and
bowl in the center is completely empty,
until it looks like a dark green paste.
Despite this, it’s delicious and especurry fills the air as if it has been licked clean.
Two years later, I wake to the smell of
cially made for winter. The spices
curry. I walk outside to see my eldest
and chili drown the bitter spinach
aunt squatting by a fire. She rises to greet me with a
taste.
tight hug and kiss. I see a bright yellow color cookFinally, my mom walks into the dining room with
ing in the pot over the fire. My uncle is milking the
the most special dish of all, aloo gobi. She sets it
buffalo, and my cousin is buying vegetables from a
right in the middle, as if it is royalty compared to all
man pulling a cart.
the others. I look into the large bowl and
I am where it all originated: Punjab, India. It is
see cauliflower crowns blooming with
where my other half was born. No one speaks
steaming potatoes, spices perfectly scatEnglish here; no one dresses like me or even looks
tered over the vegetables, making them
like me. I get weird stares whenever I walk to the
glow bright yellow, catching my eye and
market. Despite that, for the first time I feel like I
luring me in.
belong.
Everyone serves themselves. I choose
It seems as if my mother’s adaptation to the Inthe aloo gobi first. We sit around the
dian culture helped me grow closer to my Indian
table in the illuminated dining room. My
roots. If it weren’t for her, I would have been indifdad is laughing with his family and
ferent to being half Indian. Now I cherish my multifriends, enjoying this time. My mother
culturalism more than I ever have. I think about this
and I remain quiet and eat in peace.
as I sit at the table with a cup of warm buffalo milk
Then all of a sudden, I hear something
and a bowl of aloo gobi, savoring this food for the
that is music to my ears. “This is the
first time in the place where it all began. ✦
best I have ever tasted!” I look up and
Nelson Mandela
Reggae ears hidden in ragged hair remembered
the words of rancid hate. It is the greatest blessing
water failed to carry him through the bars, even
when fluidity no longer was a superfluity. Rusting
razors and molten rubber promised revenge, and sun-soaked
hands concurred, but the metal bars were hollow,
and so were
the words.
But he was never hollow: his core made of
geometric intent and unwavering corners, and
I believe that incarnations serve to heal.
Ninety-five times he circled
the sun; twenty-seven of them spent staring at
the sky tessellated in blue squares broken up
by metallic aftertastes, but seventy-six spent
knowing them as friends, until finally they conflated together
in an indelible dalliance never before seen
upon triangular ground.
Art by Rosie Brewer,
Wiltshire, England
Ninety-five suns were illuminated by the
wisdom that shone from within him, but
none will forget the unfading light.
by Adina Ripin, Old Saybrook, CT
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
J
enny Hubbard, a former English
teacher, is now a professional
author, poet, and playwright. Her
first novel, Paper Covers Rock, was
released in 2011. In her new novel,
And We Stay, which came out recently, Hubbard artfully weaves
poetry throughout this story of a
girl rocked by trauma after her
boyfriend commits suicide.
In And We Stay, Emily uses poetry
to express her feelings. Why did
you decide to make poetry such a
big part of the novel?
I wanted to draw the connection between Emily Beam and Emily Dickinson, who relied on poetry to help her
find a sense of self in a place and time
that didn’t support what was true for
her. For both Emilys, poetry is not only
a refuge but also a way of speaking, a
voice, a (sometimes secret) language.
Why did you choose to write And
We Stay in the present tense?
I wanted to underscore the fact that
the aftermath of tragedy is always
present in the lives of those who are
forced, by no choice of their own, to
endure it.
Common advice in the writing
world is “write what you know.”
Where do you draw inspiration for
your stories?
From all kinds of places and people – newspaper articles; my niece
Elizabeth (who is 16, smart, and kind);
an antique dealer in my hometown
who, like a pop star, legally changed
his name to a single syllable (Clyde);
and from images that have stayed with
me, for whatever reason.
live up to the expectations that Paper
Covers Rock set.
interview
Author Jenny Hubbard
Interviewed by Rachel
Czerwinski, Burlington, MA
asked us what we wanted
to be when we grew up. I
remember vividly. She
asked us to draw a picture
that represented our future
self. I drew a girl with an
artist palette in one hand
and a book in the other because I wanted to illustrate
my books.
How much did And We Stay
change from your first draft to the
version readers will see? Did any
major plot points or characters
change?
You would not believe how different
those two drafts are. I doubt you
would even recognize them as the
same book, because in draft number
How did you react when
one, the narration
you first
was in second person
learned
from Carey Wagyou were
oner’s (Paul’s sis“You can’t call
going to be
ter’s) point of view,
published?
yourself a writer
and Emily Beam was
I jumped
a minor character.
around the
if craft is not part
Early drafts were
living room
of your process”
set post-Columbine. I
at my sister’s
made a conscious debeach house
cision to set the final
that cloudy
draft pre-Columbine, before school
day in March. It was pershootings became a national tragedy
fect. I just happened to be
and (dare I say it?) not front-page
with my family when my
news, because I wanted to imbue the
agent called with the
book with a sense of hope.
news.
The early drafts were so dark and
cold and bleak, and eventually I saw
Do you ever experience writer’s
that this wasn’t the tone I wanted to
block? If so, how do you deal with
set. I wanted readers, especially young it: do you take a break or just try
ones, to believe that there was a way
to write through it?
out, and that the way out was through.
I also write plays, so when I get
I wanted them to see they can depend
stuck on a novel, I jump to a play, and
on the kindness of strangers to help
vice versa. I usually write simultaneget them through. In Emily Beam’s
ously in these two different genres –
case, a best-case scenario, the
actually, in three, now that I think
strangers then become friends.
about it, because I’m in a poetrywriting group that meets weekly. I
What would you say to those who
started out as a poet, which led me to
claim poetry is a dead art?
the other genres. It depends on the
Have you been inside a school
lately? There are poets in every classroom. Just ask the students. Just ask
the teachers.
story I want to tell – sometimes it
takes me a while to figure out which
genre would best serve a story.
What advice do you have for
young writers who hope to be
published someday?
Read. Read a lot. This will give you
perspective on your own work. And
then revise, revise, revise. Even if you
think your first draft is brilliant, you
can’t call yourself a writer if craft is
not part of your process. Work as a
sculptor might, chipping away at the
block of marble until the shape reveals
itself, then smooth it out. ✦
How do you go about creating realistic, relatable characters?
I listen to how people talk – what
Emily Dickinson features promithey say and how they say it and where nently in And We Stay. Which of
the silences fall. I observe
her poems is your
everyday life around me
favorite?
and pay attention to the
These days, my favorite
“There are
details. And I read books
is “A Light Exists in
that contain realistic, reSpring.” It’s the poem
poets in every
latable characters.
from which the title of the
classroom”
Do you think your writing style has been influenced by other authors?
Without a doubt. Alice Munro,
Laurie Colwin, Eudora Welty, J.D.
Salinger, Judy Blume, Ludwig Bemelmans, and William Steig – their sense
and sensibility have seeped into my
bones to stay.
Which was harder to write, your
first novel or your second?
Definitely my second! I had a
harder time finding Emily Beam’s
voice, perhaps because she had lost it
so completely. Or perhaps because I
put too much pressure on myself to
LINK
YOUR
book comes. Before I
began working on And We
Stay, I respected Dickinson’s work from a distance. But now it
is inside of me. Sometimes when I’m
out walking the dog, or going up or
down stairs, I recite her poems softly
to myself. It’s strange: when I finished
this book, I went through a sort of
post-partum depression, I think because I missed being with both Emilys
so much. I didn’t feel like that when I
completed Paper Covers Rock.
Have you always known you
wanted to be an author?
Yes, ever since I was in kindergarten, and my teacher, Mrs. Nell,
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
23
points of view
Double Standards
C
I try to tell my female friends that being seen as
and the female doesn’t just stand (or fall to the
anything less than an equal can’t be good for a relafloor) and scream, but takes action and redeems the
tionship, but my warnings fall on deaf ears. I have a
situation without getting hurt for daring to show a
question for these girls: when you act like a different
bit of gumption. Because, let’s be honest, don’t we
person when you’re around the boy you like, do you
all find it irritating and start screaming at the TV for
realize that he isn’t falling in love with you but with
her to just do something?
a character you’ve created? Girls, do you really
In real life, this mindset is seen as well. Imagine
want to be with a boy who thinks you’re not good
this: a man is minding his own business when anfor anything other than being pretty and vapid?
other man threatens him and proceeds to hit him.
Stand up for yourselves!
The first man defends himself, fights back, and
I can’t make them listen. They say boys like girls
wins. Fast forward to people congratulating him, inthey can protect, and who aren’t too independent.
dulging him with compliments and hero worship,
Please never change who you are for a boy, or bewhile belittling the other man.
cause of the roles you see modeled on TV. If you’re
Now replace the men with two women and the
bold and capable, that’s cool, and if
outcome would likely be significantly
you’re naturally quiet and reserved,
different. Instead of being congratulated and called a legend, the woman
Women can be that’s cool too.
The media’s role in solving the probwho defended herself would probably
both feminine lem is simple. They should create room
be subject to slurs like “tramp” and
for more strong, proactive, flawed fe“beast” for fighting, as would the
and strong
male leads – especially in material
woman who started the fight. People
aimed at teenagers. Think about it this
would say that they had no respect for
way: by incorporating strong heroines, you’re helpthemselves and that they shouldn’t
ing make it acceptable for your daughters and sisters
have behaved that way, that it wasn’t
to walk to their own beat.
ladylike. While I don’t promote violent
TV shows and movies for teenagers should
solutions to social problems, this story
(among many other things) include at least two
reveals the double standard that exists
strong women, whether it’s aimed at girls or boys.
between men and women.
Doing this will promote equality and inclusion, and
Sometimes I see girls who are
help teenagers realize there’s no shame in female
outspoken, opinionated, and unapoloassertiveness. Wouldn’t you just love to be the cregetic when in female company
ator of that fearless new material that makes mincesuddenly morph into snickering, simmeat of gender roles? At the very least, it would be
pering sycophantic parodies of their
original.
former selves when in the presence of
Oh, and by the way, if anyone ever calls me any
a boy. “Give me a bite of your burger!”
of those five adjectives I mentioned at the beginning
turns into “I’m not hungry, thanks.”
of this essay, I’ll have to restrain myself from shakRaucous laughter becomes quiet giging them vigorously. I’m not cute, quiet, unassumgling through smirking lips, and wittiing, innocent, or naive, and I’m proud of that. ✦
cisms are dumbed down so guys feel
superior.
Art by Jacob Wong, Victoria, BC, Canada
ute. Quiet. Unassuming. Innocent. Naive.
We often associate these words with the
female gender, particularly girls or young
women. Many people still believe that girls should
be reserved, sensible, and beautiful. They’re supposed to be the sidekick or the love interest but not
the protagonist, and if they are (shock, horror) the
heroes of the story, they don’t get to do anything
particularly heroic, at least not without being subjected to ridicule. Girls can be smart, brave, selfless,
and funny, but not as smart, brave, selfless, or funny
as boys.
We hear these messages both in real life and in the
media. How many popular TV shows or movies can
you name with a strong female character who isn’t
a) evil, b) a fierce, protective mother, c) comic relief,
d) heralded as strong but constantly having to be
rescued by males, or e) portrayed as a tomboy?
I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any. I
wish girls were told more often that women can be
both feminine and strong. For once, I’d like to see a
scene where the men are getting their butts kicked
Keep It Casual
L
ast semester, a boy asked me to
get frozen yogurt with him. All
confidence and overly gelled hair,
he strode up to my group of friends and
said, “Go on a date. With me. To Zoyo.”
I said no. Not just because his swagger and attitude were annoying. Not just
because he told me to go with him instead of asking. Not just because I hate
FroYo. But mainly, I honestly hate
dates.
People assume that because I’m a
preppy blonde, Elle Woods is my role
model, I have the IQ and attention span
of a goldfish, and, worst of all, FroYo is
like crack to me. None of these are true.
Also, boys assume that because I’m a
girl I love dates. They couldn’t be more
wrong.
A traditional date is basically my
worst nightmare: three hours staring at
someone who is little more than a
stranger, making small talk about stuff I
really could not care less about. Yes,
Arizona is really hot. During these three
hours, I’m hyper-conscious of every-
24
by Emma Montgomery, Belfast, Ireland
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
by Lauren Coles, Phoenix, AZ
paper cup of overpriced frozen “dairy”
thing happening around me, to me, and
product.
with me. I am suddenly paranoid about
The best connections I’ve made in
the weirdest stuff (I should sit up
college happened at 2 a.m. over delistraighter!) and basic tasks suddenly becious almost-food from Taco Bell.
come complicated. Walking like a norWhen all the conventions of a date are
mal human being is not so natural any
gone, you’re left with the person.
more, and I’m pretty sure my face is
Everything about him is laid out for you
twitching as I try to look interested and
to see. Is he anxiety-prone? Is he funny?
sexy at the same time. It’s downright
Is he as good a procrastinator as you?
exhausting.
No matter what you find,
In high school, this awkyou know it’s real.
ward ritual makes sense. To
This, for me, is romance.
teenagers, the discomfort of
I honestly
Once you eliminate the fora formal date is no more
hate dates
mality, the dressy clothes,
awkward than normal daily
and the overpowering Axe
life. However, in college,
body spray, you find someeverything changes. Dating
thing honest. Something thoughtful.
becomes much more casual.
When a boy brought me take-out from
Casual dating, to me, is much more
Pita Jungle after I had a bad day, I was
effective. It’s cheaper, more time-effitouched. It meant that he had listened to
cient, and generally fits my lifestyle betme, both about my obsession with their
ter. I believe you can make a deeper
hummus and about how bad my day had
connection with someone while combeen. He cared enough to go out of his
miserating about the tests you have
way to do something personal and helpcoming up than you can by forcing
ful for me. I also got to eat take-out in
small talk and good posture over a
COMMENT
my pajamas, which is pretty much the
best thing ever. When that same boy
made me waffles because he knows how
much I love them, I fell in love then and
there.
While it seems that for me love is
largely food-oriented (and, honestly, it
probably is), these thoughtful gestures
were spontaneous, romantic, and casual.
I would much rather have a guy jokingly hold a stereo outside my window à
la John Cusack than give me a box of
chocolates to tell me how “sweet” I am.
(Yes, I know guys who think that’s
clever.)
Showing originality by foregoing traditional ideas of dating and romance
opens the world up to more possibilities.
It turns a date into time well spent really
getting to know someone. Cheesy, I
know, but true.
So, next time you ask someone out,
be original. Think about how you can
really get to know them. And remember,
not all blondes love FroYo. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Samantha Ciotti,
Wellington, FL
I
self-esteem, which Swift acknowledges in “Breathe”
boy – one who may have a tattoo or an earring and
(“I can’t breathe without you”). In “Haunted,” she
wears a leather jacket with lots of nonconformist
sings, “I can’t breathe whenever you’re gone,” and
views – but a boyfriend who is abusing you physiin “I Heart Question Mark” the lyrics are “You took
cally or emotionally is not someone to seek.
everything I had away.” How can we expect Patty
And yet we find this particularly troubling lyric in
not to feel worthless without her boyfriend when
Taylor Swift’s song “Tell Me Why”: “I need you
one of her favorite artists endorses these beliefs?
like a heartbeat/But you know you’ve got a mean
It seems that girls around the world still hope that
streak/That makes me run for cover when you’re
their Prince Charming will one day “rescue” them
around.” Is Swift, America’s sweetheart, condoning
and make them feel worthy of love, thanks in part to
relationship abuse to her young fans?
artists like Swift. In “Today Was a
Blaming the other woman is another
Fairytale” she calls herself a “damsel
unfortunate relationship norm in our
I have never
in distress.” Whether she is waiting
society. When my friend Patty found
around for her love interest, being
out that her boyfriend had been spendunderstood
“saved,” heartbroken, or cheated on
ing time with another girl, instead of
why girls like
by him, Swift sings from the point of
being furious with him, she started verview of someone who is weaker. For
bally attacking the other girl. I found
bad boys
example, from “Love Story”: “Romeo
this mind-boggling. Patty’s boyfriend
save me/I’ve been feeling so alone/I
was supposedly committed to Patty;
keep waiting for you but you never come.” And from
this other girl had no obligation to Patty, so why was
“Forever and Always”: “And I stare at the phone/He
Patty angry with her? Maybe Patty behaved this way
still hasn’t called/And you feel so low/You can’t feel
because she was so shocked and hurt. Maybe she
nothing at all.”
was too afraid to blame her boyfriend because she
I am singling out Taylor Swift because she is
was still in love with him. But then, I remembered
someone whose music I am immersed in on a daily
the Taylor Swift song “Better than Revenge”: “She
basis, but there are countless other examples in the
came along, got him alone and let’s hear the apmedia that encourage codependency. Let’s look at
plause/She took him faster than you could say ‘sabone of the bestselling books ever. The Twilight series
otage’/She underestimated just who she was stealing
depicts a teenage girl named Bella, who is described
from … She should keep in mind/There is nothing I
as average-looking, awkward, and bumbling. Bella
do better than revenge.”
Photo by Jessica Nolte, Forest, VA
falls irrevocably in love with the vampire Edward,
I am baffled by women who believe that men can
who
is
said
to
be
beautiful,
graceful,
and
sexy.
be
“stolen.” A man who cheats is making the deciTake Taylor Swift, for example. I think she is a
If you ask a “Twihard” (Twilight fan) what they
sion himself. Women already hate each other too
fantastic artist, but I have noticed that her lyrics glothink of Edward and Bella’s relationship, they will
much; I wish people would stop supporting songs
rify men and the importance of having a boyfriend
likely use words including “amazing,” “perfect,”
and novels that put men on a pedestal and throw
to feel complete. The title of her song “I’m Only Me
and “magical.” In reality, their relationship is abuwomen under the bus.
When I’m With You” is alarming when you think
sive, according to the National Domestic Violence
I do not dislike Taylor Swift or Stephenie Meyer. I
about the millions of impressionable young girls lisHotline. This organization offers 15 questions to dejust believe that women base too much of their selftening to her music. Swift has not appointed herself
termine if you are in an abusive relationship. If you
worth on how men view them. I hope one day all
as a role model, but she is one, and I don’t think she
answer
even
one
of
them
yes,
you
may
be
in
an
abuwomen will realize that they are unique and that
should release songs that stress codependency to a
sive relationship. Bella would answer yes to all 15.
they don’t need a man’s approval to make them feel
fan base mostly made up of young girls.
Here are a few:
good. I encourage women to spend time searching
Another song I don’t think she should have
Has your partner …
for themselves before searching for a mate. In the
released is “Your Anything”:
•
looked
at
you
or
acted
in
ways
that
scare
you?
long run, they will be much happier and more confiI’ll be your angel giving up her wings/If that’s
Since
Edward
feeds
on
blood,
he
is
always
strugdent in their relationships if they do. ✦
what you need/I’d give everything to be your anygling
against
his
urge
to
kill
Bella.
thing/It’s not like I’m giving up who I am for
• threatened to commit suicide?
you/But for someone like you it’s just
Edward tells Bella that he would
so easy to do.
kill himself if he ever had to live
I can tie these lyrics to Patty’s situaA relationship without her. When he believes Bella is
tion with her ex-boyfriend. When they
he almost succeeds in becoming
should add to dead,
were dating, Patty’s dad was unhappy
un-undead until Bella stops him.
with her relationship. He said that she
your life, not
• threatened to kill you?
used to be very well-rounded, with an
Edward threatens to kill Bella on
be your life
array of hobbies and friends. Patty
their first date.
dropped all of these to spend as much
• pushed, slapped, bitten, kicked, or
time as possible with her boyfriend. To
choked you?
me, a relationship should add to your life, not be
When they “get physical,” he bruises her badly.
your life.
• abandoned you in a dangerous or unfamiliar
Taylor Swift’s songs imply that a boyfriend
place?
equals happiness, and that when you are in a relaEdward breaks up with Bella in a forest. Distionship you will feel more complete than when you
traught and lost, she must be rescued by the police.
are alone. Obviously, Swift has the right to sing
• forced you to leave your home?
about whatever she wants, but I think girls should
To escape the dangerous vampires, she drops
know that a great relationship is not comprised of
everything to flee with him to Italy.
two people “making each other complete,” but of
Twilight’s fan base includes millions of people,
two complete people forming a bond of love and
and the franchise has pulled in billions of dollars. I
respect for each other.
have never understood why girls like bad-boy types,
When your well-being is dependent on your
but the proof is in the pudding. It’s one thing to be
boyfriend, it’s a precarious situation for your
smitten with the quintessential archetype of a “bad”
have a friend – let’s call her Patty – who spent
the whole summer with her boyfriend. She loved
him so much – maybe too much. Whenever he’d
travel to the city for a few days, she’d cry. Later he
broke up with her for being too needy. Crying because of three to four days apart? I couldn’t come
out and tell her, but I had to agree with him. Their
relationship seemed more like codependency than a
healthy romance.
But how can we blame Patty for acting this way
when we are constantly exposed to the overexaggeration of the importance of being in a romantic relationship? Codependency is everywhere – in movies,
on television, in your friend groups, and in music.
points of view
I’m Only Me When I’m With You
Photo by Jessica Nolan, Kalispell, MT
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YOUR
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
25
community service
Musical Missionaries
I
t all started on a bus, headed on a
band trip. My friend Philip and I
were talking about how we could
make a difference in the world. We
threw around ideas, but most seemed
overdone, impersonal, or too hard to
do. Thankfully, we thought of a concept that would end up changing our
lives. We decided to combine our passions for music and community service, and that day, the idea for LETEM
Play was born.
Musical experiences had changed
both our lives – from the camaraderie
of the band program to the lessons on
dedication and teamwork – and we
Photo by Francis Hendricks,
Dexter City, OH
by Katy Dolan, Liberty Lake, WA
recognition, and while acclaim is cerThrough Education in Music) Play’s
felt that music should be part of every
tainly nice, the fact that we are makgoal is to make it easier for kids to be
child’s life. From a personal perspecing a difference in the lives of others
involved in music, regardless of finantive, band has truly made me the peris most important to us. In addicial ability. We receive donated
son I am.
tion, we are invested in youth
instruments from the pubI remember vividly the day of the
empowerment, and are
lic, have them repaired
Sandy Hook shooting. After hearing
committed to keeping our
for free through a partabout the tragedy, we ran to our band
organization 100 pernership with a music
class to play “An American Elegy,” a
Commu
nity
cent youth led: yes, we
store, and distribute
very special song that is one of our
Service
have done all the
them to kids who
band’s favorite pieces. It was comCo
Award W ntest
work, including gaining
have applied for help.
posed by Frank Ticheli, in memory of
inner
501(c)3 status, without
Our application is
the victims of the Columbine High
any adult help!
simple, requiring only a
School shootings. Even though we
It is important to us
confirmation of free/rehad played it many times, that day it
that young people feel that
duced lunch status and parsounded completely different; we unthey have the power to make a difticipation in some sort of music
derstood the feelings behind the
ference. We hope that our efforts will
program. We also fremelody. When we finmake adults realize that our generaquently provide instruished, dead silence rang
tion has amazing ideas and is capable
through the band room.
We founded ments to low-income
of extraordinary things.
school programs. Since
Almost everyone was
a nonprofit
In the next year, we plan to estabwe began, 100 percent of
crying. These are the exlish a Youth Board of Directors to inperiences that a musical
organization applicants have received
crease input from other passionate
an instrument, and we
education gives students.
teen musicians. After Philip and I
have distributed $12,000
More tangibly, statisleave for college, we will each take a
worth of musical equipment. Our ortics show that music students have
branch of LETEM Play to our respecganization has also evolved to include
higher grades and test scores (almost
tive communities, and the Board will
an outreach aspect, and we now teach
100 points higher on the SAT) and recontinue outreach efforts locally. We
clinics and make speeches in our
port the lowest lifetime use of drugs
do not want our movement to die and
community. Last summer, we also piand alcohol compared to those inare committed to bringing music to
oneered a weekly music program at a
volved in other secondary school
kids for the rest of our lives.
youth center to make music fun for
activities.
If you would like to support our
young kids who had never played an
The only problem is that music edmission, please visit www.letem.org.
instrument.
ucation can be extremely expensive,
If nothing else, educate yourself about
LETEM Play has become a diverse
especially when instruments need to
the importance of music education,
organization that includes many asbe purchased. This is what we aimed
and serve as an advocate for music in
pects, but we always stick to our cento solve when we founded LETEM
your community. We must not forget
tral mission – bringing music to the
Play, our 501(c)3 nonprofit organizahow much the arts can do for kids. ✦
community.
tion, in February 2012.
Our work has gained a lot of
LETEM (Life Enhancement
Happy Maggie
by Jenna Avery, East Haven, CT
D
assigned to Maggie, a girl with a severe brain injury. At
uring my childhood I experienced greater hardfirst I didn’t know what to expect. She had almost no
ships than most people go through in a lifetime.
verbal ability and very limited physical mobility, but she
In my short 17 years of life, I have been through
was in no way shy.
five divorces of my parents. Having a new stepmother or
As I began to work with her, I looked through her file
stepfather every few years was rough, but the constant
to get more information. It was heartbreaking. She had
moving was worse. My father’s cancer diagnosis tore
been physically abused as a newborn and throughout her
me apart, and his two heart attacks and battle with diainfancy. Her birth parents abused her so badly that they
betes put a huge strain on the family. By age 13, I was
caused a serious brain injury by the age of two. Her
depressed and emotionally scarred. I felt like I had no
skull had been broken, and the damage was irreversible.
one to turn to and that nothing would ever get better.
She had gone from foster home to foster
Then I met Maggie, and my perspective on
home and never had a sense of stability. But
life changed.
the amazing thing about Maggie was her unFor many summers, I volunteered at a
She gave
sinkable attitude.
horseback riding camp for people with speWhen I met Maggie, she was 12, and the
me strength
cial needs. We taught children and adults
only thing she would say was, “I’m happy!”
specialized skills based on their disabilities.
That was the extent of her vocabulary. EveryFor example, we would teach a child with
one at the camp referred to her as Happy Maggie.
autism communication skills, or a child with cerebral
Everyone loved her. She was never in a bad mood and
palsy strength-building exercises. Each volunteer was
was always up for trying anything. She was the happiest
assigned a specific child during the eight-week session
girl I have ever met. The answer to any question I asked
in order to build a trusting relationship with them. Seeher was “I’m happy!” What did you eat for breakfast?
ing the improvement in the kids day after day and the
How was your day? What’s your favorite color? How
smiles on their faces whenever they saw me was heartold are you? “I’m happy!” she replied each time. She
warming.
loved life. She loved everyone and everything she came
A few weeks into one summer session, I was asked to
in contact with. I remember wondering if it was all an
cover for another volunteer who was out sick. That was
act – if on the inside she was broken, or if her brain was
the day my outlook on life changed forever. I was
so far gone that the only emotion she could express or
26
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
Photo by Samantha Estes, Ekron, KY
feel was happiness. I could only hope. In a twisted way,
her brain injuries helped her get through the trauma of
her childhood.
My life growing up was a huge struggle, but Maggie
taught me to not let anything get in the way of happiness. Nothing bad in life should be enough to change
who I am, or who I could be. She gave me strength. If I
learned anything from Maggie, it would be, no matter
what, be happy. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Sam Routhier
by Natasha Hutchinson, Oviedo, FL
T
Since I was new, he asked how I
eachers are some of the most
felt about his class and the workload.
influential individuals we can
I told him the truth: I was worried
have in our early lives. Notice I
about catching up and I felt history
said can. Teachers have the potential
was absolutely boring. He told me he
to be inspiring and influential, but
would help me catch up, but what I
whether they chose to take that opporremember the most was he said he
tunity or not determines if they will
would be sure to make history interchange our lives. I’ve personally lost
esting to me. Having no faith in the
count of the uninspiring teachers I’ve
likeability of the subject, I did not beseen who seemed like they couldn’t
lieve him, but boy, was I wrong.
care less if their students were enEvery day his class was
gaged, learning, or growlike a breath of fresh air;
ing. I’ve had teachers
His desire to he was jumping and jubiwho’ve made students
lant – it absolutely amazed
grade their own papers
teach and
me. He came in each day
and never taught one
ready to teach and help his
inspire was
new lesson the whole
students grow, constantly
year. This kind of teachuplifting
thinking of new ways to
ing exudes negligence
help us connect. He spent
and is so lackluster that I
hours taking popular songs like “Party
began to view all teachers as unimin the USA” and rewriting the lyrics
portant and careless.
to relate to whatever topic we were
However, sophomore year I translearning that week. This kept everyferred to KIPP NYC College Prep and
one engaged, with lyrics on the board
met my AP World History teacher,
for us to sing along. He showed that
Sam Routhier, who completely
there’s not just one way to teach.
changed my mind about how hard
While we had lectures, discussions,
teachers work and how inspiring they
and essays to write, there were many
can be. From the first day he was so
visual and audio aids that appealed to
enthusiastic and full of life. I could
all types of learners.
tell he loved his job and the subject he
I am not a history fan, but after taktaught.
ing his class, I will say I like it more
now. It wasn’t so much the subject matter that kept me engaged, but the teacher who was
able to capture the entire class’s
attention.
Helping students learn and
grow is his ultimate priority. Mr.
Routhier would even have trouble sleeping just thinking and
planning the next lesson. He
would make trips to other
schools and attend workshops to
help him grow as a teacher. He
was available to students whenever they needed help, including
taking phone calls with questions, making extra study packets, and staying after school for
study sessions. His drive to
Photo by Amber Faby, Wappingers Falls, NY
teach and inspire is uplifting to
all of his students and everyone
keep in contact with Mr. Routhier. He
who has had him has expressed simicontinues to give me advice about
lar sentiments.
college and classes I’m having trouble
Mr. Routhier is not just the AP
with. Mr. Routhier taught me to live
World History teacher – he is very inlife with an open mind and a readivolved in the school as a team adviness to work. Although school can
sory leader. He constantly comes up
sometimes be an unhappy place, I
with new ways to promote learning
now have a positive way of approachand engagement. He is always there
ing different subjects and people.
for students and is ready to listen and
Having Mr. Routhier as a teacher was
give advice or help with their classes.
a complete blessing. His faith in me
Unfortunately, I no longer attend
gave me the drive to succeed and the
KIPP NYC College Prep, but I still
belief that I could. ✦
English and Literature • Highland Home School
Rebecca Sims
I
YOUR
The 23rd Annual
by Jessica Sexton, Lapine, AL
signs that she often pays for. She also plans the trips for
f asked who they thought the spawns of Satan were,
the FTA and the English Honors Society clubs singlemany teachers would say teenagers, and many
handedly and never fails to please every student with the
teenagers would say teachers. Thankfully, I know
locations that she chooses. Recently, she also joined the
one teacher who is an exception: my high school Engafter-school program and helps students in the evenings.
lish and literature teacher, Rebecca Sims (or Sims, for
Despite her busy schedule, she still finds time to help
short).
each and every student, never turning anyone away.
When we first met her, we were all terrified since she
When a student needs help with a college question,
is an inactive Marine. She also has the reputation of
we
head straight for Ms. Sims’ room. She answers all
being the teacher who sends the most students to the ofour questions, and helps us with scholarships, learning
fice. I remember almost shaking the first time I walked
about admissions, and even setting up appointments
into her class, but it took only a week before her class
with college representatives. She will sit with each of us
became the highlight of my day.
to discuss what our best course of action is,
It is almost impossible to call Ms. Sims’
and then helps set the plan in motion. She
teaching style anything but passionate. Her
puts so much time and energy into her work
constant harassment is proof of that. She
It feels like
that it is impossible not to respect her. Stuwill search the web looking for essay, powe
are
a
part
dents follow her advice because she has
etry, or poster contests to pile on us, but she
helps us every step of the way with them.
of her family proven time and again that she knows what
she is talking about. Countless students have
She gives so much to her students that it
told me that they would not be heading for
makes us feel like we are a part of her famcollege if not for Ms. Sims.
ily. Plus, even though she laughs and plays as she
If any teacher deserves to be recognized for what they
teaches, I still can honestly say that she has taught me
do, it’s our Sims. Teachers should take note of her style
more about literature and English in one year than all of
of teaching – one that says that students are not a bunch
my other teachers combined. When I began her class, I
of hormonal teenagers but an energetic group in need of
didn’t have any achievements because of my poor Enga strong leader who uses understanding and respect to
lish skills, but by the time I left her class, I had earned a
hold their attention. She should be appreciated for how
full page of awards to add to my college résumé.
much she gives back to our school, stepping in for those
With all of the responsibilities that she piles onto her
teachers who cannot, or refuse to, do it. Lastly, and most
plate, it is amazing that she can keep up with them. Ms.
importantly, other teachers should realize how she
Sims is the school proctor of the Future Teachers of
doesn’t teach us just to get us out of school, but instead
America (FTA) and English Honors Society. In additeaches us to get us into another school – college. She is
tion – after much begging from her students – she also
preparing us not just for our next test, but for the rest of
agreed to be the senior sponsor. She keeps students’
our lives. ✦
spirits high by helping with pep rally attire, flags, and
LINK
educator contest
AP World History • KIPP NYC College Prep
TEENINK.COM
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Educator
Year
of the
Contest
Do you have an outstanding
teacher, coach, guidance
counselor, librarian,
or principal?
1) Tell us why your nominee is special. What has your educator done
for your class, you, another student,
or the community? Be specific.
2) Make the essay about 250 words.
3) Only junior and senior high
school educators are eligible.
4) Include your nominee’s first
and last name, position or subject
taught, and the school where he/she
teaches.
www.TeenInk.com/Submit
Winners will be announced in
the June 2014 issue.
Deadline: May 1, 2014
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
27
college reviews
New York
U N I V E R S I T Y
New York City: Last week I attended a tour of New York University. Also known
as NYU, the school was founded in 1831 and is a private university that offers
certificates, diplomas, and associate, bachelor, master, and doctoral degrees. The
school has a student-faculty ratio of 10 to 1. In 2013, Forbes ranked it the 56th
best American college, and U.S. News & World Report ranked it the 32nd best
university in the nation. According to Business Insider, New York University is
the most expensive college in the United States, with a total cost of $61,977 per
year. That said, the average first year financial aid package is $28,920.
The most popular bachelor’s degree is in Visual and Performing Arts, followed
by Social Sciences and Business/Marketing. The most popular associate degree is
in Liberal Arts. Many times during the tour, the guide stressed the fact that the
school is a liberal arts university and all students are required to take a certain
number of liberal arts classes.
Looking beyond the statistics of this school, I had the
The whole privilege to see its charm. Unlike most universities, NYU
not have a designated campus. The college buildings
city is their does
are located in one general area of the city, but there is no
one place where you can say that you are officially on
campus
campus. All the students take pride in this, asserting that, in
fact, the whole city is their campus.
Most of the students I met were well-rounded. In fact, many of them were double majors with minors. They talked about how NYU has allowed them to explore their interests and has shaped who they are today. Many students go to
NYU not knowing what they want to do in life, but the professors they talk to and
the opportunities they are given allow them to have a better idea of what they
want in a career. NYU encourages students to participate in internships, and the
university’s staff has the connections to give them a variety of internship opportunities.
My favorite part of the tour was when we went to the library. NYU has a
12-story library filled with books and videos. The building has nearly six million
microforms, 500,000 government documents, and thousands of archives. The
library is also a magnificent sight to behold, with beautiful modern architecture.
For more information, visit www.nyu.edu. ✦
by Vincent Gangemi, Staten Island, NY
Colby-Sawyer
C O L L E G E
New London, NH: The college search is a daunting task. Most of the
time you do not know where to start or what to look for. When I was
looking into colleges, I started my search with smaller schools that had
a good educational platform and a close-knit, safe community. Plus, I
wanted to stay in my home state of New Hampshire. I came from a very
small town, with only 70 students in my graduating class, so when I researched Colby-Sawyer College, I thought that I would fit in perfectly.
Colby-Sawyer College is a four-year private liberal arts college located in a small town in Central New Hampshire. If you know anything
about New Hampshire, you will know that it gets more rural the further
north you travel. The college is set in the heart of
the mountains, with an amazing view from anywhere on campus, and is only a few miles down
Set in the
the road from Lake Sunapee.
heart of the This school caught my attention on my very
mountains first visit. I’ll never forget the crisp chill in the air
on that day in November, along with the amazing
surroundings. Despite the cold day, everyone I encountered was extremely friendly. As I walked
around, I could easily imagine myself living and studying there next
year.
The atmosphere was another factor I considered when researching
which college would be the right fit for me. I’m used to everyone knowing everyone else at my high school, and all of the teachers having a relationship with the students. I did not want to give that up at college.
As soon as I arrived on Colby-Sawyer’s campus, I could feel and see
what an overwhelmingly joyful place this college truly was. As I walked
through Colgate Hall, the college’s main building that holds classrooms, offices, the financial aid office, and the administration office, I
noticed a sign welcoming me to the school. That was when I knew that
this school was not going to treat me as just a number. It gave me the
feeling that it was going to change me, and I hoped that I could change
it too.
Learn more at www.colby-sawyer.edu. ✦
by Kimberly Faust, Raymond, NH
Brigham Young
Photo by Morgan Taylor,
Grass Lake, MI
28
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
U N I V E R S I T Y ,
H A W A I I
College. Room and board is $9,010 per year, but it is possiLaie, HI: When you visit the campus, the first thing you
ble to reduce this expense by living off-campus and making
notice is the “Little Circle.” It is a grassy lawn, about 75
one’s own food. Off-campus housing can be easily found
yards in diameter, in front of the library, a foyer, the student
for $400 per month. Even international students can obtain
center, and offices. On the grass are the flags of dozens of
employment to offset their tuition. In addition to typical oncountries. These flags represent the mission of this college:
campus jobs – such as working at the cafeteria or in a janidiversity. Even though Brigham Young University–Hawaii
torial position – all students can work at the Polynesian
(BYU-H) is a small school, it is home to students from
Cultural Center. At the PCC, students are able to express a
nearly every corner of the world.
non-academic side as tour guides, merchants,
BYU-H, like any other college associated
dancers, and artists.
with the Mormon church, has strict standards
Home to
BYU-H utilizes a trimester system, allowing
concerning alcohol, dress, and relationships.
While this may be an immediate turn-off for
students from students to graduate in three years if they want.
Admission is somewhat competitive, with a
some prospective students, the honor code, as
every corner
recommended ACT score of at least 25 (equal
it is called, helps students stay on an alcoholto an 1150/1600 or 1710/2400 on the SAT).
free, modest, and abstinent path. However,
of the world
According to U.S. News and World Report,
this does not mean that the opportunities for
almost 30 percent of applicants are accepted
fun are limited. One of the most notable
into the college.
things about BYU-H is its proximity to the beach, which is
literally a ten-minute walk. Half a mile. Let that sink in.
BYU-H is definitely not for everyone. The political atmosphere is generally conservative. Since students are from
This campus is half a mile from our nation’s prettiest
around the world, accents abound. But, if you want to exbeaches, with hot white sand and mild waves.
pand your horizons while having good, clean fun, BYU-H
Beach aside, another alluring feature of BYU-H is its afmay be a great place to do it.
fordability. The tuition is $14,310 for non-Mormons and
Learn more at www.byuh.edu. ✦
about half that for Mormons. Since Mormons pay a “tithe,”
or a tenth of their income to the church, this in turn subsiby Chenoa Yorgason, Laie, HI
dizes education at the three BYUs and the LDS Business
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The Fault in
Our Stars
by John Green
W
hen I first
finished
reading The
Fault in Our
Stars, it was 3
a.m. and my
heart plummeted. What a lovely book.
This quote from the novel
sums up how I feel: “Sometimes, you read a book … and
you become convinced that the
shattered world will never be
put back together unless … all
living humans read the book.
And then there are books
like – insert book here – which
you can’t tell people about,
books so special and rare and
yours that advertising your affection feels like betrayal.”
The Fault in Our Stars tells
the story of cancer-stricken
16-year-old Hazel Grace Lancaster. Knowing she has a terminal disease, she doesn’t do
much except watch “America’s Top Model” and read The
Examines life,
love, and death
Imperial Affliction over and
over. Hearing “cancer,” you
might expect a story of bravery and heroism, where the illness is the antagonist and
somehow the protagonist overcomes the awful torture, but
The Fault in Our Stars is not
like this. It features cancer, but
not as the main topic.
Although death and cancer
and loss and sorrow are all
prominent in these pages, it is
also a downright cheesy,
sappy, awfully clichéd love
story that makes the hearts of
teenage girls flutter and the
eyes of experienced adults
roll. And I loved every single
page of it.
A character like Augustus
Waters is rare: he is a charismatic, inquisitive, and
thoughtful old soul who was a
victim of osteosarcoma, losing
a leg to the disease at a young
age.
Even though cancer is such
a morbid topic, Green manages to show a sensitively humorous side of it through his
characters: Augustus is constantly joking about his stub
and being one-legged, and
Hazel constantly complains
about her lungs sucking at
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YOUR
being lungs.
Green manages to examine
life, love, and death with an
honesty few could hope to
achieve. He shows how scary
cancer can be, but manages to
make life fascinating and wondrous, even if the pain of cancer resides in it.
The Fault in Our Stars is my
favorite book. I feel that those
who haven’t read it haven’t
seen the cruelty or beauty in
life. But at the same time, I
keep this book close to my
heart since it’s more special to
me than I possibly could have
imagined when I first opened
it. ✦
Ronnie starts to see her father
in a new light. Rather than hating him, she feels a sense of
regret. None of her previous
experiences in the city could
have prepared her for what
happens.
Following Ronnie through
her journey of love and selfexamination is a thrill for any
reader. Nicholas Sparks did an
incredible job making this riveting novel impossible to put
down. The Last Song is at the
very top of my recommendations list. ✦
by Samantha Altman,
Setauket, NY
SHORT STORIES
by Arshiya Ansari,
Ashburn, VA
conflict; an old woman’s life
as she is sidelined by her
greedy neighbors; and a
woman who is ostracized by
relatives because of her
seizures. All are poignant and
feel real. Lahiri’s characters
live in readers’ thoughts, not
just the pages of her stories.
I feel Lahiri’s stories are
sometimes left unresolved.
Although they don’t have a
glaringly obvious dramatic
structure, I found myself occasionally flipping pages after
the ending, thinking, Now
what happens? In many, I was
left with the feeling that the
character had changed, but I
had not seen conclusive proof
of it. ✦
NOVEL
Interpreter of
Maladies
by “Alice,”
Saratoga, CA
The Last Song
by Jhumpa Lahiri
NOVEL
by Nicholas Sparks
A
L
ust or love?
This is the
question that
Ronnie Miller
must ask herself about her
summer romance. The Last Song is filled
with relatable conflicts of love
and desire. Ronnie’s world is
flipped upside down when her
mother forces her and her
brother, Jonah, to spend the
summer in the Carolinas with
their estranged father.
Ronnie holds playing the
piano very close to her heart.
She has played at Carnegie
Impossible to
put down
Hall and received college
scholarships. But the memory
of playing the piano and writing music with her dad now
makes her cringe and think
back to when her whole family
lived happily together. Because of her hatred of her
father, Ronnie has thrown
away her dream of being a
pianist. She gets mixed up
with the wrong crowd at the
beach and finds herself in
some unfortunate situations.
When Will comes along, he
finds himself oddly infatuated
with Ronnie. She notices Will
watching her and always
bumping into her, and Ronnie
begins to connect the dots. She
seems disgusted by the idea of
dating Will, constantly turning
him down.
As secrets begin to spill out
along her summer journey,
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
lthough I
don’t typically read short
stories, I’m
glad I made an
exception for
Interpreter of
Maladies. Jhumpa Lahiri has a
quiet, understated voice, but
her stories surprised me as
they were dramatic and powerful. She begins each story with
a flat, almost detached statement, like: “At the tea stall
Mr. and Mrs. Das bickered
about who should take Tina to
the toilet.” Her stories end
similarly, leaving me wondering how she could drop such
important information so casually, like leaving glass on the
floor for readers to step on.
Lahiri’s stories center on
broken romantic relationships.
In one, a woman chooses to be
a married man’s mistress; in
Characters live in
readers’ thoughts
another, a man who rushed
into marriage does not understand his wife’s habits and is
often annoyed by her lack of
intellect and ambition. Most of
Lahiri’s writing conveys sadness, though without cynicism.
She manages a balance between the two wonderfully,
evoking feelings, but I don’t
feel the usual annoyance
when something is supposed
to be sad.
The last three stories are
different: a young Indian girl’s
American-born perspective
on the East Pakistan-India
FACEBOOK
Fitzwilliam
Darcy, An
Honourable
Man
You have a few clues, and
even as she returns to awareness, her memory has holes. I
love that even at her worst moments, she responds to Darcy.
The faith she has in him is
lovely.
The minor characters are
brilliant. Col. Fitzwilliam is
concerned that his cousin is
ruining his life, yet is unceasing in his support. Georgiana
is impulsive and loving. In addition to the traditional characters, you meet new and lovely
additions, such as Evan Ingram, Georgiana’s charming
husband, and – my personal
favorite – Evelyn Fitzwilliam,
his mother.
This book is easily one of
the top ten Austenesque novels
I have read. As I write this review, I’m itching to start reading it a third time. ✦
by Natalie Richards,
Aurora, OR
NOVEL
Far Far Away
by Brenda J. Webb
by Tom McNeal
I
S
read this
book twice
before reviewing it. The first
time, I was
caught up in
the story. Then
I read it again, more carefully
and enjoyed it just as much, if
not more.
One of the top 10
Austenesque novels
This novel is a seemingly
effortless blend of the perfect
love story of Pride and Prejudice with the darker, Victorian
Jane Eyre. I’ve always loved
the darker variations, where
our favorite lovers have everything stacked against them.
Darcy returns from a miserable voyage only to find that
the woman he has been trying
to forget has been grievously
wounded and can no longer
speak, and yet, he does not
hesitate to offer his aid. This
book shows everything I love
most about Darcy: his constancy, his honorable nature,
and his total willingness to
sacrifice everything for those
he loves.
Elizabeth is a mystery for
most of the book. Since she is
unable to communicate, you
wonder what happened to her.
book reviews
NOVEL
uspense and
mystery –
two intriguing
and thoughtprovoking elements in Far
Far Away – are
revealed by the sober cover art
as soon as the reader picks up
the book. These feelings continue once you start reading.
A small, corrupt town where
news travels fast, hearts are
broken, and children go missing is the setting of Far Far
Away. The story revolves
around Jeremy, a shy boy who
Suspense and
mystery
is shunned by most of his
town. He must overcome
many obstacles, such as almost losing his home, taking
care of his father, and surviving being kidnapped. He is
helped along the way by his
friend Ginger and a ghost
seeking to undo a deed and to
protect Jeremy.
I would highly recommend
this book to lovers of mysteries and adventures. Once
you start it, it is hard to put
down. ✦
by Michelle Barbero,
Thornwood, NY
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
29
movie & tv reviews
30
DOCUMENTARY
Inside Job
A
perfect crime leaves no
trace. It requires ingenuity
and great planning. Few reap
all the benefits from their misdeeds without repercussions.
“Inside Job” is a movie about a
scandal of mind-boggling proportions. It describes the corrupt mentality of Wall Street,
and the blatant robbery of trillions of dollars by the bigwigs
who escaped prosecution in the
face of overwhelming evidence.
A scandal of
mind-boggling
proportions
Instead of going to jail, the
perpetrators walked away with
billions.
Director Charles Ferguson
exposes the corruption of the
financial industry and how it
deceived the ordinary American
investor by simplifying complex issues and using brilliant
sensory techniques to add emotional impact.
This film begins with a
panoramic view of Iceland,
where the deregulation of the
financial system led a picturesque country into poverty. By
using Iceland as the backdrop,
Ferguson presents a visual contrast to the movie’s theme and
magnifies the impact of the crisis. It’s amazing how in a small
country like Iceland, a handful
of people could create such a
catastrophe. He draws a parallel between Iceland and the
U.S. to show how a financial
disaster caused by a few can
destroy a country’s economy.
The fragile and beautiful natural world contrasts sharply
with the concrete skyscrapers
and the ugly greed of the
wealthy. This creative introduction displays how financial disaster can impact society.
Ferguson conducts interviews that show the guilt of the
perpetrators and the enormity
of the 2008 financial crisis.
Through these financial insiders, politicians, and others, the
movie documents the rise of
the rogue industry. It highlights
how greedy bankers rigged the
financial system, turning every
loss into a massive gain at the
expense of their clients. They
did little to cover up their
crimes, safe in the power of
their wealth and influence.
Charles Morris, a former
banker, discusses how the profits affected his mind. He
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
thought he became rich because
he was smart. However, under
the probing questions of Ferguson, the misdeeds of these executives are exposed.
“Inside Job” provides the statistics, clearly illustrating how
bad things were. Matt Damon
narrates the facts in a flat, indifferent tone. He describes
how and why it happened, with
excellent fact-based analysis
and easily understood graphics.
Ferguson shows the excesses of
the rich, juxtaposing their opulence with the misery of their
victims.
The movie brilliantly depicts
the mega-corruption of Wall
Street. One powerful scene
shows footage of a tent city
where unemployed workers
live. These tent cities and the
many unemployed people are
the direct result of the antics of
these Wall Street monsters. ✦
by Abhinav Saikia,
Plainsboro, NJ
DRAMA
Anna Karenina
“A
nna Karenina,” based
on Leo Tolstoy’s novel,
depicts the tragedy of a married
woman in Russia’s aristocratic
society who has an affair.
Meanwhile, her brother has
been caught committing adultery, and his friend Levin pursues marriage to an innocent
young woman.
“Anna Karenina” is a
A delight
delight. Most of the film is set
as if on a theater’s stage, with
scenes marked by the closing
or opening of a curtain, maneuvering of a backdrop, or shifting of a ceiling or floor. These
whimsical effects bring beauty
and light to a setting that could
have been as dreary as a Russian winter. Throughout, Anna
(Keira Knightley), her husband
(Jude Law), and others are
under constant scrutiny, as if
their private lives are on stage
for all to see. When Levin
(Domhnall Gleeson), an honest
man who dislikes the city’s
politics, retreats to his country
home, the stage disappears.
Also of note is the distinct
Russian feeling of the soundtrack, with its 18th- and 19thcentury classical music. The
score, composed by Dario Marianelli, meshes well with the
many plot twists and turns.
However, even with the
artistic cinematography and
satisfactory casting, “Anna
Karenina” falls short in character development and fails to
reel in the audience. The
viewer receives few glimpses
of Anna in mentally exposed
situations with only dialogue
describing her actions. By the
end, she has done little to inspire either sympathy or pity.
Anna’s lack of appeal makes
for a disappointing film. I
found myself emotionally attached to the characters only
because I knew their depth and
emotions from reading the
novel.
Although I wouldn’t call it
revolutionary or on its way to
becoming a new favorite, Joe
Wright’s “Anna Karenina” is
still visually attractive and contains laudable performances
from Knightley and Law. It is
lacking in some areas, but the
flaws are made up for with
small details and beautiful special effects. Allow yourself to
be swept away in them while
keeping an open mind and you
are sure to enjoy yourself. ✦
by Courtney Dennis,
Mineral Springs, NC
This film is rated R.
COMEDY
Midnight in
Paris
W
oody Allen is an
astounding 23-time
Academy Award–nominated
director, screenwriter, and
actor. In my opinion, his best
work is “Midnight in Paris”
(next to “Annie Hall”). A romantic-comedy-fantasy set in
the magical City of Lights,
Paris, the film has a star-studded cast that includes Owen
Wilson, Rachel McAdams,
Kathy Bates, Adrien Brody,
Marion Cotillard, Alison Pill,
Tom Hiddleston, Michael
Sheen, and Carla Bruni.
Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) is
a Hollywood screenwriter and
aspiring novelist vacationing in
Paris with his fiancée, Inez
(Rachel McAdams). Unlike
Inez, Gil is enchanted by the
city – so much so that he proposes that they move there,
rather than to Malibu, as Inez
wants. He longs to fulfill his
dream to be a novelist like his
idols, Ernest Hemingway and
F. Scott Fitzgerald, but Inez
dissuades him from this dream.
Drunk one night, Gil wanders the streets alone. Everything seems ordinary – until the
clock strikes midnight. Paris
suddenly comes alive with all
the celebrities of Gil’s favorite
era, the 1920s, and he meets all
his idols. Soon, Gil realizes that
he is neither dreaming nor suffering the effects of alcohol; the
1920s are truly alive each
night. When one night he meets
Picasso’s mistress, Adriana
(Marion Cotillard), he is instantly drawn to her beauty and
her interest in his novel, which
Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates) is
critiquing for him. Gil falls
helplessly in love with Adriana,
who, like him, is nostalgic –
but for the Belle Epoque era.
Every scene in this film is
gorgeous, from the opening at
the pond – which resembles (as
Gil points out) a Monet painting – ’til the last. Each demonstrates beautiful
Clever, witty
and original
cinematography. The dialogue
is witty, especially Hemingway’s nonsensical talk of
courage and Salvador Dalí’s
whimsical conversation about
rhinos. The music is wonderful
too, especially Cole Porter’s
“Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in
Love),” which was stuck in my
head for weeks. Additionally,
the cast performed well. Alison
Pill as Zelda Fitzgerald and
Adrien Brody as Dalí were, for
me, scene-stealers.
I found “Midnight in Paris”
clever, witty, and original, although the night-time coming
to life did resemble “Night at
the Museum.” However, “Midnight in Paris” is a far better
film. It is absolutely one of my
favorites set in Paris.
The film received four Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture, Best
Director, Best Art Direction,
and Best Original Screenplay
(which it won). You will fall in
love with this film and the city
of Paris. C’est un film magnifique à regarder. ✦
by O. Mckay, Dale City, VA
TV
Whodunnit?
Y
ou are in your room when
suddenly you hear a huge
crash. You rush downstairs to
see a woman convulsing on the
floor in front of a broken fish
tank, surrounded by live wires.
You may think you’ve stumbled upon the set of a horror
movie, but in actuality, you’re
a contestant on ABC’s
“Whodunnit?”
From “CSI” creator Anthony
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Zuiker comes this pseudoreality competition show where
13 contestants live in the luxurious Rue Manor and attempt to
solve a murder each week. The
best sleuth will leave with a
$250,000 prize. Among the
contestants are a bar trivia host,
a flight attendant, an engineer,
an attorney, and, of course, the
murderer. The guests are
guided by the butler, Giles
(Gildart Jackson), who is also
the host. Alliances are made
and broken, creating fear and
distrust.
The show is part of a unique
new genre that Zuiker calls “reality fiction.” It pulled off the
idea of a murder mystery game
show well for a first season.
The series is very suspenseful
and the betrayals make for tension and drama. The contestants seem legitimately scared
of dying, probably because the
producers and makeup artists
carefully plan the murders to be
as disturbingly gruesome as
possible. In fact, many viewers
thought that the contestants
were actually being murdered.
No contestant gets more screen
time than the others, allowing
A high-intensity
murder mystery
viewers to make their own decision about who to root for
and who they hope dies a horrible death. “Whodunnit?” does a
great job keeping viewers intrigued until the next episode.
However, despite the fact
that the show is supposed to be
a high-intensity murder mystery, Giles throws in random
death-related puns that, although funny, make the murder
theme seem playful at inappropriate times. The fact that Rue
Manor is located in sunny Beverly Hills lessens the ominous
atmosphere as well.
Overall, “Whodunnit?”
stands out from other game
shows with its diversity of characters and the complexity of
murders (one involved a mountain lion and cyanide). The personality clashes between
contestants keep the audience
mesmerized week after week.
A companion book series by
Zuiker fictionalizing the events
on the show will certainly keep
viewers busy as they wait for
Season 2. ✦
by Benjamin Chen,
Brooklyn, NY
TEENINK.COM
Modern Vampires
of the City
Vampire Weekend
I
n their latest album, “Modern
Vampires of the City,” Vampire Weekend makes it apparent
that they have grown since their
debut in 2008. There is an aura
of confidence and maturity in
the album. “Modern Vampires”
transcends the college life of
Columbia University, where
Ezra Koenig, Rostam Batmanglij, Chris Tomson, and Chris
Baio met, and focuses on
elements of New York City
beyond the campus.
The album seems to be a
timeline of contemporary life in
the city. It opens cautiously
with “Obvious Bicycle,”
The confidence
and energy of
partying
by Neil Hancock,
McDonough, GA
CONCERT
wiping the sleep out of an
imaginary character’s eyes. Its
smooth beginning establishes
the urban setting of the latest
chapter in Koenig’s lyrical
world, foreshadowing the hustle and love that is to come.
These aren’t just empty omens.
The character “covers ground”
in perhaps the most exciting
track of the album, “Unbelievers.” Here, communication
with an unknown lover begins,
plans are made for the day and
eternity, and breezy beats and
vocals delineate the entire
conversation.
The tale then continues with
the two singles “Step” and
“Diane Young.” Our character
challenges those who have
“stepped to his girl” and makes
a getaway in the confusion of a
torched Saab.
Finding safety, Koenig’s
character is reunited with his
love interest. The pace of the
music slows for them to enjoy
each other’s company, and
“Hannah Hunt” furthers their
history together.
Emotional baggage is accounted for, and “Everlasting
Arms” wraps things up, sending them on separate paths. The
character’s new destination is
the excitement of the city. “Finger Back” and “Worship You”
supply the confidence and energy of partying, almost as if he
is flirting with another interest.
Before much more can happen, “Ya Hey” shuttles the
character away in a taxi just as
things get interesting. A buzz is
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YOUR
still felt, but there is emotional
weight and reflection between
the lines. He can see into his
love’s heart, but she is still unfathomable.
“Hudson” inflates the
viewpoint to a haunting, allknowing state. Our hero is enlightened and bothered by
issues beyond his own, and it is
too much. He is powerful but
needs to “take his time.”
Koenig said in an NPR interview that “Modern Vampires”
is the finale of a trilogy, with
“Vampire Weekend” and “Contra” being the first two installments. After listening to this
album, fans can tell that the
band has graduated to topics
beyond those that made them
famous. Vampire Weekend is
still young and will undoubtedly find more to experiment
with. ✦
Red Tour
Taylor Swift
T
aylor Swift knows how to
have fun. Her recent Red
Tour concert was more of a
party than an exhibition of musical excellence. Once fireworks, a flying platform,
twenty-odd “backup” dancers,
and over a dozen costume
Swift knows how
to have fun
changes were piled on top of
the playlist, it was hard to remember that the music was
supposedly the reason everyone
was there.
In contrast to Ed Sheeran,
her one-man opening act, Swift
was rarely alone onstage.
Sometimes the acting complemented the music perfectly. For
instance, during “The Lucky
One,” a song about a starlet
who is exposed by the media
and forgotten by her onceadoring public, a coterie of men
in 1960s-era suits crowd first
Swift and then a couple of
other young, bejeweled women,
snapping pictures incessantly.
By the middle of the song, so
much action surrounds the
other women that it was hard to
keep watching Swift – which
proved the song’s point about
how quickly the public shifts its
attention.
The dancers’ modern
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ACCOUNT TO
costumes and moves during
“22,” Swift’s song about letting
go and having fun, seemed like
an equally natural fit to that
lyrics. But other times during
the concert, the action made
less sense.
During what is arguably
Swift’s least musical recent release, “We Are Never Getting
Back Together,” a horde of
dancers in ludicrous red-andwhite suits swarmed the stage,
some riding unicycles. Poor
staging in one of the concert’s
few older songs, “Love Story,”
left Swift standing awkwardly
in her dance partner’s arms for
almost a full verse as he stared
dreamily into the distance.
Once noted for her off-key
live singing, this time Swift did
her music proud, though she
never seemed to be fully in
command of it. Even in the
more intimate numbers, the instrumental accompaniment
continued after she took her
fingers from the piano keys or
guitar strings. But Swift cut an
impressive figure leaning back
at her glossy red piano and
belting out the lyrics to “All
Too Well,” and it was hard not
to be charmed when she
perched delicately on a stool to
strum out “Sad Beautiful
Tragic.”
Swift, at 24, already has
years as a professional performer behind her, and she
seemed constantly aware of her
audience. The concert was not
just a party for her and her
dancers; from the moment she
stepped onstage, it was clear
that everyone was invited. She
talked to the audience throughout, frequently coming across
as too scripted but never losing
her way with words.
As much as Swift has
changed her style recently, her
skill as a lyricist hasn’t diminished, and neither has her entertainment value. Go out and see
her. It’s a party. ✦
by Linnea Peterson,
Saint Paul, MN
K-POP
XOXO
EXO
T
he 12-member boy group
EXO has finally released
their first full-length album,
“XOXO.” It was certainly
worth the year-long wait fans
had to endure.
Released in June, “XOXO”
comes in two versions: the Kiss
version (in Korean) and the
Hug version (in Mandarin). A
FACEBOOK
photobook with pictures of the
group members comes with
each edition. The 60 pages of
yearbook-style snapshots fit
with the album’s high-school
theme.
The first track – also the
most heavily promoted – is
“Wolf,” a song with a powerful
mix of dubstep and hip-hop in
which each member gets a
chance to showcase his vocal
strengths. The only major flaw,
other than a nasally chant of
“ah, sarangheyo” (“ah, I love
you”) in the chorus, is the English. Because there is no “wo”
sound in Korean, the word
“wolf” sounds like “oolf.”
In addition, the English
lyrics are a little unusual, with
one line translating to “I’ll take
you in one mouthful like
cheese.” The strongest part of
the song makes up for it, however. In the chorus, band members Baekhyun and Chen
seamlessly blend their voices as
they hit an outstanding high
note which is sure to give listeners chills.
I think “My Lady” is the
greatest track on the album,
with outstanding instrumentals,
powerful vocals, and a smooth
rap section in the middle.
“Baby, Don’t Cry,” however,
proves to be the best showcase
Worth the
year-long wait
for the singers’ talents.
Tracks that aren’t stand-outs
include “Baby” and “Don’t
Go,” which have generic slow
pop tempos and light vocals.
Other noteworthy tracks are
“Black Pearl,” with an undertone of dubstep and explosive
rapping and singing; “3.6.5,” a
light and cheery song that will
keep people bopping; and “Let
Out the Beast,” which doesn’t
leave listeners behind during its
rapid verses.
Within the first week of its
release, “XOXO” sold 300,000
copies around the world. The
group won their first award on
the music show “Music Bank”
with “Wolf,” and continued to
win three others. When they released the repackaged version
of the album in August, the new
promoted track “Growl” won
14 consecutive music show
awards.
Despite debuting a year ago,
EXO has climbed to recordbreaking heights that show they
will be staying in the business
for years to come. You’ll find
them growling through your
headphones and into your heart
if you decide to give this wonderful album a listen. ✦
by Kathleen Kenny,
Brooklyn, NY
COUNTRY
Bring You Back
Brett Eldredge
B
rett Eldredge has a voice
that is undeniably unique
in today’s music world. Having
moved to Nashville to pursue
his career as a songwriter, he
penned tracks for the likes of
Hank Williams Jr., Gary Allan,
and Trace Adkins. He obviously has a lot to offer, and his
Not your
run-of-the-mill
debut record
music reviews
ALTERNATIVE
label knew it, waiting three
years for the up-and-comer to
release his full-length debut.
“Bring You Back” is not your
run-of-the-mill debut record.
Eldredge had a hand in penning
11 of its 12 tracks with some of
Nashville’s most respected
songwriters, and its production
is far beyond what you would
expect for a new artist. The
album’s second single, “Don’t
Ya,” has been burning up the
charts since October.
The album has a bit of everything for everybody. Kicking it
off is “Tell Me Where to Park.”
The country-rock-themed track
leads the way for the rest of
the material. You’ll find midtempos, ballads, and uplifting
songs all in just over 40 minutes of music.
It’s quite rare to find a new
artist, especially in the country
music genre, who is as confident as Eldredge. The album
doesn’t feel rushed; it is well
paced, and on tracks like the
stellar ballad “One Mississippi,” his patience is very
much appreciated.
For me, and hopefully many
other country music fans,
“Bring You Back” is one for the
history books. There are many
styles on this album, but everything is placed subtly within
the seams of each track. I feel it
is just the beginning to a whirlwind of success. ✦
by Cody Jendro,
Temecula, CA
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
31
fiction
See the Words
by Lina Osmundson, Thornton, CO
T
he likes me for simply my physical attributes? What
here’s something in my locker again.
a shallow, self-absorbed jerk. I hope my own eyes
I know because my mysterious deliverer
never meet his; that would most likely instigate a
failed to remember to shove the small and unkick to where it would hurt.
appealing scrap of yellow paper completely through
In one swift movement – one I’m actually quite
the slit. A corner peeps out, beckoning my hand
proud of – I crumple it into a small ball and toss it
closer. But, like the weirdo I am, I stand there, stardirectly into the trashcan. (Yes, I am that
ing at it, feeling these peculiar little
one idiot who decides to be assigned a
flips in my stomach and tightening of
random locker and ends up right beside
I
am
empty,
my throat.
black abyss of junk.) Something
To be honest, I’m sick of this.
just like my the
catches my eye as I move past it. I stop
Enough of this petty, I’m-too-afraid-toand peer down.
tell-you-face-to-face-about-my-feellocker
There look to be a hundred of them,
ings-for-you crap. This has gone on
those meager little scrunched pieces of
long enough. I should just snatch it and
Photo by Jummy Ha, Calgary, AB, Canada
yellow paper. He leaves one inside my locker, not
rip it to shreds. I gently tug it loose and flatten it bewave of disappointment that crashes on me as I open
every day, no – every hour. Every time that bell
fore my eyes.
my locker and discover no note.
rings
signaling
the
end
of
a
classes,
it
signals
someIt reads “I love you with my eyes, and that is all
Nothing. Nada.
thing else, too – another love note, with the same
that I can love you with. –R.”
I slam it shut. Close my eyes. Open them. Redo
words, the same initial, on the same ugly paper.
Ugh. God, that quote makes me sick. It’s the same
the combo. Swing the door back.
Of course, it’s just my luck that the bell rings
one every time. And what does that even mean? That
Still nothing.
thirty seconds before I arrive to class.
I take out all my binders, books, and papers, pre“You know the drill,” my teacher
viously organized to the point where they could
growls, glaring at me with her stereotypihave been in a hospital, they were so meticulous and
cal narrow-eyeglasses-that-hang-precariclean. Now, my materials are strewn around me, and
ously-at-the-edge-of-her-nose
look.
I
by Eloise Sims,
my locker is empty.
sigh
but
comply,
dropping
my
backpack
Wellington, New Zealand
The bell rings. I stand there.
(a little louder than usual – I get The
Slowly, I place everything back. Then I take it all
Look
again
for
that),
and
I
stalk
over
to
he mornings after Lola stays out too late, after the last bus, so late
out
again. I put it back. I remove everything from
the
wall.
For
every
30
seconds
we’re
that she has to bum a ride with a friend or scrape together change
my
backpack and search it until I feel like I might
late,
that’s
a
minute
of
wall
sits
–
so,
in
for a cab, she comes home to find her mother asleep on the kitchen
just pluck my eyes out. I place everything back inmy case, just over one. Double ugh.
table. Those are the mornings she begins to see me again. Her bedroom
side. I stare into my locker and just stand there,
As she continues her lesson, I think
door is flung open with a soft thump against the wall, bruising the chip
leaning against my heels.
about
the
note
again
and
find
myself
that’s been there for years, and she waltzes in to see me sitting on top of
Then I start crying.
steaming.
No,
not
just
steaming
–
virtuthe closet waiting for her.
They are silent tears, which are the worst. It
ally
brewing
with
an
overwhelming
anger,
She usually snorts when she sees me. Her eyes are misted over with
means
there’s not enough energy to even muster a
the
type
that
makes
me
twitch
while
gritthat red tinge they get when she’s spent a night chucking ping-pong balls
sob.
It
means
that I am empty, just like my locker. It
ting
my
teeth
to
the
point
of
physical
pain.
into red cups just to get a wink from the rugby player she’s wanted since
means
I
am,
simply,
sad.
What
has
happened
to
people
these
she was 13, but she can still see me all the same. I just watch her as she
Someone taps me on the shoulder. Startled, I spin
days? Where’s the courage, the manners
tries to wrestle with her jacket, gives up, and topples onto the bed fully
around.
that gentlemen used to possess in order
clothed. Her eyeliner leaves smudges on the pillowcase. “Hi, Lola.” I
There’s a boy there. He wears what I would call
to
make
a
woman
swoon?
I
find
nothing
begin, holding my tongue.
hipster
glasses: wide-framed, ’80s style. He has a Tromantic
about
pathetic
little
love
notes.
“Go away,” she mumbles.
shirt
advertising
a rock band I’ve never heard of. His
They’re
so
…
so
…
boring.
Where’s
a
I know she’s “Do you want me to go away?”
jeans
aren’t
sagging
the way most boys think is atlittle
flourish
of
magic?
She lifts her head a fraction, which allows her
tractive
when
it’s
literally
fatal to the eyes. And he’s
My
minute
is
up.
I
take
my
seat
and
talking to
hair to flick across the back of her neck in an unholding
a
note.
spend
the
rest
of
the
time
looking
benaturally uniform fashion. It used to permanently
me
We stare at each other. I’m utterly mesmerized by
tween my teacher and the clock. The
be caught in a haze of tangles, one that I constantly
his eyes; they’re nothing special, just
usual daily process.
brushed (or tried to) into a ponytail every day, but
dark brown. And yet they’re communiThe
annoying
bell,
which
Lola discovered hair straighteners the same time she discovered bras, and
I
find
nothing
cating something that I don’t think I’m
makes
me
want
to
punch
suddenly she spent hours burning her scalp as I looked on. “Yes.”
mature enough to understand.
stuffed
animals,
finally
“All right. You know how to make me.”
romantic about quite
He
holds the note nearer. I take it.
sounds.
I
lurch
up
and
slide
She narrows her eyes at me and thinks about vodka.
pathetic
little
“Looking
for something? –R.”
out
the
door
before
my
I return about two hours later. She’s fallen asleep with a string of clear
“You?”
I
ask.
It comes out in sort of a
teacher
can
give
the
homespit clinging to the pillow that reeks of someone else’s sweat and a beer
love notes
breathless whisper as I glance at this boy
work assignment (a stratecooler. I yank her heels off and stack them in the wardrobe, underneath
I’ve never seen before. “It was you?”
gic move, really). Suddenly,
her dresses and school uniform with the “too long” hem and the “unflatHe
nods.
He’s
staring at my lips. I would have
I
throw
on
the
brakes.
tering” collar. Her feet cling nakedly to the bed, bare ankles dotted with
thought
that
would
be disconcerting, but for some
Was
I
just
walking
with
a
purpose
to
dark hairs where she’s missed shaving. I pull her white duvet over her,
reason,
it
doesn’t
bother
me.
my
locker?
just like old times.
“Why?”
I
breathe.
No.
Of
course
not.
What
am
I,
in
eleA few years ago it was a Barbie duvet, a monstrous pink and fluffy
He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls a pen and a
mentary school again? I just don’t want
hemorrhage that got feathers up my nose constantly, but she refused to
slightly
ruffled piece of yellow paper from his back
to
be
late.
That’s
all.
What
is
wrong
with
sleep in any bed without it. A few years before that it had been a Peter
pocket. He scribbles something and gives it to me.
me? I shake my head, trying to focus on
Rabbit one, with an embroidered rabbit that she ran her fingers over as
Before I can look at his writing, he touches my
not running straight into the freshmen
she listened to stories from her mother, who then had blonde hair instead
chin
gently and lifts my gaze up. Then, slowly, he
who
still
aren’t
quite
smart
enough
to
of salt and pepper curls.
moves
his hands in a simple gesture.
know
how
to
navigate
a
hallway.
“I miss you, Teddy,” she murmurs in her sleep, and I know she’s talkIn
one
swift moment, I crumple the paper and toss
There
it
is.
There’s
nothing
stopping
ing to me.
it
in
the
trashcan.
the
rush
of
relief
as
I
see
my
locker,
and
“I miss you too.”
I know enough sign language to recognize that
nothing to staunch the bounce in my step
“What happened?”
one.
✦
as
I
stride
forward.
“You grew up.” ✦
And nothing to cease the excruciating
Lola Alone
T
32
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
I
shoulders. “Have I ever told you what
knew word for word what Leah
a great face you’ve got?”
would say: “Katie, it’s too …
“Yep,” I said, “but feel free to tell
striking.” Giving a dainty shake of
me again.”
her dainty head, she’d hang it back on
She chuckled. “You and Leah are
the rack, but then somehow end up
both heartbreakers.”
wearing it herself to a dance. And
I hoped she was right. I knew my
me – I’d be reduced to being less gorsister was a knockout, but no guy had
geous than my sister for yet another
ever paid much attention to me. This
dim, chilly night. I wasn’t about to let
night will be different. My thoughts
that happen again. Not this time.
flitted to those two dark eyes. JaeI smoothed the skirt and looked at
mon’s eyes.
the mirror in the dressing room. The
When I stepped into the hallway
dress wasn’t as short as I’d wanted –
Leah was just emerging from her
its flapper-like skirt just covered my
room. She gasped and stopped in her
knees – but it hugged my figure, actracks, and for a moment just stared at
centuating my long, straight waist.
me. A smirk played at my lips as I
The spaghetti straps were thin, almost
waited for her expression to turn to
transparent. The dress itself was silver
dismay, or for her to run back into her
with three midnight-blue roses sewn
room to cry. After all, her dress was
on the bodice. There was a shrug the
ankle-length and violet, and had short
same color as the roses to cover my
sleeves instead of straps. Of course
shoulders, but I wouldn’t wear it
my dress was more beautiful.
tonight, no matter how cold it got.
But her reaction was the opposite
As I examined myself in the mirror,
of what I expected. She beamed at
I imagined two chocolate eyes resting
me. “Katie, you look great!”
on me. A pair of long, strong legs apBefore I could react, she breezed
proached. A hand stretched out as the
past me into Mom’s room. I listened
owner mimicked a Regency-era bow,
to their conversation as Mom did
and those eyes gazing at mine ….
Leah’s hair. She only mentioned me
My cell phone dinged as Leah’s
once to compliment Mom on my hair,
text appeared on screen: “You’re takbut she didn’t sound angry or bitter.
ing too long. Mom wanted you back
I fought past my confusion. Duh,
five minutes ago.”
Katie, she’s not jealous – she still
Groaning, I walked to the checkout
thinks she’s prettier than you! I’ll
I texted her back: “I’m coming.”
show you. I envisioned those eyes
“What dress did you get?”
again, those dark, perfect eyes. You
I calculated my reply. She wouldn’t
won’t have him for long.
get home until right before the dance,
At the dance I was accosted by my
so she wouldn’t have time to convince
girlfriends as soon as I stepped out of
Mom that the dress was too expensive
the car. I listened to their complior do some other drastic thing.
ments as I shed my shrug.
“You’ll see,” I typed. “I’m sure it
“Holy cow, Katie!”
won’t be as gorgeous as yours.” Actu“Where’d you get that dress?”
ally, I’d seen Leah’s dress two days
“It’s gorgeous!”
ago, and it wasn’t nearly as stunning
Then those eyes were there, lookas mine.
ing at me. “Hey.” He took my hand.
Mom was on the phone when I
“Want to dance?”
drove in, so I crept up to
He had actually walked
my room. When I came
all the way over to the car
down she was fixing
“You and Leah to ask me! Trying hard
lunch. She scolded me
not to blush, I squeaked,
for how long I’d taken,
are both
“Sure.” As Jaemon led
so, to appease her, I
heartbreakers” me to where the others
showed her the dress
couples were dancing, I
(with the shrug, so she
snuck a peep over my
wouldn’t give me that
shoulder. Leah was standing, her face
“don’t-even-think-about-it” look).
stricken, still holding the car keys.
She loved it and only marginally
Finally.
winced when she saw the price tag.
As we danced, the feeling of JaeWhen Leah got home she barely
mon’s
hand on my waist eclipsed
greeted me before dashing to the
whatever guilt I felt about taking my
shower. So, I went to my room to
sister’s ex-boyfriend. His eyes were
begin the transformation.
even browner this close, and he was
While Leah putting on her dress,
holding me close enough that I could
Mom did my hair and makeup. I
smell his leather jacket and the mint
sprayed some flowery perfume on.
on his breath. For several moments
Studying my reflection, I grinned,
we danced like that – slowly, gently,
pleased with how the expertly applied
just staring at each other without a
cosmetics helped my face look espeword. I resisted the urge to glance at
cially bright.
Leah again, though I was pretty sure
Mom set her hands on my
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fiction
Eyes of the Beholder
by “Shelly,” Payson, UT
she was livid.
seemed like something from an alien
Suddenly she twirled right by me.
planet. As I watched, several couples
She and her partner were laughing. It
on the edges of the crowd began to
didn’t seem like she even noticed me.
make out. Not only did their mouths
Now I realized why she’d chosen that
move, but so did their hands; they
dress: though the skirt hung straight
weren’t even dancing anymore. I
down when she was standing or walkshuddered and turned my head to
ing, it spread out beautifully whenstudy the glittery sky.
ever she spun.
“Need the keys?”
The song ended and Jaemon asked
I whirled. Leah stood there, a soft
if I wanted something to drink. Feelsmile touching her lips.
ing the need to clear my head, I gave
“I want to go home,” I said. I
a tight smile and nodsounded like I felt –
ded. I practically gulped
young and vulnerable.
down the lemonade. The
“Are you sure?” I unAll he’d done locked
iciness and tang of the
the door and
drink helped to zap my
opened it, but she stopped
was stare at
bad mood and sharpen
me from climbing in. She
my body
my thoughts. My sister
handed my shrug to me.
was actually having
“Just stay away from Jaemore fun than me! I
mon and you’ll be fine.”
wasn’t expecting that. I could still
There was no trace of threat in her
hear her laugh amid the music and the
voice, only caring. “You’re not … but
sounds of other couples talking.
I thought … I thought you were jealWait a second. I knew my partner
ous I was dancing with him.”
had a good sense of humor. Why
“Katie, didn’t you ever get why
weren’t we talking to each other?
Jaemon’s not my boyfriend anymore?
As I drank, I peered at Jaemon out
He wants to be; everyone knows it.
of the corner of my eye. He didn’t noBelieve me, he’s tried to get me back,
tice – his eyes were too busy roaming.
but he’s not my type anymore. And I
Down to my high heels and then back
bet he’s no longer yours now, either.”
up. His gaze settled on my face, and I
A tear tried to escape my eye. Leah
saw something in those dark eyes that
had been worried about me. There
made me go cold.
hadn’t been envy in her face when she
His eyes barely darted to
mine before moving briefly
to my neck or my hair. He
wasn’t looking at me. He
wasn’t noticing me.
He gave me a half-smile
that I assumed was supposed
to be charming, but it only
reminded me of what
thoughts were going through
his head. He didn’t care
about me. Not one iota. I almost choked on my juice.
This dress didn’t draw attention to my straight A’s,
my nearly perfect backflip,
or the way little kids love to
play with me. The only way
Jaemon would have been
able to find out those things
Photo by Megan McNulty, Portland, OR
about me was by talking to
me, and he hadn’t done that.
All he’d done was stare at me. No, all
saw me with him. I returned her
he’d done was stare at my body.
smile, then slipped the shrug on and
“Excuse me,” I muttered. I halffollowed her back. As soon as I
dropped my cup onto the refreshment
stepped into the crowd I found myself
table and stumbled away.
gazing into a pair of turquoise blue
“Where are you going?”
eyes. The owner of the eyes apHoly cow. He should have asked if
proached. “Katie, isn’t it?”
I was okay.
He wasn’t as good-looking as
Only when I was making a beeline
Jaemon, but his face was pleasant and
for the car did my breathing normalhis smile had a droll twist. Plus his
ize. I leaned against the door and
eyes didn’t waver from mine. I tossed
rubbed my forehead.
the keys to Leah – who caught them
After several moments I worked up
with one hand – and curtsied. “That’s
the nerve to look back at the dance.
me.” ✦
The lights and music and dancers
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
33
fiction
34
Sound
T
by Erin Laing, Englewood, OH
And today, the music stops after
here is a café she likes to go to.
one song. Her eyebrows draw toIt’s warm and cozy, out of the
gether. The reverberating final chords
way, and never too crowded.
hang in the air, and seem to create a
Just how she likes it.
discord with the sounds of the café
She has a particular table, by the
that matches her disappointment at
window. The seat is especially nice
the abrupt end.
when the sun’s gentle rays slide
“That’s quite the face you’re makthrough the glass and warm her face.
ing,”
says a voice next to her. “Mind
She likes the coffee and the ham
if I sit?”
sandwiches, and she likes the quiet
The man doesn’t wait for a reply as
din of chatter and clinking dishes.
he settles across from her. Though the
But most of all, she likes the music.
voice is deep and friendly, she can’t
That’s what she really comes for. It
help but feel slightly defensive.
lets her forget the bread is dry, and
“You come here a lot, don’t you?”
wipes away thoughts of that waitress
“Yeah. I like the music.”
who treats her like a child.
Her
face is angled toward
She doesn’t have to rethe table, but she’s pretty
member how bitter the cof“I come for sure he can hear her. His
fee is (though she orders it
the music” cologne wafts across the
more for the smell than the
table.
taste), and she almost for“Well, it’s good that
gets the slightly unpleasant
someone does.” The smile is back in
smell that permeates the air and
his voice. She doesn’t answer. Does
tickles the corners of her sadder
this mean he’s the one who has been
memories.
playing the piano all this time? Before
She’s almost certain it’s the same
she has a chance to ask, he speaks
pianist every day, with a signature to
again.
the sound she understands but cannot
“You’re blind, aren’t you?”
explain. She wonders about the piShe isn’t used to such direct quesanist, the songs he plays, and if he
tions. It’s kind of refreshing.
writes them himself. She wonders
“Yeah. So?” She doesn’t mind the
how long he’s been playing and if he
question,
really. It’s preferable to the
enjoys it. Most of all, she wonders
whispers she’s grown accustomed to.
how he makes his emotions resonate
“So.” She’s pretty sure he’s leaning
with each chord. The music bleeds
toward her. “Can you at least pretend
to look at me instead of glaring at the
table? You’ll make everyone think I’m
boring. They’ll haul me outta here for
harassing you.”
He’s teasing now. No probing questions. No asking about how she lost
her sight. He’s just teasing, and she
can’t keep the smile from creeping
onto her face.
“Well, I guess so. If it protects your
ego.”
“It very much does. Now everyone
will know how charming I am.”
She laughs before extending her
Art by Sarah McDonald, Taft, TN
hand in his general direction. “I’m
Molly.” His hand wraps around hers,
but he doesn’t shake it. He holds it for
from his fingers, passion in every
a moment before pressing his lips to
note, and floats though the café,
her knuckles. His breath ghosts across
wrapping around her like a comforther fingers.
ing hug.
“It is an absolute pleasure, Molly.”
She wants to meet the pianist. She
He relinquishes her hand, which she
wants to ask him about his life and
folds with its twin atop the table, a
how he is able to breathe life into
blush rising in her cheeks.
sound. But each day she listens, fin“So you like music?”
ishes her sandwich, pays the bill, and
“I do. And you?”
wanders out.
“I love music.” She can hear his
Today is different, however. Today
hands messing with something on the
her table by the window is taken,
table, perhaps a napkin or a straw
though she doesn’t realize it until she
wrapper. “Music can make your
tries to slide in only to find it occuthoughts and feelings tangible, and
pied. She apologizes profusely, and
lets you communicate them to everythe man at the table pardons her in a
one. I like how it lets you express
way that seems condescending and arwhat words can’t.”
tificially kind. She shuffles to a differ“Are you the one who plays the
ent table, one closer to the piano.
piano?”
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
“I am.”
She thinks she’s done more smiling
“So do you have a name, Mr.
in the past twenty minutes than in the
Pianist? You know mine.” This earns
last two months. “So, do you work
her a soft laugh.
here?”
“It’s Christopher.”
“Me? Nah.” Molly can hear the
“Well, Christopher …” She smiles
shifting of his clothing as he moves;
as his name passes her lips. “It’s a
he must talk with his hands. “They
pleasure making your acquaintance.”
just let me come in and play the piano
“Yes, it is.”
when I have the time.”
She laughs.“And how would I
“They don’t pay you?” she asks
know? I’ve only just met you. You
incredulously.
could have some sort of grotesque
“Nope. It’s just nice to have a place
face mutation for all I know.”
to go and let out pent-up emotion.”
“You’re the one who said it was a
“They should pay you! And to
pleasure first, but I assure you my
think, I’ve been coming here and sufface is perfectly attractive.”
fering through dry sandwiches and
“Hm. What if I don’t believe you?”
sour coffee just to hear some, some
Molly can’t keep from smiling. It’s
hooligan they let use their piano. I’m
been a while since she’s had a convernot sure I can trust this establishment
sation with someone who wasn’t tryanymore.”
ing to dance around her blindness. It’s
This buys her a laugh. “So you
almost as invigorating as the music.
come here just for me then? I’m
She feels the table creak as Christoflattered.”
pher leans across. “Why don’t you
“I come for the music.”
find out?”
“So you like my music?”
She blinks at his forwardness be“I do. Listening to it, it’s like being
fore stretching out her hand until it
able to see again.” She tenses. She
comes in contact with his cheek. The
hadn’t really meant to say something
muscles shift and she feels his smile
so personal, but now it is out.
as her fingers drift across his lips. She
“Why don’t you make your own
trails up the plane of his nose, and his
music then? You know, so it’s yours?
eyelids shut as she makes her way
With your emotions and your
across the shape of his eye.
expression.”
“Can I help y’all?” Her head reflexMolly isn’t sure whether to feel reively turns toward the voice of the
lieved or panicked at the direction of
waitress who treats her like an invalid.
the conversation. “Oh no, I can’t play.
There’s something in the waitress’s
And I can’t sing either. No, I’m better
voice that reminds Molly of the posisuited to listening.”
tion they’re in, with her hand on the
“That doesn’t mean you can’t learn.
face of a man she’s just met, realizing
It’s not as hard as people think.” His
how intimate they must look.
hands slide under hers and lift them.
“N-no, we’re fine,
“You have good piano
thanks.” She retracts
fingers, nice and long.”
her hand.
“But I can’t see.” Her
“Are you the
“Are you sure there’s
voice is small, though
nothing I can do for
one who plays she doesn’t want it to
be.
you, hon?” It’s now that
the piano?”
“That won’t be a
she notices the waitress
problem.” Confidence
is really talking to
resonates in ChristoChristopher.
pher’s voice. He doesn’t let go of her
“No, we’re fine, thanks,” he
hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” He
answers.
leads her to the piano. Molly’s stom“All right.” She sounds doubtful.
ach twists in knots. Christopher’s
“Just ask for Jessica if you need anyhand in hers is a grounding point.
thing, ’kay, hon?” Molly’s hands ball.
She gently rests her fingers on the
She can picture Jessica batting her
keys, moving over them without a
eyelashes. The silence after she leaves
sound. She can feel his body heat as
lasts long enough for Molly to listen
he settles next to her, and she catches
to the fading clack of her heels.
another whiff of his cologne. He
“Satisfied then?”
guides her hand to the center of the
Molly turns back toward Christopiano, pushing down her thumb. The
pher. “W-what?”
note resonates throughout the room.
“No disgusting face warts or disfigThis came from her hand; she
uring scars?”
caused this sound.
“Ah. No, I didn’t find anything.”
She closes her eyes and lets memoShe reaches forward and internally
ries of color and light flow through
celebrates when her hand lands on his
her as the note continues to sing in
shoulder. “I’m sure you are very ather mind.
tractive to some.” She gives him a few
And a smile spreads across her
friendly pats.
face.
She hears him settle as he leans
“This is C.” ✦
back in his chair. “Thank you.”
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W
hen I met him, we were poor. I lived in a
small apartment above the town’s local
bar. He lived in an even smaller complex
a few dingy towns over. We met in a grocery store.
He was buying a pack of cigarettes. I was irritated
because he was looking for change and I wanted to
get home. Once I paid, I walked outside and found
him waiting for me. He apologized for making me
wait, then asked if I wanted a smoke. I told him that
I didn’t want that stuff in my mouth. He was wearing a fedora and a black overcoat. I started to leave.
He asked me to wait, and then if I wanted to get a
drink. I shrugged and went along with him.
I didn’t have anything else to do.
We found ourselves at the seedy bar beneath my
apartment. He bought me a drink, and one for
Photo by Emily Watterson, Algonquin, IL
Stop
by Shannon Bailey, Longmeadow, MA
okay, because he made it up to me.
himself. We talked all night. He told me he wanted
Two years passed, and my writing career started
to go to medical school. I told him I wanted to be an
to pick up. Someone had noticed my work and taken
author. He said one day we’d get there. I laughed.
an interest. A few more years passed. He was a sucShortly after midnight, I invited him up to my
cessful doctor, and I a successful author. We decided
apartment. He accepted. My apartment was small
it was time to move to a larger place. We could now
and barely lit. He didn’t seem to mind. I opened a
afford more than the small, dingy apartment. We
fresh bottle of Chardonnay and poured us both a
bought a house, and of course, brought our twin bed
cup. He drank his slowly as we talked.
with us.
It was four when we both were getting tired. I ofHe began working more. I began writing more.
fered to share my bed. Once again, he accepted. His
We slept in our bed less. One day, he decided that
lip curled under when he saw it. My bed was a small
our bed was too small for us. I agreed. After work he
twin with one dirty sheet on top. It was all I could
went shopping. The next day an over-size California
afford. I climbed in. He shrugged and climbed in
king bed showed up. We both slept in it that night.
with me. Both of us, though weathered from not eatAnd for nights and nights after.
ing, didn’t lack size. His muscular arm
We began to drift apart. The whispercurled around me to keep us from
falling out of bed. He whispered in my
One night he ing stopped. We no longer curled around
each other in our sleep. It was like the
ear until I fell asleep.
told me he
bed grew bigger every night, the further
Soon enough, this became an everywe drifted apart. I didn’t know him anyday thing. We would meet at the store,
loved me
more. He didn’t know me.
where he would smoke his cigarettes.
As the bed grew bigger, there was
We’d go to the bar. And then we’d
room for more people. And sure enough, more peomake ourselves fit in my small twin bed. I had gotple came in. One night I walked in to find his musten to know him. He had gotten to know me. I told
cular arm wrapped around someone else. I looked at
him things. He told me things. He was like my best
him and he looked at me. I’m not stupid; I knew it
friend. Well, he would have been if I believed in that
was over. I just didn’t imagine it would end like this.
kind of crap.
I walked down to the basement and lay on that
One night over Chardonnay, he told me he loved
small twin bed of ours. Mine now. My eyes closed.
me. I told him not to say things he didn’t mean, and
When I met him, we were poor. My mind flashed
that it was the wine talking. That night, in our small
back to an image of him with a cigarette. I didn’t
twin bed, he kissed me. And I kissed him back. This
know him anymore. He was gone. And all I had left
became part of our nightly routine as well. And then
was this stupid bed. I left the next morning, carrying
slowly, I started to give him everything I had. And in
the mattress.
return, he loved me.
It was the wine talking all along. I’m writing this
Suddenly, work began to pick up. He had enough
as an author. Half to sell, so I can buy a new bed.
money for medical school. We lost our wine time in
And half as a warning. Don’t let space come bethe evening, because he had to study. But he was
tween you two, or you’ll lose him. And then you’ll
always in our small twin bed on time. Then he
have no choice but to let go. ✦
started to miss a night here and there. But it was
fiction
California King Bed
by Fina Short, Bellevue, WA
S
food at lunch, taking my spot next to my friends, taking my
top.
backpack on the way home and throwing it on the ground
I hear it all the time. Sometimes it’s in a yell from
and running over my books with their skateboards. It was
my little brother, when I step on his toys again; it altaking my self-esteem, my pride and, eventually, my innoways comes with a weary sigh from my mother, if I ask her
cence. It was taking everything I possibly had to give. And I
where Dad is; or just a silent visual, a red octagon-shaped
never said it. I can’t say it. So they don’t stop.
piece of metal, posted where one street meets the next. It
Some of the nicer ones take pity on me. They’ll nudge
can be a command, a plea, even a joke – a four-letter exme, call me Helen Keller with a grin. They don’t realize that
pression with the power of the world.
I do have thoughts. I have strong opinions, and surprisingly,
Yet I’m a coward. Over-considerate, always eager to
I have vocal cords to voice them with. It’s just
please. This one-syllable word, a staple of any
not worth it.
two-year-old’s vocabulary, has never once
But yesterday I realized something. I’m
passed my lips.
I don’t want to wrong.
For I did once say “stop,” thirteen long
Why tell a person to stop? I don’t want to
hurt anyone’s years ago, when I was chubby-cheeked and
hurt anyone’s feelings, don’t want to seem
bright-eyed and wore flowery dresses and
bossy, don’t want to walk over someone the
feelings
sparkly hair clips. It was a dark night, and I
way I’ve been walked over my entire life. I
stood in the front doorway of my house, clutchguess I’ve learned this from my dad – it’s aling my teddy bear, my eyes clouded with sleep.
ways better to walk away from problems than
I screamed it with all my heart, every fiber of my being.
to face them. Always better to concede, to let someone else
And then the word echoed away from the safety of my
win, than to force my own opinion.
house and out into the night, where I watched the family car
I know I’m wrong in not ever setting boundaries. The
speeding out of our driveway, and with it, my father.
pain is a cold pit in my stomach on the way to school each
He never came back. And neither has the security I once
day – I know what’s waiting for me there. It’s the boys, the
felt in myself, the belief that my words mattered and that if
ones who have never been told to stop by anyone, let alone
I told someone to stop, they would listen. When I was a todme.
dler, I had neverending faith in the word. But when you
I was only in kindergarten when Garrett first took my
grow up, some things stop. ✦
Play-Doh and I didn’t ask for it back. Then it was taking my
Art by Moriah Isbell, Williamsburg, IA
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
Punchline
by Eliza Coffin, Concord, MA
H
“You know –” he said abruptly, cuter nose is a little crooked, Ben found himting her off in the middle of telling a
self thinking as the redhead seated next to
story. Surprised, she closed her mouth
him let out a laugh at the joke he’d just told.
and smiled politely, her eyebrows
Something about a rabbi and a horse walking into a
raised and her head tipped a little to the
bar. He couldn’t remember why it was so funny, but
side. “My ex-girlfriend is from Iowa.”
he smiled along with her and downed the remnants
He nodded slowly, as though emphaof his scotch and soda, tipping the glass until the ice
sizing this piece of information.
knocked against his teeth. After catching the bar“Really?” She, too, nodtender’s eye and signaling for another,
ded, although she seemed
he turned back to the woman (Sarah?
No, Sophie – it was Sophie, wasn’t
If Ben had been not to know what to make
of this sudden turn in conit?) and studied her. Her eyes were a
sober he might versation.
mild but pretty shade of blue, and her
“Yup. She lived on a
vibrant hair curled softly where it
have noticed farm
Photo by Chloe Sheppard, Potton, England
with animals and
brushed her shoulders. She was othereverything … cows, and
wise good-looking, but his eyes kept
him to shake, but let it fall, realizing he wasn’t even
chickens
…”
Ben moved his fingers in a scurrying
drifting back to that nose.
looking at her. She turned and walked out the door.
motion. “And she had a dog, too. Little rat b**ch of
It was more than a little crooked. It had a curve in
Ben gave no indication that he had noticed her
a thing.” He shook his head and waved at the barit that reminded him of the state line of Iowa on a
leaving. Downing the last of his drink, he let out a
tender again. “And it never shut up, either – yapping
map. Ben realized he was staring and glanced down
small burp and repeated, to no one in particular,
all day and night. It was enough to drive you up the
at his glass; after a second, he lifted it to his lips and
“I’m no drunk.”
wall. Her landlord kept threatening to kick her out if
winced as the last drops burned the back of his
•
•
•
she didn’t get rid of it, but she was a sweet talker,
throat.
Hurrying down the sidewalk, Sasha fumbled for
you know, real pretty, and she could talk her way out
Iowa. F***.
her phone, which was blaring the ancient one-hitof anything ….”
wonder she had set, jokingly, as the ringtone. Irony,
“Huh,” said the redhead, taking a dainty sip of her
she now realized, could eventually cross the line bevodka cranberry. If Ben had been sober he might
tween funny and irritating.
have noticed the way she began glancing around, as
“Sasha? Where the hell are you? You’re on in 15!”
though losing interest in the conversation. He also
The stage manager, Greg.
may
have
realized
that
talking
about
his
beautiful
“I know, I know, I … don’t worry, I’ll be there in
i. Love is a strange thing
former
girlfriend
would
make
any
girl
uncomforttime,”
she promised. She quickened her pace, wishIt threatens the girl who sits alone for the short ride on a trolley
able.
But
since
as
he
was
already
good
and
drunk,
ing
she
hadn’t worn heels.
bus to the airport, blue and orange lights highlighting her face
he remained painfully oblivious and kept rambling.
The comedy club was barely a ten-minute walk
in between window seams
A little loudly, too.
from the bar, but this time it seemed longer. OccaShe sits down in a scratchy blue seat and is afraid to buckle her
“Yeah, her name was Karen. One of those brainy
sionally, she’d go to the bar an hour before she went
seatbelt, to lock herself in where the cold dry air pushes in at
types, went to Princeton and all that – ahh, cheers!”
on, claiming a drink helped calm her nerves. In
the corners and gasps in her eyes
He
grinned
and
gave
the
bartender
an
appreciative
truth, what she wanted at the bar was not alcohol but
The check-in managers don’t give a second glance, but her
nod
as
he
poured
Ben
another
drink.
The
bartender
inspiration.
small black suitcase feels far away
eyed
him
warily.
On days when she was out of ideas for material,
She picks it up, hugging it like a teddy bear
“Hey, bud, this is your fourth, so just … slow
she always found something interesting there. In
ii. This is a carry-on, she says
down a bit, all right?” he said, glancing at the redtonight’s case, the drunk telling jokes that would
and as the woman in her trim shiny blue suit nods, all the girl
head. She was tapping on her phone, but it was clear
have made her roll her eyes, had she not been polite
hears is her own voice again
by her eyebrows that she was listening.
enough to laugh.
This is a carry-on
Ben just grinned and shrugged, taking a none-tooWhen Sasha reached the club, she blinked in the
delicate sip. The bartender sighed and turned away,
sudden
light, and caught sight of Greg by the stage’s
iii. Have a good flight
shaking his head. The woman looked up decisively
edge
staring
at her. He held up a hand, five fingers
is swallowed in the buzz that surrounds the solemn drawers of
and opened her mouth to speak, but Ben was off
splayed,
and
she nodded.
window glass in which she locked her heart
again before she had the chance.
In
the
bathroom,
she examined herself in the mirA man gives her a smile as he vaults her bag into an overhead
“Anyway, she majored in” – he took another
ror.
In
general,
she
was
content with how she
compartment
gulp – “psychology, and it figures,
looked. Her hair, although bright, was a
She lets her thank-you reflect off jars, pooling and swirling in
you know, she was always trying to,
nice color, and it curled gently around
eddies that turn in the same direction, never moving forward
like …” – he searched for the word,
“I’m very sorry, her face. She liked the color of her
Shrunken down into 24A, window seat that no one cared to share
running his tongue over his teeth –
the shape of her lips, the smoothbut I have to be eyes,
iv. Passengers free to walk around
“analyze me and sh*t … and I told
ness of her pale skin – but, dear God,
She squeezes past others in the row and floats down a lone,
her, ‘You’re not my f**king therapist’
her nose. There was no delicate way to
somewhere”
closed aisle, reaching the bathroom only to find no mirror
and everything, but she just kept saydescribe it; it was simply crooked as all
ing all this bulls**t about how I
hell. But there was no time to agonize
v. On planes we change
should go to, uh, whassihcalled, Alc –” Suddenly
over
it
now.
She
took one last glance at herself, and
The real reason our safety scissors have been left behind
Ben coughed, sputtering on the word. “Alco –”
headed out.
In her mind, she snips off each long lock of black hair and pins
The redhead’s attention was on him now, the
As she approached the wings, Sasha could hear
back the bangs that tickle her eyelids
wrinkles in her forehead showing her apprehension.
scattered
laughter amid the applause for the precedSmooths on red lipstick ten shades darker than cherry lipgloss;
“Alcoholics Anonymous?” she finished pointedly.
ing
act.
She
and Greg waited while Rob introduced
colors that aren’t even on the same family tree
Clearing his throat, Ben looked at her and nodded
her.
When
Greg
gave her the thumbs-up, she took a
The door slides open
vigorously. “Right, right, that! And I said to her, I
deep
breath
and
stepped onstage.
She reaches for the light switch
said, ‘You gotta be crazy or something, cuz I don’t
For a moment she could see nothing, only claphave a … I’m no – I’m no drunk, and –”
vi. The light was never on
ping and a whistle or two. But she smiled blindly,
In one swift motion, the redhead stood and swung
When she walks out, bikers swear under their breath and
until her eyes adjusted and her audience came into
her jacket and purse over her shoulder. “I’m very
mothers hold their children a little tighter
view. Their open faces smiled back at her, waiting.
sorry, but I have to be somewhere,” she told him,
Left is the rolling byways of planes that release the ground
Without further ado, Sasha opened her mouth, the
without sounding sorry in the least. “It was nice to
Having clung onto anchors, she is floating away
taste of irony already sweet on her tongue.
meet you, uh … Ben.” She held out her hand for
“So a rabbi and a horse walk into a bar ….” ✦
by Allison Huang, Princeton, NJ
Planes
36
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Sophie Ohrn, Topsfield, MA
I
remember much of what I learned),
t rained that day.
and we swapped papers to grade
It was the type of rain that you
them. He got twenty out of twenty. I
wake up to, softly drumming on
got a D-. I laughed as I saw the red
your windowpanes; the type of rain
scrawlings on the page he handed
that makes you want to close your
back. He grinned at me. Nice job, he
eyes and just listen to the poetry it
said. You passed. He made the class
lends you – the type of rain that gives
tolerable. The room, with one fan in
you a lovely excuse to bury yourself
the back, pointed away from us, was
indoors and spend the day in idle
sticky and hot. I was never sure
thought.
whether he or the heat caused the red
This type of rain writes poems on
that would creep into my cheeks. A
the ground and paints everything with
fire would light itself under my chin
watercolor. It turns streets into shinand work its way up my face, and I
ing mirrors and washes away the dust
prayed that he wouldn’t call
of weeks past. It is the
me on it. He didn’t.
percussionist on my
When I saw you later that
windshield and the
It was so
day, I didn’t mention him. I
melody on the pavement.
unlike you
didn’t want you to know
It hums a shrill note as it
about my petty crush. It was
bounces off the river, as
to giggle
insignificant, but it was
it makes my ponytail curl
mine. I didn’t want to share
and my clothes cling to
it with anyone. It’ll pass anyway, I
my sides.
told myself. Even when it didn’t, I
I stood in silence overlooking the
kept my mouth shut.
river and letting the drops roll off my
It was sunny when you first saw
eyelashes and down my face.
him. The sun beat down on us as we
I grinned, glancing over at you as
walked down the street to a diner
you smiled crookedly back. We
downtown, and I saw him across the
laughed at the beauty of the day and
street. I called his name. Introductions
stretched our arms out to the clouds
were made, stories were swapped, and
above us, not quite angry, but restless
I instantly regretted introducing you. I
and dappled with sunlight showing its
saw your eyes glinting in the sun,
kind face. Giddy, we ran through the
their gold flecks flashing against starpaths in the woods that we knew so
tling blue as you giggled. It was so
well, our Converse sneakers sodden
unlike you to giggle. I saw how your
with mud and rainwater. This was one
fingers twisting a strand of your long
of the days when we could do anyblack hair, how you flaunted your
thing. We could take on anyone who
white teeth as you smiled wider and
challenged us and we could solve
more perfectly than I had ever seen.
world hunger and we could swear that
Your porcelain skin glowed in the
nothing would ever come between us.
sunlight, while my freckles splattered
We would drive, get lost, stand up
themselves across my nose. I hid bethrough the sunroof of your car when
hind them and watched.
a good song came on and fly. We
I remember how, once he was gone,
were free. We were young. We had
you
weren’t quite yourself again. You
each other and the summer and we
talked about his sense of humor and
had the rain.
taste in film, his hair and how it was
It was sunny when I first saw
blond and the perfect length. I rehim. He was sitting next to me in a
member how my stomach sank when
summer class I was taking (I don’t
you asked me for his number and I
grudgingly gave it to you. It felt
grudging, at least, but you didn’t notice. You didn’t notice my silence, either, as we walked home.
I told myself that it was nothing,
that I had known him longer and that
you two had just met. Later that summer, after you told me how he bought
you flowers, I told myself I was
happy for you. I told myself I was
okay.
You brought me along to the beach
with him and his friends one day. It
was hot and overcast, and you complained about how hard it was for you
to get a tan. I watched as you became
a different person. As you giggled and
twisted your hair, now highlighted
from the sun. You had started straightening it, taking away its usual curls
Photo by Kelsi Cox, Shreveport, LA
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that fell loosely over your shoulders.
grounded you – she took away your
You let me tag along out of pity,
car and your freedom. You didn’t
mostly. I didn’t quite fit in with that
know what to do. I sighed and handed
crowd, but the new you seemed to get
you a tissue. You thanked me for
along just fine. I sat off to the side,
being there for you. You vented to me
listening to your conversations and
about how your new friends were borlaughing a bit too late at your jokes. I
ing, how their parties were always the
wrote my name in the sand and erased
same, how everyone gossiped and
it. I tossed a crust of my sandwich to
told secrets. You tried to comfort
a seagull that you and your new
yourself, not me. At least, I don’t
friends were busy screaming at. It
think so. It was hard to tell with you
took it and flew away.
Occasionally, you would cast me a
guilty look and try to work me into a
conversation, but shyness overcame
me and soon you stopped trying to
include me. You’re so lucky to have
a friend like her, they would say to
me. She’s so funny and nice! I
would nod and agree halfheartedly.
That summer, you had your first
boyfriend. You went to your first real
party and drank your first beer. You
told me about all the cool things you
did, all the fun times you were having. You would share stories I didn’t
quite understand but you thought
were hysterical. I would smile and
laugh. You had everything that summer. I had a humid July and a dry
August. I had no air conditioning in
my bedroom. I had hours lying
Art by Rebecca Froehlich, Madison, SD
awake at night, reprimanding myself
for not being happy for you. I told
after that summer.
myself I was an awful friend. An
It rained one day in September.
awful person. After all, I must be an
The ground, dusty and hard after
awful person if nothing good seemed
weeks of dehydration, stretched toward
to happen to me. Why you? Why
the salvation falling from the sky and
hadn’t I been invited into the group?
drank. I opened all my windows,
Why weren’t you the one writing
breathing in the scent of springtime
your name in the sand?
and freshness. I sat on my front steps
That August was the driest one I
and listened to the songs the rain
had ever experienced. The sun beat
played me. It played memories and
down on my hair, makfreedom and new begining it hot to the touch as
nings. It spoke to me of
I did yard work and
the promises I had made,
I know that
planted kale and arugula.
of running and of sodden
I didn’t see much of you
our friendship Converse sneakers poundthat month. I saw picing the unstable ground.
might never
tures of you posted onIt reminded me of the
line, smiling and
wasted possibilities of that
be the same
laughing with people I
summer, and it reminded
had never seen before. I
me of you.
turned down your invitations to go the
You showed up outside my door
movies or the beach with your new
later. Your hair was loose and curly
friends; I was tired. I wanted to be by
because of the rain, and some flyaway
myself. I wanted to have you back.
black curls clung to your face.
You came to me before school
“I’m sorry,” you said.
started again. I came to the door and
I saw your eyes searching for acopened it; you walked right in, colceptance and recognition. I stepped
lapsed on my couch, and cried. Your
into the rain and nodded.
skin was peeling with sunburn, but
“It’s all right,” I said.
your hair was still straightened and
I know that our friendship might
glossy. You told me that he had
never be the same. I might never forcheated on you with some girl from
give you for the summer that you
the next town over. You said you
promised but never gave me. But right
would never find anyone like him
now, we are both so desperately
again. You said your new friends got
melancholy. We both regret what we
mean. You said that they got tired of
didn’t do. Right now, though, we have
your jokes. Your mom found out that
the day. We have each other. We have
you were going to parties and
the rain. ✦
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
fiction
Rain
• Teen Ink
37
poetry
Photo by Blake Horton, McBee, SC
To my childhood
your hair – light as bamboo flooring
tied up in a pigtail, unruly curls and all.
your big brown cow eyes
glistened and shone.
your cheesy buck-toothed grin
radiated. until that day.
your yellow swing, you sat and swayed
the wooden monkey bars you climbed
hopscotch you played
with all the boys
your laugh was like the sun.
and then that day, it came.
the agonizing pain:
rapid heart rate, weak knees, dizzy mind,
throbbing muscles.
it lasted months – the nightmares
even longer. you lay in bed surrounded
by your fluffy rabbits, cats, dogs, penguins.
you squeeze them tight – the nightmare’s
coming. the figure’s back, a shadow
silhouetted against the moon. it draws
nearer and you cry. I remember the tears
that fell. the fear behind your brave
little eyes. you were different after that.
it was the cusp of your ninth birthday.
it was the end of an era.
by Angela Martinez,
Provincetown, MA
In the Land of
the Living
A last breath is a tragedy.
For the automatic inhale, exhale
To be stopped forever
Is a crime to those who loved
The one who breathed.
But my last breath,
The one I will take in
Just a few short minutes,
Is a crime to no one.
With no family and no friends,
This lonely old man will be missed
Only by the nurses who have been
Caring for me in my illness,
And they do not love me.
by Christine Chapman,
Fort Wayne, IN
38
Teen Ink •
The Tip of
September
Adolescent
Adolescence
I read once,
but maybe not, maybe my mind fabricated it,
spooling it together for later use,
that when a person is dying,
their brain lets out a burst of euphoria, a
celestial sensation that engulfs their mind.
But this is only after a steady decay.
The trees have not yet reached that euphoria.
They live in denial about their impending
end.
My neck is craned toward the unfathomable
sky, the trees a delicate border to my vision,
and I see
the branches have shaded themselves with
drained emerald leaves;
they are near the end.
The only color radiating from them is that
of the delicate fingers of the sun,
sifting through a wall of tree trunks,
reflecting off the leaves.
But in my entire scope of vision, smatters
of maples know their end is coming,
and erupted
they have churned their pigments into
fireworks of vermilion, orange, amber,
that paint the edges of the sky.
I am standing on the tip of September,
waiting for October to rise over the horizon.
I thought that I was normal
The average teenager
Who stressed about the future
That loomed on my horizon
And watched Pixar movies
And had nerf gun wars
Because adulthood was waiting
To snatch my childhood up
by Claire Madden, Deep River, CT
moths
velvet wings whisper,
“one last dance before the rain”
my porch light stays on
by Jaanvi Sant, Pasadena, CA
Dish Rags
Use me.
I’ll be the cigarette on your cold turkey
weekend.
I’ll be Ratatouille when you’re living on
fast food and TV dinners.
Mold me into a gossamer of being, I’m
putty in your hands.
If glamour is what you crave, I’ll be an
opulence of Woman.
If noise is what you need, I’ll be a
symphony of sensuality.
Use me.
I’ll be the amnesia for your New Year’s Eve
mistakes.
I’ll be effervescence when you’re seeing in
black and white.
Stretch my skin into an action figure of
nostalgia,
I’m only alive in your memory.
If innocence is what you crave, I’ll be a
requiem of juvenility.
If silence is what you need, I’ll be a shadow
on the wall.
Squeeze liquefied hope from my pores,
Wring me out
I’m a rag of a person.
I’m a hand-me-down of faith.
Recycled.
Used.
by Julia Nell, Staten Island, NY
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
(And I know it’s not my place to judge
Because I’m the farthest stretch from perfect
That you could ever get
But I just can’t help feeling
The depth of all this sadness
About the adolescent years
That plague every generation
And leave them
breathless.)
I guess I never fully understood
How naive I really am
The innocence that I was
Formerly unaware of
Until the other day
When I overheard your conversation
About your boyfriends and your girlfriends
Throwing love around
(Or at least your idea of it
Because love is infinitely more
Than a lonely night together
In the backseat of a car)
Like it was nothing
And you and all your drunk friends
Playing beer pong all night long until
Intoxication knocked you out
Cold in a pool of your own bile
And there you slept
I never knew
It left me stunned
People I talk to every day,
Whom I consider friends
I thought you were more like me
Than them
But it seems like I’m all alone
Backseats are for road trips
And for sleeping on the seatbelt
And for spilling drinks and dropping fries,
Lost beneath the seat forever
Sleep is for a bed with covers
And an extra blanket when it’s cold
Where a pillow will support your head
And an alarm clock will wake you in
the morning
Just because you turned eighteen
And think you rule the world
Doesn’t mean you have to take your life
And throw it to the wind
And maybe all the things you do
Are right and I’m all wrong
Maybe I’m just missing
What I know should truly be
The greatest years of life
But what happens when you’re older
And have a family of your own
I wonder if your husband or your wife
Will ever find you out
Or will they be in the same boat
And when your daughter asks you questions
About what’s right and what is wrong
I think the flashback to those days
When you thought you were invincible
Will blind you with its weight
I wonder how regret will feel
You’ll think about how you
Maybe asked your parents the same thing
And then you’ll understand
And the walls you built to keep them out
Will crumble just a bit
And when your mind has turned the past up
And you truly see your child’s eyes
Filled with such potential
But waiting on the brink of lies
It’s not the answer that matters
But the depth,
Guilt or innocence aside,
Of your conviction
You’ll want with all your being
For her to choose the better path
Where backseats are for road trips,
Not for a night that steals you
And sleep is for a bed,
Not a cooling pool of vomit
Your eyes will fill with tears
Composed of love’s true depth
The memories of nights in a car
Shatter into nothingness
But teenagers know everything
The decision is no longer up to you
She turned away without seeing them
And there’s nothing you can do.
by Lauren Cox, Springfield, TN
Who should the
horror movies be
about?
It’s funny that
in reality
humans
are far more irrational
and much more catastrophic
than the deadliest virus
or the fastest zombie.
by Rayven Hoffman,
Wilmington, DE
The VCR
Vintage scars and VCRs wrapped up in
floral scarves.
Cigarette-stained teeth and cold blue eyes
that told you “I don’t care.”
Dishevelled blonde hair with a pale
white streak.
How could she let her thoughts turn to
death? She swore she would stamp it out.
She would stare at the inkblot constellation;
she knew that she would one day become
a pillar of salt.
The beauty was her curse, she was exquisite
and nothing more.
by Nicholas Casiano, Wallkill, NY
Record Player
I wish life was like a record:
stop, play.
Drag the needle back,
because
it’s all moving too fast.
by Sabrina Miller, Hazleton, PA
Stand Out?
in the end we’re
all toy soldiers
marching into the
front lines. Death
will come. Over
time, graves lose
their names.
by Kayla Ciardi, Norman, OK
Shadows of the Past
The world was painful
the corners of that
dingy old house
always stepping on a carpet of rancid glass.
Sickness was never temporary,
it had moved in.
The furniture, slanted with the grimy
floorboards.
The bite of the air was harsh
my clothes always damp.
He’d lure me in, so convincing, and
punish me
with anything he could lift
anytime she said so.
He was the dagger stabbing me, dented
and damaged,
but she was the wielder.
I’d never spoken a word
doorways were wispy dreams
parents fiction.
I was ignorant,
living in darkness.
That’s all I ever knew.
One O’Clock
Coffee
A mug of coffee poured at eight-fifteen is
different from a cup at one o’clock in the
morning.
That’s when it starts to smell sickly sweet
and reminds me that I’m up alone.
I’m not a big fan of coffee,
the way it makes my heart race
and hands shake the slightest bit
like your pale green eyes once did.
Staring into a half-empty cup,
I find myself thinking back to when
your midnight kisses would stain my cheeks
much like coffee now stains my shirt.
I can’t seem to rest like I used to.
Instead I’m pacing around my room,
around the bittersweet memories of you
that are permanently stained here.
The problem with coffee is
how fast it burns your tongue,
how hard the stains come out,
and how quickly it turns cold.
by Kelsey Jarvis, Gilmanton, NH
All I have left is the bruises.
I know everything,
freedom is automatic
given the world
I sit in one chair in my little tidy corner
of a house which reeks of money and polish.
In my flexible new stockings I can slide on
the waxy marble floors
a doctor waits for my complaint,
with a cool glass of water and a remedy
for a single curious germ
my bed feels of clouds alongside
the strange smell which lingers in my
dressers they’ve had built for the room.
She fingers the lampshades as if they are a
butterfly’s wings
and strokes my hair so very gently.
He looks expensive with flat clothes and
mirror-like shoes,
I don’t dare touch them with my filthy
poor hands.
He lifts me to his shoulder
like a princess.
He smiles at my soul and brings warmth
to my heart
while she speaks me to a lull with her coo
of a voice
more love in a woman than
I’ve ever lived to know.
I dream of their words and their touch and
their smell
and lie watching the bruises fade
hoping someday love will
heal them.
by Neena Selfridge,
Philipsburg, PA
Photo by Peter Borsilli, Forked River, NJ
movement
keep moving; save your porcelain heart
from being swept off the shelf; save
your glass eyes from shattering; save
yourself from the strain.
we are too far into this madness to
save anything but ourselves; we are
too deep into this frenzied search
for validity to salvage these last
remnants of solace.
keep moving, scatter far and away; the
world won’t stop for a little girl like
you; the wheel of time won’t stop turning
no matter how many times you brake.
we are too far in, bending until we are
shapeless, formless in our hope that life
won’t flatten us as it runs its course.
keep moving; we are too far away from
the light to escape and too far away from
the dark to abandon it all.
by Kalina Zhong,
Brookfield, WI
Google Maps
Prawn Head
Directions to his house:
1. Make a right onto the road
where you first met,
when you never expected him
to have such an impact on you.
2. Take a sharp left to the spot
where you realized
he gave you butterflies,
even though you barely knew him.
3. Turn right onto the highway
where your friend told you
that he liked you and
4. Turn left onto the road
where he finally admitted it.
5. Turn right onto the street
with the park that you went to
on your first date.
6. Take a left onto the road
with the streetlight that he pushed
you against
and kissed you for the first time.
7. Make a left onto the street
with the dead end that you always sat at
and told each other secrets.
8. You know which is the road where you
had your first fight is,
because you’re always right anyway,
so I shouldn’t have to tell you to
9. Turn left onto the street
where you realized
he actually made sense
and maybe you needed to stop being so
stubborn all the time.
10. Make a right onto the street
with the pretty house
with the pretty garden
that he stole flowers from
so he could give them to you,
because he didn’t have the money to buy
you any.
11. Turn left on the road
where he said he couldn’t do this anymore
because you deserved better.
12. Turn left on the street
where you said he was the best for you,
no matter what anyone – including him –
thought.
13. Turn left onto the street
where he decided
you should stop seeing each other.
14. Turn left onto the street
where you begged for him back
because he was all you thought you had.
15. Realize you just went in a circle and
16. Realize you never even made it to
his house, which he was embarrassed
of anyway, because of its size
and even though you never cared about that,
17. Realize he cared too much, and
18. Realize that these directions will get
you nowhere and that
19. You ended up right where you started.
Big brother loves to eat prawns
by the dozen. He’d break their
necks sucking down that fatty
headmeat.
Leaving them nothing but a zombified shell,
compliant as you throw them away.
Their use is through.
In between slurps he slurs together
a sentence. Something about
prawns, sharks, and people.
After dinner I take a walk,
past the hammerheads and the jumbo
shrimp of
the neighborhood. Trying to think of ways
to grow hands and feet.
by “Michelle,” Lancaster, NY
Love Me Not
You planted three seeds in my skin
But when I turned over soil
Only red surfaced
by Ashley Rolland,
Calgary, AB, Canada
by Michael Xiao, Gilford, NH
Tell Me
And remind me again
How the planets float in the universe
And why magic can’t be real
by Brandalyn Booth, Woodway, TX
Shine On
Take this glass
And make a window
When the light shines through
I’ll know it’s you
The shock when you left
Shattered my insides
I cascade, numb,
Into an unreal state
Functioning in a half-life
We choose your casket
Golden and lovely
Like the angel you’ve become
Whispers fill the cold, still room
As we discuss the arrangements
Reality sets in
My heart is racing and
I can’t feel my insides
At your funeral people come
And say kind things
I watch them leave
Talking, laughing
They’ve forgotten you already
They’re back to living again
And you’re stuck with the dead
The evil sun at the cemetery
Is hot on my back
How dare it shine?
While you and I suffer
Silence is thick in the air
I hear only my pounding heart
And the wind in the trees
I imagine it carries you on wings and
You watch us hide you in the ground
I don’t understand the words
They say over you
I don’t care
I just want my friend back
You’re gone
But you are still here
You spirit will never die
It will never be
Buried in the hard earth
You’ll stay in my window
Shining on me
by Amanda McMahon, Easley, SC
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
39
Pushpin Holes
he says
X and Y
Gold Rush
I tacked up a note from you
because I was hopeful
and I liked your handwriting
the way the a’s fit nicely into the c’s
the way we might if we tried.
He says, look me in the eyes
look me in the eyes and tell me you
don’t love me.
and I’m spitting mad
wisps of fire fleck from my breath
smoke steaming through in my words
But I still can’t do it.
If love were math, it’d sound like this.
I’ll be the mathematician and you can be x.
I’ll undo what’s done just so I can find you.
Can we divide the how, subtract the why, and
Simplify a world that looks far too much
like an overwhelmed
Fraction?
Can I kiss you for as long as pi goes on?
Can I get lost in your eyes the way I get
lost in the quadratic formula?
And I know that’s some freshman stuff, but
it will never make sense to
Me, the way we don’t make sense to
mathematicians, because
You and I
Are x and y
Found side by side.
We are cosine and ninety equaling
something.
But sometimes it feels like we are the
syntax error
And the Bible is the reason we can’t divide
by zero.
Behold! A singing river, vast and deep,
Littered with flecks of dazzling transience,
Toward which man flocks in smothering
heaps
Where battered feet encroach the ambience.
A towering mountain upon the plain
That refracts the sun’s gleaming golden
rays,
With majesty lost and enthrallment slain –
As man toils in want of a flinty blaze.
An enveloping sky, forever swimming
Across mines and shadows of perished
dreams,
Since buried in mounds of treasures brimming
To dim tender sparks of eternal streams.
With pockets teeming man feels himself soar,
Until the song of the river is heard no more.
I tacked up a picture of you
because I was besotted with your face
and I liked the way your freckles
made me want
to kiss you until every single dot on
your face was blushing.
I tacked up a ticket from a movie we went to
because I was nostalgic
and I liked the movie but mostly I just
liked
you.
I tacked up a poem you told me about
because I was in love with the things
you were in love with
and I liked the words but not nearly
as much as I liked the way your
voice sounded reciting them.
I tacked up a picture of us
because I was in love with you
and I liked that you were in love with
me too.
Now my corkboard is full of holes
where pushpins used to be
and the ghosts of memories
won’t stop haunting me
and I don’t even believe in ghosts
but I believed everything about us
and there are as many holes in the corkboard
as there are in my heart.
by Jillian Meehan,
Newtown, PA
food and wine
you’re burnt onto the bottom of everything
I know,
like a bone, or a bad
joke, I choke you out
whole, of course and
wipe the blood from my mouth
pick you out of my teeth and stare
emotionless at the black mess
at the bottom of the pan, take a drink
from the bottle in my hand only to discover
your spirits burning
the back of my throat, fermented
years ago and just now opened
and it’s too late
you’ve already intoxicated me
again, I can feel the world
slowly falling away;
fork falls to table
glass falls to floor
in a crash splatter tinkle carpet stain
and the rest of you spreads
and takes root
impossible to remove
as my poisoned frame lands
on the rug we bought together
last spring.
by Morgan Chesley,
Kasilof, AK
those blue eyes,
I’ve spent a million moments in them,
lost in their eternity
what was our personal forever
that with our sweaty hands interlaced
finger to finger, forehead to forehead
lips just barely brushing,
we swore we would never lose
yet in the depths of our love
things started to get murky
lost in so much lust
that the line was blurred along the way,
a dusty edge scuffed with fighting
a distinction we forgot how to make
or didn’t want to remember.
He is more than just a boy, more than I
could ever express
but I don’t need to
he is the living expression of me,
my life poured and sifted through
passion and
my heart on his sleeve.
The flames of what we were only burn,
no longer bringing warmth,
no longer giving light.
My soul is charred with that fire I so craved
and though it stings
it is carved into my bones.
I rage against him now
choleric with the fever of a long-lost
affection
but I cannot look into those eyes,
for they have become mine
one with my suffering
one with my loss and
an embodiment of all that has been dark.
those broken lanterns into heaven
flicker so much I lose my way
and am consumed by fear,
led onto an opaque tunnel downward
plunging away from reality and into an
infinity of endings
a spectacular firework display
to end our story
this story that was never supposed to
have a finale.
by Fina Short,
Bellevue, WA
brown
it’s strange because i never liked the color
brown, but as i gaze into your eyes, i can’t
help but fall irrevocably
in love with the creamy, smooth, rich color
of mocha coffee, and i hesitate in
turning away
from you, because i don’t know
if i can function completely without
the caffeine that is your eyes
by Megha Agarwal,
Los Altos, CA
by Cassia Lev-Ruth, Skokie, IL
Dirty Mind
The purple ache of want,
raw and bitter,
festers within her
whenever he crosses by.
She is delirious with lust,
yet keeps a calm facade,
fearing – and wanting – that he’ll
strip her bare and see
the dirt lodged in the crevasses of her mind.
She goes home with hopes
of cleansing her thoughts,
but no matter how she scrubs
the residue remains.
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
Art by Joseph Santiago-Dieppa,
Northridge, CA
by Emily McNally, Medford, NJ
cartographer
ChapStick
the veins in my heart
are the lines on a map and
all roads lead to you.
Her stupid lip-glossed lips
on his stupid dumbstruck face
and I give them a few months
tops
but it’s still irritating
I mean, do you REALLY
have to suck face
in the middle of the frickin’ hallway?
I just want to get to my locker
as a sigh passes through my chapped lips
and a giggle through hers
and I smear on the cheap ChapStick
88 cents at Easy’s
where it smells like smoke and the potheads go
while the radio plays
and the man in the stainy white tank
rings up your purchase “sweetie”
and the radio always plays
ninetee-three-three Kae-Bee-H-UR
this tiny ChapStick
stings my unloved lips
all tenderness dying on top of them
sighing out only cynicism
I mean, isn’t love great?
for stupid, shallow people
and stupid lip-glossed lips
when I could love you so much more.
by Kyrah Werner, Sugarloaf, CA
40
by Kirby Jones, Garner, NC
by Beatrix Scott Swanson,
Frankfort, Germany
mustard love
i asked you to pass the rubber bottle to me
across
a
rushing
moat
of
nervous
thoughts.
my elastic pupils kept
springing back to your hairline.
(don’t notorious criminals always
return to the scene of the crime?)
my black fingers clash with your white ones
like piano keys only a half-step apart.
that’s why i fell in love with you:
because of the mustard.
by Devany West, Lawrence, KS
I understand if
you don’t want to
stick around
Come as you are
if I can stay as I am.
It doesn’t matter
if you’re ugly when you cry.
We can discuss the horrors of the world
over steaming cups of coffee
and clasp hands beneath the table.
Spill your soul out onto my bedroom floor,
but pick it up before you leave.
And don’t forget to take
your yellowing old photographs
and your favorite records,
because I’d still want you to have them
if you never came back.
And quite frankly,
most don’t.
by Leah Stagnone,
Litchfield, NH
Life in Lungs and
Clenched Fists
Life is made of gasps of air
And that sounds deep but it’s just true
As shallow as our frantic breaths
My chest’s been heaving since the womb
So I guess I know the drill
Life breaks down before a fist
An accident can cause a war
Clenched teeth drinking in their claim
Of fear and oxygen
Angry eyes speak words my mouth has
never learned
And I shake beneath my smile
Life knocks on every bolted door
In a rhythm quite familiar
Poetry tapped out in Morse
Vibrations of the soul
Which is to say, our heartbeats
And a couple gasps of air
I’ve always found it somewhat strange
The way we say that things can come to life
Really, it is life that comes to them
With a pressure on its rib cage
And a weapon by its side
by Lauren Miller,
Clemmons, NC
The Wanting
The wanting is like a faucet,
And it’s dripping blood
Down the back of your throat,
And every time a drop hits the
Spot where your heart used to be,
You gasp,
But you don’t know how to breathe
anymore.
by Romana Pilepich,
Bethel, CT
Photo by Kori Evans, Mesa, AZ
expired tuna in a
bloated can
i cough and gag
and expel you
like an overdue hairball
stuck within my throat
some mindless lover
unsuspecting
the future heartache
i will cause him
caught my curiosity
i lick my paws
to rid myself
of the rancid taste
of you
expired tuna
in a bloated can
by O. McKay, Dale City, VA
“Poetic”
I told you once
that I stayed up
all night
to watch the sun
rise on my birthday.
I couldn’t see it
from where I stood,
so I climbed
onto the top of
my brother’s
friend’s van,
and waited,
wrapped up in a blanket,
and sitting on a towel,
because it rained through the night.
I sat in awe
as the sky erupted
into egg-yolk
yellows
and bubblegum
pinks.
“Poetic,”
you had said.
That sunrise,
of course,
could not hold a candle
to that moment when
you looked at me,
smiling,
not with your lips,
but your eyes.
Thanks
reunion via list
Her T-shirt says Pants on it.
His says Don’t Tell Me What To Shave.
This is not what I thought and I
want to go home.
I did not know the Ferris wheel was
crooked.
I did not know he would ask me to share
a capsule
and hold my hand until we stepped on
solid ground again.
I did not know he would get bored and
make us leave the fair early and
walk across highways. My shoes left welts
on my talus and crushed my metatarsals.
I did not know they would sneak inside
jokes into our talk and
leave me out when convenient.
I did not know he would tease me for ordering
a smoothie instead of a meal and he would
eat with his mouth open and listen to her
tell stories about her sexual endeavors.
I do not care. These are my friends.
I did not know that when she would leave
he and I for a moment
we would not be able to speak because
he’s too busy averting eye contact and I’m
too busy trying to keep parched words
from singing through my teeth,
and I did not know that when she would
return and he would leave,
and I would tell her that he’s a damn mute
with me, that when he would return, she
would only leave again.
And I did not know that when I would leave
and come back, they’d be wearing each
other’s shirts,
and that I’d feel so awful.
And I did not know that when we would
leave for her house,
my brain wouldn’t shut off and I’d get that
pounding in my chest and the restlessness
in my fingers and the dizziness in my head
and I’d start thinking and not be able to
keep track of my thoughts because they’re
coming and going so quickly and
what if they just hate me and
they brought me along
because I’m a good buffer,
and what if we get in a car accident, I mean,
her mom isn’t the best driver and
my parents don’t know that we ever even
left the fair, and
I think I’m going crazy, I mean,
it can’t be normal to feel like this –
like my past has been displaced by the
night terrors I had as a kid and like
my future is just those same horrors and
like this car ride is symbolic of my incessant
downward spiral and
why won’t it just end?
Is this permanent?
I did not know that I would have to ask her to
ask her mom if I could be dropped off
before he and she go to her house.
I figured I’d be breathless by the end of
the night.
I’d been hoping for a different reason
this time.
i am playing tetherball
with my cerebral cortex
simply trying to comprehend
what your deal is
i can’t wrap my head around
all your syntax errors or
your internal malfunctions
now you’re gone
and i think i may be
so confused
that everything appears crystal clear
like when the water in the shower
is so hot that it’s cold
i saw you on a list
that i signed and it’s funny
because we haven’t been that
close in ages; only a few
crowded lines away
from holding hands
your R sliding into my Y
creating old sparks to sizzle
and then igniting the paper
leaving us in ash where we started
and leaving me puzzled
as usual
by Rennie Svirnovskiy,
Chesterfield, MO
by Timmi Sturgis, Eugene, OR
by Yuma Carpenter-New, Beloit, WI
The Queen of
Cauterization
I am the Queen of Cauterization.
I shape blisters into bandages
and use licking flames to tame the forest fire.
If you get too near to me
you may find that you too begin to smolder
struck by the matchsticks
I hide under my skin.
You should not be offended;
this is not my defense.
Take it as a battle wound
a red-hot blade
pressed into the gaping wound
I will tear into your chest.
See, I’m helping you:
I’m just burning you
before you can bleed.
by Willa Hart, Milford, MI
The Lake House
A pigment of pastel ripples
in liquid embrace.
The sun, the crumpled leaves
melt inward.
The dock, the wooden cottage
slip into the water.
The elderly maples skip stones.
They drop like starlight
on horizon.
The red leather couch
meets woolen socks.
A window peeks
through the drapes.
A melted blue pupil
seeps into brown curls.
The water softens the dock,
the rough rug of the lake house.
The warm fall colors,
the soft lake
melt into me.
by Grace Sowyrda, Boston, MA
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
41
The Language
of Music
The sun rises
with the opening of
your eyes
and sets
to the sound of your fingers
falling upon Fender frets.
My days are spent within the hollow
spaces of your humble hallucinations.
Fantasies filled with laughter
and a lethal lust for
vinyl record collections.
I picture your black Vans
striking the pavement
of Main Street,
hair hiding your headphones
as if it was against the law to show
the curves of your ears.
Our favorite store,
located nearly three miles
from home,
but you made the six-mile round trip
because you knew how much
I adored my tattooed Travis Barker.
You taught me how to play guitar
and guided me towards pop punk riffs
that destroyed
the feeling my fingertips once held.
You took my soul
and buried it inside a band
668 miles away, in the heart of
Franklin, Tennessee.
My favorite lyrics spill like lava
out of the volcano you call your lips,
and I dare not kiss them
because although your tone is off key
and your voice is cracking,
I would rather see you happy
than to waste time “lip smacking.”
You sing for me
a sweet lullaby
when all I was taught
was crying into slumber
and tallying tragic sheep.
We took a rustic road trip
with a few flannel-wearing friends.
I learned that day that perhaps
indie music holds a somnolent effect
beside you.
I learned that these memories
hold nocturnal-inducing levels of
nostalgia.
They keep my mind alert
with reminders that
no dream or fantasy
could ever recreate the
harmony of your voice
through the thick
summer breeze of adolescence.
“I love you”
by Brandee Butkiewicz, Oshkosh, WI
Dreaming of You
I dreamt of you
and that we kissed;
although
I know it wasn’t real,
I still wake up
breathless.
by Amanda Snary,
Cambridge, ON, Canada
42
Teen Ink •
viewfinder
i look out my
foggy window
and
trace your name on
the moist
glass
thinking that if
i could view the
world
through you
i’d
finally know what
you see
in
me
by Callie Zimmerman, Fishers, IN
Sold and For Sale
My heart is for sale
at your auction,
my mind already sold,
and my body awaiting
a price tag.
Parts of me
sit in different spots,
lost and aimless
in your pile of used junk;
the aftertaste you try to expel
from your conscience.
I’ve sat long enough,
its time to stand up
against how you mistreat people,
abuse their spirits,
toy with their emotions,
hurt their feelings.
If only I still had my brain,
I would figure out how
to stand up.
An Autumn
Journey
Giggles float through the air
As the early fall breeze blows through the
changing leaves
It’s a joyful atmosphere
No one to bother us, it’s just you and me
As the early fall breeze blows through the
changing leaves
We’re on a raft drifting down the river
No one to bother us, it’s just you and me
The sunlight on the water is silver
We’re on a raft drifting down the river
Singing songs as loud as we can
The sunlight on the water is silver
Safe in your arms I am
Singing songs as loud as we can
Falling into the water for fun
Safe in your arms I am
Our journey has only begun
Falling into the water for fun
It’s a joyful atmosphere
Our journey has only begun
As my giggles float through the air
You build us a fire to keep warm
As the sun sets and night falls
Playing your guitar in a musical storm
In the distance an evening bird calls
by Mikaela Harmsen, New City, NY
Like Drift Wood
(You)
Your love is priceless
I once thought I found the tag
it was a mistake.
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
by “Alex,” Woodstock, VA
Telling stories and laughing
Playing your guitar in a musical storm
We’ll stay awake through the night chatting
In front of the fire that’s keeping us warm
real love
by Amanda McMahon,
Easley, SC
I. When he introduces you to his mom at a
football game
try not to forget if you’re left-handed or
right-handed when you shake her hand.
When she asks you where your mom works,
don’t pretend
that she makes more money than she really
does.
II. You’ll see him at school the following
Monday, and he’ll act
like he’s never seen you before, and you
will have to act like each time he touched
you didn’t feel like
he was searing his initials into you with a
branding iron.
III. Two weeks later, he’ll tell you that
you’re talentless. He’ll be joking,
but you’ll still cry, fake sick, and go
home early.
Don’t tell your father that
someone else’s words did that much
damage to you;
refuse supper that evening.
IV. Forget his middle name. Don’t look
him in the eye
when he says hello to you in the hall. Tell
your friends you don’t
know what you ever saw in him.
As the sun sets and night falls
Telling stories and laughing
In the distance a wolf howls
We’ll stay awake through the night chatting
by Christopher Jackson, Rochester, NY
Age: unknown
Name: changeable
#: does it matter?
Drifter
Sailing – NO
Floating through life
Without an anchor
NO!
You have one (anchor): me
But, you. You are the only you
Drifter? Yes
Nameless, faceless?
Not to me (only sometimes)
Replicable (me, not you)
Stoic, steadfast, a “Bright Star”
<like Keats’>
With a dull personality (I am, that is)
We? We clashBumpgrindcreak
I, interchangeable and you, unfaithful
We, over
I, done
You, gone
Not coming back (to me) here
A Crush in (IV) Parts
by Aaliyah Cobb, Lukin, TX
You’re Metaphoric
Your lips are an oaky red wine,
And I won’t have another sip of alcohol in
my life
(If I can help it).
Your touch is acid rain,
And I’m a brick building in New York,
Slowly disintegrating with every drop.
Your eyes are the ocean on a foggy day
That I no longer wish to swim in
Since what happened on June 20th, 1975.
You’re the flame of a campfire,
Burning my roasting marshmallow
(And people wonder why I don’t like
s’mores anymore).
You’re all the stupid metaphors I come up
with,
Trying to make my poems seem like
romantic comedies,
But I’m no Reese Witherspoon,
And this isn’t Sweet Home Alabama.
by Nikki McComiskey, Uncasville, CT
Photo by Luz Tur-Sinai Gozal, Sunnyvale, CA
Cracked Mirrors
I see you in cracked mirrors
when I’m browsing vintage shops.
They remind me of your eyes
when you kissed me like you meant it.
When I’m browsing vintage shops,
I think of stealing broken lamps because
they remind me of your eyes.
You used to melt into my fingers.
I think of stealing broken lamps because
I no longer remember to turn the lights on.
You used to melt into my fingers
when you were held tight to my wrists.
I no longer remember to turn the lights on
because you held me like a knife.
When you held tight to my wrists,
I began breaking things.
Because you held me like a knife
when you kissed me like you meant it,
I began breaking things.
Now, I see you in cracked mirrors
by Megan Sims, Dallas, TX
Irresistible
Steps
The Conclusion
Hiding Light
An unusual thing about you
Is that your kindness
Makes me sick.
Love you most
When you treat me so badly.
Love the way you’re savage
And bitter
You worm your way through
Just to get at me.
Your “no offense” statements cook up
my cells,
Slowly, as if your existence is like that of
scarlet fever.
But even as you take up the knife
A grin is stretched upon my lips.
Because I’m no better.
I can’t suck it up.
I can’t keep my filthy, foul mouth shut
I keep
On
Screwing up.
Our hate for each other
Is quite irresistible.
Suck the life out of me
Like the way I do with strawberries.
Suck the crimson vitality
Right out of me.
Because I don’t care what you think of me
As long as my name
Echoes in your mind from time to time.
Now we grow apart
Not speaking as if we are strangers
So I’ll come up from behind
And whisper something daunting in your ear
So that we can fight again.
It’s better than nothing.
It’s all so bad and wrong,
But it doesn’t get any better.
I love our passionate
Burning
Pure hate for one another.
The loathing relationship we share
Is all too irresistible.
Heavy and redundant are the steps
that lead to
The golden understanding of harsh reality.
And my arms are too weak to stay
So closely attached to the dogmatic
And demanding little details of
Happenings from before I
Came to
Be.
But through the sweet and featherweight
Laughter of your forest green irises, I
Feel the trickle of goosebumps
Your lips send down my
Dreams and legs and
Life.
I don’t know what I know but I know
what I feel
When I look into the sky at night
Or listen to you
Speak.
Somehow I know there’s a connection
between your patience and
Every little particle of my stubborn mindset;
you call yourself
Whimsical, but really, aren’t I the one with
all the heavier
Desires I so wish would be granted
And the truth I so desperately
Expect to be handed
To me on a
Silver
Tray
?
I sat down at my old wooden desk that
smells of pine needles
And found a formula to forget
I calculated and created, imagined and
speculated
All for my oblivion
Early in the morning I fell across a
conclusion of sorts
Not a perfect answer but a stable estimation
I calculated that for every look
I must look twice into his eyes
For every light angel wing touch
I must become the angel
For every time my name was said in velvet
I must say my name with stone
For every long goodbye
A brief hello
For every kiss that brought stars to my door
And shivers to my core
I must deny him my brittle heart
6 in the morning and the equation was done
With empty coffee cups and wet cheeks
With every line cross and ink-stained thumb
I discovered through my bleary sleep-ailed eyes
I cannot rewrite his lips from my skin
I cannot wipe the words from my lips
Or the jumps in my bones at his touch
But I can fall asleep in sun-drenched blankets
And remember them as old friends taken
too soon
And bury them under the daisy-sprung soil
It’s not the fact you left
It’s mainly the reason why
To run away like a dirty thief
Hiding me with a lie
It’s like taking the sun away
Hiding its precious glow
Behind a sinner’s scarred-up back
So no one else would know
The shadow covers your face
And light shines from behind
Illuminating the scars
Putting doubt in your mind
All the light ever did for you
Was give you all she had
And you had to go and hide it
What a shame. Too bad.
by Vivien Sundes, Oshkosh, WI
doors
some romances must die
tragically
so they do not die
quietly
like the closing of a door
that you didn’t care enough
to slam.
by Danielle Colburn, Byron Center, MI
And we’re fighting invisible forces and
being dragged through
The current of time while enveloping
each other
In something so f***ing
Beautiful I shout
And love and
Wait.
And you respond and follow me with you
gentle
Caring thoughts and respect and Love
That isn’t scared away
With questions or
Answers or
Future or
God.
Because I’ve never really been completely
blind
And looking at me from a close distance
Makes me shake my head and roll
My eyes and laugh, but
This me is stronger
And I will never
Quit fighting
For your
Precious
Love.
by Lisa Mavrodieva,
Gainesville, FL
Why Not Me?
you always fall asleep before me
with your eyes tightly shut and
your hands gripping the sheets
and i always lie awake wondering
why your hands would be around the sheets
and not me
Photo by Allyson Busch, McDonough, GA
by Chan Trier Rhodes, Beijing, China
by Rosemary Day, Lydney, England
Destiny
Walk the hallway, calmly, slowly
Look down, little girl, or you should fear.
Grip the roses. (Thorns will bite you.)
Watch your step. (The time is near.)
Petals scattered, feelings tattered;
Expectations fain emerge.
Tickling sorrows in your stomach,
Butterflies are on the verge.
Cold pearls resting, veil your qualms.
Soft silk trailing, hum your tune.
Oh, it shall never match this song,
But destiny has come too soon.
You’re getting closer, lift your head –
But could you venture to meet his gaze?
Blood shows through like roses, red,
Because this walk has been arranged.
Take the hand that’s stretched before you;
Climb the steps, dear, one by one …
One. Two. Three is plenty.
You can’t turn back once it is done.
Oaths like tremors, words like daggers
Pulsing, stabbing through your heart.
A lonely tear runs slow and helpless,
Sane emotions ripped apart.
Promise, loyal. Lie and mean it.
Sign here on the dotted line.
Do not read the fine, fine print,
Or you will surely hope to die.
Stop you’re thinking; no escaping
C’est la vie; repeat these words:
With singsong voice, and conscience grating,
“’Til death do us part” was faintly heard.
Exchange expressions with your Judas,
Trembling, quick! Avert your eyes.
A voice that shatters on your eardrums
Whispers loudly, “Kiss the bride.”
by Amber Aylesworth,
Gray Court, SC
Asthma
Compose a message, yes please,
I send my feelings through the glorious
network that is the Internet,
A world filled with images, documents,
information,
I wait for the reply, the notification that
you’ve received my heart.
Maybe it reached your spam, or maybe
you forwarded it straight to your trash,
I hold my breath for you, not because I
truly want to, but you are my asthma,
You’re my inhaler: every time I see you I am
refreshed,
Like my soul emerged from the depths of
an icy ocean,
The sword your body creates cuts me every
time you turn,
My body paralyzed when you say my name,
rushing to think of something to say in
return,
My breath halted, not because I chose to
pause it, but because you’re my asthma,
I would freeze my feelings and serve them
to you,
Heat it up in the microwave of what could
have been,
Use the fork of what probably won’t be,
And enjoy them like a typical TV dinner;
The meal still lingering on my breath, I
choke, not because I ate too fast, but
because you’re my asthma,
What lies behind the doors of your eyes, I
gaze unfalteringly into them, hoping to
unlock it,
You hold my gaze right back, what does
that mean, what do you feel?
Is it just a look of wanting something to happen, or do you wonder why I look?
You’re my Miss Fortune, my muse, my
unlimited inhaler,
Yet I choke and cough, not because there’s
something in my lungs, but because
you’re my asthma.
by Samuel Sudlow,
Baltimore, MD
by Karyn Payne, Gainesville, FL
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
43
Furrow
Bruises she left on the insides of my thighs:
Like postage stamps, like Girl Scout badges,
like wax seals on envelopes, like stickers
on Granny Smith apples
She told me,
In the dark, on a blanket spread on the floor,
That she had waited three years to tell
anyone that she was sick
That she was dying
And that
If she had told someone sooner
They would have been able to do something.
It’s not your fault. Don’t ever, ever think
it’s your fault.
I can see your spine through the skin of
your back:
Like cat-eye marbles rolling on the blacktop,
like pistachios in a plastic bag, like dice
clicking across the Monopoly board
She told me
In her room, at dusk, with her arms tight
around my waist
That sometimes she would be so tired that
she would hear things
Sounds, voices,
Buzzing in a chaotic fog
In her hospital room, at night
And I remembered when
I heard the same noises in my head.
And I recalled what it felt like
To never be able to separate
From the person who repulsed me the most.
Lingering
Duo of Destiny
Pressure lingering on my mouth:
Like swollen skin, like being half-awake,
like a typewritten letter, like soft fog
hanging over redbrick buildings
I told her
With my forehead against hers, with my
fingernails in her arm
I wish you saw yourself the way I see you
Like someone
Unlike anyone I’ve seen before
Like the strongest person I’ve ever met
Like someone who keeps going
No matter how many times she is told
to stop.
It’s a lingering, not a rush
of feeling, but
it stays with
you.
It haunts
you.
It’s waking up in a cold sweat,
thinking she was lying next to you, but
she’s gone,
and you could have sworn
she
was the warm rush of air on your barren
neck.
That’s what love is,
a lingering.
With light in our eyes we set out.
The world at our fingertips.
No one could understand the true meaning
Behind our eyes.
The adventure.
The anxiety.
The awe.
We stepped out into the world unknown.
Not knowing
How our days will end.
I look over
Meeting your eyes.
Knowing that we’re ready.
To face anything life heads our way.
by Sabrina Ortega-Riek, Flagstaff, AZ
by Seth Schilling, Wilmington, DE
Parking Lot
and he wanted to
say “bye-bye”
A tree glimmers green
The lot sits flat, black, and dull
Why are they so close?
by “Jessica,” Chardon, OH
My eyes are covered with duct tape
fabrics, and tongue decompressers. My
eyes can no longer taste the crystal
sugars as they fall onto my lashes
Furrows in flesh:
Like the sidewalk stuttering against a crack,
like chalk scraping on concrete, like heat
shimmering restlessly over the highway
She told me
Through the heavy afternoon, without our
shirts on
That she hated the rough seams on her
stomach
And looked for marks on my body:
My cheek, my shin, the crook of my elbow.
I could only say
That I loved the scars, because they are a
part of her
And spell stories more powerful than any
poetry I’ve read.
You wouldn’t have wanted to know me
when I was in the hospital:
Like a man who has never blinked, like a
moth with cuts on its wings, like a
skeleton made of stacks of buttons
She told me
On her bed with the window open; the
dogwood trees shedding white petals
That she thought she was going to die
when she was nine years old
Some days
She wishes she had
And I told her that I knew what it felt like
to wish
Not for death
But to never have existed.
Color beneath skin:
Like azure canals cutting beige desert, like
twilight over a soccer field, like beer
bottle caps, like soft-edged sea glass
She told me
Wrapped in a woolen blanket at three in the
morning
That she hated herself, because it was all
her fault
Because no one ever told her
She was anything but a disappointment
Reflection in the mirror comes from
cut-up pieces of diagnoses that litter
the wastebasket
in my corner.
and latex gashes
drip down to the waist, where the therapist said
kids could be cut out of.
The doctor said no, he had a
frown on his face, as if anyone had the
intention of listening to his swollen words.
with that piece of paper pasted onto the
walls
by the sticky cells.
Photo by Katie Heiserman, New York, NY
High Tide, Low Tide
the ocean curls and churns,
extends and retracts,
constantly moving, stretching, reaching.
it batters the shore and bellows a roar
crashing against rocky cliffs.
I stand still and watch.
pink seashell,
glimmering under afternoon sun,
half buried in a puddle of sand.
the ocean licks the shore,
attempting to grasp at this
forgotten treasure,
only to fade into scorched sand
as bleached and dry as bone.
I stand still and watch.
placid water lays flat in the rivets of my
palm.
ocean laps at sandy shores,
and milky clouds break
over calm skies.
I stand still and watch.
by Grace Brindle, Westfield, NJ
metal freezes my skin on c o n t a c t
there’s nothing else
that condenses a fluid better than
your skin
on mine
which is why i’m here
and again, i can’t leave.
in the mirror there are bones, jutting out
from angles,
welded together, but they’re rusting now,
you’re not listening, you’re not listening
again
(we’re kicking inside of mummy’s
stomach,)
mummy’s rolling in her grave, seeing her
daughter
tied up in white on silver beds
not the wedding she imagined
but she’s too late, my bent-up toenails
jut out from white heels
(with each step down the line
we leave a crumb trail of blood)
by Ada Cohen, Tomball, TX
Clockwork
Fix me, I’m broken.
All alone in this mystery.
Like clockwork, I tick back and forth,
never truly moving past the six, never truly
moving back to the five.
A tiny kink ruining me,
making me lose track of the time.
by Cheyenne Demb, Littleton, CO
44
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
by Nicholas Lemus, Saugerties, NY
Drugs Don’t
Make You Happy
I would like to take some of your enthusiasm
and inject it into my veins,
feel a light in my heart ignite an intake of
breath.
I could tear off your smile
and take it like a hit of acid.
It dissolves on my tongue and
hits me in minutes.
I will pour your laughter into a syringe
and push it through my arm, into my
bloodstream.
It burns at point of entry but feels good
everywhere else.
I want to roll your happiness into a paper
Lick it and light it.
Feel the smoke reach into the empty vessels
within my body.
My parents warned me about the roaches
that aren’t bugs.
Or the white powder in baggies
that is not for cooking.
But they never warned me about
what some happiness can do.
by Kylie Nelson, Moorhead, MN
Bus B43
Purple balloon treasure,
Red jacket to warm bare arms,
Tying tangled hair with pink ribbons,
Twitching to silent metal music –
The trees are violins, and aluminum cans
Are cellos and drums and basses.
Leaves rustling outside like red heartbeats,
Dropping in autumn wind.
A blue dingy bike and paper bag,
Black backpack ripped at the seams,
Holding bits of brown comfort:
Their cardboard kingdoms,
Filled with rat-infested blankets
And garbage can trophies.
Dirt-smudged chin,
Snaggle-toothed grin,
Goosebumps turning contagious
With colder weather.
A man and a woman, unrelated,
And me.
We are the trio
On bus B43.
by Jocelyn Mosman, So. Hadley, MA
Simply Rain
Break Away
Sylvia
I like rain.
It covers me with its soft droplets,
Like kisses from a gentle lover.
It refreshes my body,
But more importantly,
Refreshes my mind.
I like the cold sensation it leaves,
The way it chills my skin.
It makes me focus,
Keeps me from noticing other
Beautiful distractions.
I like the way it messes with my hair,
Making me look more like a crazed woman
Than an average teenage girl.
I like it when it hits my face,
Forcing me to squint,
Changing my view of the world.
I like when it rains just a little,
Making a bit of cool freshness to stay
behind,
And for the sound of gentle drops hitting
our window
To become a calming melody,
That keeps me safe from fear.
I like it when it rains a lot,
Causing the tiny trees outside
To be weighed down,
And for the only sound I hear
Be the sound of raindrops pounding on our
window.
I like the smell after rain,
The moist yet clean fragrance that coats
the air,
As though it’s still holding the drops in it.
I guess you could say I love rain.
She looked thoroughly disturbed.
I couldn’t understand.
And neither could she.
I pluck my veins,
Like wilting flowers.
I tried to write you a letter, Sylvia,
But my fingers were dry.
I called for you,
But I choked on the vowels & ground my
jaw against the S.
My head hurts, Sylvia,
Traumas biting my skull again.
I thought I saw you, Sylvia,
Your fingertips
Brush against the quivering surface,
Of a ground that’s not so solid.
Bleed for me, Sylvia,
I want you to bleed for me,
Just not the crimson sort.
Soften my words,
With an oven’s gas.
Ring my bell, Sylvia,
Let the echo skin my eardrums.
Bury me, Sylvia,
Bury me deep
In the jar of your heart.
by Honora Moore,
Melbourne, FL
Forest Dreams
You realized them!
Devilish imps.
I observed the sun splatter onto the
pavement
and their ghoulish excitement as they
primped
the forest anew – festive with vibrancy.
Did you release them?
From the cages of dreams I hold secret –
so are you the culprit?
Unlocked, one by one!
Their breath freezes time and wind in ice
and their blood simmers into the sea
now churning purple, surpassing
one’s perception of reality.
Their voices are demonic in your ears –
breath as vile as their skewed spirits
and their mood poisons the clouds in
green tears –
the sun black like their piercing eyes.
Wait, there are no imps?
So it is all one’s imagination
… Or mine, more like
I can no longer differentiate
between life and reality, unlike
those whose eyes are gray with fog
their hearts no longer in song
for adulthood is cunning
with its great whip:
it dries Dreamland and its flowing streams
of happiness.
by “Helen,” Oceanside, CA
She wanted to know,
but I couldn’t tell.
The silence lasted
for longer than we would ever need.
And when it ended,
so did we.
by Shannon Hall,
Louisville, KY
Photo by Cheyenne Plaster, Naples, FL
Mistaken
I.
There are evenings when
the moon is darkened in your favor.
Our conversation disintegrates.
The rebellious sound of silence
Filling veins with vacant pleasure.
I want you to kill me
Before those haunting brown eyes do.
Trembling hands holding trembling knees,
Your touch is something so familiar to me.
You welcomed my sadness
Like it was an old friend,
One who would insist upon
Small talk and a cigarette.
II
I’m stuck in a place between alive and dead
Spending time dreaming of a spirit realm
To be a state of consciousness
Rather than to take physical form.
But I’d take a body instantly
If it meant holding you again.
I want to stop the dreaming,
The longing.
If only I knew that would be the last time
I slept next to you,
I’d wrap my lips around yours again
Suck the poison out of you
Heal your sociopathic soul
But you don’t want to be healed, and
neither do I.
We thought we could save each other
we were hopelessly mistaken.
by Marissa Herrera, Miami, FL
Call us first-timers
Us stargazers, staring at the sunlit
moon, can match its shade of burn.
Trumpeting the world with our
joy manifesto the days we are
motherless.
Tongue-tied with a mouth full of
wish-prayers. We know precipice
like waterfalls know precipice.
Loose fingers and old souls
holding both
invitations and apologies.
When we were cast, no one
told us the fruit tasted so sweet.
That, we figured out ourselves.
by Madison Cho, Portland, OR
number 23
tell me why I’m floating
to the top, like oil
on water,
cold feet on
crisp morning grass
by Carrie Tomberlin, Hanahan, SC
by Isabella Plotnik, Brooklyn, NY
Ode to Teddy
He is stitched with gold
Soulless eyes reflect your every move
He watches you and waits to be played with.
He is as soft as your grandmother’s carpet
And sits on a shelf high above your tiny hands.
The tallest stool in the home can’t break the
Barrier of a two-year-old’s reach.
You dream of the day you can finally shatter
the glass
Holding you back.
The toddler feet glide along the itchy wool
carpet
Like a new pair of boots on a fresh sheet of ice
Her pigtails bounce as though they are
Blonde paws scratching at the ideas
of creativity
The red bows wrapping almost too tight
She has no care or worry but a desire to
discover.
Those who hold her hands
Diminish quality.
Spinning out of control, her heart and her
mind argue
Teenage years deteriorate the visions of the
passionate
And hinder the path of the determined.
Retreating to the door that contains her
hopes and fears
And closes her off from the foreign tongues
that cut her ears
She finds Teddy
Stitched with gold
Soaked with tears
Growing up, she grows apart
Losing herself, she discovers
Those who deserve pain the least
Feel it the most
She shivers like a philanthropist
Watches their success diminish
As her attackers torment her once more
She finds herself back at home
The same that holds Teddy
Her only friend
He lacks response
He holds her hand
He understands
When no one else did.
by Hannah Carty, Happy Valley, OR
POETRY
•
blue base
water weighs nothing.
it is
liquid glass between my
outstretched hands
as I drift to the bottom
and settle like sand.
don’t tell me to come back up
for I can only speak in
bubble curtains
thick and sparkling clear.
instead join me
here at the bottom
of the busy world
where the blue is deep and soft
and silent.
by Kristian Rivera, Wasilla, AK
Second Star to
the Right
i am still waiting
for your letter of apology
for not taking me
away from this place
sooner
before they tattooed
me with their artwork
seeped into my skin
i cannot remember
whether it was a dream
or not
when i saw you
fly by my window
with another
fairy-dust-sprinkled child
but it doesn’t matter now
if you are real
or if the kingdom
where the clock is frozen
ever existed
because i don’t
want to stay
this way
by Chinasa Okezie, Hayward, CA
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
45
Burning Beauty
Perfection
A blazing inferno roars with flickering eyes
of flame,
Doused in fuel, unspeakably cruel,
Only ashes remain.
I was sitting on the couch
right next to you
with a book in our lap
You were reading
so all I had to do was listen
to your thick viscous voice,
surrounding me like a blanket,
filling every nook and cranny
so that all that was left of my little world
was you,
me,
and the puny book between us.
The words seemed to roll off your tongue
like a lullaby.
You had mastered the art
of telling stories,
every word perfection.
I remember staring at the book,
willing the last page not to come.
But even I know
that the best of things must end eventually.
But there are always
days like today,
when I stare at my bookshelf,
and my hands instinctively guide me
towards the section of picture books,
like they did many years ago.
And as I sit on the floor,
I read the book silently to myself
and I imagine
that I am sitting on the couch
right next to you
with a book in our lap
but with your syrupy voice filling my head
instead of my own.
Yet
When I gaze into its vivid amber hues,
I am hypnotized by the dazzling sunrise
Powered with ambition, aspiration, and
anticipation
This blanket of orange and red silk
Glistens like jewels on a crown
I am mesmerized by the evaporating flares
Recreated, rekindled, and resplendent.
by Sara Kay, Honolulu, HI
Those Nights
in the City
Peach smoke and hot nights
washable tattoos
cigarettes
wandering without purpose
while trying to find a destination
that is still unknown.
Shaking off the loom and gloom of
the future,
pressing between my shoulder blades,
propelling me forward
and I’m stumbling.
But there are times
when I open my mouth
and wade
through the sweet smoke and close
my watering eyes and
enjoy the fire that engulfs me.
strolling down empty cobblestoned streets,
glowing,
leaning against walls and
feeling brick scratching my skin.
I send those who pass me
my regards
and I laugh quietly –
bitter or hopeless
or scared
or joyful
I do not know,
I–
I cannot remember….
by Jennifer Thal,
Newtown Square, PA
Ecchymosis
His kiss is foam
But to split
Our lives I need now
He is my home
But I have
Ecophobia
Nowhere to roam
I am trapped
In his desire
Fingers a comb
Attacking –
My ecchymosis
by Emme Ostrander,
Rockville, MD
by Ashley Bott, Oshkosh, WI
Smile (Even If Your
Lips Are Salty)
When the river speaks
I am inclined to listen,
for it is not often
she has something to
say, but she did that
day, out of pity,
maybe, came her
warning, but I
already knew.
That all memories
are pieces thrown into
a basket, and now and
then we pluck them out
for our tender hearts
to either weep or smile
over, and baby, smiling
is all I can do. We
grow barbed wire
otherwise, and I
don’t want to bleed
internally forever,
so just remember the
way the leaves spun
round like a ball
dance, how the sun
blushes because we
call morning beautiful,
let the stars
brighten your night
(and don’t forget
to smile.)
by Andi Abbott, Wichita, KS
46
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
A Love Affair
with Orange Juice
I take you home with me
From the market,
All the while restraining myself
From drinking you
Until morning time.
But I can’t bear it…
I want you,
I NEED you,
You are the love of my life.
So I break under the pressure
And take out a glass,
I open the fridge
Take you in my hand,
And pooouur.
You are now in my cup,
I hope you don’t mind.
I say a prayer to the fruit gods
And pay my respects.
Then I take a sip.
And another,
And another,
I can’t stop.
I keep gulping away
To the very
Last
Drop…
Oh no!
I realize as I look at the empty jug.
My one and only love is…
GONE!
I scream
I shout
I cry
I am ready to die.
Oh, what wouldn’t I do,
To get myself some more of you.
by Victor Morrison, Rochester, MA
First Kiss
It was dark
I scaled the walls
Feeling them with shaking hands
Laughter was heard from outside the door
Probably my friends messing around
Unaware of my absence
I’m conscious of hands on my sides
He said he wanted to talk
What an odd way to start a conversation.
I could see the outline of his face through
the dim light
Knowing that behind the shadows
Were the coffee eyes I melted in every day
I could feel them pulling through the haze
Slowly closing as he pulled my waist to his
And then soft hands on my cheeks
Pressure on my lips
Hello foreign tongue,
Nice weather today
What an odd way to start a conversation.
My eyes were wide open
And I know that’s not how you’re supposed
to kiss
(Not from experience or anything)
But I couldn’t grasp the situation
Years and years I had been waiting for this
It was great
Made my heart flutter in all the right ways
About halfway in I realized
The back of my hand was a very bad kisser
But at least it didn’t drag me into an empty
fire escape
What an odd way to start a conversation.
After a few minutes I pulled away
Lips tingling
I could feel the blood rushing to my head
Swinging my vision in violet loops
I looked up and could see him finally
My eyes adjusting to the gloom
He smiled and stroked my hair
“I thought you wanted to talk”
“You should have seen that coming”
“Maybe”
What an odd way to start a conversation.
by Rayanne Painter, Brentwood, CA
Bones
Photo by Elan Mayo, Marshfield, VT
Torrential
Coils of evil and dismal words
bind tightly to weak wrists and ankles
as we struggle
to stay above
the torrent ocean of life
treading to save our own.
Some look
for a raft to save them
from the roaring tides of the sea.
Yet others
stop fighting their battles
and slip under
with their final shallow breaths
and slip into an eternal sleep.
by Savanna Lubbers, Cisco, IL
every day
she vowed not to love herself
until there was less of her
to love.
she made a promise
not to fill herself with
anything but misery
until the soft slopes of her skin
became plateaus of flat perfection.
until the flashing numbers beneath her feet
no longer made her feel
sick to her empty stomach.
until the sharp points of her bones
were as obvious as
the way her smile arched and then
fell
like a wave on the shore
when people stopped watching.
until she was one they called
perfect.
by Eliza Coffin, Concord, MA
THERE IS GOOD BEHIND THE BAD,
HOPE INSIDE THE DESPAIR,
AND SPRINGTIME UNDER THE SNOW.
“Hubbard treats tragedy and new
beginnings with a skilled, delicate
hand. Her otherworldly verse and
prose form a flowing monument to
all great storytellers of the past.”
Jacket photograph © by Magdalena Lutek
—John Corey Whaley, author of
Where Things Come Back, winner
of the Michael L. Printz Award
WANT MORE FROM
JENNY HUBBARD?
“Paper Covers Rock is
dazzling in its intensity and
intelligence, spell-binding
in its terrible beauty.”
© Steve Cobb
—Kathi Appelt, author of
the Newbery Honor Book
The Underneath
BDD_AndWeStay_TeenInk.indd 1
Look inside this issue for an
interview with the author!
RandomHouse.com/Teens
12/17/13 4:04 PM