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CONTENTS M AY TEENS, GET PUBLISHED! 4 Submit online at www.TeenInk.com Feedback 18-19 College Directory 25 Art Gallery THE FINE PRINT • Submit your work through TeenInk.com. We no longer accept submissions by snail mail or e-mail. All submissions of writing and artwork through our website are considered for publication in print and online, and are also automatically entered into any relevant contests. Nonfiction 6-7 • Plagiarism. Teen Ink has a no-tolerance policy for plagiarism. We check the originality of all published work through WriteCheck. • Your submission may be edited. For space and other reasons, we reserve the right to publish our edited version of your work without your prior approval. • Anonymity. If, due to the personal nature of a piece, you don’t want your name published online or in print, we will respect that request, but we must still have accurate name and address information for every submission. • Gifts. Teens published in the magazine will receive a complimentary copy of the issue containing their work. Grandfather knows best? • Prison is not the answer • Online privacy • Feminism today POINTS OF VIEW 8 9 16 20-24 EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR 26-27 TRAVEL & CULTURE 28 • Submitted work becomes the property of Teen Ink. By submitting your work to us, you are giving Teen Ink and its partners, affiliates, and licensees the non-exclusive right to publish your work in any format, including print, electronic, and online media. However, all individual contributors to Teen Ink retain the right to submit their work for non-exclusive publication elsewhere, and you have our permission to do so. Teen Ink may edit or abridge your work at its sole discretion. To prevent others from stealing your work, Teen Ink is copyrighted by The Young Authors Foundation Inc. COMMUNITY SERVICE PRIDE & PREJUDICE Nominations for this year’s educator contest Volunteering in Tanzania Odd girl out • My awakening • Beauty product genocide Life of Dad • Going to Ottawa • The first time • Underwater • The girl is … • Good books and a green purse • Untidy geniuses • The opposite of untitled • Common language • Stuck • Hiroshima MEMOIRS Rain dance in India • A Spanish metro station • Elephant Mountain • Kenya, my land Thanks, Hermione • Author Barbara Park • Mrs. Kim HEROES Reviews 17 29 30 SUBSCRIBE & SUPPORT TEEN INK IN OUR 25TH YEAR! ■ $35 INDIVIDUAL SUBSCRIPTION One copy per month for 10 months (we don’t publish in July or August). Please enclose a check or credit card information for $35. ■ $79 EDUCATOR SPECIAL COLLEGE MUSIC NYU, Abu Dhabi • Colorado State • University of New Hampshire Sun Kil Moon • The Weeknd • Purity Ring • Ezra Furman The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim • Bloons Tower Defense 5 • Assassin’s Creed 3 • Jet Grind Radio VIDEO GAMES 31 MOVIE 32 BOOKS 12 Years a Slave • The Perks of Being a Wallflower • The Italian Job • Keith Lemon: The Film Paper Towns • More Than This • Tides • Panic • Liv, Forever 33-38 Fiction 39-47 Poetry ••••• ON THE COVER One copy per month for 10 months, plus three 30-copy boxes (Fall, Winter, Spring). ■ $189 CLASS BOX SET 30 copies of Teen Ink each month. If you subscribe now, you will be billed $189 for the 2014-15 school year and receive the remaining issues of this school year for free. Prices include shipping & handling. PO# (if available) __________________ ■ MC ■ VISA Card #_______________________________ Exp. _____ Name:________________________________________________________________ Title/Subject:____________________________ School name (for Class Set): ____________________________________________ Address: ■ School ■ Home ___________________________________________ City:_____________________________State: ____________ ZIP: ______________ Email address: ________________________________________________________ Phone number: ________________________________________________________ Mail to: Teen Ink • Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461 2014 | VOL. 25, NO. 9 WW/PP 5/14 The Parents Issue Bedtime Kiss 10 Water 10 Discovering Dad 11 Hiding 11 “Slow Down, Pete” 12 The Great Debaters 12 The Pink War 13 The Strand Bench 13 You, Me, and the Silver Screen 14 Moving On, Moving Out 15 Fragility 15 Plus fiction & poetry about parents Online Privacy “Being friends with someone on Facebook means that I often know everything from what he did last summer to what he had for dinner last night. How can I be expected to feign interest in a story I’ve already seen tweeted, posted, and photo-tagged ten times?” “My Privacy Is Alive and Well,” page 7 Cover art by Joseph Santiago-Dieppa, Northridge, CA FEEDBACK Fast-Food Nation Reading “Fast-Food Nation” by “Allison” made me want to flip my table. Her support of fast-food restaurants was at first odd, but as the article went on, it made me outright outraged. She even had the nerve to make statements like “Simply put, the U.S. is the greatest country on Earth, and fast food is the greatest concept we have ever come up with” and “… fast-food restaurants are so great that sometimes I think they should be the only places Americans are allowed to buy food.” Allison described the benefits of the fast-food industry: “cheap, fast, easy, useful and made ‘just as you like it.’” She also claimed that it teaches children important habits and the value of time. Without going into too much detail, I’ll just say that I was constantly repeating, “Is this a joke?” The sarcasm and irony were way too overboard for it not to be phony. And then I realized … it was. On the side of the page, it said “Pointless Views” instead of “Points of View,” and the bottom said “April Fools ’14.” I admit it – I was tricked. Matthew Fine, Staten Island, NY Thank You, Teen Ink I first heard about Teen Ink in sixth grade when one of my classmate’s poems was published in the magazine. I remember wondering what it would feel like to be a published too. I had tried to write before but without much success. I always got bored and gave up before my story was finished. Recently, I stumbled upon TeenInk.com and started writing again. That’s when I realized that writing is really fun. The difference between Teen Ink and other teen magazines is that it has substance. When you read magazines about celebrity gossip and the latest fashion trends, what do you actually learn? Nothing. I always learn a lot when I read Teen Ink. This is where I get my writing inspiration. My favorite section of the website is the opinions. Issues like eating disorders, Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461 (617) 964-6800 [email protected] www.TeenInk.com Publishers Stephanie Meyer John Meyer Senior Editor Stephanie Meyer Editor Emily Sperber Production Susan Tuozzolo Katie Olsen Associate Editor Cindy Spertner Advertising John Meyer Interns Lauren Audi Lydia Wang Volunteer 4 Barbara Field To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com bullying, and other social problems are examined from various perspectives. I also like to read stories written by other teenagers. Most people understand what I’ve been through, so they aren’t critical of my actions. I can get feedback and support from people my age. It’s a place where I can share my experiences and feelings without worrying what people will think. I’ve only been a member for a few weeks, but I look forward to reading new articles every day. I’m not going to pretend that I’m a great writer, but I do love writing. Teen Ink motivates me to write and care about people in my life. I plan to keep writing and hope that my writing will be published in the magazine in the future. I believe that it would mean a lot to any teen writer to see his or her article in print. I have a few questions: How long does it take for your work to be published in the magazine after you submit it? For example, do you only consider articles submitted in April for publication in the May issue? Thank you, Teen Ink, for encouraging me to write. Thank you for making me a better person. Yilin Chen, Noblesville, IN Editor’s response: Yilin, now you are a published writer too! To answer your question, we consider submissions for up to a year after we receive them. Waiting can be difficult, but don’t lose hope. Even if your piece is not published, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t good or we didn’t enjoy it. We just get many more pieces than we can fit into ten issues per year. So What If We Can’t Vote? Through the passionate article “So What If We Can’t Vote?” author Claire Israel explained a growing problem in our nation. Both voters and underage citizens, especially teenagers, are growing increasingly ignorant about political matters. In today’s society, most teenagers don’t care CIRCULATION Reaching millions of teens in junior and senior high schools nationwide. THE YOUNG AUTHORS FOUNDATION The Young Authors Foundation, publisher of Teen Ink, is a nonprofit corporation qualified as a 501(c)3 exempt organization by the IRS. The Foundation, which is organized and operated exclusively for charitable and educational purposes, provides opportunities for the education and enrichment of young people. FREQUENCY Ten monthly issues, from September to June. ADDITIONAL COPIES Send $6.95 per copy for mailing and handling. NOTICE TO READERS Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of any advertisement. We have not investigated advertisers and do not necessarily endorse their products or services. EDITORIAL CONTENT Teen Ink is a monthly journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works written by teenagers. Copyright © 2014 by The Young Authors Foundation, Inc. All rights reserved. Publication of material appearing in Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is obtained. about who is elected, believing that it doesn’t affect them. However, the author states that many political issues impact young people, such as the No Child Left Behind Act of 2001. Claire did a wonderful job shining light on this predicament by using specific examples and clear reasoning. I agree with Claire that young people are unappreciative of our voting rights. They ignore or even scorn voting, such as the girl on Facebook mentioned in the article. Furthermore, many Americans are ignorant of political subjects, such as the names of important government figures. For the future of this country, this issue is crucial. Claire suggests that teenagers be educated and informed about political topics and elections of governors, presidents, senators, and other leaders. Teenagers could also engage in activities that are similar to the government of the United States, to foster a greater interest in politics. “So What If We Can’t Vote?” is a magnificent article about the ignorance of U.S. citizens. Hopefully this important piece will inspire young people to become more informed and involved. Vincent Jiang, Brooklyn, NY Like OMG Hi I can relate to Elizabeth Corning’s poem about cheerleading, “Like OMG Hi,” because people at my high school judge cheerleaders in a very similar manner. Other students usually think that we are dumb, stuck up, and rude, and they say cheer is not a sport when in reality we work just as hard as other athletes. Most of us are very intelligent, kind, and welcoming. Our practices can get very intense as well. Sure, you can catch a ball, but try catching a teammate who is spiraling through the air. It’s not as effortless as we make it seem. People need to realize that cheerleaders are not dumb and rude like in the movies. Also, cheer is definitely a sport. The only difference is that not only do we perform and compete like every other sport, but we have to look good doing it – with no mistakes. Elizabeth makes these points in her poem, and I agree. There is so much more to cheer than big, shiny bows and pom poms. Yesenia Vidales, Phoenix, AZ Motivated I would just like to tell you how much I appreciate you publishing my work on your website. It’s beyond motivating to me! I have a passion for writing, and to have my work considered by a real publisher is fantastic! Thank you for giving me the motivation to continue to write my heart out! Kaylin Mahoney, Chicago, IL I Like/I Hate “I hate when people cry and I can’t help,” wrote Sami Ng in her article “I Like/I Hate.” It made me rethink what I like and dislike. I guess other people hate being helpless too, especially when seeing those who mean the world to them cry. Actually, I think just being there to support them is all they can ask for. People are so lonely sometimes that they wish someone would be there for them, just to hug them while they cry. I like when people talk to me because it’s the hardest thing I can do. I hate myself for not being more open to others. Sami put a smile on my face with her article. She showed readers that she’s a really caring and smart girl. I hope she’ll continue doing what she likes, and maybe what she doesn’t like will change. I hope she will always be this carefree person. Linh Truong, Phoenix, AZ Tell us what you think about any article in this issue, and you may find yourself here! 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 • M AY ’ 1 4 HIGH SCHOOL SUMMER EXPERIENCES Summer Scholars Program Get an early taste of college life while taking two undergraduate courses. Live on campus or commute from home. Summer Institutes Explore careers and majors in medicine, writing, engineering, archaeology, and leadership. summerexperiences.wustl.edu [email protected] or 866-209-0691 EXPERIENCE MARINE SCIENCE WITH WHALE RESEARCH PRAT T INSTITUTE SUMMER 2014: JULY 7–AUGUST 1 Develop your portfolio in Pratt’s Pre-College summer program and earn four college credits in four weeks. Pratt Institute’s Pre-College Program, offered by the Center for Continuing and Professional Studies (CCPS), introduces high-school students (ages 16–18) to the professional world of architecture, art and design, or creative writing. www.pratt.edu/precollege PRAT T INSTIT UTE 200 Willoughby Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11205 T: 718.636.3453 | F: 718.399.4410 | [email protected] at the WHALE CAMP f the o Fundy Marine Science Institute HANDS ON MARINE SCIENC CE, OCEANOGRAPHY & WHALE RESEAR RC CH ON GRA GRAND MANAN ISLAND BETWEEN MAINE AND NOVA SCO OT TIA Contact Dennis Bowen at 1 1-888-54-WHALE -888-54-WHALE Free Brochure & Info: www w.whalecamp.com .whaleca . Check Out over 150 programs Teen Ink’s Online Summer Guide TeenInk.com/Summer M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 5 points of view Grandfather Knows Best? by Mikala Hood, Reynolds, GA “S ages 18 to 29 support it. The reasons for this divide Rights Movement may still carry the beliefs and are many. For some members of the older generacustoms of the world before this great change. For tions they simply have never known anyone who is them it is difficult to shake the ideas and prejudices openly gay, which makes it harder for them to see they lived with as children – a way of life so bitter homosexuals as individuals. Many seniors view hothat it left marks on those who survived. mosexuals as a threat to traditional values, rather Inevitably, we still find racism in young people than a group of people struggling for equality. Conwho have been influenced by their parents and versely, the youth of today grew up grandparents. Nevertheless, my genalongside friends and family members eration is making progress. We did who have bravely opened up about not grow up in the grip of segregaWe are letting their sexual orientation. Sympathy tion; never in our lives has it been go of the bred from those close connections has legal to discriminate according to produced a liberal generation that skin color. Today we see more interbigotry of past empathizes with that struggle for racial couples than ever before, more acceptance. biracial children, more social interacgenerations Wars and genocides have been cartion and acceptance between races, ried out in the name of religious beand we elected and re-elected a biraliefs throughout history. Religion is a very powerful cial president. We are slowly but surely letting go of social institution, but some believe it is on the dethe bigotry of past generations in exchange for a socline in America today, that the younger generations ciety that is more colorblind. have lost their faith, if they ever had any. The truth Another issue that is viewed in vastly different is, religion is not disappearing; it is changing into ways by different generations in the U.S. is homosomething that older generations may not recognize. sexuality. A recent poll taken by Princeton Survey The rise of the non-denominational church indiResearch Associates revealed that 51 percent of sencates that America’s youth are not becoming atheiors oppose gay marriage, while 73 percent of those ists, as many fear, but rather are embracing less organized religious structures. Some youth today believe traditional religious institutions are hypocritical, judgmental, and intolerant, especially in their views of homosexuals, minorities, pregnant teens, ex-convicts, and outsiders in general. By not identifying as Christians, Protestants, Jews, or Catholics, by Cooper Kelley, Cambridge, MA young people can explore their faith without the possible restrictions of these labels. try on the list, Germany, had about a sixth that number. magine you live in a country where 500 out of every Politics also has its share of generational divides. According to FBI’s annual report “Crime in the United hundred thousand people are prisoners. A country that Americans who are unemployed, unmarried, or less States,” about 11 percent of crimes in 2012 were commitspends more money on its inmates than its students. A educated are less likely to vote, and most young ted by minors under age 18. Now, one might say, “Those country where if being incarcerated was a job, it would be people fit in one or more of these categories. Howkids should be in school. Why are they committing one of the most common occupations. You’re probably ever, when they do vote, they tend to be interested in crimes?” Well, they might not actually be in school. In thinking, That sounds like a horrible place. I’m glad I certain issues, like the minimum wage, marriage 2012 the high school dropout rate was 7 perdon’t live there. However, you probably do. rights, and equality. By contrast, issues like Social cent. One of the main reasons for dropping out The country I am describing is the United Security and health care tend to drive elders to the States of America. The U.S. has the is socioeconomic status. Kids from low-income polls. These divides are understandable; of course families are 2.4 times more likely to drop out The United States is home to about 5 permost prisoners than middle-class kids, and 10 times more retirees are concerned with topics that directly affect cent of the world’s population but 25 perthem, while youth have strong opinions about how likely than high-income students. If we support cent of the world’s prisoners. These figures in the world much they are being paid and who they are allowed kids from lower-income families, they will be just don’t make sense. In 1980 there were to marry. more likely to stay in school. about 500,000 people incarcerated in AmerAlthough our generations may be divided about Getting an education will improve not just their future, ica. In 2006, there were almost 2.5 million. That’s a 500 social change and traditional values, my grandfather but that of their children. High school graduates on averpercent increase in just 26 years. and I can still find some areas of common ground. age make $10,000 more than dropouts annually, and someNot only does the U.S. have the most prisoners, but our This usually begins with me admitting that, in some one with a bachelor’s degree earns about $26,000 more citizens commit the most crimes in the world by a landcases, “Grandfather knows best.” And for his part, than that. If these kids succeed in school, they will make slide – about 12.5 million crimes in 2011. The next counhe sometimes agrees that today’s world is much difmore money in the real world, so their kids will be more ferent from the one he grew up in, and perhaps the financially stable and more likely to succeed too. society I have to navigate has taught me things he Bringing this back to the crime rate, more than 80 perwill never know. Although this may be as close to a cent of those who spend time in the corrections system are compromise as we get, it’s something. dropouts. If the money spent on incarcerating people had The ’90s kids, as we are often called, are at times been put toward providing a proper education for them as reckless and indifferent to serious topics. This is children, many probably wouldn’t have dropped out and why we must always respect the opinions of those would have led much more successful lives. who came before us. We must let our parents The U.S. has to start helping young people succeed in and grandparents guide us toward being more school in order to decrease the dropout and incarceration responsible, and then we can put our ideals into rates in our country. The prison system and social welfare action. There can be no doubt that our youthful programs cost a lot of money that could be used by the edperspective must win the day, because this new ucation system instead. Instead of spending millions buildworld requires a different way of thinking from past ing jails, we should be funding schools and keeping kids in generations. After all, one generation could not surthe classroom. vive without the other, and so we hope for comproWould you rather live in a place where everyone is edumise, but for now we must agree to disagree. ✦ cated and employed, or where many citizens are locked up Photo by Maricon Villena, Dededo, Guam and draining your tax dollars? Think about it. ✦ ugar, you need to listen to Granddaddy. I’ve been around longer than you, and you need to trust that I know better than you.” This statement is how my grandfather ends most of our debates over issues of race, homosexuality, and the definitions of sexual promiscuity. In his gentle but firm manner, he claims that because he is older, his opinions are automatically more valid than mine, even if those opinions are at times discriminatory, narrow-minded, or based on stereotypes. Grandparents and parents across America feel the need to deliver such speeches to younger generations in an attempt to pass on what they consider to be much-needed wisdom – but I believe some values and attitudes are better left in the past. Those with age and experience have valuable life lessons to share, but they may also be passing on prejudices that can hinder progress. It seems that the world has never changed as quickly as it has in the last hundred years. There has never been so much freedom and equality on the planet, yet it still seems not to be enough for my generation. Racism has been made illegal through legislation, but it remains in the hearts of many Americans. Those who lived through the Civil Educate, Don’t Incarcerate I 6 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM R account. She survives without any kind of social ecently I realized why I have so much troumedia outlet, and has all the privacy she wants. ble with small talk. Finding trivial things to When she began new classes last fall, the students say to someone to pass the time is really difsitting next to her didn’t know how she spent her ficult when you already know hundreds of unimporsummer and wouldn’t have guessed that she visited tant facts about them. Being friends with someone a Native American reservation. Her other classmates on Facebook means that I often know everything knew all about each other’s activities, even though from what he did last summer to what he had for they didn’t necessarily know each other. The fact dinner last night. How can I be expected to feign inthat people like my friend exist shows that privacy is terest in a story I’ve already seen tweeted, posted, not dead; social media doesn’t control us. We can and photo-tagged ten times? chose to opt out. Privacy has been decreasing rapidly with the inOthers, like me, have social media accounts but creasing popularity of Facebook, twitter, tumblr, and use them carefully to maintain privacy. Although I other social media outlets. More and more people have a Facebook account, I don’t post information are sharing private information on the Internet withabout myself. Where users have entered their educaout thinking twice. Websites make it easy and fun to tion, hometown, and relationship stadivulge these details, including your tus, I’ve left these blank. I never post favorite ice cream flavor, relationship “Privacy is statuses about what’s on my mind, nor status, and location at any given modo I post pictures showing what I’ve ment. The increasing amount of infor- dead, and social been up to. I’ve also turned my chat mation shared by users has changed media holds the settings to “offline” so when I log on to social norms as well as the way many message a friend or wish someone a people perceive their own lives. smoking gun” happy birthday, no one knows I’m onAs popularity of social media mulline. This way, information I tiplies daily, we need to evaluate the want to keep private – like what I did on Sunrole these sites play in decreasing our privacy. Peter day, or who I hung out with – stays private. Cashmore, CEO of Mashable Inc., went so far as to These options on sites like Facebook exist so say, “Privacy is dead, and social media holds the that we can make choices about what we smoking gun.” However, I disagree. While it’s clear keep private. If people have lost their privacy that social media has assisted millions in expanding on social media websites, it’s because they their lives, making vast amounts of personal inforwillingly gave it up; social media doesn’t mation public, we need to remember that we are still force them to do so. in control of what we disclose. Privacy is not dead; Even those who use social media actively it lives on despite being made unpopular by the risand regularly post personal information ing tide of social media. haven’t completely given up their privacy. People who have resisted the pull of peer pressure They choose what to post, and no one can fit and decided not to participate in social media show their entire life onto a blog or a tweet. There that we have a choice: We can choose not to broadis some information that even the most avid cast the details of our lives on the Internet. One of blogger or up-to-date tweeter wouldn’t share, my good friends decided after a month of using and it’s up to each person to decide what’s Facebook that it wasn’t for her, and deleted her too much. We are all capable of turning off Feminism Today A ny high school student could probably tell you that males and females are set apart by a single X or Y chromosome. It’s difficult to fathom that such a small difference decides gender. Gender once determined who could vote and serve our country, whether a person could enter the workforce or stay at home and tend the house and family. Today, a fraction of the population is dissatisfied with the political, social, and economic rights of American women. This societal want is known as feminism. I often hear feminism being ridiculed or called an embarrassment because of how some feminists respond to discontents. When feminism is mentioned, minds may race to the new Beyoncé album. Some visualize a bubbly hipster girl lounging with her MacBook Pro, clicking the reblog button on a post that states, in Helvetica font, “If guys talk to a lot of girls they are viewed by society as masculine and successful. If I were to LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM by Delphine Douglas, Brooklyn, NY our phones and logging out of Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr, even if doing so is harder for some than for others. We can’t deny that social media has led to people sharing more, and has made our private lives shrink while making our public lives expand. does make it easy to share, and seeing an so many of personal posts on a popular Tumblr makes others want to share. The fact that friends can tag us in posts whether we like it or not makes it hard to always say that we control what is shared. Despite all of this, we do have a choice, and our privacy is not dead. We control what we post, and thanks to changes in the policies of sites like Facebook, we can make sure that we are aware of what others say about us online. Social media may have changed our culture’s norms and made less privacy acceptable, or perhaps even made privacy uncool, but it definitely hasn’t killed privacy. We are all in control of how much we share. I have no plans to share what I ate for dinner, and no amount of social media pressure can change that. My privacy is alive and well. ✦ Photo by Lissa Alvarez, Hamilton, MI by Claire Cornell, McDonough, GA to feminist campaigns of the eighteenth do the same I’d be called trashy.” Those and nineteenth centuries. Regardless of studying history may even envision the the public’s opinion of feminism in the Seneca Falls Convention or a suffragette U.S. today, Americans rarely dispute the marching for her right to check “yes” or need for attention to women’s rights is“no.” sues in other countries. The modern feminist movement in the While American women fight against United States is tackling many important the concept of acceptable rape, women issues. One of the most critical gender in India may be fighting for their lives equality issues today is rape culture. over dowry. Dowries were Activists believe that our made illegal in 1961 under society condones, normalcivil law, however, izes, and excuses rape beActivists believe Indian many still practice this tracause we consider factors such as what the victim that our society dition where money and/or gifts are given to a groom’s was wearing, blood alcocondones rape family by the family of the hol level, race, and/or debride. If the groom’s family meanor of the victim. is dissatisfied with the Also, cultural clichés dowry, a wife may be abused by her husmake some women feel objectified as band and viewed as not worthy. Accordvehicles for pleasure and reproduction; ing to the World Bank, 32.7 percent of this is referred to as the “sexualization of India falls below the international women.” Another current feminist issue poverty line and cannot afford the tradiis equal pay and the treatment of worktional practice of dowry. ing women. Skeptics write off these isWhile American women fight for sues because of their mildness compared ACCOUNT TO points of view My Privacy Is Alive and Well FACEBOOK equal pay, female babies in China and India may never experience the gift of life. For a poor family, the birth of a girl can be viewed as a financial burden, which has contributed to the prevalence of gendercide. Female gendercide – the termination of a fetus or infant solely because it is female – is shockingly prevalent in China and India. If an Indian family cannot afford dowry, they may choose to kill their baby girl soon after birth. Even with the loosening of the one-child policy in China, it is still common for a family to have prenatal tests to determine a fetus’s gender. Females that are born to underprivileged families are often neglected or abandoned because of the financial burden they bring to their families. Some believe that women have already won the war for equality and that no more battles are necessary; however, for many women – in America and around the world – the war has just begun. ✦ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 7 educator contest History • West Nottingham Academy Rusty Eder by Ben Gross, Chevy Chase, MD H e has a lot of wrinkles, and if you didn’t know better, you might think he is in his seventies. A former army man, he hoards anything that reminds him of his military past. One might classify him as cynical, but that would be a gross exaggeration. An avid liberal, he does not shy away from sharing his views on current issues. Now, long past his days in the military, he teaches U.S. History and Humanities at West Nottingham Academy, a small boarding school in rural Maryland. And boy is WNA lucky to have him! To say Mr. Eder is a conventional teacher is absurd. He refuses to use any technological teaching aids, including a smart board or projector. He rarely checks homework and does not give quizzes. Instead, he gives a few unit tests, whose grades coupled with your final make up your trimester grade. The only tools he uses to teach are a whiteboard and a marker. But he makes it work. He conducts class lecture-style, each day leading a discussion on the topic we are studying. He writes important ideas and concepts on the board, in semi-neat handwriting, to visually illustrate his points. He makes these discussions interesting by occasionally asking students to fill in the blank or explain what he wrote on the board. Thus, we all pay close attention. In fact, I seen anyone nod off in his class. A phenomenal haven’t It is easy to tell Mr. Eder loves history from the excitement in his voice when he talks about it. This makes the class exteacher and cited to learn about history. In fact, his contagious passion has human being led students who dislike school to suddenly develop a real interest in American history. He encourages this passion in history by allowing them to read books in his personal collection to learn more about America’s past. In fact, just last week, I borrowed a book from him about the Civil War. His teaching style is not the only reason that he is such an outstanding teacher. He also knows a remarkable amount about history – more than any other history teacher I have had. His superior knowledge enables students to gain a comprehensive understanding of past and current events. Outside of class, he is willing to take on extra tasks to help his students as well. Whenever anyone needs help understanding a concept, he finds time to meet, even if it means taking time from his lunch. With his expert guidance, I was able to start a debate team at our school. He helped me recruit members, allowed me to use his room as a meeting place, and even drove our team three hours so we could compete in a regional tournament. In addition, he acts as a resource if you are ever having a problem, whether it’s educational, social, or emotional. Students flock to him. Beloved by all at WNA, Mr. Eder is not just a phenomenal teacher; he’s also a phenomenal human being. By demonstrating his excellence inside and outside of the classroom, he is undoubtedly Teen Ink’s Educator of the Year. ✦ AP Language and Composition • Olentangy High School Sarah Zettler A writer at heart with dormant inspiration, I never took pride in school essays until Ms. Zettler’s AP Language and Composition class senior year. Rather than promoting the cutand-dry essay writing I’d grown accustomed to, she gave me the motivation to develop a unique writing style, a literary voice with resounding personal inflection. Ms. Zettler renewed my confidence in myself and encouraged me to be bold – to silence the doubting voice in my head that restrains my innate determination to write. Beginning with my summer reading assignment, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, she provided time and the spark to ignite my inspiration. This book’s insightful yet unconventional method of supporting aspiring writers foreshadowed the classroom experience to come. Instead of note-taking, memorizing, and definition-based learning, class time was often spent closely annotating the timeless works of profound authors. These pieces interested the class and helped us sharpen Ms. Zettler literary techniques in our own writing. Ms. Zettler’s daunting expectations were renewed my shrouded by her utter conviction in each confidence student’s ability to excel far beyond what they could envision. Rigorous feedback in myself stimulated growth, and astounding improvement provoked pride following each rewrite. Guided to view these essays as an exploration of life and the world rather than the pursuit of a mere grade, Ms. Zettler offered me a chance to cultivate my writing – a gift far greater than a letter grade. Always available to assist discouraged students, Ms. Zettler worked not only during school hours but also after class to ensure each student had a chance to succeed. Well beyond the classroom, Ms. Zettler enhances our school as organizer of the Diversity Club, a group promoting cultural acceptance and openness – in essence, maintaining a friendly, anti-bullying atmosphere among the student body. Ms. Zettler should be recognized for her dedication helping our school as a whole, as well as individual students. The skills I mined from her class are precious literary jewels I will carry with me the rest of my life. ✦ Winners will be announced in the Summer issue. Latin • Temecula Preparatory School Bryanna Vaughn by Maya Pirschel, Murrieta, CA I “I’m fine,” I said with a little light laugh and a t was about a month into the school year, and I weak smile. I didn’t think she would want to hear was struggling. I had awful grades and was overabout my petty problems. So I sat down and started whelmed by my intense schedule. That week I my test. had a history essay and an Academic Decathlon I had stressed myself out so badly that I compresentation due on the same day, and I hadn’t even pletely blanked on the test. I messed up quite a few started. This was in addition to my normal workload simple things I should have known. Ms. Vaughn and play rehearsal every day after school. asked if anyone had questions about the test after we By Wednesday I was on the verge of a breakturned it in. When I asked a question, I realized I down. I had made it through the first two periods, had made a pretty big mistake. That but as I entered my third period was just the cherry on top of my class – Latin – I was using all my awful day. However, I was still destrength to hold back tears. We had She wrapped termined not to cry. a test, and everyone was scramme in a big, “Hey, what’s going on? Are you bling to get in some last-minute studying. I had a culture question understanding hug all right?” Ms. Vaughn asked when she noticed my reaction to her anand got up to ask my teacher. swer. Ms. Bryanna Vaughn is my I just nodded. She asked me come up to her desk crazy, wiry, redheaded teacher, who the year before and go over my test with her. When I got to her, I had been my Academic Decathlon coach. She is just lost it. My resolve to not cry melted like snow, sassy and funny, besides being one of the best teachand I broke down in front of the whole class. It was ers I’ve ever had. We have similar personalities, so so horrifyingly embarrassing I could have just died! she knows me pretty well. When I walked into class, Ms. Vaughn was wonderfully kind about it though. I had been completely silent, while everyone else She wrapped me in a big, stress-relieving, underhad been extremely loud. I normally am loud too, so standing hug. Ms. Vaughn knew something was wrong. I ended up staying during break to tell her what “Are you okay?” she asked. 8 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 by Abbie Coogle, Lewis Center, OH COMMENT was going on. I told her everything I had been struggling with socially and academically. I had too much going on but felt pressure to accomplish everything. “If you feel like you need to drop something you should,” she told me. “I can help you make a pros and cons list to figure out what you want to focus your energy on.” Somehow I was able to persevere without having to drop anything, but I did make the decision, with Ms. Vaughn’s help, to opt out of the next play and focus on Academic Decathlon and school. Mrs. Vaughn listened to all the drama I had experienced since freshman year and gave me advice on my friendships. She was somehow able to get me to spill everything – and to a teacher no less! She was so incredibly understanding, even telling me about some of her own problems. She encouraged me to come talk to her whenever I needed to, saying she would do what she could to help. My Latin teacher is the lifeline I need at this point in my life. She allows me to vent and bounce ideas off her. She helps me with important decisions and understands where I’m trying to go with my life. I now have the assurance that if I ever need help she’s there, and that means everything to me. Thanks to Ms. Vaughn, I just might survive this year. ✦ ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM by Alyssa Hwang, Florham Park, NJ Jambo Jambo, Bwana Habari gani? Mzuri sana! Wageni, mwakaribishwa Tanzania Hakuna matata! must have looked pretty funny: five-foot-two, glasses smudged with dust, lips gritty with dirt because I had naively chosen a spot downwind. No wonder this area had been empty – the gusts would blow everything directly into my face! Luckily, a African construction worker came to my rescue. “Sister,” he laughed. “Here, trade.” He offered his shovel and I gladly took it. he first of many lessons I learned at Faraja “Thank you,” I said. School in Tanzania was this simple welcome “Asante,” he replied. At my blank look, he exsong in Swahili. I was a freshman on a servplained, “That is ‘thank you’ in Swahili.” ice trip to a primary school for chil“Asante!” I repeated. We grinned dren with physical disabilities. We at each other. were going to help build a warehouse For the next week, we made a Kids without (the area the school had been using formidable team. He wielded the as storage space was actually suparms pushed pickaxe (squatting low, raising the posed to be a room for physical Alyssa with Namnyaki pickaxe to head level, then dropping wheelchairs for therapy) and help teach students. I it with precision, and wiggling loose the students didn’t move. Just then, the door opened, was excited to give back to the kids without legs pieces of rock), and I shoveled rock and another Faraja student pushed in a wheelchair greater community and impact othand dirt behind him (also squatting for one of the these students. When she pointed at ers’ lives on a personal level, and low and rotating – not swinging – to something behind me, I noticed another wheelchair with the company of seventeen classmates ranging prevent the dust from wildly flying about). I learned in the corner of the classroom. Of course! I rolled it from freshmen to juniors, I thought nothing could be to position my back to the wind, wear extra sunover, accidentally knocking over chairs and nudging better. screen, and appreciate long pants, even with the sun desks in the process. I helped wheel the other stuAfter weeks of preparation, two vaccinations, and bearing down on us. dent out the door and watched him zoom off to find sixteen hours of flying, we finally touched down in After tea time (I am now addicted to black tea his friends. the capital, Dar es Salaam. As I got off the plane, I with two lumps of sugar), my group made its way to At the Faraja School, a simple walk to the dining stole a glimpse of the unfathomable sky. Back in the classrooms. Picking a room at random, I walked hall was an eye-opener for me. I saw kids without New Jersey, saying “The skies are clear” simply into the kindergarten class and was suddenly overarms pushing wheelchairs for kids without legs. meant there weren’t any clouds. In Tanzania, withwhelmed with nerves. My vision tunneled, I remarkOther people moved at a snail’s pace to walk with out the pollution and distraction of the cities, I could ably started stuttering, and my friend had to drag me their friends who used crutches or walkers. Everyalong to say hello to a child sitting at a desk. How one moved leisurely without stress. Handicaps that was I supposed to communicate without a common would be regarded as unfortunate limitations in language? America barely caught anyone’s attention, and the “Jambo,” we said. members of the school community were masters at “Jambo,” she greeted back. playing off each other’s strengths. There was an at“What are you doing?” I pointed at her book. mosphere of inclusion and cohesion that each kid “I am learning to read,” she told us. exemplified. Somewhere in the mix, Namnyaki Having already run out of things to say, I sudfound me and we walked together for tea and bread. denly burst into song, “Jambo! Jambo, Bwana. After only the first day, I realized the importance Habari gani …” but I forgot the rest of the lyrics. of time: I would only have four more days with Her eyes lit up. some of the most wonderful people on the planet. “Mzuri sana! Wageni,” she sang, clapping her For perhaps the first and only time in my life, I lived hands and slowing down for us. “Mwakaribishwa. second-by-second, never worrying about the future Tanzania, Hakuna Matata!” or being anxious about the past. Time moves quickly Soon, the entire classroom was when you’re looking back and slowly singing this simple song about welwhen you’re looking forward, but for coming visitors. It was better than any those seven perfect days under the gorUnder the spontaneous music moment that geous African sky, the universe was could have been concocted on televigorgeous African timeless and infinite. I fell asleep to sion. Somehow, through a series of In the playroom sky, the universe the symphony of the crickets, saw an bilingual charades, funny hand geselephant up close, and lived lessons tures, and drawings, I learned that my was timeless that could never be taught without see straight through the skin of the universe, new friend’s name was Esta and that experiencing them. sparkling with gentle, unassuming beauty. Someshe was twelve. She was two years I learned to connect with people detimes when I miss my friends from Faraja I look up younger and nine grades beneath me, and yet her spite a language barrier, whether that meant squatting and remember that gorgeous African sky. maturity dwarfed mine. She worked hard, was a at eye level with a boy in a wheelchair or using posThe next day, the eighteen of us split into two calm role model for younger classmates, and was ture, body language, and tone of voice to get my groups. Group A would work on the warehouse and always eager to learn, teach, and help. meaning across. I realized that community service Group B would work in the classrooms, then switch Some days, after working in the field and teaching isn’t necessarily about giving back or emulating after tea time. I went with Group A, passing fields of in the classrooms, I played soccer, basketball, tag, or Robin Hood, but rather about doing what you can, no vegetables, a cow pen, and what looked like a small just sat in the grass with students. Namnyaki, a fourmatter who you are, to improve the lives of others. brick hut. Later I learned that the brick hut was actuteen-year-old fourth grader, enjoyed relaxing with I stuffed my bag full of souvenirs, but the things I ally a chicken coop and a bread-baking creation me in her free time. She was shyer than Esta, but our wanted to take with me couldn’t be touched, only rebuilt by my high school on a previous trip. It felt quiet friendship was more like a hushed embrace membered and passed on: Esta’s spirit and selflessgreat to continue the legacy of help and teamwork. than a tongue-tied silence. Hand-in-hand, we were ness, Namnyaki’s patience, Emanuelli’s happiness, At the work site, everyone quickly grabbed shovtotally inseparable. My fears of communication flew Upendomuchi’s gentle heart, Godbless’s easy confiels. All that was left for me was a heavy, awkward away into the breeze. Somehow, Namnyaki and I dence, and Godlisten’s friendly smile. Tonight, the pickaxe. Taking a spot in an empty area, I raised the didn’t need words. sky is inky and without character, but I can always axe above my head, nearly fell backwards, and The following day, as I was leaving a classroom remember our gorgeous African sky beyond the dropped the point with an unsatisfying thud. Frownfor tea time, I noticed two kids left behind. “Come clouds. ✦ ing, I tried again, but only repeated my blunder. I on,” I said, motioning to the door. “Let’s go!” But T LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK M AY ’ 1 4 community service Jambo, Bwana Sponsored by • Teen Ink 9 parents Bedtime Kiss by Anabel Jenkins, Natick, MA T your mind, overwhelming you and making you he squeak of the screen door opening and cry even harder. Your chest heaves as the drownshutting was followed by the lethargic ing feeling surrounds you. The only cure is for a heavier inside door thwumping closed. loved one to hold you, and then hold you even These are the sounds of someone arriving home. tighter, until everything doesn’t seem so bad The sounds that come before the “I’m home!” anymore. and “Hello?” The sounds that told me my parents But I didn’t want to seem like a baby, so I were back from their late-night dinner party. I stayed in bed. Growing up in a house with three was already in bed, nestled under my comforter. older brothers, I had learned to keep crying to a The rhythmic breathing of my golden retriever minimum, only ever allowing the tears to fall if matched the faint music drifting from my abanthey were truly required. I was also embarrassed. doned headphones. My 14-year-old self had reminded my loving parI waited. I waited for my mother to come in ents countless times how independent I could be. and kiss me good night, for my father to say With a recently acquired job, activities that kept something goofy and give the dog a pat on the me at school until seven, and the head. The familiar creaks of the ability to cook uncomplicated meals, floorboards grew louder as they I felt like I was self-sufficient. So, inwalked down the hall toward my I didn’t want stead of seeking their comfort, I lay room. My parents made no effort to to seem in bed, clutching the pillow to my be quiet, casually talking to each chest, reminding myself that this is other. As their footsteps grew closer, like a baby what growing up is. Independence. I quickly closed my eyes and pulled There is no single moment in your the covers up around my face, life when you suddenly grow up. We grow until preparing for them to come in and perform the we feel we can’t grow anymore, and even then we sweet routine of “bed time.” Then I heard the keep on growing. We are the judges of our own opening and closing of their bedroom door as adulthood because all it takes is for us to step up their voices faded. No good-night kiss, no goofy to the plate and start swinging. However, we comments, and no “I love you” – just the sound don’t go through this journey alone. Many join of a girl growing up. us, whether for just a moment or a lifetime. I cried that night. It was one of those drowning Though, the most important backseat drivers are cries. The kind of cry when every bad thing that our parents. has ever happened to you comes flooding into The story I am telling – of my tearful bedtime – represents a miscommunication that forms between parents and children. It’s not their fault, nor is it ours; it just happens. It usually happens during our teenage years, which are arguably a time when parents’ guidance is most needed. We become trapped, treated like children but expected to act like adults. As teenagers we strive for independence; everything we do is working toward the goal of soon being on our own. Yet, we are gently tugged back by our heartstrings, played by the love of a mother and the protection of a father. In subtle ways we show them that we aren’t ready, that we haven’t finish growing, that we still need that bedtime kiss. ✦ Photo by Maisha Rachmat, Depok, Indonesia Water by Jessica Jiang, Marietta, GA F I panic. This is not the same water that had enootprints behind me disappear slowly, closed me. It is lung water – pulmonary edema. evaporating in the heat. I look back and see How can I help my father? I can’t, physically. my father smiling at me. On the edge of the My father took the water from my lungs and bright blue shining pool, I bend over my tiny feet saved me. However, I cannot take away the water and look into the deep abyss. Suddenly I am subthat is crushing his lungs. I cannot break through merged. I inhale and liquid rushes down my the barrier between the United States throat. Water floods my lungs and I and China, like he broke the barrier beam drowning. I can no longer think, tween air and water to save me. Any and I panic. Quickly, a hand breaks I cannot arm that I reach out will not touch him. the barrier of water and grabs my arm, save him as I cannot save him as he saved me. and I am lifted from the abyss. I look However, I can support him. I can into the distressed face of my father he saved me sympathize with my father, telling him and cry. My father, my hero, holds me that it was the tobacco’s fault, not his and comforts me. usage. I tell him I love him and that we miss him. Thirteen years later, I wait for my father to I listen to his grievances. come home from his visit to China. The phone In my mind, I picture my father young and rings, and it is not my father. The woman speaks strong. Now, through the telephone, I hear the Chinese and reports that my father is ill and unage and weakness in him. able to return home on schedule. Water has filled Who is my father? He is human. ✦ his lungs. 10 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT Poem to My (Future) Daughter Cradled in the crook of my arm, safe Against my sturdy chest I am the one who will keep your fingers warm Lay you down to rest My darling, I pray you dream Peacefully That the rough edges and scattered lines of this life I give you Do not intoxicate you Do not poison your softened mind. There are roads you will not take, my love There are words you will not say But I beg you Build your earthen skin into a castle Let the tears fall From your dark cheeks Dig your fingernails too deep into the dirt And lick the red juice of the pomegranate off your swollen lips Love ceaselessly Love endlessly Every leaf, raindrop, butterfly, and ladybug That creeps along the forest floor Every windowsill and rough pathway That tugs at you to Go, go, go Scoop it all into your arms, my dear And hold it to your chest Let the piercing wind fill your lungs So you have the strength To laugh Louder than all the rest. There will be times When the walls and doors Scream curse words at you When the ceiling sinks too low to the floor But do not dig down, my love It is okay to say Yes Stand up and let the floorboards fall Crashing to your feet Revel in the sound of old wallpaper Crumbling as it peels to the ground For, you see, The house is never broken Only preparing for the new And if I’ve said nothing here, my love Then may these be the words that hold true Let it change Let it crack and break and bend and move Metamorphosis It’s all that’s left here In the end, my love So put on your rain boots And splash in the mud, for your bones are still strong and Your unbroken heart is only just beginning To hum the tune of this Newborn song by Haley Grey, San Francisco, CA ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM parents Bedtime Kiss by Anabel Jenkins, Natick, MA T your mind, overwhelming you and making you he squeak of the screen door opening and cry even harder. Your chest heaves as the drownshutting was followed by the lethargic ing feeling surrounds you. The only cure is for a heavier inside door thwumping closed. loved one to hold you, and then hold you even These are the sounds of someone arriving home. tighter, until everything doesn’t seem so bad anyThe sounds that come before the “I’m home!” more. and “Hello?” The sounds that told me my parents But I didn’t want to seem like a baby, so I were back from their late-night dinner party. I stayed in bed. Growing up in a house with three was already in bed, nestled under my comforter. older brothers, I had learned to keep crying to a The rhythmic breathing of my golden retriever minimum, only ever allowing the tears to fall if matched the faint music drifting from my abanthey were truly required. I was also embarrassed. doned headphones. My 14-year-old self had reminded my loving parI waited. I waited for my mother to come in ents countless times how independent I could be. and kiss me good night, for my father to say With a recently acquired job, activities that kept something goofy and give the dog a pat on the me at school until seven, and the abilhead. The familiar creaks of the ity to cook uncomplicated meals, I felt floorboards grew louder as they like I was self-sufficient. So, instead walked down the hall toward my I didn’t want of seeking their comfort, I lay in bed, room. My parents made no effort to seem clutching the pillow to my chest, reto be quiet, casually talking to each minding myself that this is what growother. As their footsteps grew like a baby ing up is. Independence. closer, I quickly closed my eyes There is no single moment in your and pulled the covers up around life when you suddenly grow up. We grow until my face, preparing for them to come in and perwe feel we can’t grow anymore, and even then we form the sweet routine of “bed time.” Then I keep on growing. We are the judges of our own heard the opening and closing of their bedroom adulthood because all it takes is for us to step up door as their voices faded. No good-night kiss, no to the plate and start swinging. However, we goofy comments, and no “I love you” – just the don’t go through this journey alone. Many join sound of a girl growing up. us, whether for just a moment or a lifetime. I cried that night. It was one of those drowning Though, the most important backseat drivers are cries. The kind of cry when every bad thing that our parents. has ever happened to you comes flooding into The story I am telling – of my tearful bedtime – represents a miscommunication that forms between parents and children. It’s not their fault, nor is it ours; it just happens. It usually happens during our teenage years, which are arguably a time when parents’ guidance is most needed. We become trapped, treated like children but expected to act like adults. As teenagers we strive for independence; everything we do is working toward the goal of soon being on our own. Yet, we are gently tugged back by our heartstrings, played by the love of a mother and the protection of a father. In subtle ways we show them that we aren’t ready, that we haven’t finish growing, that we still need that bedtime kiss. ✦ Photo by Maisha Rachmat, Depok, Indonesia Water by Jessica Jiang, Marietta, GA F I panic. This is not the same water that had enootprints behind me disappear slowly, closed me. It is lung water – pulmonary edema. evaporating in the heat. I look back and see How can I help my father? I can’t, physically. my father smiling at me. On the edge of the My father took the water from my lungs and bright blue shining pool, I bend over my tiny feet saved me. However, I cannot take away the water and look into the deep abyss. Suddenly I am subthat is crushing his lungs. I cannot break through merged. I inhale and liquid rushes down my the barrier between the United States and throat. Water floods my lungs and I China, like he broke the barrier between am drowning. I can no longer think, air and water to save me. Any arm that I and I panic. Quickly, a hand breaks I cannot reach out will not touch him. I cannot the barrier of water and grabs my save him as save him as he saved me. arm, and I am lifted from the abyss. However, I can support him. I can symI look into the distressed face of my he saved me pathize with my father, telling him that it father and cry. My father, my hero, was the tobacco’s fault, not his usage. I holds me and comforts me. tell him I love him and that we miss him. I listen Thirteen years later, I wait for my father to to his grievances. come home from his visit to China. The phone In my mind, I picture my father young and rings, and it is not my father. The woman speaks strong. Now, through the telephone, I hear the Chinese and reports that my father is ill and unage and weakness in him. able to return home on schedule. Water has filled Who is my father? He is human. ✦ his lungs. 10 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT Poem to My (Future) Daughter Cradled in the crook of my arm, safe Against my sturdy chest I am the one who will keep your fingers warm Lay you down to rest My darling, I pray you dream Peacefully That the rough edges and scattered lines of this life I give you Do not intoxicate you Do not poison your softened mind. There are roads you will not take, my love There are words you will not say But I beg you Build your earthen skin into a castle Let the tears fall From your dark cheeks Dig your fingernails too deep into the dirt And lick the red juice of the pomegranate off your swollen lips Love ceaselessly Love endlessly Every leaf, raindrop, butterfly, and ladybug That creeps along the forest floor Every windowsill and rough pathway That tugs at you to Go, go, go Scoop it all into your arms, my dear And hold it to your chest Let the piercing wind fill your lungs So you have the strength To laugh Louder than all the rest. There will be times When the walls and doors Scream curse words at you When the ceiling sinks too low to the floor But do not dig down, my love It is okay to say Yes Stand up and let the floorboards fall Crashing to your feet Revel in the sound of old wallpaper Crumbling as it peels to the ground For, you see, The house is never broken Only preparing for the new And if I’ve said nothing here, my love Then may these be the words that hold true Let it change Let it crack and break and bend and move Metamorphosis It’s all that’s left here In the end, my love So put on your rain boots And splash in the mud, for your bones are still strong and Your unbroken heart is only just beginning To hum the tune of this Newborn song by Haley Grey, San Francisco, CA ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM parents Discovering Dad by Chenoa Yorgason, Laie, HI F internationally. I cried about it. I prayed to God or more than half my life, my father was my about it. I didn’t want my dad to leave. favorite parent. He never yelled, only gave Then, the summer before my eighth-grade year, short time-outs, and was very easily permy father, the blandest, safest, Type-B individual I suaded. He congratulated me even when I didn’t know, took a job 4,500 miles away, in a country win first place. He was always home when I was. that he had never been to before the interview. AlWhen he had to be in his office, he would take my though we have daily Skype sessions, my family sister and me along with him. He was the parent has changed. The only American foods we eat now who cooked American foods like pasta, pizza, panare frozen pizzas and Prego sauce. There’s no one cakes, grilled cheese sandwiches, and rice pudding. to complain about my friends to, no one to drive He would make rice pudding for two reasons: to me into town, no one who can be easily convinced, eat it, and to get my Asian mother mad for “wastno one who will listen to me rant about my weird ing rice.” We would play board games together; he teenage emotions. didn’t care if it was Strawberry Shortcake themed. This January, my dad accompanied my speech My mother brought home most of the family inand debate team to our tournament on Hawaii Iscome, made rules, and decided where we would go land. While the rest of the team ran around a large on vacation. My father was the one who asked wooden playground, I sat in the rented van with about my day and checked my homework. My parDad. Basically I complained and cried for half an ents were definitely not like most parents I knew. hour. I’m not a crier. During the last four years I’ve While my mom never wore “mom jeans,” my dad cried no more than four times. I complained about swore by the very blue, very ugly, very shapeless how I could have had a bigger trophy had I just variety purchased at Costco. found an additional statistic or had my partner Despite his nurturing personality, he was and is a worked harder on her speeches. I hardworking person outside of the whined about how I always do too house. Nine years ago after he’d written a book and was going to present it My father was much when I work in groups. He didn’t tell me to man up or to grow up. at a conference, I gave him a certifimy favorite He didn’t deliver an “it gets better” cate and a huge thousand dollar bill I speech. He just listened. had made. When he returned, he parent The next day, in the same van, we brought back a TY bear for me, and – drove up the bumpy, unpaved road to sure enough – a $1,000 prize for exMauna Kea’s peak. There are few things scarier cellence for his book. than being about a mile above sea level in an extra I think my dad was socially awkward as a child. large vehicle with a driver who’s accustomed to a His family were liberal Mormons from Utah. small Honda and who’s distracted by the beautiful Growing up, his best friend was his brother. He scenery along the narrow road. I must have told sported a bowl cut, wore large-rimmed glasses, and him to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on played the trumpet. When I read his yearbook, I the road at least ten times. We reached the peak found lots of hastily written notes that only said just in time for sunrise. Never in my life have I felt things like “Stay cool,” “You’re good at basketso warm and cold at the same time – cold from the ball,” or “See ya later.” The most personal message altitude and lack of gloves, but warmed by Dad’s advised my father that if he stopped picking his love as we stood in front of the rising sun. nose, he might meet more girls. He has since unThe journey back down the mountain was almost dergone quite a change, I think. While he still is a as scary. The road was just as bumpy, and the tires liberal Mormon, the bowl cut has been replaced started to smell like burning rubber. Somehow, Dad with what looks like a grown-out buzz cut. The managed to stay calm, while the rest of us in the ’60s-style large-rimmed glasses are gone to make van worried about whether we’d make it to the airway for a pair of sleek wire bifocals. The only way port in one piece. Did I mention that we almost ran he expresses himself musically nowadays is over a nene (Hawaii’s state bird) – a crime that through hymns at church, and whistling nursery could have earned him a year in jail? tunes to embarrass my sister and me. I love my dad. Even though I talk to him almost Then a few years ago, despite having a decent every day, it’s just not the same living without him. job, two kids, a car, a growing bank account, and He left on Tuesday morning to spend another four half of a duplex in a nearly homogenous neighbormonths teaching college geography in South hood, he decided he wanted more. Maybe he Korea. I’m not sure if the experience has turned would get a job in Washington, D.C., for the out to be what he expected, but to me, he will alCensus Bureau or teach at a college in Ohio or ways be the kind and nurturing parent. ✦ Utah. He had some interviews here in Hawaii and Hiding by “Rita,” Crestone, CO I used to hide in my mom’s closet. I’d perch up on the shelf and pull her itchy sweaters around me. I remember pressing my forehead to my knees, the walls leaving indentations on my arms that reminded me of continents. I would press the walls all around me. Stick my toes in between the wooden slats of the shelf and feel safe. Safe from the thunder that would pound down and shake the walls. From my perch I would look down at the bumpy cream-colored carpet, at her shoes lined up neatly, at her collection of bridesmaid dresses, and feel like I was in my own little box. I don’t fit in that box anymore. Even if I compress myself, I don’t fit. And even though the same things scare me – even though I have a multitude of new fears – I don’t fit. ✦ LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC Gravity My mother’s love is gravity. It is the moon’s pull on the ocean, creating waves on the shore and delivering gentle, soppy kisses to the sands. She loves to tell me about how she used to toss me up in the air as a toddler and how, no matter how high I flew, I would always fall back to her reaching, expectant arms. (Thank God.) Her love is what kept scientists like Newton and Galileo up at night wondering, contemplating how it was possible. Not so easily definable as: force = mass x acceleration. Her love is what brings comets streaking down to the earth, bright shooting stars, the gentle pull that brings a feather swaying to the ground. Without her pressure, I would be free, weightless, but lost with no rotation, left behind by my brothers, my fellow planets. My mother’s love is infinite and unfading. It’s unaffected by my life decisions. She cries now that we cannot be together, but my thoughts still orbit her, always seeming to find their way back to her. The love is unstoppable, undefinable. She has taught me her secrets, her equations of love, and with her blueprint words of wisdom, I hope to one day tie my children to me as she has. As impossible to stop as the moon’s pull on the ocean, creating waves on the shore and delivering gentle, soppy kisses to the sands. by Rosie Palacios, Phoenix, AZ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 11 parents “Slow Down, Pete” N obody warned me how easy my life would be, how painless, how full. They didn’t bother to caution me about all the fun I would have. They didn’t express concern for how I would look, act, feel. People never feel the urge to warn you about the good stuff. I am nine years old. It’s five in the morning, and we’re already on the mountain, our faithful Ford F-150 rumbling up the serpentine dirt road toward the ideal location to capture the choke cherry sunrise. Dad’s out of the truck before the dashboard stops shuddering, a smudge of jeans and XXXL button-up blue. He treks up the steep incline, one hand on the tripod (doubling now as a hiking stick), the other on the camera slung around his neck. I trudge behind, a willing pack mule, with the slow patience that has earned me ridicule among my friends. When I catch up, Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, staring into the blinking eye of a wild flower sun. “Some day you’re going to be miles Not Chanel No. 5 My mother does not wear perfume She applies makeup to her eyelids in the morning before work while her hair sits atop her head in curlers, but she does not wear perfume The bottles on her bathroom counter are not completely full, but they gather dust and sit unused They must have been used when she wore more makeup And yet there is a scent that is unmistakably hers It is a mixture of soft flowers, cotton, and something that I can’t describe I have opened bottles of vanilla, canisters of cinnamon, and bags of brown sugar; I have stalked through nature and tried to capture every smell, but I cannot capture that scent All in all, I suppose that it’s for the best When I inhale that scent I do not instantly try to place it Instead I feel a sense of comfort because I am reminded of the powerful woman who is my mother by Sarah Bridgeport, Columbus, OH 12 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 by April Seymour, Joliet, MT than the marrow: it dwells in the ahead of me,” he winks. “I’ll be mind. yelling, ‘Slow down, Pete! Wait for As Pudgy Pete grew long legs, your old dad!’” strong muscles, and a fast stride, her I grin at the nickname and shake father went through a transformation my head. “No way,” I say. “That’ll of his own. His steps faltered, breathnever happen.” ing stuttered, arms shook. As Pete fiSeven years later, Pete’s grown up. nally learned to stand on her own, Now, living the life that nobody Dad’s knees could no longer hold cautioned me about, I must face the him. Pete got running sting of the one predicshoes. Dad got reintion that somebody did “Some day forced braces. Pete fimake. learned to love I could stagger beyou’re going to nally herself. Dad’s body hind my father forever. be miles ahead turned against him, and The hours I spent he against it. slowly trudging up of me” His day starts at 6 p.m. mountains are worth In the morning, while I more to me now than am outside working, Dad is asleep. At ever. I would give anything to need, noon, as I prepare lunch for my mom just one more time, for him to wait for and brother, Dad gulps down a fistful me while I catch up. of prescription medication. In the There is a monster called Mystery afternoon, while I am chasing pipe Arthritis. It begins in the knees, then dreams, Dad is eating waffles creeps to the back, then the neck, bedrowned in sugar-free Mrs. Butterfore finally insinuating itself into worth’s. every bone in the body. It laughs at Dad doesn’t feel well enough to do the doctors as they try to chase it out. anything until about 6 p.m. Anything Then it goes somewhere even darker The Great Debaters we need his help with – maintenance, repairs – has to wait until then. I’ve forgotten what his face looks like when it’s not in pain. Then it’s back inside. For me, that means back to writing, then off to bed. For Dad, it means watching the Discovery Channel or TruTV, often until six in the morning. I watch him sometimes. I watch the pain cross his face. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it, or complain. He is afraid that he is getting old because he keeps losing things, but I beg to differ. Superman lost an entire planet, after all, and he was half the superhero my dad is. Nobody warned me how little I would have to suffer as I grew, nor did they warn Dad how much he would. There is a certain bravery in that silence, though. A promise that says he will never give up. Long ago, Dad told Pete that some day she would be miles ahead of him, and he would call to her, “Slow down, Pete!” But nobody told him that there is more to a mile than distance. ✦ by Caileigh Lydon, Park City, UT E from the Middle East.” ver since I was little, I’ve listened to my parents “But what about the chemicals polluting our water?” my fight. Maybe fight isn’t the right word – more like mom asked frostily. debate over dinner about the latest political issue or “What chemicals? There haven’t been any chemicals so new technology. When I was little, it worried me. I would far, and lots of planning has gone into this.” sit between them with wide eyes as they battled over their “Tell that to Florida’s Gulf Coast. There were some opinions. I constantly needed them to reassure me that pretty big assurances about that too.” they loved each other and were not going to get divorced. “Where’s the sea salt?” I intervened. It’s just that my parents are opinionated people who fre“This is different,” Dad said. quently don’t share the same opinion. “Really?” They were both very informed about world events, “Where’s the sea salt?” I asked again. which made our dinner conversations strange at times. “Fracking is carefully organized and planned. And it’s There I would be, eight years old, eating my chicken tengreat because we can get our own oil here at home.” I got ders, as my parents argued over presidential candidates. in my dad’s face and grabbed his shoulders. And it wasn’t just at dinner. I heard their “Where. Is. The. Sea. Salt?” I asked. voices downstairs discussing what was hap“What? Oh, it’s in that cabinet,” he fipening in the world. Sometimes they would Their nally answered. “As I was saying ….” get louder or softer as they debated a point. My poor brother looked back and forth When I had a bad dream or was scared of disagreements between our parents, trying to figure out monsters in my closet, I would sit at the top comforted me which side he wanted to take. They continof the stairs and let their voices soothe me. ued this discussion as my mom made dinner Over time, their disagreements began to and my dad helped my brother write his comforted me. I heard their arguing voices paper. As they sparred, it dawned on me how funny this during car rides, while watching television, doing chores, was – and normal too. Cooking dinner while arguing. A homework, or relaxing in our living room. Anything could perfect picture of domestic tranquility, with a little spice set it off. thrown in that’s all our own. For example, take this recent argument. While driving in During all those nights as I listened to them talk, and the the car, my brother asked my mom her opinion on fracking days when their voices would grow loud, the power of arfor an English paper he was writing. Fracking – or hygument began to run through my blood too. When we had draulic fracturing – is a relatively new method of extractguests over one time, I spent the entire dinner locked in a ing oil from the ground, and it is very controversial. My debate over whether handkerchiefs are sanitary after I saw mom is completely against it. a guest pull one out of his pocket. My brother and I can “It’s causing environmental problems. We’re pumping argue for hours over whose turn it is to empty the dishall those chemicals near the groundwater, which is becomwasher, until my mom or dad let out a sigh of frustration ing a huge commodity,” she replied. Later that day, as I and settle it themselves. cooked asparagus in the kitchen, my brother asked my dad “Honestly, where did you learn to fight like this?” my the same question. mom will say. “It’s great,” he said. “We’re getting so much more oil Where, oh where indeed. ✦ than we could before, and now we don’t have to buy it COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM A lmost every night, I go into my parents’ room and tuck my mom into bed. I’ll lie next to her until my father comes upstairs or until homework calls. We’ll sit there and talk and I’ll play with her hair, plug in her phone, and poke fun at her. She pokes right back. I’ll turn out the light, kiss her forehead, pat her shoulder, and tell her good night. This is among my more peculiar habits, but her presence in mind and body is one of the most precious things in my life. I remember it was an aberrantly warm day in February, especially for Vermont. The winter had been mild that year; the grass was especially green, and the sun was pleasantly golden, suspended in a cloudless sky. I skipped off the bus to find her car in the driveway. I knew then that something was wrong. My stomach clenched and my chest throbbed, lead feet eventually brought me to the door. She was crying. My mother looked at me through raw eyes and said, “I have breast cancer.” We cried, we hugged, I sat on her lap. I was in fifth grade, scared and confused, just leaving behind the years of cooties, flips on the monkey by Kayla Coursey, Charlottesville, VA Mom’s, came over with trimmers. We bars, and bedtime cuddles. Five years put a sheet on the floor, and in no before, my grandmother had had the time Mom’s hair was a half inch long. same cancer. She showed me where Soon that half inch of fuzz fell out metal staples held her skin together in too, and she was left with a smooth, the strangest way. Was that going to shining, pale scalp. Around the house happen to my mom? she’d wear a wrap on her bald head. We cried a lot as my mom told relaNone of us liked looking at it. It took tives and arranged appointments and me a while before I could think of her bought a wig for when chemo began. bald without crying. Before all the I went along to help her choose, alhair was gone, I told her to put some though she didn’t like the one I of it under her pillow for the “Hair picked out and instead bought a short, Fairy.” She agreed, to curly wig a shade or two humor me. I snuck into lighter than her normal her room while she was hair. She stayed strong She stayed asleep and put a quarter for us during this time strong for us under her pillow. My that I have come to asmom still carries that sociate with tears. quarter with her. It was March when She became distant, both in mind Mom went to the hospital to have the and body. I remember Dad telling my tumor removed. I went to school, brother and me to play quietly beneeding the distraction. Dad called cause “Mommy needs to rest.” my teacher during the morning with I didn’t feel like I had a mom that updates. Then, during our silent readsummer. She is absent in those meming time, as I was sitting between my ories, simply not there. She continued two best friends, my teacher smiled and said, “She’s out of surgery.” to work, despite the chemo and radiaWhen chemo began, the warrior tion, but was always exhausted. At home she was either asleep or on scarves and the pink ribbons came to mean something more than “support “chemo-brain.” She’d laugh off her newfound absentmindedness, saying the cause” and became “support my she might even lose her head if it mom.” That was also the time that our wasn’t attached. Even though she family hairdresser, a close friend of The Strand Bench I by Kristin Hopkins, Aspen, CO walk, strut, and jog by. I wonder what kind of peounfold the Carl’s Jr bag and take out two cheeseple they are, what kind of lives they lead. A young burgers, two fries, and too many packets of man walks past with a cell phone to his ear and gripketchup. My dad looks at the packets and chuckping a dog leash. He seems frustrated with the perles while he takes a sip of his Diet Coke. Evening son on the other line. joggers and dog walkers pass by, probably looking “Isn’t that everyone’s problem, though? We’re down on our fast food, but we don’t mind. It’s not as afraid to be alone, so we hide the craziest and realest though the fat we eat is riding low on our stomachs. parts of ourselves,” I say. He hands me my Dr. Pepper, and I chug until the Dad looks at me closely with narrowed eyebrows, carbonation stings my throat. deep in thought. “Is that what you do?” he asks. The sun is on the brink of falling beneath the horiI sigh. “And yet I feel alone most of the time,” I zon, an orange glow lighting up the coast. I curireply, taking another sip of soda. The ice has diluted ously look at the three-story mansion behind us and it, but I don’t mind. see our shadows sitting on the bench on “You don’t have to feel alone,” he says the strand. A group of tourists stop and take a picture of themselves in front of “I feel alone quietly. The sun has now vanished, to show its face to another side of the the magnificent sight. They’re probably most of world, the side that has been asleep and the kind of people who take their picdreading daylight breaking through their ture holding up the Hollywood sign. the time” curtains. My dad notices me staring and turns to “It’s easier to be alone. You aren’t watch. judged by who you associate with, and you don’t “Might as well stamp ‘tourist’ on their foreheads,” have to remember birthdays … but when I see two I say, and he laughs. best friends drinking milkshakes downtown, or an “Not something you see every day,” he replies, old couple walking their terrier – that’s when I don’t turning his attention back to his burger. The orange like being alone,” I explain. glow is beginning to fade as the sun sinks to the size He doesn’t seem to know what to say, looking off of a muffin top. at a lifeguard closing up the tower for the day and “If I were a tourist, I’d try to be subtle about it,” I driving off in a beach cruiser. I have a familiar feelsay. He purses his lips tightly. ing – the kind I get when I say something I’ve been “Life’s too short to care about what other people repressing and it surprises me. think. You might as well not live if you live for “I was very independent too when I was your age. everyone else,” he says. Loneliness consumed me, because I thought it was I don’t speak for a while, just watching people LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK would look at me and try to listen, she often wasn’t able to understand what I was saying. This spring, my mom is five years cancer free. Her hair has grown back wavy and not gray, as she had feared. She claims to still have chemo-brain some days, but now it really is just a joke. The wig is sitting on my shelf. Our warrior scarves are collecting dust. We still have pink ribbons everywhere. The remains of her war against cancer are spread throughout our lives like battle scars to brag about to the world. After that difficult year of tears, my mom is back and here to help me through the simple problems of high school. So I don’t fight with my mom. I don’t ignore her intentionally, nor do I talk about her negatively. She is healthy and strong and present in every sense of the word. She’s my mom again. Every night, I tuck her in, turn out the light, and kiss her cheek because I know that we are lucky; there are plenty of girls out there whose moms didn’t find their lumps early enough. Never before have I been so thankful for my mother and so grateful that she is here with me. ✦ parents The Pink War what I deserved. But now that I look back, I realize that I missed many opportunities because of it. Maybe you’re good at being alone, but can you say that it makes you happy?” he asks. I slowly shake my head, my throat becoming dry as my eyes absorb all the moisture. Dad puts his arm around me, and I lean into his chest as the breeze dies and everything is still again. No one walks by, and our shadows no longer shine on the house behind us. The sky is darker than it was a minute ago, and one cloud drifts where the sun had been. We sit as still as the air, holding each other close in this crazy world. ✦ Photo by Gustave Tausch, Tirana, Albania M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 13 parents 14 You and Me and the Silver Screen P I suppose the aural battle between eople file in, their shoes stickthe snoring and the film’s soundtrack ing. The lights dim, and the was what helped me become more emerald screen bathes their acutely aware of sounds in film. I had faces with a collage of trailers lasting to strain at home when listening to dinearly half the running time of the acalogue, to make sure I didn’t miss tual film. Finally it begins. Five minanything critical. utes into the film, my mouth full of When I was in middle school, my popcorn, I look to my right. Not surparents separated briefly. Their fights prisingly, my father’s neck is arched would be painfully recalled during back, his mouth agape, his eyelids Sam Mendes’ “Revolutionary Road” fluttering. His snoring is masked by and episodes of the Dolby Surround “SpongeBob Sound. I’m not surMy faprised he’s asleep; acSomething about Squarepants.” ther moved back into tually, I’m surprised it Dad falling asleep his family house with took this long. He’s his mother. I never normally out by the in theaters was though how unconvensecond preview. tional this was; divorce comforting Something about Dad was something I heard falling asleep at the about in the movies. I movies was comfortnever realized how close my parents ing to me. It was a quirk I thought I’d were to it, despite slipping me books always live with. like “How You as a Child Can Deal How do you write about your fawith Parents on the Brink of Divorce” ther’s death? How do you write about and “It’s Not Your Fault, Even any death and make it meaningful Though You’re Probably Going to avoiding sentimentality and clichés? Require Years of Therapy.” My father died a month into my freshDuring their separation my father man year from a subdural hematoma would still pick me up from school on after a car hit him. He died in his Fridays, and we would go to the sleep. The last movie we watched tomovies. We would watch anything gether was Disney’s “Up.” and everything – from action flicks As much credit as I give my mother and romantic comedies to animated for introducing me to my favorite films. (My father never saw the fruit films, like “Bringing Up Baby,” it was of his efforts: I am an unapologetic my father who fostered my love of film snob.) And with each film, there film. If not for him, I probably would was a kinetic bond between us; we never have set foot in a movie theater. weren’t experiencing the same thing, I do not think he ever realize how imbut our connection was strongest portant he was to my passion. when the pictures were moving. I would watch and he would sleep, The first times my father took me but we’d do it together, like fathers to the movies, I plugged my ears. At and sons who play ball. Watching six I was too young for blasts of gunfilms with him was less about the fire and the roar of dialogue by movie and more about spending time George Lucas. (“You’ll never know together. It was soothing sitting by his the power of the Dark Side!” Senator recliner, or next to him in the theater. Palpatine yelled.) I didn’t have to look to see if he was As the film played, I would look asleep. That roar wasn’t from gunfire over at him, even though I knew exin the film – it was his snoring. actly what I would see. This man, who wasn’t so much rotund as potbellied like Santa Claus, would be almost reclining. He looked like Ted Levine in “Heat” or “Monk.” He always wore flannel and shorts, even in winter. I think he enjoyed the movies as much as me, partly because his multiple sclerosis did not permit him to stand for long and partly because it was our thing. As the credits Photo by Claire Gill, Richlands, NC rolled, we would roll Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 by Kyle Turner, East Hampton, CT on out, often to Walmart. While my Brooks” with Kevin Costner. As we father shopped, I would hang around were reading the back of the box, a the DVD section. You can blame half man walked up and said, “Are you of my collection on him. It was like sure he should be watching that?” I giving someone prone to drug addicwas probably 14, had watched “The tion their first fix. And I needed my Exorcist” at ten, and was a frequenter fix to come with two discs and lots of of the horror movie marathons on special features. AMC. But I think I was more ofWhat was strange about this was fended by my father, who quietly batnot that I enjoyed wandering around ted him away with an amiable “I think Walmart stacking DVDs in my arms, I know what I’m doing.” but that I made an acquaintance there. This was not the first time someone I’ll call him Tom – with his shaggy would try to parent for my father hair and unkempt look and his Walabout which films I should see. Once mart uniform whose smiley tag would we were at a supermarket, and was set have been more appropriate upside to rent “There Will Be Blood.” A down. We would talk about movies – woman asked my father, “Are you it became a routine. Every Friday, I sure your son should be watching would head to the DVD section and that?” Again, I was offended at the asthere Tom was. He was nice enough sumption that a) I was, like, nine and knew a lot about films. I was a years old and b) that at 14 I was not budding film enthusiast. I had not old enough to decide for myself. I started my blog yet, and I watched glared at her, about to shout, “I’ll see voraciously nevertheless. I made you at my Pulitzer Prize reception!” notes of his recommendations. Fortunately, my father put his hand After somehow convincing my faover my mouth. ther to buy me yet another DVD, we My father was, by no means, irrewould head to Hollywood Video, sponsible in allowing me to watch known as the Poor Man’s Blockwhat I did. Actually, were it not for buster. I’m old enough to remember his somewhat apathetic stance on ratwhen video rental stores were not ings, I would not have the view of only a thing, but the main way I discinema and art that I have. I knew covered good, bad, and strange what gratuitousness was and did not movies. I would talk to these clerks squirm through it, unless it were too, usually about what horror movies something like medical procedures or I’d seen. These were probably the scenes that involved children being a only ones impressed with my ability nuisance to the adult protagonists. to name all the James Bond films in On our trips to Cape Cod in Dad’s backwards chronological order in RV, we would visit the Drive-In Theunder 30 seconds. Someone had to. ater in Wellfleet. I consider myself We would spend hours deciding lucky to have had that experience. what to rent. I had not yet developed a There were double features and carpretension for any type of film, so I toons, and it was like walking into the was fairly open. By then, I was alpast. I experienced a nostalgia for a lowed to watch almost anything short time I didn’t even experience. It was of porn. Once I began my blog and it after going to a drive-in eight years received recognition, my mother ago that I started my blog. threw any meagre restrictions out the I never realized how important window, saying, “It would be like movies were to my relationship with forcing the horses back into the barn my father until I thought about writafter they’d entered the ing about him. InadverKentucky Derby and tently, he exposed me to started a blog about it. all kinds of films because When the Just without the funny he never limited what I credits rolled, could see. Most imporhats.” Now, I have a rule we’d roll on out tantly, he supported and, not to get any food at in his own way, nurtured the theater unless somemy love for cinema. one else is buying. My father and I Sure, he might have been asleep half shared a good traditionalism about the time, but there was something snacks: popcorn with no butter and a there, something that I miss. It may soda. It was that simple. At home, we have been fate that I found someone were ice cream guys. We would get for whom film meant as much as it pints from Cumberland Farms and inmeans to me. When the lights went dulge in our creamy and silky smooth down and the speakers went up, and pleasures. Only later did I hone my our faces – one rapt with attention and skills at crying into said pint of ice the other calmly nodding off – were cream. bathed in the light of the silver screen, One rainy evening, my father and I there was an undeniable connection were searching in the horror section between father and son. There we for something to watch. We were were, waiting for the coming attracabout to settle on a film called “Mr. tions. ✦ COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM I was always a “little kid” to my parents. It didn’t matter how old I got, the fact that I had friends and other interests besides Mom and Dad, or that – especially in high school – I started to live in a completely different world from theirs; I was always “Davey,” especially to my dad. And for the most part, I didn’t mind. My brother is the stereotypical teen who spends a lot of time alone in his room. He may not fight with our parents, but he resents them. I think there’s a whole background of how he wants to be seen as different from how they tried to raise him, and, in general, he isn’t big on family. And that’s fine by me. I completely understand where he’s coming from. When your parents make you go to church every Sunday, try to control who your friends are, and don’t let you go to parties, there can be bitter feelings. More so today than ever, kids – teens especially – live in two drastically different worlds. One, obviously, is our family. The other is our social life. At home, we have nobody to impress. At school and friends’ houses, we’re always trying to climb the ladder. Make friends. Fit in. Dress right. Get ripped. Look good. Be funny. At home, none of that matters. There’s a difference in the goals of these two worlds for teens. At home, we have to be “good”: not make a mess or talk back, always do your chores and homework. But when we’re trying to impress others, we’ll do almost anything. That’s why at school, “good” kids may make fun of others, talk differently, even walk differently. Teenagers have a natural desire to be accepted. We need, more than anything, to fit in. Since we are constantly told that our parents love us no matter what, we focus our energy on our social world. In addition, we all leave home at some point – many go to college, where finding friends feels even more important – so the social world seems more and more important to teens. Eventually, it always wins. The desire to dissociate from our parents, then, makes sense. They represent home life, “good” kids, nice little boys who aren’t ripped and don’t fit in. When we’re trying to survive in the social world, we don’t want to be seen with our parents. We know that we won’t be with them forever, and, more than anything, we want to grow up, and hasten the inevitable. I know this because I’m living it. I lead two completely different lives, and I know how hard it is to balance them. I’ve seen what it has done to my brother’s relationship with my parents – the distance is painful. So, I didn’t think it was a big deal that my LINK YOUR parents Moving On, Moving Out by David Nolan, Manchester, VT parents still clung on to their view of never push him off. me as “little Davey.” Now I regret pushing my dad away Parents don’t want their kids to more than anything. But I can’t live at grow up, begin to resent them like home forever. My home life and my they resented their parents, and leave dad aren’t the center of my universe home feeling bitter. Parents want the way they once were, and I think nine-year-olds who listen, help out, that has been hard for both of us to and give kisses when they say good realize. night. So I let them cling to Davey. I I’m lucky; having seen my was okay with being their little kid brother’s strained relationship, I had who would never leave home, who 16 beautiful years of childhood, and I would make sacrifices did my best to make the in the social world to most of them. It feels like have a good relationit’s ending now, but I ship with them. Part of think it’s time. Too often, The desire to me even wanted to push away too hard. dissociate from kids stay like that forever, They separate from their to stop time and live parents at 13 or 14. Sure, our parents forever where I’m every kid wants to grow makes sense happy and they are up. Realizing that you’re Photo by Katie Locke, Red Hook, NY too. But as I grew, deleaving something beevery time. Kids grow up. It would be spite both our efforts hind, though, can be helpful if they had allies in that to hold on, that world has been painful, even more if you only realize process instead of dictators. fading. after it’s too late. If I could, I would go back and do My memory is filled with events, And parents face the opposite probsome things differently. I would hold not even very long ago, of me as a kid lem: they pull. They have 13-year-old on to my family more, but I don’t with my dad. I remember him going infants who must follow every rule, think the outcome would be any difout to do errands. As he backed out of be home at this minute or else, comb ferent. Looking back, I realize how the driveway, he would call through their hair a certain way, eat this, think lucky I was that even though I made the car window, “Oh, and Davey? I that. Parents need to see the problems mistakes, I was able to enjoy life at love you” with a big smile. In recent kids face, the struggle between two home. I’m just ready to move on. ✦ years, instead of saying I loved him different worlds where one will win too, I would tell him to go get the groceries. So now he doesn’t say that anymore. Social life over home life. He used to ask me about girls – a by Kiyoko Reidy, Knoxville, TN cardinal sin. The two worlds don’t mix. I told him to stop being so waking up. am afraid.” It’s the first time my awkward, so he stopped asking. He “I know. But one feels frailer, somefather has ever said those words to used to jump on me, shouting, “I’m how.” me. Kitchen, 10:47 p.m., he’s falling!” and squash me into the In the invincibility of youth, fragility is holding a spatula. I glance at my watch – couch. That ended when I was 14 for petals and the hardened shell of snow, the world isn’t going to wait for an apocaand yelled at him to cut it out. not fathers. Only perceiving perpelypse; it’s going to end in minutes. He used to call me Davey. One tuity, I open crusted eyes. He’s If my father is afraid, there is defi“I’m day I told him, “I’m sick of being dreading the mornings I spend nitely something wrong. treated like a little kid.” He asked turning without his stubble-scarred kisses. “What’s scaring you, Dad?” The what I meant. I explained that in a Empty spice shelves, drawers words pop out one by one, thudding 50” year I would be leaving home, but I stripped of their spatulas, an unagainst each other and trying to still had to follow all his rules. “I’m filled space by the stove. I wish I scurry back beneath my tongue. The still ‘Davey,’ and you still think that had never spoken, that the question had kitchen is my father’s; he inhabits the oil this is the center of my life,” I said, found its refuge behind my teeth and burns and the shelves full of spices. I almotioning to the house around me. stayed there. I want to outrun his fears. ✦ most walk away. I can imagine the sound The next day, he called me David. of scuffling footsteps and the isolaAnd I felt my stomach sink. To me, tion after the door slams – angsty and maybe to my dad, “Davey” buzz to thicken the air between us. meant I was still his good little nine“I’m turning 50.” The age of wisyear-old. “David” meant the end. dom and halfway done if you’re I find myself torn between these lucky. The age of everything at once, two worlds. I want to be an adult – with retirement unpacking its things a to do what I want, choose my few doors down. The age of heart friends, stay out at night. But inside, attacks and will to live. I still long for that bear hug, the pro“It’s just another year.” A step from gression of bear hugs from “baby decade to decade, year to year, day to black bear” to “daddy brown bear” – day. Easier than his coffee-drowned the hardest bear hug of them all. Or sunrises. Do I wish him happy birthgames of HORSE in the driveway. day? The consolation of continuity, Or helicopter rides on his shoulders. late nights are always Or how he used to jump on me and red-rimmed, early mornings are shout, “I’m falling! Catch me, Art by Maya Kendrick, Tucson, AZ always grouchy. Forty-nine years of Davey!” And he would land on me, and we would laugh, and I could TEENINK.COM Fragility “I ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 15 pride & prejudice Deprogrammed A s I glanced around the classroom, an awful realization struck me: I’m the only female in an all-male computer science class. I could tell by their stares that my new classmates assumed I had blundered into the wrong room. I too was wondering if I had made a mistake – whether this elective had been a smart choice after all. I had been in the class for less than a minute and already I felt like I didn’t belong. But nothing was less welcoming than having my new teacher ask me, “Are you sure you can handle this class? It’s easier for guys.” That was the first time someone had told me I couldn’t do something simply because I was a girl. At first I thought I had heard him wrong, but there was no version of that sentence that was better. I seriously questioned if I could handle a class taught by a teacher who doubted my ability without even knowing me. I couldn’t believe my teacher meant what he said – and my classmates agreed with him. I felt like an outsider because of my gender, but I had no intention of dropping the class. I stayed because I wanted to prove to my classmates – and to my teacher – that girls are not somehow inferior by Shania Pierre, Edison, NJ every day was tiring, and I debated if it was worth it. when it comes to computer science. But doing that But then something wonderful happened. I became meant working hard to catch up, since unlike the fascinated with programming and resolved that I guys in class I had no prior experience with coding. was not going to let my classmates take my chance I also learned right away that feeling isolated in to learn more away from me. class was my new norm. My teacher assigned the class to create a game Before this class, I had never been told I couldn’t called Brick Breaker. I was scared that my game do something. As a consequence, I went through school with a false understanding of would seem simple compared to my classmates’. Interestingly, I got the what it means to work hard to accomplish something. When my teacher highest grade for this project. This was Feeling isolated the moment that I felt I finally proved questioned my ability to handle his class, it caused me to want to work my to my teacher and my peers that in class was hardest to prove him wrong and prove women can do computer science just as my new norm well as men – or better. to myself that I really could do anything I set my mind to. Now I see this experience as a blessHow long does it take to get used to ing in disguise. I am more motivated as ignorant statements? For me, it took a long time to a student, so the feeling I get when I accomplish a become numb to the sexism I experienced from the goal happens more often. I also now realize that others’ opinions about whether or not I can do someguys in class. They would make a seemingly innothing are irrelevant as long as I believe I can. cent comment like, “Oh, don’t you know that comI have no regrets signing up for that unlikely elecmand?” but in a condescending way. I struggled not tive. Without this experience, I would not have to react to their cutting comments, not wanting them found my true passion in life. ✦ to think I was weak. Facing these sexist attitudes My Awakening by Rujan Ahmed, Atlantic City, NJ R Despite my religious upbringing, I couldn’t aised in a conservative Bengali Muslim agree with my dad that what happened to family, I was taught to fear God and Clementi was okay. I wanted to talk to someone never do anything that went against His about this, but I didn’t know who. At home, my will. I knew how to pray by the time I was four parents and siblings despised homosexuals, and and finished reading the Quran when I was nine. in school almost everyone seemed to use the Among many tenets I learned by studying the word “gay” as either an insult or to refer to Quran was that under Islamic law, homosexualsomething mockingly. So instead, I decided to ity is considered not only a sin but a crime. do some research on how exactly homosexual Most of my childhood was spent in Bangladesh, kids are being affected by bullying. where I neither met nor even saw homosexual I was beyond horrified by what I found. My people; thus my understanding of them was enwhole body felt numb as I learned about the tirely based on the Quran, my parents’ views, thousands of kids who committed suicide beand the beliefs of my culture. cause they couldn’t stand being bullied for Born into a community that viewed homosexbeing who they were. I felt sick to my stomach uals as the vilest of sinners, I learned to despise as I learned about Asher Brown, an eighth them from a young age. It wasn’t until I learned grader who shot himself after he about Tyler Clementi’s death that was physically bullied for his apmy view on homosexuality took a 180-degree turn. In Bangladesh, pearance and his religious beliefs, and accused of being gay. After “Jumping off the gw bridge I never saw reading about teens like Brown, sorry,” was Clementi’s final Facebook status, posted just minutes homosexuals Seth Walsh, Billy Lucas, and countless others apparently bullied to before he plunged to his death death, whatever prejudice I had from the George Washington against homosexual people disappeared. I realBridge in New York City. The 18-year-old Rutized that I could no longer use my religion, my gers student committed suicide in 2010 after his parents, and my culture as excuses for my horoommate, Dharun Ravi, and a fellow hallmate mophobic behavior. I was ashamed to think that used a webcam to spy on Clementi in his room all this time, I was no different from people like with another man, then attempted to broadcast Tyler Clementi’s roommate. the images. The first time I heard about his Before I heard Clementi’s story, I knew very death, I was watching CNN with my dad. When little about the plight of homosexuals and never the reason for Clementi’s suicide was revealed, bothered to form my own opinion beyond what my dad changed the channel, saying, “Guess the Quran had said: that they should be loathed. this Clementi boy should’ve seen it coming, I was only able to overcome my prejudice after huh?” taking the time to learn and attempt to underI was shocked. My dad is not an unkind perstand the struggles of homosexuals. In doing so, son, so hearing him condemn someone because I have neither abandoned my religion nor he was gay was something I couldn’t accept. All thrown away my culture. But I have learned that I could think was how a boy only four years all ignorant prejudice does is provide an illegitiolder than me had killed himself because he was mate excuse for inhumanity. ✦ ashamed of his identity. Beauty Product Genocide The foundation bottles lay, cut open, Strewn like carcasses in the aftermath Of a beauty product genocide The ground is smeared with my running mascara and my mangled hairbrush Looking like a war happened with no Winning side Just chaos without cause and violence Without passion But that’s not entirely true Seventeen magazine told me all the ways I could look prettier If I tried And Vogue made this ideal seem even more Unattainable So I did what any sane woman would do: I killed that which only made me feel beautiful On the outside But whispered to me that I’d never be truly so On the inside. by Callie Zimmerman, Fishers, IN Photo by Tanner Abel, Rome, NY 16 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM U N I V E R S I T Y , A B U D H A B I write-ins. On-campus dorms will be available Abu Dhabi, UAE: When NYU Abu Dhabi first when the university moves to its Saadiyat Island opened its gates for students in the United Arab campus. Emirates, most were skeptical. It is not uncomAt every event during my visit, and in every mon for international universities to set up corner of the university, the importance of the branches in the UAE, but this one stood out. Year liberal arts curriculum was apparent. Student inafter year, NYUAD became more and more imterests ranged from recycling to visual arts, and portant and known in the country and internathe library contained everything from nevertionally, and now, as a high school junior, it is at before seen 3-D printers to old, historical books. the top of my college list. Earlier this year, I Education at NYUAD is central, and it is what attended the university’s open day to find out truly sets the university apart. With majors that exactly what makes it special. are uncommon in the Middle East I was first struck by the simand the option to pursue concentraplicity of NYUAD’s downtown campus. Located in a Offers majors that tions rather than minors, NYUAD diplomas are very sought-after. Its busy area of Abu Dhabi, the are uncommon in Humanities and Social Sciences campus is small but practical. departments distinguish NYUAD. The building is painted NYU’s the Middle East Students are encouraged to spend a traditional purple, and is in a few semesters abroad at NYU’s inU formation; in the middle, a ternational campuses, and exploration of courses garden is visible. The university will be moving unrelated to one’s major is encouraged. to its permanent campus on Saadiyat Island this My visit to NYUAD and the information I reyear, however. This campus will boast numerous ceived left me very impressed. I believe that buildings, one of the biggest libraries in the rethose with a passion for knowledge and the degion, and unique facilities. termination to work hard while enjoying everyCurrently, students live on Al-Reem Island, thing Abu Dhabi and NYUAD have to offer one of the many islands in Abu Dhabi famous for should definitely look into this university. All in its spacious towers and projects. Dorms include all, NYUAD is definitely a place to consider. study spaces and facilities such as gyms and eatLearn more on their website: nyuad.nyu.edu. ✦ ing areas. The dorm building is where many activities take place, such as dance classes, exercise by Khulood Fahim, Abu Dhabi, UAE groups, and, during NaNoWriMo last year, U N I V E R S I T Y Colorado State U N I V E R S I T Y Fort Collins, CO: As a high school student planning for college, I recently visited Colorado State University. As soon as you enter Fort Collins, you will realize that you are in a city well known for its amazing hills. The whole city is flourishing with natural beauty. If you love hiking, this is the best place for you. As a lover of nature, I really enjoyed the green atmosphere of the university. Though Colorado State is one of the oldest universities in America, it has Modern modern buildings. I was amazed by its massive inbuildings frastructure. This campus and massive is home to more than 27,000 students; it’s so infrastructure large that it took almost an hour to walk all the way around. Students from 80 nations study there, and the university offers bachelor’s degrees in 65 fields of study, as well as 55 master’s degrees. Selecting a university is a difficult task for any high school student. We only get to experience college life once in our lifetime. At CSU you can enjoy learning and experience different cultures. Find out more at colostate.edu. ✦ college reviews New York by Austin James, Parowan, UT O F New Hampshire Durham, NH: At first the University of New Hampshire may seem large, but don’t let that discourage you from considering it. This year, UNH has 13,000 undergraduates. In order to accommodate this number of students, UNH’s campus is spread out over 2,600 acres. Surrounding the campus are numerous restaurants, coffee shops, convenience stores, barber shops, and other retail outlets. Several hangouts around campus provide students with an ideal college experience. Not everyone wants to spend hours in their dorm, so having places available to hang out is important. Don’t let Students here can choose from over the size 100 majors and 100 clubs and various discourage intramural sports. Attending a bigger school typically means that the studentyou to-teacher ratio is fairly disproportional, but professors at UNH make great efforts to create relationships with students regardless of class size. Larger schools are also typically considered research universities. For those high school students seeking a classy New England liberal arts college, with the opportunity to partake in major research projects, this is the school. I have seen many new buildings constructed on campus over the years. With a not-too-pretty in-state tuition of over $16,000, some people might be turned off. But those fees are creating an excellent campus and a prospering university. Find out more at unh.edu. ✦ F==@:<F=LE;<I>I8;L8K<8;D@JJ@FE /'' =FI;?8Ds\eifcc7]fi[_Xd%\[lsnnn%]fi[_Xd%\[l by Patrick O’Brien, Newmarket, NH LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 17 Teen Ink • May ’14 • Page 18 ASSUMPTION COLLEGE UA has a rich tradition of excellence in academics, student life and sports. Ranked in the top 50 public universities surveyed by U.S. News & World Report; 9 undergraduate degree-granting schools and colleges; 19:1 student-teacher ratio; all located on a 1,000-acre historic campus. To learn more, visit gobama.ua.edu/teenink. Box 870132 s Tuscaloosa, AL 35487-0132 s 800-933-BAMA Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs: tIllustration tGraphic Design tMultimedia/Web Design t3-D Modeling/Animation tLife Drawing tPainting tWatercolor Painting tPhotography 332 South Michigan Ave. Chicago, IL 60604-4302 312-461-0600 For more information about our graduation rates and other disclosures, please visit our website at http://www.aaart.edu/disclosures/ 2945 College Drive Bryn Athyn, PA 19009 267-502-6000 www.brynathyn.edu A member of the Ivy League and widely recognized for the depth, breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate program, Dartmouth offers students an extraordinary opportunity to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations. 6016 McNutt Hall Hanover, NH 03755 603-646-2875 www.dartmouth.edu Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit philosophy of education, marked by excellent teaching, intellectual inquiry and care of the whole student, in the capital of the world. www.fordham.edu/tink Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of Business, Communications, Health Sciences and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary division offer over 100 majors. my.ithaca.edu 100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850 800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission Academic Quality Affordable Aff or dable Ex Excellence c ellenc e Award A w ar d Winning Campus Marywood University www.m w w w.m aryw arywood o od.. edu www.ashland.edu/english Liberal arts college with an emphasis on preparing leaders in business, government and the professions. Best of both worlds as a member of The Claremont Colleges. Suburban location near Los Angeles. A religiously-affiliated liberal arts college located just outside of Philadelphia offering an outstanding and truly personalized academic experience grounded in an environment of faith. 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Office of Admissions Ada, OH 45810 1-888-408-4668 www.onu.edu/teen • Private New England College founded in 1784 • Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends • Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job • We place 95% of our students in jobs upon graduation Office of Admissions 61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609 1-508-373-9400 • www.becker.edu CORNELL U N I V E R S I T Y Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a land-grant college, combines two great traditions. 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Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price. Earn a world-renowned degree in a personalized environment. Work with professors who will know your name and your goals. Choose from 40 majors and many research, internship and study-abroad opportunities. go Attention all writers! URI has a great major called “Writing and Rhetoric.” Prepare yourself for a career as a journalist, a novelist, an advertising copywriter, a public relations professional, or an English teacher! Located minutes from RI’s gorgeous beaches. XXXVQCQJśFEVr Bradford, PA 16701 Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881 401-874-7100 uri.edu/artsci/writing/ Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing BFA for aspiring young writers. Weekly discussions by guest writers and editors. Nationally recognized college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan. University 1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057 800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu Private, Catholic, liberal arts college founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters. Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and 9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused college in Ohio and one of few in the United States. Ursuline teaches the empowerment of self. 2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124 1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu Want to become a better writer? ONLINE Writing Classes Creative Writing OR Nonfiction Princeton simultaneously strives to be one of the leading research universities and the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students with academic, extracurricular and other resources, in a residential community committed to diversity. Princeton, NJ 08544 (609) 258-3060 www.princeton.edu SWARTHMORE A distinguished faculty, an innovative curriculum and outstanding undergraduates offer unparalleled opportunities for intellectual growth on a beautiful California campus. 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Box 208234 New Haven, CT 06520 203-432-9300 www.yale.edu Get The Writer. Six-week Sessions Start: June 3rd & 17th July 8th & 22nd For more information, go to TeenInk.com/writingclasses Questions? Check out TeenInk.com E-mail: [email protected] Call: 617-964-6800 (Weekdays, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. EST) Ages 13-19 are eligible Enrolled students will also receive a free one-year subscription to Teen Ink magazine. University www.thewritermag.com memoirs Life of Dad O by Jennifer Du, Mississauga, ON, Canada find a safer, better life with his ne day I was in the car with brother and uncle, who owned a boat. my dad, on our way home. I Many Vietnamese citizens, including was talking animatedly about half of my father’s family, were una book I had just read, Life of Pi, able to leave and remain under North which you probably know is a surVietnam’s oppressive reign even vival story about a boy stranded on a today. Others paid to get on the boat. life raft with a tiger. The voyage to reach safe neighboring “Write my story,” my dad joked. “I countries like Malaysia or Indonesia could have my own book, even better was expected to take about two days, than that boy with the tiger.” but terrible luck loomed over the voyAlthough he was kidding, I thought age like a thunder cloud. it was a good idea. I The refugees sat quiwanted to tell others etly shoulder to shoulabout my dad’s dangerMy dad – then der with their knees ous, epic journey – a story that rivals Jason’s 15 – was forced against their chests. Three hundred men, or Odysseus’ in my to flee Vietnam women, and children eyes. Dad had often told crowded the boat, leavme about his experiing little room for ences as a refugee, each anyone to move. time fleshing out different details, but Taking advantage of the political always with the same harrowing narunrest, modern-day Thai pirates sailed rative. the waters to intercept escaping VietIt all began long ago, just after the namese boats, loot them of valuables, Vietnam War ended in 1975. North and more often than not, brutally kill Vietnam, which supported commuthe refugees. One of these ships nism, had just taken over South Vietstopped my dad’s boat as they crossed nam, and it wasn’t until 1978 that the the South China Sea. people of the South began to realize The pirates robbed the refugees on just how inadequately the communist my dad’s boat of whatever money and government ruled. gold they had (which they had inMy dad – then 15 – fled Vietnam to tended to use to begin new lives), broke everything, including the motor, and attacked women. Then they left the refugees stranded on the open sea, though thankfully alive. All in all, they were lucky. There’s something about trains that makes people They put up an emergency sail endlessly nostalgic to replace the broken engine, but Like some echo of Gatsby or Kerouac bad luck once again struck. Ancriss-crossing America other pirate ship looted them, and Looking for a past that never really was the thieves broke the sail and left I traded one city for another them stranded a second time. Left Toronto for Ottawa Although the Western countries And with it left a string of lovers had sent Navy ships to deter the And friends who promised to call but after a while pirates, my father’s boat was plunwould find themselves unable dered over and over – pirates findOr unwilling, our friendship becoming something ing the last gold coins tucked akin to calling estranged relatives safely in a child’s shirt, or morsels Something you do only to prove – more to yourself of food hidden by a mother – until than anyone – there was nothing left except That they still occupy some tiny piece of real-estate starving refugees. One pirate ship on the outskirts of your mind punched a hole in my dad’s boat And I knew I’d hate it to make it sink. In sheer desperaKnew that there would be tears tion, the passengers used buckets A twenty-year-old reduced to a child of ten years to bail the water, taking turns Wondering why the world keeps going even though round the clock just to stay afloat. I’ve gone With no food left, men, women, But I didn’t hate it and children starved. “Children Not really were so hungry that they would Waking up was like starting over look for uncooked pieces of rice In this place where no one knew me on the floor to eat,” my dad exI like writing alone plained somberly. “But every time Riding the bus alone across the bridge to Montreal I thought I was going to die, someDrinking and thinking alone feeling no need to pace how, it would rain just in time and myself or keep up we would collect the water.” I like being alone, but I’ve never been much for For what seemed like an eterbeing lonely nity, but was probably a month, by Ben Horrobin, Courtice, ON, Canada they survived on rain water and floated on the open sea, going Going to Ottawa 20 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 whichever way the current pleased. At last, a lucky day came when a fishing boat found them and towed their broken boat to Malaysia. The police took the refugees to a military camp, where they were evaluated for transfer to other counPhoto by Marisa Freedman, Sharon, MA tries. They remained there for two months, During the next three months, the but no one was transferred. Eventurefugees mingled with the Indonesian ally, officials told them they would be locals and managed to survive by towed to an island where other catching fish, picking fruit, eating refugees lived. It would only take one canned food they were given by the to two days, the officials claimed. soldiers, drinking from a waterfall, Three days and no islands in sight, and making campfires and shelter. they knew something was wrong. The Eventually, the soldiers relocated boat towing them cut the line and left my father’s group to a larger island them stranded in the open sea again, where more refugees lived while they in the same broken vessel they had waited to be accepted into a firstused to escape from Vietnam. Howworld country. Meanwhile, life conever, this time, the conditions were tinued, and the refugees built a worse; storms and rough seas threatthriving community on the island, ened to capsize them. It was tropical complete with barracks, convenience season, and the violent sea bore no stores, coffee shops, schools, temples, regard for the tiny boat filled with and other businesses. This become terrified refugees. their lives as they waited for years to My dad discovered later that the be accepted into safe countries like Malaysian government had done this Canada, America, and Australia. to all the refugees they sheltered beRefugees could apply for asylum to cause the UN had not given them the whichever country they wanted, but relief money they had demanded. they could only do it one at a time. The passengers somehow managed Sometimes they heard back quickly, to fix the engine, and they flagged but many were stuck in limbo for a down a fishing boat for some oil. long time, depending on the country. Then they continued their search for More popular countries had longer land. One day, they spotted an island wait times. and a submarine with a soldier wavEventually, my dad’s relatives went ing a flag in the air. to Australia. My dad and his brother “Nobody knew what it meant, so weren’t able to go with them because we continued toward them until they Australia didn’t accept opened fire,” my lone minors, and his father recalled. relatives didn’t want the “Everyone dropped to responsibility of caring When my dad the deck. They apfor them. So the brothproached us in a small left the boat, he ers journeyed to boat. We were terrified and began a was so weak that Canada that they were enenew life in Toronto, mies.” he had to crawl Ontario. However, when the I am grateful for this soldiers boarded their turn of events because boat and the refugees Canada is my home, and I wouldn’t somehow explained what they were want to live anywhere else. And if doing, the soldiers agreed to tow them my dad hadn’t come to Canada, my to another island. Although this parents would not have met, and I sounds like good news, the refugees wouldn’t have been born. were terrified of being towed again, More than twenty people died on especially when they were so near that journey, and I am so grateful my shore. They threatened to jump overdad was one of the survivors. I am board and swim to shore, so the solglad that he is here today to laugh diers took them to the nearby island. when I make funny faces behind my When my dad finally left the boat, mom’s back. I am grateful he is here he was so weak and unused to walkto give me hugs and kisses, whether I ing that he had to crawl on his hands want them or not. I am so grateful. and knees. Since he hadn’t eaten for I love you, Dad. ✦ so long, he was not allowed solid food and had to settle for soup. COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM W e started dating after the church retreat. I had known him for years but never thought of him as more than just another rambunctious guy in my youth group. I had never had a boyfriend, or even a second glance from a boy, so this was a major first for me. The church retreat really broke the ice. I remember him stealing my jacket as a joke, an all-black hoodie with white stars on it. It fit him terribly, but he proudly ran around with it on all night. On the last night, he walked me to my cabin. He opened the door and stood so close to me I could barely breathe. He put his arms around me and held me for what felt like a century. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me – what a romantic time for my first kiss! It would have been picture perfect. But instead he let go and said, “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” The next day we exchanged numbers. When he asked me out a couple weeks later, I was ecstatic. My first boyfriend, and maybe even my first kiss! One night we went to see “Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist.” I was sweating through the whole movie, anticipating a kiss. At the end, as everyone was leaving, I looked over at him, and he at me, and a mutual decision was made. We kissed. Well, it was more like his tongue attacked the back of my mouth, but there it was. My first kiss! Romantic right? Then he pulled away and said, “Your mouth is really wet.” Aren’t most mouths? So Underwater by “Kim,” Seattle, WA were so wrong. much for my picture-perfect moment. We had been putting Christmas lights After our first awkward kiss things got on a tiny tree in my room. As we finbetter. We went to the movies, out to ished stringing them, we noticed that dinner, or just hung out at my house or only the bottom half of the tree was his. I thought things were going great. blinking. He had said he knew what he We talked a lot, shared stories, made was doing, but clearly he didn’t. We time for each other, and just had fun. But laughed as the tree blinked out of sync. then our relationship took a turn for the One minute we were admiring the worse. tree, and the next I was lying on the bed • • • and he was pulling down his jeans. Not E-mails, texts, calls, voice mails, and much happened in between. No kissing, Facebook messages. From people I no touching. There was no time to say didn’t know, numbers I had never seen, anything. It just happened. To be honest, and names I had never heard of. HorriI didn’t even realized what we’d done ble, insulting, profane, abusive mesuntil it was over. sages. The lights were still on, “You’re disgusting, dirty, I didn’t realize my clothes were still on, I’m surprised anyone there was no eye conwould even want to do that what we had and tact. We looked at each with you.” done until it other briefly afterwards, but “I heard what happened that was the last time he met the other night.You’re such was over my eye for the rest of the a skank. Go die.” evening. As we heard, “The “He was a good guy. movie’s starting!” from downstairs, he Why would you do that to him?! He’s zipped up his pants and ran ahead, leavone of my best friends. And you’re a ing me in the empty room. I felt conwhore. Stay away from him.” fused and worried. During the movie we “You’re so ugly, you should just go sat next to each other, but we might as hide under a rock and stay there forwell have been miles apart. His eyes ever.” were fixed on the screen but a huge My heart sank, and my lungs felt smile was plastered on his face as if he heavy in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I was thinking, My goal has been couldn’t even cry. achieved. • • • I wanted him to hold me and tell me I vividly remember what happened everything was going to be okay. Instead that fateful night. How could I forget? I got silence. We didn’t talk for the next We were so young. We thought we three days. No e-mails, no texts, no calls, knew what love was, and we thought no voice mails. that having sex would prove that. We I YOUR TEENINK.COM The people I did hear from were the kids from his school, his friends. Boys and girls. Everywhere I looked there were mean words, rude comments, heartbreaking messages. At that point all I wanted to do was hide under a rock and stay there forever. There was never an explanation for those calls and messages. No apologies, not even a word about it. He and I never talked again. I’m telling this story for a reason. Believe me, I am not having a pity party for myself. I’m pouring my heart out because I’ve struggled over the past few years, blaming myself for what happened, hating myself for letting it happen. I’ve grown up a lot since then, and I know now that I’m not to blame. It’s finally time to let go of those feelings. It happened, and I’ve accepted that it will be a part of me forever. But though I will always regret what happened that night, I have learned a lot about myself, who I am, and who I want to be. I have many friends who complain, “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet!” And I always say to them what I’ll say to you now: Wait. Just wait. There’s no reason to rush. When you finally do have a first, make sure it’s with someone special who respects you. Everyone deserves that. Life is full of firsts, but you only have one chance to make them special. ✦ by Cassidy Phillips, Springboro, PA Again and again, until the water rose up from her lungs don’t remember much from that day. I was only nine, and out of her mouth. after all. There are details, however, that time simply They rushed her to an ambulance before she could even cannot wear away. The sirens are one of them. And the let out a cry. The way she looked at me, though, she didn’t blue tint of my little sister’s skin. Emily was only five, have to. practically a baby, her torso encased in fiberglass due to She was one of many who cried that day. I did, my scoliosis. There was no way she could have swam, even if brother did, and my mother – my strong, fearless mother she knew how. cried. It was so foreign to me, so strange; I had never seen I started panicking when I looked around the pool, quite it happen before. Someone must have called her at work. literally swimming with people, and couldn’t spot Emily. As she approached the hospital’s emergency My breathing became labored as panic entrance, I rushed over to meet her. She gripped me. I ran across the slick tile, nearly I scanned hugged me tightly, then ran inside. I slipping and falling in myself. I found the stood and watched as the doors woman who had been in charge of watching the pool for closed. They wouldn’t let me see my my sister in the hot tub, a forbidden place any sign of my sister until the next morning. where only the grown-ups could go. I remember lying in bed at my “Where is she?” I demanded, fear and little sister babysitter’s house late into the night, worry pushing their way up from my gut. not awake, but not asleep enough to “Where is Emily?” dream. What could they be doing to her? Was she She looked at me for a moment, stunned. She reminded connected to a bunch of wires like on the medical me of a deer caught in the headlights of my mother’s car. I shows my mother watched? Was she being prodturned to scan the crowd for a sign, any sign, of my little ded like some lab experiment, like I had read sister. about in science-fiction books? I didn’t have to Everything that happened afterward has blurred together wait long to get the answers. What seemed like in my memory. I remember the sirens – so loud I had to minutes later, I was being shaken awake and told place my hands over my ears. I remember her tiny, discolto get dressed. ored body being lifted from the pool and placed gently on I had been to a hospital before, of course. I had the ground. One pump, two pumps, three pumps, a breath. LINK memoirs The First Time ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK regular checkups for my back. But the hospital I was used to had colorful floors, brightly painted walls, and silly doctors that made me giggle. This hospital was gray, gray, gray. Gray walls, gray ceilings, even the people looked gray. When I saw my sister laughing and playing with my mom, though, none of that mattered. I was no longer standing in the doorway of a gray building. No longer felt the awful pressure in my chest, that feeling of guilt that I should have been watching her, should have protected her. She smiled at me, and everything was bright again. ✦ Photo by Emma Cloe, Longmont, CO M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 21 memoirs The Girl Is … by Zephyr Allen, Maryville, TN P high school, I realized that many of oorly drawn graffiti on the walls of dilapidated my friends hadn’t been so lucky. gas stations is a common sight at vacant highMany of them had parents who were way exits in the Appalachians. Yet, as I waited unkind, or simply uncaring. for my dad to pay for gas, one phrase stood out from Because of my disillusionment, I all the others spray-painted on the wall. The vandal found myself driving the empty had clearly been interrupted, perhaps chased away roads of Maryville early one mornby a gas station employee. Though the other graffiti ing to pick up a friend for a pancake screamed out in colorful paint, the words “the girl breakfast. These weekly “breakfast is” stood out to me in black. clubs” filled our overworked Friday Long after I had climbed back into my dad’s car mornings with the blessto escape the biting winter wind, the ing of good food, and phrase still tugged at my mind, making somehow by together me wonder, What could the girl be? We could consuming the pancakes The girl is nice. start losing and coffee courteously The girl is bad. by my father, The girl is stupid. our ingrained provided we had transformed Or perhaps the author intended to from a gaggle of girls fitting in converself-hatred use one of the many words I wish I sation in the odd hours of the morning, hadn’t known at 15. to a support group where we could start Many of those words were the losing our common religion of ingrained self-hatred. choice vocabulary of my school’s population. They There was the girl who had been raped freshman could be heard whispered in gossip or thrown across year who could finally walk into school knowing crowded hallways. Some were aimed at me. Some that “the girl is not dirty.” were aimed at my friends – words that labeled us as There was the girl who learned that, despite her people we never were, stones in a civilized Lord of less than perfect grades, “the girl is not stupid.” the Flies, never truly guarded against, because half And then there was me, who had been struggling of them we believed to be true. with my passion for mathematics. For me, learning Sometimes I think that the girl is just messed up. math has always seemed more like remembering a Even after my parents separated, I lived a childstory I heard as a child than work, yet when I told hood of halcyon naivety. However, when I began Photo by Madeline Hertz, Shaker Heights, OH my mother’s family that I wanted to be an engineer, they laughed. Unfortunately, I can understand their surprise. Over the years, I’ve watched the girls in my math classes dwindle until there were just five of us left senior year. I know the expectations of my gender and how rarely we are given the message that “the girl is capable.” But I also know that it’s time to disabuse ourselves of the stereotypes. It’s time to teach the world that “the girl” is not a prude or a tramp or stupid. I want my female friends to know that they are anything but worthless. I want to give them the confidence to say that “the girl is fine.” ✦ Good Books and a Green Purse W hen I was eight years old I sat in a yellow and fuchsia yurt, drawing with a fat beeswax crayon made specially in Germany for me (or so I was told). My mom’s childhood copy of Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Old Clock, with its musty pages, sat at my feet. I clutched a green messenger bag that I pictured Nancy Drew using. My mom had bought it for me on an emergency cat-food run to Target the night before. The sun shone on its green surface, giving it an unearthly, radioactive hue. The air was cold and smelled of wet sheep, and all around Photo by Addison McTague, Oak Harbor, OH 22 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 and the guttural trill of Hebrew bomme children were screaming in Engbarded our quaint living room. My lish, Spanish, Japanese, German, or grandmother had arrived. I thought Elvish. And I was alone. she was a god. I was wearing a purple sweater that Her hair stood, literally stood, on had holes in each cuff where I had top of her head in an orange rectangurubbed the wool thin. A tensely lar mass: a vestigial structure of her fought battle of consumerism and glory days. She wore five scarves – popularity was being waged outside five – wrapped around her neck and as competing friend groups strove to the back of her head. My dad folcreate the finest mud bakeries in all of lowed her in. Altadena. The bakeries were competShe stood there grinning, her arms ing for a “Michelin star.” Waldorf was outstretched. We sat down on the an affluent – though quirky – private couch and in what even I could tell school after all. My skills as a mud was an American accent, baker were apparently she read me a book in not up to par, so I was Hebrew, about Jerusalem. only hired as a partI’d never The book had 3-D glasses time employee. But it and 3-D photos. When was okay; I had a book felt so alone she was done, I examined and a green detective the book closely, then bag. carefully tucked it away Perhaps it was that in my green messenger bag. night, or weeks later. Whatever the I should add something. Her husdate, it was raining. A fierce wind band was a Russian Jew. After they came in gusts and torrents, whipping got married, she asked him to not be through the fruit trees in my garden, Jewish anymore, and for whatever purloining oranges, lemons, and reason he obliged. Apparently she peaches. I sat by the hearth in my livdidn’t want to attract attention in their ing room, drawing castles and mersmall suburb of Stockton, California. maids, waiting. I was sleepy but But when her husband died, riddled watchful. My eyes scrutinized the with guilt and self-hatred, she moved front door as I added a pink flower to Jerusalem and became a Jew herhere and a green bird there. The door self. opened. Exotic, damp, unrecognizable Years later, I stood in Paris, staring smells, the chink of costume jewelry, COMMENT by Betsy Roy, Pasadena, CA at a green purse in a department store window. It was made of supple leather, and the pastel-colored afternoon light made it glow. I was with my classmates, but I’d never felt so alone. I’d saved all my money to be able to buy something in Paris, but I didn’t know what to get. My mom was with my dad in Philadelphia, getting treatment for a rare cancer. The purse looked as if it could carry at least two books. My mom would love the rich, dark green color. I went into the store and bought the purse. Paranoid, of what I cannot say, I protected it for the remainder of the trip. When I got home, I gave my mom the green purse just before she left for Philadelphia again. As she walked out of our front door, I thought I caught a glimpse of Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Old Clock in her green purse alongside a copy of An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood. Neither I nor anyone else could say what would happen. Maybe I’d become a baker, maybe I’d move to the Middle East. As I watched my mom go, it seemed that with all the uncertainty in life, it was not only right but necessary to have good books and a green purse. ✦ ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM M y parents are making their bed. Struggling to shove an enormous pillow into a pillowcase still stiff from the dryer, my father mutters, “I feel like I’m stuffing raw beef into a balloon over here.” My mother laughs and makes sure that the sheet is even on both sides. When the pillow finally flops into place, they look at the bed with satisfied smiles. “Mm, clean sheets,” my mother sighs, as though she’s devouring dark chocolate almond bark. She smooths a crease in the blankets with reverence. You can tell that she feels, physically, some kind of relief. My room, on the other hand, probably gives her ulcers. In contrast with my parents’ smooth white-and-blue walls, my room is plastered with endless paraphernalia, including (but not limited to) needlepoint, old birthday cards, and photographs. To my credit, the floor is clear, but only because my clothes are heaped artlessly on a chair in the corner, the chair intended as a reading nook. My desk is clean enough to be functional, but I never put my laptop away. And we don’t even talk about my closet. • • • “The problem isn’t cleanliness,” my mother claims. “The problem is clutter.” She’s right. While I did go through a brief stage where I had an arbitrary and unfortunate aversion to showers, I have never really struggled with hygiene. My face is almost untouched by acne scars, my clothes always smell faintly of detergent, and you won’t find moldy pizza crusts in my bedroom. Even when I was little, it wasn’t that the things I owned were dirty; it was simply that they were everywhere. My mother referred to it as the Tessie Trail: anyone could find me simply by following the string of books, jackets, and toys strewn behind me as though I had dropped them as I went. In fact, that usually was what happened. I was simply no good at picking up after myself. Everything else was so much more important: the dragon in hot pursuit of my American Girl doll, the smell of grilled cheese from the kitchen, the bouncy ball under the couch. There was too much to do, always, to worry about organization. And getting rid of things was never an option. Finally, with some defiance, I taped a sign to my door that read “Geniuses are rarely tidy.” • • The first time I saw “An Inconvenient Truth,” I was astonished by the trash. Unbelievable amounts of trash, sliding out of monstrous trucks into jewel-bright incinerators and endless, LINK YOUR memoirs Geniuses Are Rarely Tidy by Tess Ross-Callahan, Arlington, MA nightmarish landfills. The voice-overs contortionism to sleep at night. It was played in my ears whenever I lingered also true that this was completely over my own small trash can, grimly avoidable, if only I was willing to sacinforming me how much people rifice the comfort of my toys for my throw away yearly. Throwing things sleep. But how could I choose myself away became a cause of revulsion over the things I loved enough to and, eventually, guilt. share a bed with every night, the creaTo make things worse, I had always tures that comforted me when I was believed that inanimate objects were scared or sad for the past ten years? It alive. This, at least, I was the same dilemma can mostly blame on I’d encountered when my parents. Getting rid of standing over my trash Photo by Ellie White, Sitka, AK “Go get Mrs. Spraycan: How could I choose things was there comes a time when you need to bottle,” my mother to condemn a plastic bite your lip and move the toys to the would say every night, wrapper to a fiery death, never an option dresser, or move the tearful e-mails wielding my hairbrush especially if it meant the from sick friends to the “trash” folder. in one hand. She was planet would continue to It’s a hard lesson: Sometimes you referring to the bottle of detangler on be poisoned? How was it ever fair to need to take care of yourself first. the back of the toilet that conversed choose myself over the things that We have more battles before us, with me in an accent my mom had had done so much for me? this lesson and I, to determine who picked up in high school French. My view of the world, the only will change the other first. But until My dad would clean my face with neatly organized thing I possessed, then, if anyone needs pencil nubs, “Mr. Washcloth,” who also had a spewas divided into piles of “good paper shreds, used notebooks, or cial voice, and every night I was told things” and “bad things.” I didn’t unshoeboxes, come find me. my bed was “happy to see me.” So it derstand that empathy, like all good I’ve got a whole bunch in my should hardly be a surprise that I things, turns sour when there is too ✦ closet. started to murmur apologies and much of it. I didn’t understand that thank-yous to my toothbrushes and flossers when I threw them away. Empty paper towel rolls, socks with gaping holes – nothing deserved The Trash, because it would be burned alive or left to rot, alone, forever. So I kept it by Brendan McGuigan, Newtown, PA all, saying, as so many hoarders do, “You never know. It may perhaps a first love. A second choice that’s am standing on a blank white stage. The come in handy some day.” second best, a second chance second guessonly voice that can be heard is mine. I am • • • ing what he does with the seconds passing. I speaking to you, and I am speaking to no My clutter was hardest on my am an infinity expanding in whichever direcone in particular. I am getting nervous; I mother. She is a person who tion I choose. I am near, I am far, I am wherdidn’t properly prepare for this. I am getting finds beauty in empty jars, clean ever you are. I am singing “My Heart Will to the point now. expanses of wall, and surfaces Go On.” Who am I? I am the lump sum of the adwith nothing on them. She atI am an anatomy: a heart, a brain, some jectives assigned to me: lazy, forgetful, quiet, tacks messes with as much vilungs and kidneys, and other organs. I am intelligent. Or am I only the adjectives I ciousness as she would attack whatever I choose to be until I am told otherchoose to be? I am a proper noun, a name I someone who had threatened her wise, or am I still what I choose to be even had no say in. I am also pronouns, mostly he, daughters. Living with me presafter? him, I, you, me, and sometimes a portion of ents a challenge, which peaked in I am making words and choices and sense us or we. I am the regretful owner of a loft sixth grade. and carbon dioxide and mistakes. bed. I am the thing that goes It began because my bed was I am not, however, perfect. Nor bump in the night, but that’s too small. Not for me, but for only when I hit my head on the I didn’t properly am I a character or an idea. I am me, two pillows, five stuffed raba real person, unshaped by one ceiling. prepare for this bits, two extra blankets, a doll, a singular mind, born of flesh and I am a burden to bear, and mouse in a corduroy dress, and a bone, striving to be more than one bear of a burden. But I am sizeable elephant. I had to move flesh and bone. I am the platelets that rush to not my failures or my shortcomings. I am them or sacrifice sleep. heal your wounds. I am the endorphins that “okay” and sometimes I’m not, but that is “But they’ll be offended,” I exaccompany them to ease your pain. okay too. I am the fall, the onset of someplained, anxiously fingering the I am contradicting myself. I am more than thing to come. Some days I am warm and silky ear of Pumpernickel, one of the name I have been given by myself or anyothers I am cold. To some I am funny, and to the rabbits. “They’ll be mad that one else. I am letters and words and syllables others I am troubled. But mostly I am amorI took the bed for myself.” and sentences and paragraphs and chapters phous, a word assigned to something that “Sweetheart,” my mother said. and volumes and volumes and volumes of cannot permanently retain any other words. “They’ll be fine. You need your volumes. I am a collection of cells that has formed a sleep, so the toys need to move.” A curtain is falling. The stage is going dark consciousness that strives for individuality We went back and forth for a now; I am exiting. My voice cannot be heard among other collections of cells that have few minutes, and finally she anymore. The only sound is the light murmur formed their own consciousness. I am bigger shrugged, and said, “Honey, it’s of the audience. They are unknowingly ason the inside; we all are – that’s nothing new. your choice.” And so I curled up signing me more adjectives. I am absent yet I I am striving, striving for more than just puras an inchworm might (that was am lingering. They call me many things, but poseless survival. the only way to fit on my bed) one thing I am not is forgotten. ✦ I am numbered: A first child, a first kiss, or and thought about this. True, I had to practice TEENINK.COM The Opposite of Untitled I ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 23 memoirs Common Language M y past feels fragmented as though I’m looking at it through shattered glass. But I think the truest part of the past is in the cracks, where adhesive memories hold the pieces together. I was enrolled in the River School from kindergarten through second grade. The school’s inclusion program for the hearing impaired enabled my first brush with irony: my affinity for words began with a girl who could not hear them. We had reading time every day, and my group consisted of six students, two of whom were deaf. One, Sydney, drew my attention with her colorfulness – the palette of Saturday morning cartoons. In the quiet periods when everyone settled into their books, I would occasionally peek at the coiled apparatus in Sydney’s ears. If she caught my gaze, she would giggle and a light flickered in her eyes. That light communicated, with the intensity of a lighthouse beam, a glimpse into her mind. During recesses of Goldfish in paper cups and crayons, ripened baby teeth rattled under the volume of the messy conversation. But I only remember listening to Sydney. In her garbled speech, I could pick out few coherent words; the rest seemed like flourishes of a language only she knew. It was a language lacking consciousness of its own sound. An externalization of her thoughts that transcended neatly sequenced consonants and vowels. A symphony Stuck by Christian Prince, Washington, DC of her mind. language of our own. This seemed like a salvation to me, I believe there are many more lana soft-spoken child who was starting guages than people acknowledge. to realize that many spoke just to hear Take, for example, when I’m in a the sound of their own voice. Sydney crowd and want to be left alone. I precouldn’t, and I wouldn’t – even then I tend to text on my phone, typing realized my sloppy sylsomething like “adkjflables betrayed the naks” repeatedly. There Written word is a language to the nonshapes of my thoughts. Sydney and I began a I type: it communibuilds bridges sense written correspondence, cates the imperative to and through the medium either talk or appear disof crayons on napkins, we both found tracted in social situations. But when voices distinct from our speech. Our the necessity of talking becomes a misspelled words, uneven spacing, distraction in itself, people select and broken grammar felt less like words no more carefully than my betraying English than creating a thumbs select cell phone keys. Also, during my quotidian Metro ride, the agreed-upon silence and the rehearsed, blank expressions of riders are a language of their own. Language too often conveys a fear of meaningful communication. Hiroshima Photo by Anna Goodling, Washington, VT by Daniel Kwiatkowski, Essex Fells, NJ I sister crouched nearby, ready to pull. was trapped beneath it – completely immobi“On three … one, two, three.” He held his lized. My younger sister heard my muffled breath and – in what would later be called an screams as I struggled to take a full breath. She adrenaline-fueled feat of superhuman strength – rushed downstairs to the kitchen, which was under the officer lifted the fridge just enough for my renovation, and saw that the refrigerator had fallen sister to pull me out. facedown on top of me. When the officer released the fridge, the vibraMy head was barely visible beneath the huge aptions from the slam resonated through the house. pliance. My sister stood paralyzed for a few secHe picked me up and carried me like a sick dog onds, unsure what to do – we were the only ones out to meet the ambulance, which had just arrived. home. She tried moving the fridge off me, but it In the back of the speeding vehiwas much too heavy for her. cle, I moaned in agony as an EMT “What should I do? Who should I The refrigerator pulled my shirt up to reveal a profucall?” she asked in a panicked voice. sion of marks covering my twelve“The police!” I yelled. After she had fallen on year-old midsection. The policeman made the frantic 911 call, the minutes called my mom, and I could sense passed like hours. I could feel myself top of me her panic as I listened to him attempt starting to black out. to calm her so she could focus on Finally a lone cop arrived. As he driving safely to meet at us at the emergency room. stepped through the door, he reassured my sister Doctors determined that I had cracked four ribs that an ambulance was on its way. But when he and they would need to operate immediately to saw me, his shock was worse than my sister’s. His stop the internal bleeding. My mom arrived at the first attempt to move the fridge was barely more hospital as my stretcher was being wheeled into successful than my ten-year-old sister’s. the operating room. Then he was hit with an idea. “Okay, honey,” he When I saw her tears, I tried to explain. “I’m said to her, “when I lift, you’re going to pull him sorry,” I said. “I only wanted a snack.” ✦ out, okay?” He squatted next to my head, and my 24 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 Writers distill the gratuities of language and inject meaning back into words. Spoken word sprouts dandelions that blow away with the wind, but written word builds bridges. Sydney and I managed to build a bridge with our crayons. I ran to the quiet of her world and she ran to the noisiness of mine. We pursued the experience of someone else’s mind – its aesthetics and sound – to find commonalities. The bridges allow everyone’s inner monologue to find an audience. But every bridge requires maintenance, which is why I must continue to write. Sydney never knew this, but I never read the last page of our favorite book, The Giving Tree. When we reached the last page, I would watch her eyes speeding over the words. I could tell the story had ended when the light in them flickered out. That was my ending. ✦ When they bombed Hiroshima, all I inherited was fire. My mother lent me her ashes, my father left me his burned leather shoe. I have often heard “love conquers all” but flames have burned the edges of my white flimsy paper body, curling back the charred edges, threatening to collapse on the love inside me. Nothing survives but the black waste that fills my nostrils, clouds my eyes, and feeds on the anger that refuses to subside. When they bombed Hiroshima, little boys held on to unmoving marble fingers. Mothers clawed to find bits of their own creations, all their dreams crumbling into dust. No man was left as himself, the tar hid their claim to the roots they had embedded. Nuclear fumes, hatred, and death seeped like poison into our intertwined trunks. When they bombed Hiroshima, my sister held on to my mother’s tooth nestled in the rubble. The only pearl white reflecting a darkness filled with blood and defeat. In Times Square, people clutched flags like that very tooth, surrounded by red, white, and blue as we swam in a sea of black. The tooth illuminated my sister’s last hope, feet still unsure and burned, she ran to the tracks, embracing death as if she were our mother. When they bombed Hiroshima, I gave up on light. I gave up on the hope of the blackness ever lifting and the burns ever healing. Some have the courage to die. Others have the courage to live. When they bombed Hiroshima, they left me the courage to do neither. by Ananya Bhasin, Cambridge, MA COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM art gallery Photo by Rebecca Shadd, LaSalle, ON, Canada Art by Alyssa Hall, Yelm, WA Art by Rituparna Padhy, Bhubaneswar, India Photo by Celia Boltansky, Chevy Chase, MD Photo by Emma Lucas, Colorado Springs, CO Art by Megan Fitts, Pacific, MO Photo by Andrea Busicescu, Las Vegas, NV Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details Art by Celeste Reyes, Passaic, NJ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 25 travel & culture Dancing in the Rain by Ruchi Chitgopekar, Hoffman Estates, IL D where her husband was now. uring my stay in India, I lived in my grandShe stiffened, her graying hair wound tightly in a mother’s flat, a small two-bedroom in the braid down her back. “He left me for an actress and heart of downtown Pune. passed away of a heart attack soon after.” We lived within minutes of the famous Laxmi I thought about that for a while, unusually quiet. Street, the bhajaii valas selling their fruits and vegVaiju Maushi had once told me that she had no reetables, hawking their goods loudly as a parade of grets. Maybe she still missed him. Or maybe it religious worshippers carried a statue of Ganesh was, as the saying goes, better to have loved and down the road, and a lady’s clear soprano rising lost than to have never loved at all. above the others’ in the recitation of the Bhagavad • • • Gita, the Hindu religious script, the Sanskrit words Monsoon season was imminent. The clouds fusing with the chaos of the street vendors and the looked heavy with rain, as if holding their breath trumpeting of an adorned elephant ambling down until the sun slipped off to sleep. My cousin, Kruthe street. tikka, and I sipped mango milkshakes Sometimes a woman would pause on her glossy red motorcycle, parked to greet my mother and inquire after haphazardly in front of our flat. I was our family; my mother once had a life There was a thinking about living life to the fullest, here, in this country where everything simple kind of about having no regrets, about love felt so alien to me. I would stand awkwardly by her side as her friends spirituality here and loss and other things I knew little about. gushed about me, how tall I was by “Paise for your thoughts,” Krutikka Indian standards, how pretty I had offered, tossing a coin in my direction. become over the years. “They’re worth a lot more than a measly paise.” I “America?” they would ask, their heavy accents grinned, distracting myself from my thoughts, savorrolling the vowels, adding hills and mountains, making the sun, the scent of jasmine pinned on my damp ing my home sound like a totally new place. hair and the creamy mango lingering on my tongue My grasp of Marathi, my mother’s first language, like the last note of a song. is basic at best, but it didn’t hold me back. I spent “I’m a college student, beta,” Krutikka teased. days with my neighbor, Vaiju Maushi, whose Eng“That’s all I can afford if I want to eat today. lish was as good as my Marathi. I would sit on an “You’re eating with me tonight!” I squealed. “Reold wooden stool with an omnipresent cat on my lap member? You promised to visit the street food cart!” as Vaiju Maushi told me endless, beautiful stories. Krutikka laughed. “Your mother will kill me if I Noticing an photo book on her shelf one day, I let you die from food poisoning.” asked about it. Vaiju Maushi smiled wistfully as she “Not if she doesn’t know,” I said. “She’ll be out to pulled it down and handed it to me. It was her weddinner with a friend, and I promise not to die.” ding album, filled with photos of a man and her decKrutikka finally gave in, and we spent that night orated in intricate henna designs and gold jewelry. watching TV with my grandmother and popping “Tho atha kooteh ahe?” I asked, wanting to know Principe de Vergara by Romana Pilepich, Bethel, CT I didn’t even know his name, I had made a connection never realized the freedom of metro travel until I with him. We knew each other; we were friends. visited Madrid, Spain. One station, Principe de As my time there drew to an end, I thought about Vergara, proved most memorable. Every time I how to say good-bye. I settled on a thank-you card walked through it, I saw the same man. He was old made of red construction paper with a message in and well-dressed in a button-down plaid shirt and Spanish introducing myself, thanking him for his belted khakis. He always played a violin and smiled music, and wishing him luck. I decided against writin a way that made his face a mess of wrinkles and ing my address. Our friendship was like a work of brought his chin to his nose. It made him look like a art – once painted, it should not be added to. happy crabapple and invited smiles in return. On my second to last day in Madrid, I After some initial shyness, I finally took the card with me to Principe de Verdeveloped a routine. Approaching the Our friendship gara. But when I arrived, the man wasn’t station, I took out ten euros, ready to there. The security guard said the smiling veer from my straight path in order to was like a violinist had packed up early. I wouldn’t drop the change in the violinist’s case. work of art see him again. I wouldn’t be able to deHe inclined his head to acknowledge liver the card in person. My only option my donation as the music played on, was to entrust it to the guard, who promised to give it and smiled – always smiled. I’m certain he came to to the man the next day. recognize me as the girl with her purse slung crossI hope the security guard kept his promise, and I ways to discourage pickpockets, perpetually wearing hope I was memorable enough for the violinist to figBirkenstocks and rushing in one direction to see the ure out that the card was from me. city or in the other direction to make it home in time My time in Spain taught me how to be independent, for dinner. how to ride the metro, and how to strike up friendOne time he thanked me for my donation. “Graships with strangers. I will always remember the smilcias, cariño,” he said. Thank you, sweetheart. I was ing violinist. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, startled and only nodded, but as I turned away, a smile please stop at the Principe de Vergara station and give split my face. His words were better than a first kiss. him my best wishes. ✦ Regardless of the language barrier and the fact that I 26 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT Photo by Arindam Roy, Routhgram, India open cans of fizzy soda like they were imported champagne, the spicy chilies from my sev puri – classic fried street food – bursting in my mouth, setting it on fire. Vibrant fire, full of life and flavor and languages and culture that I didn’t understand but was beginning to, slowly. • • • My mother woke me up early one morning to visit her favorite place in India, a small temple on top of Parvati, a nearby mountain. The way she described it – with the avatars of the gods rinsed daily, the handcarved marble statues, the beautiful sunrise view – made me long to see it. Just as we reached the top, the brass bells began to toll, filling the air with sound, bringing everything to life. Everyone kneeled – men, women, children, the pious and nonpious alike. There was a simple kind of spirituality here; it was about beauty and faith. • • • We took a rickshaw home from Parvati, the canvas seats smelling of pungent betel leaves and jeera, a sharp Indian spice. As we passed an alley, my mother suddenly stopped the driver. She pulled out a handful of rupees and gestured at the alleyway. The driver shook his head emphatically, trying to discourage her. But she pulled me out of the rickshaw and we walked into the alley. “Every coin has two sides,” my mother told me, pulling her hair into a messy bun. “This is the back side of India’s.” I tried to absorb all I saw in the slum. The miniscule shacks with board walls and corrugated tin or tarps for roofing. The children peering from behind their mothers’ knees, dark eyes blending with their skin, blackened from dirt. Men sat in a circle, soiled undershirts clinging to beer bellies. They spit tobacco in steady streams, reddish brown like blood. The wives stood near their huts, their saris dulled by the work of poverty. With the mud and rain and tears, the place reeked of urine and depression. I covered my nose covertly with my odhni, a scarf. One little girl let go of her mother’s sari and walked to me, and in the middle of the grime and the dirt and the stench, she smiled. As she smiled, something inside me broke. It began to rain, and she danced. The sudden torrent mixed with my tears, like a waterfall able to wash away the ocean. As I sat curled up in the wooden swing on my grandmother’s veranda that night, I thought about India. India is a paradox, I realized. It is chaos in a way – the crowded streets, the yelling vendors, the children and stray dogs. But there is beauty in the chaos, a simplicity, a sort of faith or spirituality. India isn’t about waiting for the storm to end. It’s about learning to dance in the rain. ✦ ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM In my backyard, in a sleepy suburb west of Chicago, I sit, rocking forward and backward in a springy copper chair, fist curled around a sweating drink. The sun looms overhead and coaxes insects out of hiding, who buzz around my head like a halo. A lone mosquito breaks free of the swarm and bites me, with a single sharp prick. With the welt rise memories of a time my skin was blanketed with rosy spots as I wandered the slick slate pathways of a Taiwanese mountain forest. That morning I climbed the tail of Elephant Mountain alone. Walking upward on the steep stairway struggling to draw a breath in the humid air, I admired the view and fought with my lungs to stay upright. The city sat at my back, sheathed in fog, its buildings pointing to my destination higher up the mountain, deeper into the forest. by Frances Enger, Riverside, IL Reaching the top, the muted chirping of birds stood in for the fanfare I craved. Over my shoulder, skyscrapers continued to gesture while I walked further across the Elephant’s back. Enveloped by the greenery, and with my lush surroundings, multitudes of stealthy tiger mosquitoes, I felt a pull back to my temporary home where stopping for a bowl of sugary cereal wouldn’t be an invitation for a blood transfusion. After hearing my pauses as I racked my brain for a forgotten vocabulary lesson about meeting strangers during a morning hike, a silent shift to English pricked me with a guilt that was quickly drowned by a wave of relief. I understood that I was welcome to trek further into the forest to a mountain garden where their speedier friends had begun brewing tea. Calling upon my extensive Chinese vocabulary, I said, “Sure.” Nearing the Elephant’s I wandered I clambered up mossy stone head stairs after them I walked behind hikers the pathways until a red corner who turned and gaped of a Taiwanese of their shelter came into at my polka-dotted skin. Rapid syllables mountain forest view. Smiley went under the roof, flew from their mouths floating on four pillars, into my deaf ears. and plunked down on a seat, Cocking my head, pulling me beside her I repeated my well-worn phrase: and presenting a container, “Please, Pepto-Bismol pink, speak very, very slowly.” of Tiger Balm A laugh whose sharp scent felt like fire like a delicate bell in my nose, came from within the group but worked like witchcraft from a petite, middle-aged woman on the mosquitoes’ little gifts. who stepped forward Her friends scoffed at me and peered at my bites. and I was handed a heap of shredded She introduced herself: leaves. Smiley. One of the men And greeted me to show made a kindling motion her English name with the leaves between his palms wasn’t an accident. and I did likewise, Kenya, My Land K YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO Quickly gulping a thimble of earthy tea, I was led around the garden, past miniature curling shrimp flowers and bunches of jade bananas to a mesh square around a small plant that was feeding a caterpillar she was raising to become a butterfly. After effortlessly stepping back down the Elephant’s tail, I found myself directionless once again. With the buildings rising around me I wandered for no more than a minute until I entered a store and flexed my vocabulary asking for directions to the train. The store clerk paused, no doubt searching for an English answer, drumming her fingernails on the register and staring at the shelf of chocolate off to my side. I felt a familiar feeling of guilt prod me, but I brushed past it and said I could understand enough for her to explain, but it would be nice if she could “Please, speak very, very slowly.” ✦ by “April,” Chiang Mai, Thailand Masai Mara, you are the one in the cage, enya is a country filled with rugged traveling in a van in search of animals in mountains, grassy valleys, and fertheir natural habitat, including lions detile soil. Living there for 11 years fending their kill against the bold hyenas, gave me the opportunity to soak in its cheetahs sprinting after Thomson’s unique culture and experiences firsthand. If gazelles, or immense herds of wildebeests you were to visit this distinctive country, migrating from Tanzania’s Serengeti. you would fall in love with its contagiously Of course, you don’t go happy, carefree people. They Masai Mara just to see the aren’t shy, and will boldly wild animals that Africa is The people confront you with their broad for. I remember driving smiles. Even though the peoboldly confront known to Kenya’s capitol, Nairobi, on ple are fantastic, what you’ll fall most in love with is the you with their a road filled with potholes, stopping to take pictures of beautiful land. wide smiles crossing giraffes, then a bit When I was young, I had later zebras and hyenas. Or the privilege of visiting even camping by Lake Baringo, where hipKenya’s famous national park: Masai pos grazed at night just feet from our tents. Mara, a vast open land containing many Kenya indeed is a land filled with adwild animals that roam freely. The Masai venture, though not all pleasant. For two Mara is named after the local tribe, native years my family lived in Kisumu, a city by to the land. Lake Victoria. Every night at 7 p.m., bats Your typical downtown zoo is nothing would fly above our rooftops, flapping and compared to Masai Mara. At most zoos, screeching, scaring little girls and boys, the animals are confined to cages. In LINK garnering a pool of sticky emerald juices that I smeared on my arms and legs, which left me feeling more like a piece of flypaper than impervious to insects. travel & culture Elephant Mountain FACEBOOK and threatening any possibility of sleep. Living by the lake also meant thousands of mosquito bites. Every month, my dad, brother, and I would be sick with malaria, which eventually led us to move to Eldoret. However, food from the lake was superb. Coming from the Philippines, my family loved the wide variety of fish that was caught and served daily. We also fell in love with local foods including sukuma wiki, a favorite vegetable dish of locals; mandazi, a sweet baked dessert; and other delicacies that my brother and I to this day still beg my mom to make, including Kenyan tea. Once colonized by the British, Kenyans have a great love of tea. A famous Kenyan saying, Kila wakati ni wakati wa chai, means “Every time is tea time.” If you were to drive around Kenya, you would probably not be able to count the number of tea plantations. Looking back, I question my parents’ decision to raise me and my baby brother in Africa, which isn’t the most ideal place Photo by Lily Clurman, Providence, RI when it comes to safety and health, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’m proud to have survived many adventures, and I’m pleased that I have unique stories to tell. All these tales come from the Kenya that I remember as a girl. I would love to visit again one day to see what has changed and what remains the same. ✦ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 27 heroes Thanks, Hermione I remember her hair – big, bushy and brown, framing her face, highlighting her eyes. It was everywhere. I gazed at her, brow furrowed as I struggled to understand why my dad was lying to me. He said it again – that the girl on the screen, Hermione, reminded him of me. But with my black hair, black eyes, and brown skin, how could I look like that girl on the screen? “She’s just like you, Maya!” Does he never tire of the deception? I was about to call him a liar when I heard her speak. It was as though someone had plopped Santa Claus right in front of me. Her words were as miraculously large as the books she dragged through the hallways, and she seemed to be so much wiser than the two boys she befriended. After all, she was the one who could make the feather float and the fire burn; she was the one who found out about the by Maya Murthy, Cupertino, CA and I was lonely. Sorcerer’s Stone. We were at Target, and I can reNo, Hermione Granger wasn’t me member stacks of green books, half at all; she was everything I wanted to missing, though it had been just hours be as a four-year-old watching “Harry since they were placed on the shelves. Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” My grandfather bought the sixth book “I love her,” I whispered, my full for my father and then the first five in attention on the girl on the screen. the series for me, saying, “I know Hermione Granger gave me inspirahow much you like to read.” tion. At age six, I was more forceful, I pursed my lips. Readmore headstrong – more ing was what got me into like my forgotten hero She gave this mess. Maybe if I read Hermione. Two years was less I would actually be one-third of my life span, me hope hanging out with friends and the girl with the instead of shopping at Tarbushy brown hair who get. But I decided to try the series could do anything had become a wisp anyway. of a memory, inconsequential in a As I read, I found myself again. world of schoolyard bullies and my Here was a girl who, despite being inability to make friends. Summer bookish, made friends, a girl who had arrived, and I found myself in a house I hated on principle; no house knew so much, who read as much as I did, a girl who spoke her mind and could replace our home of the last could do anything! As I devoured the five years. I had no friends after a series that would become my life, I year at my new elementary school, felt the burning of something that I hadn’t felt in a while, not since I had left my old life and my friends a year ago. Hermione Granger gave me hope. I have friends now, people I would die for, people who are the reason I get out of bed when it’s still dark outside. I go to school and try to learn everything. I want to be able to do anything, and it is my firm belief that a working knowledge of all subjects is an essential part of life. My heroes aren’t actors, veterans, or politicians. My hero is a girl whom I modeled my life after. A girl who tried to learn everything but never had many friends. A girl who would do anything – suffer torture, kill, or be killed – for the few friends she had. A girl who became a hero without wanting to, without trying to. Hermione Granger was my hero. ✦ Good-Bye, Barbara Park Doses of Orange by Monica Janiver, Brooklyn, NY by Shannon Linder, West Orange, NJ S ing the Junie B. Jones series and her most popince I was six years old, I’ve enjoyed and ular book, Skinnybones – readers learn that you appreciated each book that Barbara Park can’t always get what you want, sometimes has written. Hearing about her death last you have to go with the flow, and that you year shocked me deeply. She died on Novemshould always stand up for yourself. Many of ber 15, 2013, after a long fight against ovarian the characters are confident. By example, they cancer. Barbara was as strong and brave as the show kids that they can also be main character of her beloved seconfident and stick up for themries. Junie B. Jones taught me how Now I selves. to stand up for what I believed Children enjoy Barbara Park’s during my childhood. understand books because the characters are I remember picking up books realistic, humorous, and relatable. the deeper by Barbara Park and thinking how Junie B. is sarcastic and loves to funny they were. After finishing meanings use phrases, sometimes saying each one, I felt very accomplished. them incorrectly. In Junie B., First Barbara’s books feature humorous Grader (at last!), Junie says, “But today I am kids with distinct personalities. In the Junie B. dropping her like a hot tomato!” These silly Jones series, the main character is a sassy girl mistakes make children laugh as they learn. who tries to act like an adult. Her personality The characters also have relatable experiences, brings joy to readers as they go on fun advenlike being bullied, having a new sibling, or gettures and learn the meanings of new words and ting glasses. phrases. In each of Barbara’s books – includAs a teenager, I responded differently to the books than when I read them as a child. Now I understand the deeper meanings. Junie B. used to be my role model because I wanted to be stylish, sassy, and confident too. I used to think that she was perfect. Now I realize that Junie isn’t perfect. Like me, she gets abandoned by her friends, feels lonely at times, makes embarrassing mistakes, and suffers the consequences. Junie shows me there’s always a bright side to any sad event. Reading Barbara Park’s books helped me grow and become the person I am today. ✦ Photo by Nat Shank, Manhattan, KS 28 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 Y ou sat cross-legged in a living room recliner. Swinging off your slippers, you settled in. You always wore your long gray hair in a high ponytail, selecting one of a thousand different scrunchies, depending on your outfit. I think that day it was brown. Your pretzel legs were covered with paisley corduroy pants from a rich woman whose old clothes you liked. My favorite of all your eccentric attire was the burnt orange Princeton sweatshirt. I told you that it was the precise color of Wednesday. You tried your best to wear it on that day each week, though the laundry cycle didn’t always cooperate. I remember one particularly overcast October day – a Wednesday – as you read us Romeo and Juliet. You felt like my mother. Not my actual mother, but everyone’s mother. You told us that we should do one nice thing for ourselves every day. Until that day, I had been relentless, and still am sometimes. We tend to forget that we are people too; You gave me that despite our shortcomings, we deserve to be an hour each loved. I have to say that you gave me more love – day that felt though a distant sort – than I had ever expected. I like home think of you still, almost every day, because when I was a scared 14-year-old girl who had no idea who she was, you were my mother. You gave me an hour each day that felt like home, you let me be content, and I didn’t have to hold my breath. I took you in like small doses of orange. You were a fire to warm my hands. It helped to know that just a few rooms away I could always find your open arms. I can hear your squash sandwiches sizzling in a pan in the morning, just as I imagined them from your stories: two slices of bread, bologna, and American cheese melted, squashed flat, and cut up into little squares. I can hear your shrill calls as the bell rings, telling us to sit down and fasten our seat belts. I did, and at the end of the year I walked right out of that room with you. I unfastened my seat belt and now I’m traveling. Wherever I go, I like to take with me small doses of orange – Post-it notes, a tube of burnt sienna oil paint, the copy of The Catcher in the Rye that I traded you for because the color was just right. Wherever I go I look for orange, and not just on Wednesdays. Wherever you go, you will be a blessing to the people there. And so, though it is brimming only with sparkling apple cider, I raise my glass to you, Mrs. Kim. Thank you. ✦ COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM Benji Sun Kil Moon S implistic but melodic. Tragic but warm. Smallscale stories, grand-scale metanarratives. These descriptions come to mind when listening to Mark Kozelek’s sixth studio LP with Sun Kil Moon, “Benji.” Folk-rooted, acoustic-driven, and showcasing Kozelek’s usual free-styling vocals that give you the impression he’s spouting them spontaneously, by Parker Desautell, North Attleboro, MA R&B Kiss Land I “Benji” dares to tackle some of life’s toughest topics, all through the intimate voice that has become Kozelek’s niche. To call him a songwriter is an injustice. He is a storyteller. The album has 11 tracks. Each features a tragedy, whether a death in the family, a community-based horror, or a failed relationship. Each song is based on a true story, and is told from Kozelek’s perspective. It’s as if he is taking a tour of his past, and the people and events that shaped it, and inviting us to join him. In the opening ballad, “Carissa,” Kozelek relates his struggles to “find some meaning” in the abrupt and seemingly senseless death of a second cousin he barely knew. “Carissa was 35, you don’t just raise two kids and take out your trash and die,” he sings. In “Dogs,” he bemoans the predictable and unavoidable demise of an exclusively physical relationship, using examples from his past. “Pray for Newtown,” a tribute to the victims and families affected by the 2012 Connecticut shooting, describes how we are all greatly impacted by catastrophes, though strangely go on living as though nothing happened. How much you enjoy “Benji” ultimately comes down to how much you appreciate Kozelek’s style and understand where he’s coming from. This is not an album meant to stimulate in short bursts – most of the tracks are long and feature similar minimal melodies. The saxophones come out in the closer, “Ben’s My Friend,” the album’s most upbeat and unpredictable track, but for the most part, “Benji” YOUR n a departure from his previous inclination toward anonymity, last year Ontario native and up-and-coming R&B star Abel Tesfaye, a.k.a. The Weeknd, released his first solo album. From the cover of “Kiss Land,” featuring a full A groovy feast for the headphones headshot of Tesfaye, to track 12, this album presents us with a more personal image of the artist than we’ve ever had. In tracks like “Love in the Sky,” and “Pretty,” we get a deeper look into his world. While a departure from some aspects of “Trilogy,” “Kiss Land” is in no way a departure from his previous sound. In fact, it is more concentrated, more “Weekndier” than ever before. With falsettos and synth pads galore, “Kiss Land” is a crystallization of the components of “Trilogy” into nothing less than a groovy feast for the headphones. Tesfaye wastes no time in showing this. At more than six minutes, the first track, “Professional,” feels like a minialbum. The production is phenomenal, and I’d sing its praises even without Tesfaye’s smooth voice narrating his experience with showgirls in and out of the clubs. These themes are explored in greater depth in “Adaptation,” a tale of love and loss on tour. They culminate in “Belong to the World.” The song samples Portishead’s “Machine Gun,” a visceral riff that emphasizes the cruelties of showbiz and the night life. The second half of “Kiss Land” is more personal. With less urgency in the lyrics and more hints to specific events in the singer’s life, “Wanderlust” TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO develops his struggle with women whose ideas of love are based on movies and the media. The upbeat, groovy sound and true-to-form Weeknd wails make it my favorite track. The horror story seems to crescendo in “Pretty,” a painful diatribe to a past love and her new man. I have been constantly playing “Kiss Land” for the past few weeks. The main draw is its fantastic production, but the pictures The Weeknd paints are definitely worth the listen too. ✦ by Mitchell Mobley, McDonough, GA The Weeknd Kozelek is a storyteller LINK has the feel of an album more concerned with its content than with its immediate surroundings. Arguably Sun Kil Moon’s most intriguing and thoughtprovoking work to date, “Benji”’s simplistic aesthetic approach and gritty subject matter make for one of the most complete albums this year. ✦ ELECTRONIC Shrines Purity Ring F ormed in 2010, Canadian band Purity Ring consists of lead singer Megan James and instrumentalist Corin Roddick. The group creates experimental, witch house, and post-dubstep-influenced music. Their only album, “Shrines,” released in July 2012, caused a surge in their popularity. They received much praise for their deeply immersive music – so much, in fact, that the day they Dominant vocals and saturated synths released a cover of Soulja Boy’s “Grammy,” their website crashed due to high demand for the song. “Shrines” reached number two on Billboard’s Dance/Electronic Albums list. Purity Ring has a unique sound with dominant vocals and saturated synth that draws in the listener. While the tone of Megan’s vocals gives off soothing optimism, Roddick evokes an ominous sensation with energized musical genius, as is clear in the single “Fineshrine.” “Amenamy” paints the air with a subtle tranquility while introducing an inexplicable yet undeniable witchy darkness. Roddick balances these moods impeccably by producing a tune that will effortlessly repeat in one’s head. Purity Ring is a band that is definitely worth a listen. ✦ by Faliha Eshai, Milwaukee, WI FACEBOOK INDIE ROCK Day of the Dog Ezra Furman W ith Chicagoan Ezra Furman’s fifth album, he further proves himself to be not only an adventurous songwriter and musician, but also possibly the most unique voice in underground music. Furman released his first recordings with his band, the Harpoons, while still in college eight years ago. Playing earnest and dementedly humorous punky folkrock in the vein of the Violent Femmes, and singing with an emotive, nervous yelp, he gained a sizable following and high praise from critics. Since then, he has left his boisterous band and headed out on his own. Given this change, and the growing market for semipolite indie songwriters with polished, layered instrumentation, one might expect Furman to tame his wilder muses and aim for a wider audience. This, fortunately, is not the case. The album begins with a pounding drum and a hoarse declaration that “all the world is rising up like vomit,” which segues into an explosion of loud, messy, beautiful noise. This incredibly eccentric album delves into a variety of sounds from classic underground, punk, folk, and early rock and roll, yet none is clichéd. Every song bears the thumbprint of Furman’s distinctive lyrical and musical An incredibly eccentric album style, and more importantly, genuine emotion. In every way, this music defies description. Similar to his last album in theme, though not in execution, Furman tackles isolation, desperation, spirituality, and America’s growing culture of nihilism and materialism. With such topics, another artist might seem heavy-handed or overtly scholarly, but when Furman sings, you know he is genuine. The writing and delivery are clear and powerful, exuding a natural empathy for the downtrodden and anxiety over the future. Lines like “I am broken wide open, bleeding everywhere” or “sometimes in the night when I’m out of my senses, I see a wide open country with no sign of fences” pack a punch and rattle around the listener’s mind long after the final note. Musically, he does what is usually impossible. He took a slew of contradictory styles that lesser artists often rip off, tossed them into a blender, and instead of making something unsavory or familiar, has, with just pure skill and enthusiasm, created something brilliant. There is an unstoppable, manic energy in these 13 tracks. Still, every chaotic song is complicated and impeccably well done, despite sounding unrehearsed and spontaneous. A loud, ripping saxophone is featured heavily, adding to the colorful chaos that further separates Furman from the lump of indie singer-songwriters. “Walk On in Darkness” comes off as punkish Tom Waits, as he growls, sighs, and yelps while the sax and viscous instrumentation cast a strange, surreal feel. In what is probably the most jaw-dropping song, Furman struts Lou Reedlike through the first few minutes of “Slacker Adria,” his voice intertwined with blistering guitarwork, before the song soars into prophetic lyrics and muscular guitar, finishing with a swell of noise. On another highlight, “My Zero,” Furman shows his skill at creating pop music. A love song on the surface, underneath it is a longing fantasy of a lost, surreal America. It makes prominent use of a bright sax, which, by the end slips into tense, broken blares. Furman (with help from his band, the Boyfriends) has poured his heart into “Day of the Dog” and created the best kind of album. You can feel its thumping pulse, and every listen reveals more. ✦ music reviews AMERICAN FOLK by “Paul,” Black Mountain, PA Photo by Katherine Boyle, Mountain Lakes, NJ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 29 video game reviews 30 PC, PS3, XBOX 360 The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Y ou let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you watch Alduin fall to the ground, dead. You wipe the blood from your Daedric armor and face the swarm of cowering faces. Many of the spirits of Sovngarde give you praise and thanks, but they mean little to Develop a character however you like you. After all, there was an ancient prophecy that foretold your arrival and power. For your Thu’um is the strongest, and you are Dovahkiin, the savior of Skyrim! “The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim” was released a few years ago for Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, and Xbox 360. About 10 million copies were sold in the first eight months. It received great comments from Jason Schreier of Wired, who described “Skyrim” as a “Viking-inspired treasure trove of flavor and charm.” The main objective of this fifth installment in the Elder Scrolls saga is to defeat Alduin, a dragon that has been dubbed the “Nordic god of destruction,” and to save Skyrim and its people. Set in the lands of Tamriel, “Skyrim” is a great example of a fantasy-action roleplaying game. You begin as a prisoner whose execution is prevented by Alduin’s return. As you continue, you encounter numerous enemies and allies that either help or hinder your quest, which eventually culminates in a battle with Alduin, who has been resurrecting dragons. The game can be played in either first or third person. You can customize your character’s appearance by choosing details as significant as race or as minute as nose size. Some races may benefit the type of character you want you create. For example, choosing a High Elf is a good pick for someone who wants to be a mage character. It adds 50 extra points of Magicka (the energy needed to cast spells) as well as five skill points to all magic-related skills (like destruction or alteration). This game’s flexibility will please gamers searching Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 for a multi-talented character. This installment of the Elder Scrolls saga has many changes and advances in the graphics and gameplay. The melee is more realistic compared to the previous Elder game, “Oblivion.” It even uses a new engine, the creation engine, which varies the environments and advances the game’s graphics. It also features an improved version of “Oblivion’”s Radiant A.I. system, which enhances non-player characters. Their activities continue even when the Dovahkiin, or Dragonborn, interact with the NPCs. Overall, this game is a complex but extremely fun way to spend your time. It allows you to step into a world where you can be the hero, where you are free to choose your own path and develop your character however you like. With countless adventures that continue even after the main storyline, you’ll never tire of this great game. ✦ by Amanda Flores, New York, NY MOBILE Bloons Tower Defense 5 B alloons are floating down Monkey Lane, and they’re homing in on Monkey City! Luckily the monkeys are there to stop the onslaught. Developed by Ninja Kiwi, “Bloons Tower Defense 5” is a unique and creative twist on the classic tower defense game. This fifth installment of the successful Bloons Tower Defense series was released in 2011 with a massive amount of hype. Having played the previous games, I thought it lived up to expectations. The series is focused on popping balloons (or “bloons”) using monkeys. Its addictive concept kept me glued to the screen, and it never got old. What makes the game so brilliant is the creative concept. You use an army of monkeys to defend Monkey City from an onslaught of bloons. Each map has a unique plan, such as the Switch map, where the track changes every round. The game makes you strategize. Each stage gets harder, and the strategy changes. “Bloons Tower Defense 5” uses many aspects to keep you interested. For example, there’s a co-op mode that allows you to interact with other players. You hear an iconic pop every time a bloon is hit. The sound is always pleasing, since it means that Monkey City is safe. The graphics make me feel like I’m in a cartoon world. They are well drawn and polished. In the game, you drag the monkey or machine onto the map and attack when the bloons come near. Each tower has unique qualities to help A creative twist on tower defense fend off enemies. For example, a dart monkey throws darts at the bloons. A monkey village supplies many beneficial elements for a tower, such as camouflage detection and wider attack radius. This offense and support makes the game more exciting. Mobile versions are available for the iPad, iPhone, iPod, and all Android platforms. With hundreds of thousands of players online daily, “Bloons Tower Defense 5” is one of the most played tower defense games. The bloons are coming so get popping! ✦ By Matthew Wong, Brooklyn, NY PC, PS3, XBOX 360 Assassin’s Creed 3 “A ssassin’s Creed 3” provides players with unmatched experiences ranging from fighting alongside George Washington to base jumping off a high cliff in order to take the enemy by surprise. Anyone can enjoy the feeling of fighting for their freedom alongside characters like Sam Adams. Following the yearly release pattern for games in this series, “AC3” shows the most improvement and change in gameplay and format, standing alone in the series. The new controls give a much more fluid feel, allowing better control over your character. “AC3” is a refreshing change from in action games. Instead of choppy graphics with distorted faces and little emotion, “Assassin’s Creed 3” has graphics and sound that make you shut everything out and focus on the task at hand. The sound of a thunderstorm made me think it was actually raining. You can see every emotion on every face. The sound is like being right in the middle of a bustling colonial market, with merchants angered at British taxes. The sound and picture in “AC3” are unmatched and could only be topped by being part of the revolution itself. The controls are easy to pick up and flow very smoothly. The games in this series always play fluently. Some sequences feel prolonged and make you wonder when they will end, but others provide constant action and easily make up for the dull parts. This game has a way of making you come back for more. From running between volleys of musket fire to escaping an enemy platoon on horseback, the play is paced perfectly. Stunning graphics, compelling story “Assassin’s Creed 3” provides hours of side missions and optional objectives. A series of naval missions provides a refreshing change from the ground combat. “AC3” exceeds the standards for this genre with stunning graphics and a compelling story. Despite some dull parts, it provides a dynamic conflict corresponding with the events of the American Revolution. I would give it a 9.5/10, since the story keeps you wanting to play, no matter how boring it gets at times, and the emotions on characters’ faces make you feel like they are real. If you are looking for a top-notch action game, “Assassin’s Creed 3” is for you. ✦ By Matt McClintick, Berwyn, PA SEGA DREAMCAST Jet Grind Radio “J et Grind Radio” was released in 2000. It received many good ratings and is still a treasured childhood memory for many older gamers. Let’s begin with the plot. You’re a rollerblading rebel in a Japanese city called Tokyo-to, who builds a team of rebels that ride on modified Rollerblades with high-powered motors. You compete against other teams and graffiti on their turf to earn reputation and become the biggest, most popular group. A DJ named Professor K hosts a pirate radio show called Jet Set Radio. He gives news to the rebels and plays nothing but COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT hardcore electronic music 24/7. Meanwhile, the police chase you down and try to arrest you using every possible means. The controls are fairly simple, resembling other games that use vehicles. Sometimes the controls get a little picky, but it’s rare. When you go to the menu, or the garage, you can select different features. Online mode works if you have purchased a LAN modem for the Dreamcast. Yeah, this game if from a time when everyone had dial-up. You can create your own graffiti, too, which is really cool, and even better – if you get the Dreamcast mouse, you can use it to make freehand graffiti! If freehand is not your thing, you can type in letters or your name and customize it to look street flashy. You can save the graffiti on the memory card to display and share with other players. My only complaint, which is a common one, is about the camera control. It’s so fussy Part of video game history that sometimes I don’t even know where I am going. I actually turned a sharp corner and the camera got stuck inside the building! The graphics show a comic book-like effect, with bold outlines, bright colors and the visual feel of both a game and a comic book. Of course, the graphics aren’t modern like today’s, but back then you didn’t need good graphics to make a good game. My favorite part is the music. The soundtrack is so amazing it deserves its own album – and it got it! The soundtrack includes a ton of remixes of electronic music. It plays very well with the game and gives you the “radio playing in your ear” feeling. You can even have it just play music so you can listen while doing other things. This is the kind of game that should be played with a stereo system. “Jet Grind Radio” is an amazing part of video game history that should not be compared to modern games like “Half-Life 2” and “Call of Duty” with their advanced graphics. The music is absolutely amazing and the custom graffiti mode still blows my mind. ✦ by Stephen Kellogg, Wilmington, DE TEENINK.COM 12 Years a Slave H ope is a dangerous thing. It can make someone cling to a dream with all their might, but it can also destroy their spirit in the process. Hope is all that Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor) has left, and he clings to it, believing he will eventually find freedom and justice. Brilliant, important, and well-made Solomon, a free black man living in New York, is a violinist with a loving family. He can read and write. He knows the people who live in town. One day, when his family is away, he thinks he’s scored a great gig. Two men promise he will return home with good money in hand. Instead, Northup finds himself in shackles and his story as a slave begins. This is not an easy film to watch. Director Steve McQueen (“Shame,” “Hunger”) is known for his bold telling of difficult yet honest stories. Here, he takes his time, especially during the most gutwrenching moments. He never hides the truth and never allows his actors to lie. Honesty is key because many scenes involve evil human acts that are almost as hard to believe as they are to witness. All the actors, from Paul Dano and Benedict Cumberbatch to Lupita Nyong’o and Michael Fassbender, are impeccable. Each embraces his role and is not afraid to look evil or vulnerable. Some are placed in devastating and humiliating situations. Nyong’o is a standout and deserves her Oscar for her heartbreaking and complex portrayal of Patsy. Fassbender is despicable, yet you can’t look away. Ejiofor embodies Solomon and gives his character dignity. Even among whippings, laborious cotton-picking, and beautiful shots of the landscape, the film remains human. The contrast between the natural world and what happens inside the homes is haunting. The beautiful images of nature serve as a break from the horrific scenes, but these shots are not gratuitous; they add a layer of poetic storytelling. One particular scene I LINK YOUR enjoyed was a short one. As the slaves are being transported by boat to the South, the camera focuses on the massive steam engine. Suddenly, Hans Zimmer’s beautiful score grows louder and more jarring. The audience becomes aware that the people on this ship are about to live through the one of the worst periods of American history. Calling “12 Years a Slave” a great film does not suffice. With a film as gritty, evocative, and poetic as this, it is better to let the story speak for itself. McQueen advises viewers to take a moment of silence after to process what they’ve experienced. Don’t let the subject matter keep you away from this brilliant, important, and well-made film. “12 Years a Slave” is one of the best of the year. ✦ by Ariana Vargas, Danville, CA This film is rated R. COMING-OF-AGE The Perks of Being a Wallflower H ave you ever sat in the back of the room so you wouldn’t be noticed? Do you observe things that no one else sees? Perhaps, then, you can relate to Charlie in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.” Released in 2012, this teen Not a stereotypical teen drama movie was directed by Stephen Chbosky, who wrote the novel as well. Charlie (Logan Lerman) is a traumatized high-schooler prone to flashbacks who believes nobody knows he exists. Over the course of the movie we watch him grow out of his shell and make friends, improve his future, find his first love, and realize that he is important. This fun and thrilling movie has a talented cast including Emma Watson, Ezra Miller, Nina Dobrev, and Mae Whitman. Watson plays Sam, an outgoing, multi-talented sweetheart who struggles to realize the amount of love that she deserves. Her step-brother and best friend is Patrick (Miller), the class clown who is gay but hides it because he’s afraid of not being accepted. The two TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO welcome Charlie into their clique as they help him cope with the loss of his best friend, who recently committed suicide. Chbosky clearly and accurately develops these characters using small details so teens can relate to them. Each is given such a distinctive personality that you forget it’s just a movie. “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” is not a stereotypical teen drama. Instead, it’s an emotional film that shows both the dark and bright sides of being a teenager, and explores issues of romance, bullying, peer pressure, schoolwork, and popularity. Songs such as “Heroes” by David Bowie and “Could It Be Another Change” by The Samples add to the film. Memorable quotes such as “We are infinite” and “We accept the love we think we deserve” make this film unique. Each character makes you see the world from a new perspective. “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” will leave you in tears and wishing it didn’t have to end. ✦ by Monica Janiver, Brooklyn, NY ACTION The Italian Job “T he Italian Job” is perfectly clichéd. First the heroes commit the ultimate heist of $30 million in Spanish gold, then one of their own betrays them, and then the heroes try to recommit the heist – this time stealing it back from the traitor. Of course, the heroes don’t care about the $30 mil- Perfectly clichéd lion. No, the motive is more noble: revenge. This movie plays like “Mission Impossible” and a James Bond car chase combined. “The Italian Job” poses a problem. When every character is a thief, how does a director distinguish the good guys from the bad guys? In movie making, playing shirts and skins will not solve this issue of ambiguous teams. So the movie opts for the next easiest identifier: Classic good and evil clichés. Let’s look at Team Good. The expert thief (Donald Sutherland) regrets that he didn’t spend more time with FACEBOOK his daughter. Everyone can relate to this. Since the audience sees him as a sincere father figure, they agree with his pursuit of revenge. Another “good” thief (actor Mos Def) started as an innocent 12-year-old pyromaniac with an afro, and goes by the name “Left Ear.” I laugh with the audience, and conceded that he must be harmless. The female lead (Charlize Theron) boasts a voluptuous body, consistently flaunts tight clothes, drives fast cars, and begrudgingly admits she needs a man to help her through her struggles. Enough said. Now let’s look at Team Bad Guy (Edward Norton). He commits two cold-blooded murders. Done. We hate him. And to put the cherry on top, he’s rich. Everybody hates a rich killer. The movie-makers filmed every heist (the movie treats us to three) like a collage of Home Depot commercials. Each character is assigned a job. One paints over a thousand-year-old mural as if showing off BEHR’s new primer. Another demonstrates the usefulness of a laser measuring tape as he installs explosives. And another boasts the torque of Rigid’s new wireless drill as she breaks into a safe. The audience muses over how the henchmen plan to use home improvement skills to steal Spanish gold. Since the camera switches rapidly from henchmen to henchmen, the audience is fooled into believing everything is happening quickly. Even the music taunts us by building up, then dissipating into nerve-racking staccato. Then the tension explodes in the high-speed chase. This film suffers from mild schizophrenia. Theft and revenge are rewarded and condoned. Boats fly through the canals of Venice. Motorcycles chase custom cars through Los Angeles. The guy gets the girl in the end. As I said, perfectly clichéd. ✦ by Ian deMoura, Los Angeles, CA COMEDY Keith Lemon: The Film R ecently I endured the horror that was “Keith Lemon: The Film.” Maybe horror isn’t the right word. Torture. Calling this a film is a complete and utter joke. It has been categorized a comedy, but I fail to find a single funny part. The only joke is at the expense of the film itself and not a result of the performances by Leigh Francis as Keith Lemon or the rest of the cast. Even cameos from Gary Barlow, Kelly Brook, and various members of the Spice Girls could not save this sinking ship that rivalled the Titanic in regards to catastrophes. I was left feeling like I wanted to switch places with Rosie (Laura Aikman), who is kidnapped in the film, just so I didn’t have to sit through another minute. The Avoid this film film was a who’s who of washed-up celebrities. The narrative lacked any imagination. The plot revolves around Keith Lemon, who is hoping to get rich through selling his latest invention, the “securipole.” The opening scenes of this 85-minute-long disaster offered no hope in terms of entertainment, and my struggle to stay to the end was in vain; I was left feeling embarrassed for having watched. The IMDb rating of 2.6 is generous. This film has not even been a hit with fans of the ever-flamboyant Keith Lemon. Despite the popularity of his comedy panel show “Celebrity Juice,” fans clearly have been disappointed in the film. The idea for the film mimics something formulated by two extremely intoxicated individuals. However, I feel that even people in a drunken state would reject its premise, realizing that it’s time to stop drinking when you think of an idea as ludicrous as this. There were groans and sighs of frustration where laughs should have been – not a good sign for a “comedy.” Avoid this film completely. Go and exercise or read a book instead. I urge you to do something more meaningful and interesting with your time; watching paint dry would achieve both of these objectives better than this film. ✦ movie reviews HISTORICAL by Chloe Heyde, Devon, England This film is rated in the UK for viewers 15 and older. M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 31 book reviews MYSTERY FANTASY Paper Towns More Than This by John Green by Patrick Ness W T hether or not you’re a fan of John Green, he absolutely hits it out of the park with Paper Towns. This novel sets itself far apart from the others by showing the world through the eyes of an average teenage boy who experiences love, loss, joy, and stress, just like the rest of us. Masterful tale of mystery and romance Its shocking realism and relatability will captivate you. After just the first chapter you will find yourself attached to the novel’s characters, feeling everything they feel. When Quentin gets screamed at by bullies, it feels as if you are being screamed at. Quentin and his friends endeavor to have the best senior year ever while searching for Margo, the love of Quentin’s life who has gone missing. This story will keep you on edge throughout and leave you in tears. I promise that the storyline is believable. The mystery of what happened to a girl who ran away after being driven mad by the monotony of high school and family drama seems a lot less far-fetched than the classic deranged serial killer plot. Not only is the plot believable, but it also switches directions extremely fast. One minute Quentin may be discovering secret notes with clues to Margo’s location, and the next he’s driving his drunken friend home from the biggest party of the year. Paper Towns is certainly not a mindless read. From the first clue to the last, I found myself thinking through every possible scenario to figure out the mystery. Green’s masterful tale of suspense and romance, all interpreted through the endlessly wise eyes of a teenaged boy, provides real insight into life. You come away learning that people aren’t paper; they are complicated beings who can’t be accurately viewed based only on their image. ✦ by Sam Johnson, Castro Valley, CA 32 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 here are plenty of book-lovers who confine themselves to one genre. They get a thrill from a magic that doesn’t exist on earth. Sometimes the truth is just too much to handle. Or maybe it’s as simple as being comfortable and staying with what they know. But once in a while, a book is published and the story within holds the power to break these confines and take these bibliophiles into a world they’ve never seen – and perhaps get them to love it. Patrick Ness’s More Than This is one of those books. It Chilling, riveting centers on a boy named Seth who suffers a heart-wrenching, lonely death – all in the first few pages. Then, sometime later, Seth wakes up. Not in his bed or in a hospital, or even on the beach. He wakes up in his childhood home in England. But it’s not the same. Everything has been abandoned. The grass is overgrown, and there’s a dense layer of dust covering everything. There isn’t a sign of human life anywhere. Just as when he died, Seth is completely alone, and he’s wondering if a higher being sent him here to this place that holds his worst memories as a type of personal hell. Seth soon discovers that his loneliness isn’t the worst part of his apparent “afterlife.” No, the worst part comes whenever he closes his eyes. The memories catch him by surprise; they pull at his heartstrings for the world he left behind. Seth knows he’s reliving the memories, but they feel very real. Every touch is solid, every scent is fragrant, and every emotion is as powerful as the first time. But that can’t be. Seth wonders if he’ll be stuck in this horrible world forever or if maybe, just maybe, there’s more than this. In his latest novel, Ness has accomplished what many strive to but most fail to do. With More Than This, he has created a world that not only should be experienced by readers of all ages and lovers of all genres. More Than This is chilling, riveting, and will leave readers questioning, like Seth, whether they are purely living life, or if they are possibly living something more. ✦ by Morgan McKenna, Somers Point, NJ MYSTERY Cornwell’s beginning, I can’t wait to read what she writes next. ✦ Liv, Forever by Amy Talkington by Audrey Neal, West Hollywood, CA L NOVEL Panic by Lauren Oliver FANTASY I Tides by Betsy Cornwell B efore reading Tides, I had very little knowledge of selkies. I considered them to be the not-asimportant cousins of mermaids, and in the hierarchy of mythology, they were many ranks below the literary titans that are vampires and werewolves. Tides completely altered my opinion for the better. Set on the Isle of Shoals off the New England coast, Tides follows siblings Noah and Lo Weaves selkie folklore with a modern setting Gallagher in the summer before Noah’s freshman year of college. Staying with their grandmother on tiny White Island is not supposed to be exciting. Noah has landed the marine biology internship of his dreams, and Lo plans to draw and paint while trying to conquer her bulimia. However, things get interesting when Noah encounters Mara, a mysterious naked girl who appears to be drowning. Mara rejects his help and after a brief conversation, they part. The novel grows more riveting from there, as Noah and Lo are drawn into the mysterious world of selkies – half human, half seal – and the dangers they face living so close to humans. Betsy Cornwell masterfully weaves together selkie folklore with a modern setting, which leaves you utterly spellbound and wanting more. While some stories with multiple narrators flounder, here the drama is heightened through more insight into the characters’ thoughts and motivations. Cornwell’s debut novel is a fantastic read that you won’t be able to put down. If this story of legends, love, and loss is just n Lauren Oliver’s recent novel, Panic, the idea behind the game is fear. Fear paralyzes the body during most of the challenges, but the motivation for each player to keep going is the payout of $67,000. Set in the small town of Carp, the novel takes place during the summer where one thread keeps all of the teenagers tied together even after graduation: a game called Panic. They all have their own reasons for participating – some to prove they are fearless and some for revenge – but the game quickly weeds out the weak as the challenges get progressively harder. Through Panic, Carp’s teenagers are brought together by unlikely circumstances to face their fears and look death in the eyes. Both Heather and A present-day Hunger Games Dodge learn that when participating in Panic, no secret stays below the surface, and suddenly they find themselves no longer in control of their own lives but at the mercy of the game’s judges. Will they end up winning? That is one secret you will have to read the book to find out. As a fan of Lauren Oliver’s other novels, I had a feeling I would enjoy her newest, and I was right. Once I began reading, I could not put Panic down. With every twist I wanted to know what would happen next. I love the idea behind the novel, but cannot picture myself participating in such a game. In a way, Panic reminds me of a present-day Hunger Games, though more realistic. Overall, I highly recommend this great novel and advise you to get your hands on a copy. ✦ iv Bloom would do anything to escape foster care. So when she gets an art scholarship to Wickham Hall, the fanciest, most prestigious (and allegedly haunted) school in the country, Liv is ecstatic. Sure, some of the rituals at the school are a little weird, but she is happy because she might make a few friends. Then Liv is brutally murdered, and her soul is forced to linger in the halls of the school. No one can hear or see her except Gabe. And there are others spirits that only Gabe can hear and see. Using Gabe as her connection to the real world, Liv has to find out what really happened and tell the world that she’s still there. Along the way, she uncovers a plan even more gruesome than the hauntingly silent night of her murder. Eerie and spooky, Liv, Forever is a book that you won’t be able to stop reading. I couldn’t put it down because of the endless suspense and surprises. I loved all the characters, especially Liv. Her approach to life will connect with aspiring artists who read this book. Overall, I loved the way it was written, with each ghost Eerie and spooky telling its side of the story, which let the mystery slowly reveal itself. With some mysteries, I can predict the ending, but for Liv, Forever, it was quite the opposite. Speaking of the ending, it is beautifully executed. I felt sad that such a great book was coming to a close, but that feeling was replaced with that awesome “I just read a really, really good book” feeling. I’d definitely recommend Liv, Forever to anyone who likes paranormal, horror, or mystery novels. I give it 5/5 stars! ✦ by Sophie Cronin, Chapel Hill, NC by Aly Paparello, Hamburg, NJ COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM by Khulood Fahim, Abu Dhabi, UAE A Sitting up, he noticed blood running down his leg. t dawn, the sun rose powerfully, illuminating He stared as the bright liquid trickled onto his foot a land it remembered to be barren. Its rays and was absorbed into the ground. Then he threw his swept over the rows of tents that now occuhead back and cried “Mama!” pied the area, penetrating their feeble fabric. A fiveA woman jumped out of a truck and tried to calm year-old boy frowned as the light pushed against his him. She spoke in an accent he did not understand. eyelids, urging him to wake up. He yawned and He tried to crawl away, but she held him firmly and squinted. He saw the light reflect onto a glass frame dabbed at his knee with a wet cloth. Then she attached to the tent and onto the ground, where it pressed on a bandage. The boy lowered his screams created a beautiful rainbow. The boy sat up and to whimpers. He put his small hands in the woman’s looked around to show his sister, but no one else hands and allowed his tears to run freely. His mind was in the tent. He stumbled outside and stood lookwandered back to a time not long ago at home in ing up at the sky. With his natural innocence, he Syria when his mother would sooth him after he had welcomed the day. scraped his knee falling off a bicycle. Her tone was The boy was oblivious to the hardships of life at filled with warning, but her eyes were shining with the refugee camp. He skipped toward the well where relief and amusement. “After all,” she had said, his sister was struggling to pull up a heavy bucket of “you’re not a true biker until you’ve fallen for the water. She pulled it up and dropped it to the ground. first time!” Deciding it would be fun to impersonate his father, Speaking slowly and clearly, the woman told him the boy held one handle and pointed to the other. to go back to his family. He shook his Laughing, his sister picked it up, and tohead. “I want bread,” he explained. She gether they carried the bucket back to looked at him sadly and jogged over to their tent. “I see they the truck, returning with a big bag. They washed their faces and drank a “Here,” she said. “Now go!” He felt few cups of water, and then she took gave you the gazes of the other boys follow him as him into her lap. Playing with his hair, bread early” he stood. He clutched the bag tightly and she said gently, “The bread truck is hurried in the direction of his tent. coming today.” She paused and looked “Hey!” at him. He looked back in understandThe boy stopped and turned around. An older boy ing. “You have to be strong and make sure you get a was looking at him. The boy recognized him as one bag, then hold it tightly so the other boys don’t take of their old neighbors from Syria. The boy smiled it from you.” and waited for the older boy to approach. The He nodded and muttered, “I can bring the bread.” teenager extended his arm, and the boy did the He wrapped his small arms around her neck and lay same. They shook hands. his head on her shoulder. This reminded him of his “How is your father?” the older boy asked. The mother, whom they’d had to leave behind in Syria. boy nodded timidly in assurance that his father was The boy ran to meet a friend, and together they fine. “How is your sister?” The boy nodded again. raced to the edge of the camp. There, parked in a The older boy noticed the bag. “I see they gave you long line, were big white trucks with a huge red bread early. Is it fresh?” The boy shrugged. “If crescent painted on each one. The boys knew that they’ve given it to you first, they were probably getthese trucks carried good food, clean water, toys, ting rid of the old bread. Eating this could make you and clothes, so seeing them triggered excitement in sick. Let me check the date for you.” the children crowding around the vehicles. The boy hesitated. Then he remembered his father As they waited, the boys kicked bottle caps as saying that they should always trust their neighbors. makeshift soccer balls. Their voices rose in enthusiHe handed over the bag. The older boy turned the astic shouts. The boy grinned and ran around bag over. Squinting at the tiny label, he said, “Fresh! blindly. Suddenly, he felt someone push him, and he Made just today.” He smiled at the boy. “Thanks!” fell. He found himself lying facedown in the dirt. Blessed Darkness he said, and jogged away. The boy ran after him in a panic. “Wait!” he shouted. “That’s mine!” The people around him stopped to stare at the five-year-old chasing a fifteen-year-old. The older boy pushed the boy down. “Go home,” he growled. The boy howled in pain as he struck his hurt knee on a rock. The bandage was ripped off, exposing an even deeper wound. The boy put his hands on his knee and ran as fast as he could back to the trucks, arriving just in time to see the last one leave. He chased it as fast as he could, but he ended up back on the ground, staring after the trucks as they disappeared. Limping, the boy reached the tent in tears. His sister greeted him with concern. When he recounted what had happened, she hugged him and waited for him to calm down. “Never mind,” she said gently. “We have some canned beans left.” His father arrived as they were about to eat. He looked at his children with weary eyes. The sister looked down at old beans in poorly hidden disgust, then at her brother in fear of what the future might hold for him. The boy, however, regarded the night as a feast. He laughed when his father told jokes, and jumped around energetically as he described the soccer game from that morning. His five-year-old joy had helped him forget his pain. When it was time for bed, his sister sat next to him until he fell asleep. “Remember,” she said, “you’re not a man until you’ve fought back for your right for the first time, and that’s what you did today.” The boy smiled at her with shining eyes. “I’ll get the bread tomorrow,” he murmured sleepily. His sister nodded, lifting a finger to her lips to remind him that his father was already asleep. “By the way,” he whispered. “This morning, the sun made a rainbow on the ground. I wanted to show you.” “Show me tomorrow,” she said. “Good night.” The boy looked up. He could see the outline of the moon through the tent fabric, shining brightly. He raised his arm and waved, as if bidding the moon farewell. “Good night,” he said to the moon. He closed his eyes, looking forward to greeting the sun again. ✦ fiction The Bread Line by Natalie Richards, Aurora, OR T here are so many things I wish I remembered more clearly. The first time I read Pride and Prejudice. My tenth birthday party when all my friends came and we laughed and danced. The first time I stood on a stage and sang just for the sake of the music. My first kiss. I still have all these memories; they’re not lost, but muted. Their bright colors and indescribable emotions have faded to pleasant echoes of their former selves. They make me smile when I visit them, but I can’t live them anymore. I can’t feel them. Only one memory still has the power to drag me through time, kicking and screaming, into the past. The more I try to forget, the stronger it becomes. The harder it pulls. I can see every drop of rain as it hits the windshield, tiny missiles that had never I can see threatened me before. I can feel the familiar tightness of the seat belt across my chest, every drop the edge digging into my neck because I was a little too short. I can hear my dad singing “Yellow Submarine” off-key, my mom laughing. I can smell the faintly floral shampoo I of rain had used that morning. Every detail is crystalline, frozen forever. The shriek of brakes, the acrid scent of burning rubber, an explosion of fragmented glass. My mom’s hair, my dad’s hand, a bright burst of blood. Sheer terror, blessed darkness. Some people don’t remember anything when they wake up. I’m not so lucky. ✦ LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK Art by Katelynn Mock, Bryan, OH M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 33 fiction 34 The Adventures of Reagan Laidir by Michaela Crow, Port Mathilde, PA I knock out a bull-headed prince who wouldn’t take specifically his smirk. And that’s when I realize that never expected to find myself in this situation. no for an answer. This should be the easy part, yet instead of running top speed in the opposite direcAs I duck for protection behind an ancient oak telling myself that does little to calm my nerves. tion, I have been foolishly gawking at this frightentree, the peril of my position sets in. I am standMy stomach flutters as if hundreds of fairies are ing body. ing approximately one hundred feet from the cottage desperately seeking an escape through my esopha“What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” His of an old witch, more importantly, a witch renowned gus. Well, here goes nothing. Quickly I deposit my voice comes out in a boom that has me in a near for her temper and wicked spells. And if her home cloak on a nearby branch and dive into an adjacent quivering puddle on the grass. bears any resemblance to the rumors of her characpugna bush. As if to punish me for my “Err … just passing through.” I attempt to sideter, I am in colossal danger. negligence, the bush attacks me with surstep him. “But I really must be moving on. You see Small in size, the cottage’s brick vigor for an inanimate object; that cottage over there?” I point, not pausing for an foundation is slowly crumbling in on Promising to prising branches jab harshly at my flushed face answer. “An evil witch is told to live there. Rumored itself. Its roof, a mixture of straw and steal from a and tangle their bright leaves into my to have turned a man into a flea for looking at her sticks, comes to a curved point. Black hair. Rolling onto my stomach, I escape funny.” Creepy’s smile only seems to grow as I rambars cover the windows, and a short, witch’s garden the aggressive bush’s grasp, dirtying my ble. “Real hideous too. You’re gonna wanna get out razor-sharp fence surrounds the immeof here.” By now I have managed to put a good five was a mistake white bodice and crimson skirt, before diate space around it. I always have army-crawling in the direction of my feet between us, and the distance is growing. considered myself a smart girl, but by goal, the vitam. “You don’t say?” His tone strikes me as mocking, coming so close to a witch’s house I All this trouble for a dumb flower? In truth, I but I fail to understand his amusement. am practically jumping into her cauldron. don’t understand what is so significant about the “Yes! Look, I’m getting out of here. If you want I internally scoff. Deus, I am such a cliché! Unasvitam, except the fact that it is necessary to complete to wait for the old hag, be my guest!” With a quick suming village girl facing danger for the sake of a Gretalia’s potion. Regardless, the importance of the glance to affirm that he hasn’t moved, I sprint, grabgreat adventure. My sensible side has finally made flower is only proof that Gretalia trusts me and has bing my cloak on the way. an appearance as countless doubts weigh heavy on begun to acknowledge the fact that I have matured Refusing to turn around, I focus on the terrain in and am worthy of her faith. front of me. I dodge roots and duck under branches When the vitam enters my view, I pause to study for a good mile before stopping at a small lake to the apparently critical flower. The plant is isolated in rest. Bent over my knees, my breath is coming in a patch of dug ground. Light purple and similar to a short gasps, lungs desperately craving oxygen. calla lily in shape and size, there is nothing visually There’s no way he could have followed me. striking about it. Nothing that screams “I am worthy The thought has barely left my head when a terriof a three-day journey through the Magusal Forest” fyingly familiar voice says, “You didn’t think you’d anyway. get away that easily, did you?” Not very well guarded either. My hands inch tenI didn’t even have to turn around this time. This tatively out of the bush, as my eyes dart toward the guy has officially crossed the realm of scary to cottage door. For something so important you’d downright irritating. think that the old hag would guard it better. “What do you want from me?” My exasperation The flower is almost in reach. A spell? She is seeps through. “Do you have any idea what I’ve had supposedly a witch, right? Or at least a fence! Don’t to go through to get here? For the past three nights animals live around here? I’ve slept in the dirt! The dirt!” And then I have it! Grasping the vitam triHis only response is an arrogant chuckle. And umphantly, I carefully pull the plant out by its roots now he’s officially done it. The monster has been before depositing it in the makeshift bag I created unleashed. “To make my journey even better I’ve from an elf’s red cap and a clump of dirt. With a run into every infuriating male in this whole forest! quick twist the hat is securely shut, and I make my The ogres, elves, and prince ‘I-am-the-best-thinghasty retreat out of the bush, the cap tucked securely since-fairy-dust’! What are you looking so smug Art by Emily Linville, Columbus, OH inside my bodice. Crawling backwards on my hands about? You’re worse than the ogres, you ugly and knees, my head is still in the bush when my creeper! The only other thing that could have gone back foot meets the base of a tree. wrong is if I ran into the witch!” my mind. There is no way that I would still be “Cyclop’s eye!” I hiss, and unskillfully roll out of I only now notice his expression shift from arrostanding here if it wasn’t for the shameful thought of my cover. I scramble to my feet in a cloud of dust gant to angry. Too bad that, in this mental state, I going back to Gretalia empty-handed. She had been and once again back toward the safety of the forest, can’t find it in myself to care. Creepy takes a threathesitant to send me for the vitam she needed for her arm outstretched in search of an ening step in my direction. potion, but I had convinced her after much begging oak tree refuge while keeping my “Now I am only going to ask you and arguing. Better boiled than prove Gretalia right. eyes on the cottage, half expecting once. I have been a very patient man. Promising to steal from a witch’s garden was a “What do you the witch to appear in the doorway. Give me the vitam.” Too bad for him I mistake, but I always feel the need to prove myself think you’re doing, don’t respond well to demands. Fortunately, the door remains shut, to Gretalia. I met her when I was just four years old, and my hand makes solid contact. “No, I stole it from the old lady fair and she has been a mother figure of sorts to me for little girl?” Unfortunately, the solid that my and square. You can go steal your twelve years now. Gretalia found me not far from hand grasps is not a tree but a very own.” her cottage, in the thickest part of the woods. I was distinct male frame. My head, a mess of leaves and “You misunderstand me.” The menace in his voice wandering lost and alone after my parents abancurls, whips around, the rest of my body following. is actually quite blatant. doned me in a village far from our home. She took The first thing my eyes come in contact with is a “Give me back my vitam flower, and I might not me in and taught me all the necessities of living innaked male torso with crazy muscular, tree-trunk turn you into a flea.” Something pointy prods me dependently: where to find edible plants, how to arms that appear as if they could snap me in half, squarely in the chest, causing me to look down. A hunt, and the art of potion-making. So how could I and a chest rapidly heaving up and down. My heart wavy stick is digging into my skin. It takes me a not jump at this opportunity to help her with such a rate picks up as my eyes travel upward. Around a couple of seconds, but his words eventually register, simple task as swiping a flower from the garden of a beefy neck is a tooth, looking disturbingly like a and I figure out what he meant by “my vitam senile old woman? human molar, strung on a piece of yarn. My eyes flower” and what the stick is. Except things are never that simple, at least, not continue their journey up to meet his. Metallic silver “Bu-but …” I sputter. “You’re a guy!” when it comes to me, Reagan Laidir, the red-headed and catlike in shape, they have to be the most intimiBrilliant, Reagan. Good one. Why don’t you just orphan child with an anger-management problem. dating eyes I’ve come across in my sixteen years. spit in his eye while you’re at it? “I mean wizard! So far on this quest alone I have had to outsmart a His face is wrinkle-free and youthful – possibly You handsome, charming wizard, you! You are ten pair of cannibalistic ogres, ransack an abandoned middle-aged? Then I notice his lips, or more times better than that ogre!” As I go off ➤➤ elven camp (turns out it wasn’t abandoned), and Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM fiction Eight by Jeanna Carlsson, Coppell, TX T of the groups sitting at the circular tables scattered ap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Eight taps in the cafeteria. I eat my pizza, each slice conof my pencil. No more. No less. Exact, even, sumed in eight even bites. equal. Repeat. I hear others tapping as they I sit amid the cacophony of the cafeteria, staring try to conjure an equation lost in the maze of their at a smudge of an unknown substance left from minds. I count the taps as each pencil touches the the previous lunch period. Ignoring the stares of table. I attempt to discern a rhythm, some semblance other students who question my solitude, I lose of order in their tapping, but I cannot. If only they myself in thought. knew that uneven tapping, in multiples of five and Eight. Eight. The number evokes a six and seven – but not eight – will be memory of days that were more the cause of their low test grades. peaceful and less lonely. Eight. Eight Some say I’m crazy for believing that Eight is my times my mother would kiss my foreeight is a magical number that brings head each night. No more. No less. luck and success. Some say I’m super- only connection Eight blessings for her beloved child’s stitious. Doctors say I’m obsessive to her blissful slumber. Exact, even, equal. compulsive. But those good-night kisses are gone The bell rings to signal the end of now, just as she is gone, off to someplace better. class, and we all turn in our tests. We head to the Someplace without me. cafeteria for lunch, shuffling across the grimy gray Perhaps she swims in the warm waters of an iscarpet squares of the main hallway. One, two, three, land paradise. Perhaps she hikes in the Himalayas, four, five, six, seven, eight steps. Repeat. I walk at a high above the mundane world. Perhaps I’ll never consistent pace, while those around me speed up and know. I cling to the number eight in hopes of discovslow down as they side-step around others with a ering a hidden message, a map, a guide, anything slower gait. that will take me to her. Anything that will bring her My stomach growls in response to the smell of back to me, and with her my sense of security and pizza wafting from the serving line. I sit alone with my sanity. Eight. It connects me to her. It is my only my two slices, unable to handle the random numbers Anaconda W hen I was a child. I remember her ruby-red signature, the way the cosmetic would glide over her lips with a delicate point. I remember the jetblack hair that stank from being dyed, and I remember her hugging me and being too bony in all the wrong places. I remember being chocked by the cigarette smoke. That thick, phosphorous smoke curled around me, recoiling back and threatening to strike with its dripping fangs at any moment, a hanging, unseen threat. And she hugged me tighter and tighter, and I remember feeling like I was being YOUR connection to her. Eight consumes me. I’m shaken from my reverie by someone sitting down across from me. The newcomer is a girl who glances up at me from the pages of her book and smiles softly, having sensed my surprise. Big eyes. Brown eyes. Kind eyes. As I return to my thoughts, a movement catches my eye. The girl slides a napkin across the table, passing me a cookie replete with chocolate candies, which I count immediately. There are sixteen. Eight and eight. Two perfect sets that complement each other. A sudden calm washes over my chaotic thoughts. I hesitate, then reach for the cookie. ✦ by Mia Martins, San Jose, CA squeezed by an anaconda, restricting When I was a teenager. me more and more and more and I vowed to be nothing like her. I remore until I would finally just … member the screaming fights and the implode. yelled words. I remember hating her, I burst away from her grasp, gaspa washed-up nobody, and the fact that ing for air, my lungs so all she had given me was appreciative for the fresh the remnants of her brooxygen. ken life. I remember “Mama, “Mama,” I remember knowing that I was a remdon’t hug pleading, “don’t hug me nant of her broken life. I so tight.” me so tight” never let her hug me beShe laughed, a gutcause I remember hating tural, throaty chuckle, but that suffocating feeling, she somehow managed to make it airy yet she still constricted me in every and girly by upping her pitch. “Don’t way possible because neither of us worry, kid,” she said in her delicate, could just let go. raspy voice, “nothing in this world is When I was an adult. gonna be tighter.” There is nothing left for me to not “Oh no! She’s ours!” This time the statement is on another ramble, I watch his face transform from voiced by a collection of small men. The elves have anger to confusion to blank. “Really cool eyes too, gathered in a tight circle on top of a nearby heath. by the way! Of course you can have the vitam “What? No ogres?” I question the sky, glaring in back!” I may not always be the smartest, but I’m no dummy. If the scary wizard wants the flower, I’ll hatred. give him the flower. “Just don’t do anything rash “Back off, pip squeaks. That our dinner!” while I get it, okay?” Nevermind. “Halt!” Everything is happening so rapidly My hand has barely brushed the colI’m finding it difficult to follow. Thank“Step away lar of my bodice when I am stopped by fully I will always have my smart mouth from the a different masculine voice. to fall back on. “Sorry, Uglies! Creepy is Like every clichéd story, my hero has taking me back to his cottage. I guess maiden …” come to save me. Sitting valiantly on you’ll have to eat someone else.” his white steed, who has come to my My statement has the desired effect. rescue but Prince Fairy Dust, wildly brandishing his Both ogres let out a mighty roar and charge. Even sword in Creepy’s direction. better, a chain reaction seems to have taken hold of the various creatures as their male pride drives them “Step away from the maiden and I will let you go to defend what they considered rightfully theirs. In free!” he cries. My snort is hidden by a well-timed cough. my defense, the prince reacts immediately, attacking LINK Art by Madeleine Dow, Redlands, CA TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK be like. “Ms. Smith?” the receptionist calls, peeking her head around the door and smiling when she sees me. I stand up nervously, tugging my blouse down. “They’re ready to see you.” I nod and hastily fumble in my purse as I walk unsteadily to the doorway. I pull out a purple tube and uncap it to reveal a bright red lipstick that I quickly glide over my lips, puckering them together when I’m done. “Love ya, Mama,” I mumble as I take a deep breath and knock on the door. “Ana? You can come in now.” ✦ the ogres. Not to be left out, the horde of elves prepare to fight, pulling daggers from inside boots and drawing their bows. Predicting the impending chaos, I manage to swing my body onto a nearby branch, narrowly missing getting pulverized by a fist flying in my direction. My terror is masked by a greater feeling of amusement at how easily manipulated everyone was. The scene unfolds before me perfectly. Creepy disappears in a puff of smoke. After being thrown from his horse, my hero prince runs away screaming. And the ogres roll away, elves firmly attached by their teeth to their meaty thighs. With a short jump off the tree limb, the dangerous part of my journey is over. All I have to do now is not anger any more creatures on the way back and I’ll be fine. A quick flip of the hood later and this “little girl” is on her way home – vitam, humanity, and limbs still attached. ✦ M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 35 fiction Shopping by Katherine Orfinger, Ormond Beach, FL T calls me Charlotte instead of Charlie, he mall smells like efficiency and conbut I’m willing to compromise with her sumerism. It makes me feel a little strange, a on that one. little dizzy, a little used, like the best thing I Hannah says I’m too cute to be a can do is mindlessly spend all my money here. It aldyke, that my features are too delicate, most makes me feel productive, as though I’m conthat I’m too petite. To prove her point, tributing to society by pumping my meager cash into she likes to make a show of leaning the economy. My senior economics class has down to kiss my nose when she tells messed with my head. me this. I grin just thinking about it. But what really gets me about the mall is the I’m here to get her birthday present. promises it makes. I walk past makeup counters Normally we get each where young women with long eyeother small gifts. But this lashes can show me how to correct going to be the last the freckles that pepper my face. She says if we’re isbirthday we get to spend There’s a nail salon to take care of together, what with gradmeant to be my ragged nails, a hair salon to give uation right around the Photo by Julia Perry, Andover, MA me a haircut that will make me look together, fate will corner. So I’ve been less like a twelve-year-old boy and pitch as it does when I talk to adults. I hesitate and planning to do something special. I more like an eighteen-year-old bring us back wait for her to say something else. She doesn’t, and started saving as soon as I saw the woman. It’s manufactured selfI shift uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. Finally, necklace on display a few months ago. improvement. They’re selling happishe finishes wiping the counter and asks, “Can I It’s a teardrop-shaped glass pendant with a silver ness, and I can’t afford it. help you with something?” heart suspended in the middle, and in the middle of And of course, there are endless clothing stores “Yes, please,” I say. “I’m looking for a necklace. I the heart is a tiny piece of rose quartz polished to an that will sell me clothes promising to accentuate my mean, I know which one. One I’ve seen here before. unbelievable shine. curves, lengthen my legs, make my eyes “pop.” A specific one.” Great job, I think, groaning inHannah has been talking a lot about “growth and Racks and rows of dresses that would look ridicuwardly as I take in Amanda’s stony expression. change” lately, as if I don’t know what that means lous on me, shelves of high heels I don’t know how “Okay,” she says. She looks me up and down, as for us. I understand that with her moving to the West to walk in, tank tops and blouses that would showif she’s trying to picture any kind of jewelry on me. Coast for school and me staying in town for commucase the cleavage I prefer to hide. Not to mention the “Which one?” nity college, it would be difficult for us to stay toendless stream of men and boys who look at me Stammering, I describe the necklace. “I don’t gether. We talked about it a lot, but decided that with everything from confusion to amusement as I know if it has a name,” I finish lamely. some time apart might be good. She needs room to rummage through the men’s section looking for an “It does. You’re talking about the Sally Collec“grow and change,” while I will stay in the same XXS. tion. That’s a very expensive necklace,” she says, small town with the same small-minded people. But My mom has long since stopped dragging me to without moving toward the case. I know how shy she is, how terrified she is of makMacy’s to try on A-line skirts and cream-colored “I know. I have the money,” I say. The statement ing new friends. I imagine her standing in her unfablouses, and has resigned herself to the fact that her sounds odd coming from me. I don’t know why. miliar dorm room, looking in an unfamiliar mirror daughter is a “big dyke in a small town.” She still She nods. “Is it a gift for your mother?” and seeing the necklace on her neck. I start to feel hot under her scrutiny. “No.” I want to get her something tangiShe inclines her head and twists her lips into ble. A reminder that she was happy something that might be a smile if it were directed at at home, that she was happy with by “Karen,” someone else. There is a question in her face. I think me. She says if we’re meant to be Cleburne, TX of the squeal that Hannah will make when she opens together, fate will bring us back to the box. each other when the time is right. I am being forced to write this. Well, not exactly forced – I mean, it’s not “It’s for my girlfriend. Her birthday’s coming don’t believe in fate, but I believe like someone is holding a gun to my head or yelling at me – but this is for up.” I try to smile. her when she says that. a grade. And I am an extreme procrastinator, so I suppose I will tell you a She purses her lips and sighs quietly through her I weave through the department story. For the sake of my grade, I will tell you a story. This, mind you, very nose. “It’s right over here.” She unlocks the jewelry store to the jewelry counter. I pass sarcastic story will be told in a very particular order: introduction and backcase and takes the necklace out. She is wearing purses, bathing suits, bras, jeans, and ground to the main character, whom you will follow throughout their boring acrylic nails. “Is this the one you want?” finally the glass jewelry cases appear life, a middle section where somewhat unexciting things will happen to said “Yes, ma’am,” I say, taking out my wallet. around the corner. A woman with character, and an ending. This ending may or may not be sad, happy, or any We walk to the register where I pay for the neckher back to me is wiping off one of other adjectives that bring about images of texting lace. “Would you like it gift-wrapped?” the cases. She is tall emojis or Walmart stickers. She asks. and thin, with her hair Speaking of Walmart stickers, there used to be an “No, thank you. I want to wrap it mytwisted into a butterfly All she ever “It’s for my girlelderly woman who worked there. I know that’s a self.” She nods and gives me the white clip on the back of her did was give super-detailed description, but just bear with me jewelry box. I take the receipt and shove head. Her hair is a friend. It’s her here. Every time I would go there as a child, she it into my pocket. “Thank you.” funny orange color, me stickers birthday.” would be standing by the shopping carts, waiting “Have a nice day,” she says stiffly. and for a moment I am with a big roll of smiley-face stickers. Just as I As I walk toward the exit, I begin to reminded of Nurse would put my hand on a cart, she would hobble over and place a big yellow unclench. Amanda’s face fades from my Ratched, but then I resmile on my hand. I know that her intentions were kind and genuine, but each mind and is replaced with Hannah’s smile. I can picmember that it was the Big Nurse’s time I felt her cold wrinkles engulf my tiny hands, my heart stopped and my ture the necklace on her, and I know she’ll wrap the lips, not her hair that were a “funny mind whirled with pictures of evil monsters and scary child-eating witches. chain around her fingers when she’s wearing it. orange.” The woman turns around, Now that I think back, I almost feel bad for being so afraid of her. All she ever As soon as I’m out of Amanda’s sight, I stop and and she is older than I expected, did was give me stickers; why did I always have to run? Now, whenever I go peek into the jewelry box. Without warning, I feel as probably pushing sixty. Her nametag to Walmart, I wish I could see her and apologize for my rudeness, but I think fragile as the necklace. I hope it doesn’t get broken reads Amanda. Her face is caked in she’s probably dead by now. on some midnight adventure of Hannah’s at college. makeup, but she looks strangely So I told you I’d tell you a story in “a very particular order,” but it looks I hope she won’t take it off and throw it in the botclean. She raises her eyebrows and like I lied to you. At least you’re here to know that I’m sorry. ✦ tom of a drawer where the glass will crack. I hope says, “Hello,” without smiling. she’ll come home and remember she was happy. ✦ “Hi,” I say, my voice going up in Written Today I 36 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM by Francisco Seambelar, Buenos Aires, Argentina W paddled awkwardly toward the shore. No one took one that I had never seen before, nor since that day. hen I was a boy of ten living in Uganda, notice of him; he was a Ugandan local and therefore How strange it was to see both the whites and the my father’s undying love for sailing drew unimportant. Yet I divided my attention between the blacks, the rich and the poor, sharing a single unbroour family to a small sailing club called canoe and a Dutch man wearing a polo shirt and too ken moment of grief for the black boy. But by this Mukumbo that lay on the banks of Lake Victoria. much sunscreen directing two bare-chested African time we did not see him as black. Nor did we see Unless you took the banana boat ferry from the outmen how to rig his boat for him. The yellow speck him as white. In this instant we saw him as a color skirts of Kampala, Mukumbo was an hour’s car ride slowly drew closer to the northern shore. that was curiously familiar to both groups. Perhaps and involved crossing several kilometers of devasI was seated on a patch of grass next to the clubit was the thin stream of red flowing from his mouth tated dirt roads and large villages. The club itself house. From this plateau towering over the northern that reminded us that we were all the same. was beautifully placed on the long, marshy banks of territory I was granted a perfect view of the island, It was then that I decided I wasn’t white, and that the golden lake. the bank, and the iron fence. Fresh air filled my the people beyond the fence weren’t black. Every The southern shore was where the boats were kept lungs as the trees above me groaned in single one of us was red. It had taken and rigged for sailing, and where most of the activthe wind. A single black and white death’s cold touch to strip us bare of our ity happened, second only to the clubhouse. The kingfisher flew off toward the papyrus colors and reveal what lay within. It had northern shore was mostly untouched and generally One day, a swamp in the south. taken decades of hatred to realize that avoided. Despite its location in the heart of the grave incident we were all from the earth, and from As usual, there were about fifteen African continent, Mukumbo’s members were all naked Ugandan boys in the water beeach other. white – predominantly British, Dutch, and German. happened in yond the fence, splashing and yelling. From the death of this child a new life The only black men and women inside were the Mukumbo Their teeth glimmered white against was born, a life that would affirm that workers and cooks, whose sole purpose was being their black skin as they played in the we were all red, all the same. I turned told what to do by the white men and what to cook blistering sun while two Ugandan girls away and ran to the sanctuary of the by the white women. Together there were fifteen of filled yellow jerry cans for the night’s maize porclubhouse. I never learned what happened to the them, and they were usually sent to a small hut on ridge and posho. boy’s body, but it was surely given to his village for Mukumbo’s west edge unless required in the kitchen The yellow canoe was now thirty meters from a traditional burial. or down at the shore to rig the boats. There was only shore, and the boy inside could be clearly seen. His It was not until years later that I wandered, hesione black club member – a highly respected Uganskin was shining brightly with sweat from paddling. tantly, to the edge of Mukumbo’s northern bank, dan lawyer – but he seldom came. The strong winds had waged war with the golden where the iron fence lay. It was curiously silent. I On the northern bank of Mukumbo stood a tall lake, and the surface of the water had transformed had not seen the children grasp its metal bars for a iron fence, which ran straight across the shore and into a rough canvas. Battalions of white horsemen into the murky waters of the lake. Just beyond it was rose from the water as small waves breached their a gravel path along the edge of the lake that led to a limits and then subsided before disappearing into the small village. lake. The boy struggled to keep his canoe from veerUgandan children would often walk in their worn ing to one side or the other as the horsemen tramsandals, with heavy yellow jerry cans balanced on pled the wooden defenses of his small vessel. They their heads, to the lake’s shore to get drinking water. toyed with him mercilessly before striking a final Their clothes were ripped and seemed too large for blow. the thin legs that protruded from them. They would My head turned, and so did the British woman’s grab the iron fence and call to the white men benext to me, as a faint cry drew our attention. The yond. Only once or twice did I dare to stray close to yellow canoe, now capsized, floated not twenty the fence myself, for when in audible reach, they meters from the banks of the gravel path on would threaten us and swear at us in such a brutal Mukumbo’s northern border. The Ugandan children manner. A deep hatred had formed between us and screamed in horror standing in the shallows but did them. I never understood where its roots lay, but it not dare enter the lake’s depths for fear of being was there, and it was common. The white men swallowed by the same darkness. The couldn’t care less about the insults of two Ugandan girls wailed and cried, black locals, and spent most of their dropping their cans and grabbing their days on the southern shore shouting A heavy hatred dresses in agony. I watched curiously orders to the Ugandan workers. That from above as five white men, includwas where the boats lay, which was had formed ing my father, ran from the southern their only concern. between us bank into the water and swam toward One day, in what could be said to be the yellow canoe. a truly enlightening experience, a Desperately, they dove under, rising grave incident happened in Mukumbo, above to gasp air and then dive again, trying frantiand when it was over, it was never spoken of again. cally to find the boy. The British woman next to me Photo by Ellen Schueler, Franklin, KY The day was clear, revealing an azure sky and the held me as we watched. A small crowd of white club warm touch of the morning sun’s rays on the neatly members gathered behind us, hands covering their long time, nor did I hear them taunting the white cut grasses of Mukumbo’s southern shore. The formouths in disbelief. men when they strayed to the northern border. est that covered much of the sailing club’s southI do not know how long they searched for him in As I drew near I inspected the fence and saw that western territory shuddered as an unseasonably the water, but I remember that every second felt unit was bent and uneven. What had once looked firm strong wind gusted from the north, mounting ending, and every minute lasted a lifetime. The waitand forbidding now proved to be almost useless. I steadily and battling intensely with the water. The ing finally ended tragically. The boy had drowned. effortlessly swayed it back and forth with my arms. white men were at the southern shore either rigging The five white men lifted him out of the water, Beyond the tall grasses, smoke from the dead boy’s or watching their boats be rigged for what would and others helped carry him to the uncut grass near village trailed across the sky. have been a perfect day of sailing. the fence. There they tried to resuscitate him, but to I looked down to where the water met the metal Around four hundred meters off the mainland, in no avail. The Ugandans watched from behind the fence. Two black and white kingfishers perched on front of Mukumbo, lay a large, forested island; from fence, clinging to the barrier while crying prayers in the iron fence above the murky water. The grass was it a yellow speck wobbled toward us. It was a canoe, Luganda that would prove useless. neatly mowed. I let go of the iron barrier and found built and crafted in typical African manner from The women behind me and the white men below that my fingers were stained red. tinted wood that had been splintered by time and began crying along with the Ugandan crowd behind The fence was rusting. ✦ hollowed from years in the sun. An adolescent boy the fence. This was quite a spectacular scene for me, LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK M AY ’ 1 4 fiction The Iron Fence • Teen Ink 37 fiction I Don’t Want a New Daddy by Alex Choi, Hinsdale, IL I examined the way her long brown hair blew over her forgive Meg for leaving you?” do believe it’s safe to say I will never forgive my face. With a sad smile, Mrs. O’Neal studied my face. daddy for leaving me. Mama says to forgive “But, Ma, why can’t you go and get yourself a “Sometimes things can’t be helped, and the only him – that it’s not his fault he died in World War nice job so we can live in comfort by ourselves? We way to move forward is to let go of the past. You II – but I blame him just the same. My daddy died don’t need a daddy, and besides, I will never, not know, Meg used to say, ‘As long as forgiveness when I was just seven, right at the end of the war, in ever, trust a daddy again,” I said with a stubborn paves the road, love will always travel it.’” 1943. That left just me and Mama, until Robert pout. “And-” • • • rolled around. Mama was convinced that “We’ve been over this,” Ma cut me off. That afternoon I walked back over to Mrs he was a real man worth marrying, but “Robert’s a fine daddy. Besides, I can O’Neal’s house with a big basket of cookies. “Hey all I saw was a fool. He didn’t seem to “Robert’s a hardly get a job, much less a well-paying there, Mrs. O’Neal. I, uh, brought you some cookies care about anything other than fishing. fine daddy” one, in the middle of Alabama. Now, I’m ’cause, you know …” I trailed off, nervously shufFirst day he came into our house, he sure you have chores to do. Or else, fling my feet. walked right up to me and said, “Grace, make yourself useful and go fetch me “Thank you, sweetie. They look delicious,” she I know that this must be hard on you, some soap from the general store.” Ma handed me said as she reached for the basket. “I got something but I’m your new daddy and I need you to cooperate 20 cents. “Now hurry along. I’ll have a talk with for you too. I’ll be right back.” with me. Before the end of this year I want to go Rob–I mean, your father.” I sat waiting on the porch, thinking what she fishin’ with you, or somethin’, so we can get to Ma always did that. She would tell me that she could possibly be giving me. Maybe it was a piece know each other better. So what do ya say?” would talk to Robert, but when I asked her, she alof jewelry or a nice dress that used to belong to her At that point I ran out crying, feeling real sorry ways said she got too busy and forgot, although I daughter. Never mind, I thought. I don’t want to for myself. First daddy I ever had left me, the knew better. wear a dead girl’s dress. Then I felt guilty and swore I walked quietly to the general store, tossing up to myself to be thankful for whatever Mrs. O’Neal the coins Ma gave me. As I strolled along, I passed happened to bring out. Mrs. O’Neal’s fancy house. It had two whole stories In a minute she returned with a slip of paper. “I with more bedrooms than I could dream about. It wrote Meg’s quote down. I thought you might like had pretty white trim and fine lilac paint. I asked Ma it,” she said, placing the thick cardstock in my hand. why we couldn’t have a house like that, and she told Her handwriting was elegant and fancy, just like her me she would ask Robert about it. She certainly says house. that a lot. “Thank you,” I whispered. As I was admiring Mrs. O’Neal home, she must • • • have thought something was wrong with me and A few days later, I sat in my room staring at the came outside. Mind you, Mrs. O’Neal is just as quote that Mrs. O’Neal had given me. I mulled over fancy as her house. She’s petite with a the words until they were imprinted in pretty smile. She has shoulder-length my eyes whenever I blinked. Then all of a brown hair pulled back in a bun and a “You have a sudden, it hit me. Maybe I could make pleasant face with clear green eyes and a things right for everyone. daughter, kind smile. Even her laugh is delicate beI padded down the hall to where Photo by Katie Griffin, Beckville, TX cause it sounds like tinkling glass. Robert was sitting in the easy chair, readma’am?” “Hey there, Grace. What’re you ing the newspaper. I took a deep breath. doing?” asked Mrs. O’Neal. “So, uh, Robert,” I began shyly. second was an impostor who just wanted to go fish“Oh, nothin’. Just runnin’ to the general store for “Yes?” he asked, setting down his paper. “What is ing. The way I saw it, no daddy could be trusted. my ma,” I replied. It always surprised me how good it.” • • • a mood Mrs. O’Neal was in every time I saw her, es“You, uh, still got those tickets?” “Hey, Gracie? Can you come out here for a pecially since her son, Tommy, was in Vietnam. I had never seen a man smile so big in my life. “I minute?” I rolled my eyes as Robert hollered down “Well, why don’t you stop for some tea? I’m sure sure do, Gracie. I sure do.” for me with the nickname no one except him used. I your dear mother wouldn’t mind.” And you know how much I cared that he called ran to answer his call. As I entered the living room, I “Thank you, Mrs. O’Neal,” I said as I stepped up me Gracie? Not one bit. ✦ tensed up. to her front porch. “You hear me callin’, missy? I called you two “I wish I had your green eyes, Grace. And your times,” said Robert with one of his “good-natured” hair – it’s just somethin’ else,” Mrs. O’Neal comsmiles that really looked like a dog bearing its teeth. mented, stroking my long blonde hair. “You remind “Yes, Robert, but-” me of my daughter.” He held up his hand to silence me. He has big “You have a daughter, ma’am? I would certainly hands. And big brown eyes. But I’ll bet he has a tiny like to meet her,” I said. brain. “Oh, yes. She was just your age, ten, with the “Gracie, please. I just wanted to say that I got same beautiful smile and eyes,” she recalled wistsome real nice seats at a baseball game this weekfully. “She was full of energy, always bouncin’ off end, and I want to know if you’ll come with me,” he the walls. I could never get Meg to stop.” said. As relieved as I was that he had chosen a dif“I’m sorry, ma’am, but did you say ‘was’?” I ferent bonding activity other than fishing, it didn’t questioned, now thoroughly confused. change a thing. A tear pooled in her eye, which she quickly wiped “Robert, I never, ever said yes to fishing, so why away. “My darling died long ago, before I moved to on earth would I say yes to this?” I tried to reason. Alabama. One day Mr. O’Neal was drivin’ me, With a sigh, Robert put the tickets back in his Tommy, and Meg. He swerved the car right into anpocket and picked up his newspaper. “Well, that’s other one by accident,” she said staring into her cup okay. I guess I can take your mama.” of tea. “I was fine, and so was Tommy and Mr. I left quietly and ran off to Ma to ask her to tell O’Neal, but Meg …” And with that, Mrs. O’Neal Robert to stop trying to be friendly with me. broke down crying. Unsure what to do, I sat there “Honey, Robert’s a nice man. I know he may not like a statue. be the same as your papa, but he’s a caring gentle“I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping the tears from her man and a kind soul. You’ll learn to like him,” she face. replied with a reassuring pat, as if that would help. “Pardon me for asking, but how can you ever I stared right back into her big green eyes and Art by Jessica Padilla, Houston, TX 38 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM poetry Charcoal Boat please stay Frequencies when I was seven I drew a boat in charcoal that I could so nearly touch I picked a bouquet of forget-me-nots and they were a plea because my heart fears that You will find someone better – someone who does not get sick in tricky situations or pretty girls who lack crescent scars in their palms I’m afraid that I’m not getting better and someday, someday soon You will leave Broken glass and gasoline, rubber from the wheels And pop tunes playing from the station, into water Rise. Let’s watch the fish, and listen to the radio and hear the waves that rocked underneath that sang promises of the places it’d take me but when my fingertips touched the paper it smeared, and I realized that art isn’t magic and ten years later I keep making the same mistake with people, Art by Fiona Lin, Beijing, China Dec. 2nd You don’t write about cigarettes or the sky you saw driving home from work You just can’t. You slip me a note about how the washing machine rattles and reminds me of a song I showed you I bite the inside of my cheek till it bleeds and kiss the outside of yours till it does the same Your stained-glass eyes tell me it’s all in my head and I bury my face in your neck I came home and ate an orange without peeling it and stared at my reflection Sweet and bitter simultaneously, I swallowed and sighed by Asia Adomanis, Beavercreek, OH Hidden Footsteps of students pounding In the stampede to the cafeteria above our heads, We sat under the staircase in the west wing, Hidden in our own little corner of the school. You pulled the gummy bears out of your purse. The foreign language on the package confirmed Your claims of their German origin. (I decided against admitting I could find The same brand in the candy aisle Of any local convenience store because It was a special gift nonetheless.) The floor, solid and smooth, held us Up from the earth below it. My head Rested on the steel window pane While yours lay right under, Not high enough to touch. And as we turned to lock eyes in unison, Like we had done so many times before, we Both grinned, attempting to suppress Giggles we both felt rising in our stomachs. But the dam inevitably burst. We both fell into a fit, laughing until Our cheeks hurt. As you mentioned many times before, Nothing humorous led us into the chorus of laughter, For in this moment we had filled the other with joy Simply being together. How could we not express that? by Katie Witte, Pilot Point, TX Who or whom? The red-lit sun of traffic lights, glinting off the water Down below. Mangled guard rails, static-buzzing radio Remember singing to this song? Just us, behind the wheel in thinking they are more than they are The page is turned, but does that signal a new start? Or another end? by Callie Zimmerman, Fishers, IN by Maryam Hosain, Sydney, Australia Sweet Home Belleville My Bedside Reservations The long road to Belleville is paved with gold, And the arch of St. Louis is a sparkling diamond. Tracing the railroad side, I spot the Drury Inn, And all I can think of is my sweet granny. A tiny home and an even tinier refrigerator, Stocked with an even tinier farm fresh milk, And tiny Dove chocolates in tiny glass bowls. Brown paneled walls and green linoleum floors, With pictures of John Paul and Papa Fred hung, Next to Katie and Timmy and my mom. I used to stare up and only know Katie, I never knew Fred or even sweet Timmy. Krispy Kreme fresh on the cozy, oval table, With a view of my family and the house next door, And the Price is Right blaring on the TV. I used to sneak into my Granny’s room While some stranger on TV won a new car, And I’d drink chocolate milk and sit on the green carpet, Hoping to see what Beanie Baby she’d give to my brothers and me, Which were hidden up in the closet. St. Clair’s Mall, the amazing ceiling of Macy’s. Lunch at Dillard’s and Smokey Bones for dinner. Another Busch Stadium visit for me to tally. The Mississippi River, Althoff High School, St. Augustine’s. Aunt Francis always there with warm, welcoming arms. And my Papa always guarding over my shoulder. Although I am legally from somewhere north, I will always remember Belleville as my home. The knick-knacks we collect to collect dust bunnies and whats-its that whisper of stories stored away. Grandma’s chocolate turtle recipe speckled with tiny dark thumbprints, chapped lip balm, spent gift cards, all – by Grace Graunke, Naperville, IL A life of broken frequencies, caught by the radio Played on loop as memories, me behind the wheel. Remember fishing back in Baku? The chilly water. Eyes closed on the wheel. Into water. Sing the song on the radio by Nik Theorin, Landenberg, PA but – inside inside jokes, bubble gum wrappers and faded book reports and nerdy rimmed Ray-Bans coming-of-age trinkets and declarations of independence. The silly things that we just can’t seem to forget. These are the objects of my marker-stained nightstand, stashed away artifacts like a Crayola-washed archive. I’m not a curator, precisely. Just a wide-eyed pack rat, endlessly ruffling through layers of my life. Yet at the same time, I feel as if I’m burrowing past gizmos, stuff past its expiration date. Perhaps these wooden drawers list and exhibit the hidden, tell a simple truth. That we try hard to be try-hards just to forget? The petty past holding hostage our planet for a price that we can’t search up in the libraries of our life. That we store, all the while ignoring what is in store? The time is now to cover the aged birthday cards, un-sticky glue sticks in the pallid blanket of these flowery verses, the new frosty peak of my bedroom pile, turn off the lights, and go to sleep. It’s my bedtime – I have a big day tomorrow. when you asked why because she is a hurricane of confidence and joy and freedom and all i want to do is get swept up. because she is the center of all our adventures, the catalyst for all our friendships, she is the glue and the reason at the end why our motley crew means love to me. because she is not pure but she is precious imperfect, bright, alive and she has danced up a storm here on earth that sent her to the stars. by Morgan Chesley, Kasilof, AK Too Many Times Like tattered China Dropped by nieces at tea Or son-in-laws at Easter brunch Too many times Squandered, put down, Chipped away Living in fear of the Mechanic swish, slush and Clink Abused by mouths ungrateful, Distasteful. But with its handle askew, Its frame lopsided Standing above the mugs and tea cups, It waits For the day antique will triumph. But for the kettle that calls It will always answer With a welcoming mouth and An endless depth to fill. by Zuzanna Waler, Konstancin, Poland by Matthew Rice, Buffalo Grove, IL by Andrew Mack, Rochester, MI POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 39 poetry Charcoal Boat please stay Frequencies when I was seven I drew a boat in charcoal that I could so nearly touch I picked a bouquet of forget-me-nots and they were a plea because my heart fears that You will find someone better – someone who does not get sick in tricky situations or pretty girls who lack crescent scars in their palms I’m afraid that I’m not getting better and someday, someday soon You will leave Broken glass and gasoline, rubber from the wheels And pop tunes playing from the station, into water Rise. Let’s watch the fish, and listen to the radio and hear the waves that rocked underneath that sang promises of the places it’d take me but when my fingertips touched the paper it smeared, and I realized that art isn’t magic and ten years later I keep making the same mistake with people, Art by Fiona Lin, Beijing, China Dec. 2nd You don’t write about cigarettes or the sky you saw driving home from work You just can’t. You slip me a note about how the washing machine rattles and reminds me of a song I showed you I bite the inside of my cheek till it bleeds and kiss the outside of yours till it does the same Your stained-glass eyes tell me it’s all in my head and I bury my face in your neck I came home and ate an orange without peeling it and stared at my reflection Sweet and bitter simultaneously, I swallowed and sighed by Asia Adomanis, Beavercreek, OH Hidden Footsteps of students pounding In the stampede to the cafeteria above our heads, We sat under the staircase in the west wing, Hidden in our own little corner of the school. You pulled the gummy bears out of your purse. The foreign language on the package confirmed Your claims of their German origin. (I decided against admitting I could find The same brand in the candy aisle Of any local convenience store because It was a special gift nonetheless.) The floor, solid and smooth, held us Up from the earth below it. My head Rested on the steel window pane While yours lay right under, Not high enough to touch. And as we turned to lock eyes in unison, Like we had done so many times before, we Both grinned, attempting to suppress Giggles we both felt rising in our stomachs. But the dam inevitably burst. We both fell into a fit, laughing until Our cheeks hurt. As you mentioned many times before, Nothing humorous led us into the chorus of laughter, For in this moment we had filled the other with joy Simply being together. How could we not express that? by Katie Witte, Pilot Point, TX Who or whom? The red-lit sun of traffic lights, glinting off the water Down below. Mangled guard rails, static-buzzing radio Remember singing to this song? Just us, behind the wheel in thinking they are more than they are The page is turned, but does that signal a new start? Or another end? by Callie Zimmerman, Fishers, IN by Maryam Hosain, Sydney, Australia Sweet Home Belleville My Bedside Reservations The long road to Belleville is paved with gold, And the arch of St. Louis is a sparkling diamond. Tracing the railroad side, I spot the Drury Inn, And all I can think of is my sweet granny. A tiny home and an even tinier refrigerator, Stocked with an even tinier farm fresh milk, And tiny Dove chocolates in tiny glass bowls. Brown paneled walls and green linoleum floors, With pictures of John Paul and Papa Fred hung, Next to Katie and Timmy and my mom. I used to stare up and only know Katie, I never knew Fred or even sweet Timmy. Krispy Kreme fresh on the cozy, oval table, With a view of my family and the house next door, And the Price is Right blaring on the TV. I used to sneak into my Granny’s room While some stranger on TV won a new car, And I’d drink chocolate milk and sit on the green carpet, Hoping to see what Beanie Baby she’d give to my brothers and me, Which were hidden up in the closet. St. Clair’s Mall, the amazing ceiling of Macy’s. Lunch at Dillard’s and Smokey Bones for dinner. Another Busch Stadium visit for me to tally. The Mississippi River, Althoff High School, St. Augustine’s. Aunt Francis always there with warm, welcoming arms. And my Papa always guarding over my shoulder. Although I am legally from somewhere north, I will always remember Belleville as my home. The knick-knacks we collect to collect dust bunnies and whats-its that whisper of stories stored away. Grandma’s chocolate turtle recipe speckled with tiny dark thumbprints, chapped lip balm, spent gift cards, all – by Grace Graunke, Naperville, IL A life of broken frequencies, caught by the radio Played on loop as memories, me behind the wheel. Remember fishing back in Baku? The chilly water. Eyes closed on the wheel. Into water. Sing the song on the radio by Nik Theorin, Landenberg, PA but – inside inside jokes, bubble gum wrappers and faded book reports and nerdy rimmed Ray-Bans coming-of-age trinkets and declarations of independence. The silly things that we just can’t seem to forget. These are the objects of my marker-stained nightstand, stashed away artifacts like a Crayola-washed archive. I’m not a curator, precisely. Just a wide-eyed pack rat, endlessly ruffling through layers of my life. Yet at the same time, I feel as if I’m burrowing past gizmos, stuff past its expiration date. Perhaps these wooden drawers list and exhibit the hidden, tell a simple truth. That we try hard to be try-hards just to forget? The petty past holding hostage our planet for a price that we can’t search up in the libraries of our life. That we store, all the while ignoring what is in store? The time is now to cover the aged birthday cards, un-sticky glue sticks in the pallid blanket of these flowery verses, the new frosty peak of my bedroom pile, turn off the lights, and go to sleep. It’s my bedtime – I have a big day tomorrow. when you asked why because she is a hurricane of confidence and joy and freedom and all i want to do is get swept up. because she is the center of all our adventures, the catalyst for all our friendships, she is the glue and the reason at the end why our motley crew means love to me. because she is not pure but she is precious imperfect, bright, alive and she has danced up a storm here on earth that sent her to the stars. by Morgan Chesley, Kasilof, AK Too Many Times Like tattered China Dropped by nieces at tea Or son-in-laws at Easter brunch Too many times Squandered, put down, Chipped away Living in fear of the Mechanic swish, slush and Clink Abused by mouths ungrateful, Distasteful. But with its handle askew, Its frame lopsided Standing above the mugs and tea cups, It waits For the day antique will triumph. But for the kettle that calls It will always answer With a welcoming mouth and An endless depth to fill. by Zuzanna Waler, Konstancin, Poland by Matthew Rice, Buffalo Grove, IL by Andrew Mack, Rochester, MI POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 39 Wilderness of Light The cool night, Envelops the landscape. Tranquil, as a cricket Chirps his lonely call. Piercing glacial air. The greenery canvassed By fresh dew. A mirror of Water, glassed by stillness. Crisp pine aroma Hangs motionless. Soft, blunt-nosed Gray giants Point at the spectacle above. A glittering light show. Endless microscopic spheres of cold, Blue fire. Clusters, Forming an arch. Showing the way to Endless beauty. Monday creeps up on you, so soon after Friday, a very happy day, but so long before the next. Such a sneaky little day. Forget about Friday the 13th, Mondays are what I’m scared of. The world is just a bunch of forks and spoons and knives: washed and rewashed the meth heads eating with the big tycoons ’cause the waitress, in her scuffed white keds (her eyeshadow a shade of dayglo) is a bit like God, leveling the ground with her objective coffee refills. The tax collectors and the prostitutes, the woman at the well and the one caught in adultery, the starving artists and mailmen and teachers, all of them eating in the same sun-warmed booth, with the same chipped cups. Today the clouds Envelop me, (a weightless veil by Kim McCarrick, Langhorne, PA by Bryn Bartel, Wentzville, MO And She Sang as the Chicken Crisped Up I am always caught between dreams and the taste of your name on my lips. by Eden Hartley, Waterford, MI Ode to the Library Ode to the library, underrated, overlooked and misused by those who don’t know your full power. Some say you smell old and musty, I say the smell is of knowledge and adventure. The shelves struggle to keep their bounties from readers, unwilling to share information, fantasies and knowledge. Books sadly lean at angles when a member has been removed. Sad and miserable are those with pages destroyed. Spines creak and bindings crack as ancient tomes are opened, new books make a whisper of sound punctuated by a crinkle of a protective sheath, eager to share what they contain from cover to cover. Signs whisper things like “Fiction to the left,” or “Biographies two shelves back.” Huge, soft chairs are placed strategically throughout the room, ones so comfy a reader may sink into and, promptly forget the day’s troubles and events. Newer arrivals are held in high favor over ancient volumes. Upon leaving she stood in the doorway, one foot outside, and hand inside and body in between. She turned and thought, Don’t worry, I’ll be back for the rest of you someday. That promise is kept by the flash of a library card as it is slid into a wallet. by Katie Leenders, Oklahoma City, OK M AY ’ 1 4 L’appel du Vide Monday slouched into Sunday, making it heavy and sad. Monday rudely poked Tuesday, awakening it, annoying it with just Monday’s presence. Hushed Teen Ink • Judgment Day Monday is slow. Monday is sleepy. Monday is tired. Monday has an evil smirk. Monday ruins my week. Monday leaves an awful taste in the mouth on Tuesday. Monday sends a shiver down my spine. Monday, oh how I despise Monday. by Jack Poshepny, Viroqua, WI 40 Monday • When my grandmother made fried chicken it took on spiritual sublimity. The way she would cradle the chicken with maternal caress. And she would sing, not sing sing, but evolve into the mistress of song, As the smell of paprika filled the dingy apartment. And she sang with a wispy tone only cold nights can conjure. And it was in this song, which soon became a chant as time and sound collapsed and collided That no longer was I listening but experiencing the sound of the woman’s voice. A voice that ripped trees from their thick roots and pulled the sun across the sky with chains of cloud. And, of course, I stood there watching from across the kitchen and I felt the stiffness of my bones, Almost offending the situation, as if in my awkwardness I was taking away from the solar eclipse in front of me. But she sang and I hated myself for standing with bones loud as engines when I moved them. It soon became too much, The shallow popping of chicken frying, The woman before me exposing sound, The creek of bone, I felt as though the room around me was coming closer, As if the world outside the poorly polished windows was beginning to cave in And I felt nothing but the panic that I would be caught because of my loud bones. Finally I screamed and this woman, in all of her primal glory Looked from her pan of browned chicken skin and stared And I just stared, As if wishing my existence had not tainted the sanctified spectacle that occurred some ten seconds ago. by Daniel Coelho, Westfield, NJ POETRY that clings to my lungs) Whispering sweet lullabies (intoxicating and sweet) Today the air Infests me, (buzzing little bugs creeping across my skin) Conquering my body (schizophrenic revival) Today the air Drowns me, (a kind of dying that brings you back to life) Soaking me to the soul (cleansing my withered existence) by Simone Gwartney, Rio Rancho, NM Brittle Water isn’t as sweet here anymore, or maybe my lips do not meet as much without you. But still I’ve grown; tired of removing the extra pillow so as not to feel like something is missing. Photo by Rebecca Levine, Twinsburg, OH Lips Like Lips like the ocean endless and wide hair: reckless waves, breaking the tide by Anabolena Loor Mendoza, Kokomo, Jamaica Green The branches looked full, lush, green. They beckoned me forth, whispering my name against the breeze. I reached forward gently, slowly to touch a leaf, to wrap pale fingers around strong branches and hold myself steady. But at my fingers they turned gray and bare. Brittle. Withering at my touch. by Eli Roberts, McDonough, GA I feel a rattling in my skin. See, these bones were meant to break and so are we. by Sabrina Koss, New City, NY 2 a.m. dreamers you told me 2 a.m. was your favorite but darling, you never belonged with those early morning dreamers. 2 a.m. belonged to the insomniac on the empty street filling his mind with the memory of her collarbones and the girl who stopped closing her eyes after she realized that the monsters under her bed were nothing compared to the ones in her head. by “Sarah,” Ottawa, ON, Canada Smudge we are just a dot in this world. a smudge on a picture window; small and undetected, but still there. until the janitor wipes the windows clean. by Savanna Lubbers, Cisco, IL Flower Child Never before have I developed such depth as I have with a puff of your breath The dry air was filled with bluish-gray smoke and I couldn’t believe when the butterfly spoke The moon was a dandelion in all the wrong places and I wasn’t surprised when you and I traded faces Tell me again flower child of our mysterious flee as we fly back to our dream in the hazy green tree by Savanna Lamas, West Suffield, CT Relapse Darling, I haven’t smelled your sweet scent in two years and I haven’t heard the cadence of your half-husked voice since the summer, when my heart throbbed too hard against my fragile ribs and I caved in. I know you’re bad for me, like chocolate and cocaine, but I still crave the caress of familiar hands along the smooth contours of my body. You carved wounds in me, deep as the ocean and faked band aids with duct tape. Flimsy and weak they burst open and allowed spurts of pain and nostalgia. Through the salt-soaked tears from my eyes I speak your name. Turning it over in my head like a treasure hoping if I say it over and over all meaning will slip away. But that never does happen. I remember the feel of your lips against mine, how the love was so tangible it radiated from you like a furnace on a frigid winter day, the way the sun filtered in through the blinds as we lay tangled together, naked with cigarettes dangling from our mouths. Never speaking. Just feeling. Feeling all the desire and lust that comes with falling in love for the first time. Those were the glory days. The days I revert to when my soul calls for yours only to echo on the empty walls of a broken heart. And Darling, it’s funny how love works. You remember all the beauty in the lost. The days wrestling down hills and dancing in the rain. You remember the goodbye kiss that turns into thirty because you keep running back for more. You remember hand holding and the “look.” That god-forsaken look that melts your whole insides into a slop of liquified affection that courses through your veins and jump starts your heart. You remember sitting cross-legged on his lap listening to the sound of his heartbeat in between inhaled nicotine and Starbucks. But with all of the memories you forget. You forget the way his eyes grew five shades darker when he was about to scream. How he grabbed your wrist and spat in your face words of disgust and morose feelings. You forget the way he made you shrink and the way he made you feel stupid and worthless. And I do forget. Until the days I relapse when I lie crumpled on the floor with letters written with the blood stuck in the bruises you gave me, when I remember the fire you lit that burnt me down. by Taylor Morris, Cutler Bay, FL The World for the First Time The Trooper swirling clouds sliding over the ozone diamond light dancing on tall robust trees sparkling dewdrops sleeping soundly on cloves flaming leaves finally exhale and dream moss swaying like seaweed on ocean floors ballerina trees moving silently cold wind desperately searching for warmth streams traveling to the lake tirelessly Photo by Rebecca Kim, Honolulu, HI Your Future Visiting my aunt’s house, downstairs, I shuffle through a pile of clustered old photos. I find a photo of you and your grandpa under your sixth birthday party pictures. I stare at the sunglasses, too big for your face, and chubby cheeks in the ray of fading sunlight. Sitting in Grandpa’s arms, you wear the old race car outfit, bolding red and white strips crinkling on your arms, grasping for Grandpa’s hand, slipping further down his left arm. Seeing your future, I sit in the stands on the cold, hard metal bleachers and watch your blue race car with a red and white outlined 44 switch into fifth gear. The innocent 2-year-old deceives you. Like when you pushed Chuckie down the hardwood stairs on “accident,” his body convulsing in a mangled position. Promising a great future, I want to warn him, it’s the wrong path, the wrong night. I want to warn you about the car in the garage rusting under the left tire frame, about the ventilator that contracted your chest, and the spilled prescription on the counter next to a pack of Newports with one cig inching out. by Mitchell Johnson, Wheeling, IL Retrograde The clouds remained motionless no sound but the ringing of my ears it continued its frequency, matching that of the low-pitch whine building in my throat. As crows began to call, they set the world in motion slow motion revolving on its axis in retrograde, each day seemed to loop like an overplayed show tune. When at last I stepped forward, I turned with the motion of the Earth pivoting in the opposite direction and returning home. by Erin Blackburne, Hendersonville, NC when a breeze comes i taste life in their scents i see how they breathe and how they glisten i hear their lonely tales that have no end they speak and now i finally listen violet waves have made me a child inside the child inside is unwilling to die ? by Michelle Montoya, Cape Coral, FL The Ever Blowing Breeze Callused hands caress a wrinkled cheek, I lean forward on my bed; bones seem to creak. A relic lies on my bedside, left by someone who cares. A long forgotten photo. A child’s face stares Back up at me, and in shock I freeze As I remember that I forgot that everblowing breeze. The dust swirls around the neglected frame, The child’s face, the backdrop, a forgotten name, I’ve let go of my past, left it far away, Untouched, abandoned, until today, Because I have forgotten the memories Of childhood, of life, of that ever-blowing breeze. It was there that I was dropped to from the skies, The sacred air carried my infantile cries, Scarred knees are redolent of the innocence lost there, The wood, the stones, the sun’s blazing glare The shade from the endless sky of trees And the goose bumps raised by the ever-blowing breeze. I want to smell once more the sweet scent of rain, I want to listen for the rumbles of the passing train, To feel the crunch of pebbles under my bare feet, To run and run until my lungs accept defeat. I want to hear again the buzz of the bees, And be caressed and kissed by the ever-blowing breeze. The images are fading, like water on the damp ground In the chaos of my mind, they are drowned In vain, I pull them, I imagine, I try But I see naught but nought, in my mind’s eye. I think I’ve lost forever my sweet memories, When from the still air, once more, I feel the breeze. by Kaavya Muralidhar, Hyderabad, India 1. Raindrops hit the old glass making watery cobwebs, Drowning red and orange traffic lights in winter. I wish it would snow. And hold my breath, struggling to cry silently. I turn away from Mom and watch the buzzing Exxon sign. Swollen in the rain. 2. The hospital light scratches my retinas, Like an emery board on fingernails clipped too short. My nose has that piercing pinch that comes before sobbing, But I sneeze instead, And Mom steps away from the hospital bed. “Charlotte, talk to him.” No words. Not about this. I take my dad’s balmy hand, and it tenses meekly. I watch the nurse. She watches the catheters, The tributaries that dip and coil before tunneling under. He squeezes my hand. A tiny firm hug. 3. Like a shattered Christmas ornament Or being as tall as the kitchen table, You can only cement something into memory When you know it is gone for good. by Charlotte Zaininger, Princeton, NJ Emotions Some things are meant for canvas And other for music sheets And some things are meant for words And others for motions We will always try To express what we can’t tell What we can’t understand Because emotions are more than feelings They are seas They roil and roll They sing and weep They dance and they slink They exist around us And in the air And they put off pulses Signals, waves, auras Some emotions We can’t explain Because they’re beyond us We can’t always understand What we want to And sometimes we ask The wrong questions And our emotions fold and leap Dive and fly Wave and fall They tug at us Pull us Push us Throw us They exist around us They dig and dig And bury and rise They call out And arc And – by Karis King, Glennmoore, PA POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 41 My Daddy’s Hands My Mother stream Love Note He sits in his chair. The throne of the barren room; unavoidable. His fingers push the buttons. Hopelessly they obey, forcing the TV to change. Her scent comes and goes with a flash, Bright and suave like a summer haze, As I shield the things she once touched, And grow vigilant at her confounded ways, i can count on the rain. the rain pitter-patters it’s constant, sometimes, it’s the only predictable thing in my life. but now, we’ve hit a dry spell, the kind where we cannot water our lawns wash our cars, or calm our brains. so days like this, when things go too fast-fast-fast and my mental muscles are sore, i run out and skin my knee on the concrete under the blue blue sky and i run and run until I get to the stream. and then I sit, with my feet in the silky water, and listen to the dripping over the rocks. i close my eyes, and pretend the dripping is all that exists. i let the water wash away the thoughts. I can spin you glittery from my spine, hold you tight to my belly until your small arms, exhausted arms, are peeled lovingly from my backless gown (soft palms on soft fabric, the give of my swollen skin) like bright strands of sweet candy floss and that might be the day I think I love you most Heavy– his fingers are rough and stained. Life has taken its toll. His hands like trunks of helpless trees ripped from the ground after a fierce storm. The screams from the buttons echo through the room. His hands tell of a life I will never fully understand. They spew stories from every scar he never forgets. The gold band of the wedding ring catches my eye. Glued to his skin, it resides. Unmoved by love or simply because it is stuck, it hasn’t moved in years. Silence throws my thoughts off track. The TV is quiet. The buttons’ cries have stopped. Life is not about anything limited, To the five senses or a selfish moment, She once said with pressed flowers, In her hair that glossed my eyes with awe, And her garden peaches were the sun, When she’d push me in the summer, One in hand on my creaky swing, And she had the aura of a majesty, Like the Morning Glories of our dusks, Wilted and vibrant fighting to see her eyes shine, As the ornamented the picket fence, That caged us in but she remained free, And as her scent fades one last time, I imagine that fence and the peaches, What she would’ve said without trying, In the bright and suave summer haze. by Lizbeth Acosta, Fontana, CA Whispers He stands and leaves me alone. The throne of the room sits empty; It sits haunting. Maybe the buttons were screaming because they felt his hands. For a moment when he touched them maybe they understood. Maybe they saw behind the scars. Maybe they felt the softness of his old hands, not the hands hardened and calloused, but the ones who loved. The ones who first touched his wife, his baby boy – The hands that built a family. No one understands his hands. No one asks. We see his scars. They are unavoidable. Our soft eyes beg him to tell the stories, but sometimes words just aren’t enough. Maybe the language we speak just isn’t enough to explain my daddy’s hands. by Harmony Bear, Ormond Beach, FL I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you. It would be about kiddie cocktails, Mom’s eye shadow, and Britney CDs strewn about. I could describe all the tiptoeing and whispering as we crept down the stairs. We snuck cookies that would spoil our dinner, spilled nail polish on the carpets, and sipped soda through swirly straws while sunbathing. I would mention the worn pages of Seventeen magazine, Barbie doll experiments, and sleepless slumber parties. How we would talk of being older, huddled beneath a pink comforter, a flashlight between the two of us, whispers floating in the air. Torrent of lights No pause to feel The pulse of the night life Echoes of sound Rushing tunnels and Twitching beams I am adrift on a concrete river. Set the clock in fast time Don’t stop till it ends But It is endless. Population 1.2 million And desperately Lonely. Escape Into the mountains we drive with our pockets empty and our gas tank full. We don’t make many stops but when we do, they are memorable. When we meet a new face we cherish them, our endless quest for company. by Lindsay Perkins, Arlington Heights, IL We wore the clothes on our backs and the holes in our hearts ending each night the same. Lost Girl on Sunday Never do we look back the road is paved with adventure. I cannot come up with a thing to write. I’m full of hot wings, Pop-tarts, nicotine. I’ve had too much caffeine, too late tonight and my head aches from all the Broncos’ screams. My brain would rather plan tomorrow’s snacks, which sweater, which jeans, which snarky remarks. And maybe for once, I’ll sit in the back, then move back to the front before class starts. “Stay. No, go!”was the song of my weekend. I hissed the tune behind my crooked teeth. I’m the riot you were told to seek and destroy before it leaked into the streets. the city by Rebecca Zaritsky, Fair Lawn, NJ by Mo Deutsch, Louisville, KY Teen Ink • by Asia Groves, Longmont, CO • POETRY If you pull away, glance over, when your eyes are full of tears shivering from your eyelashes, the kind you don’t want me to notice because Mamas never know the right words, and I am no exception there, I pray to God I’ll remember the way I looked at myself (also 16, also skinny, scared beyond comprehension of the body that made me) (thighs and belly and breasts spilt out of the mold I assumed to be perfection) I won’t know what to say, baby, I won’t know what to do (there are no words that evaporate that kind of pain) (which is a hard but necessary fact for a writer to remember) but in whichever misguided attempts I make at healing you I hope love echoes, like a bell chiming in a cavern dancing from wall to wall, reverberating the story of a Mama who thought she couldn’t love her girl more than the day she was born but was proved wrong. Don’t Look (you just might freak) Don’t Think (or you’ll end up running) Forget the Stares (this is for you) One, Two (Whew! That wasn’t bad) I’ll write of my personal cataclysm. M AY ’ 1 4 Let Mama hold her darling girl while the moon shines clean and kind keeping watch over our uncomfortable embrace and when your head is chock-full of dreams you deem too silly to be dreamed let Mama be the safe that keeps those wishes close to your hands. Performance Photo by Kathryn Riman, Belle Mead, NJ 42 I hope with all I am, with all I’ve seen, that if you look tired, I’ll recognize it (your cheekbones like knives beneath the bags of your eyelids) (your skin hung dry on the stalks of your shoulders) by Kat Kenway, Kodiak, AK I admit defeat to indecision. by Kristian Rivera, Wasilla, AK but baby. If you come home, all 16 and attitude, when it’s past midnight and you reek of smoke, and I meet you at the door with my arms folded, my brow furrowed, the porch light illuminating you like a halo by Barbara Yupit-Gomez, Novato, CA Mother Faces Poem for You Signature Recipe I miss my mother, yes, But I can feel her when I stand In the middle of the street alone At dusk, in my pajamas. I can feel her brush my arms When the sweet wind blows past And when the trees rustle, I hear her calling out my name, “Maggie, Maggie, little peanut girl … ” Looking into the face of a stranger makes you want them Makes you wonder how they got that scar? Or who planted the seeds that grew those teeth in such perfect Little Rows. Makes you wonder of each glove that knocked that grin off kilter Makes you want to taste each mouth it’s sampled, or maybe makes you pity the Buffet. Faces are one hell Of a conversation Starter. You have taken me, Placed me in a pot And melted me down into a big clump of Low self-esteem. If it were to come down to paper and pencil, I would draw a thousand lines, all intersecting each other, layers of graphite upon graphite overlapping and shining at different angles with each little crumb of lead breaking off from the pencil tip like Hansel tearing off bits of bread to trace his way back. I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you, It would be about indented soccer balls in a jungle of grass, a parched hose and a scatter of rusted steel springs, A tale of all of us, diving behind recycling bins and inhaling clean air to hold in silence on top of a chipping brown shed air shots crackling like fireworks, leaving swelled purple welts, infesting our stomachs How your smirk would fade into a vacant termination, Your mumbled “Hello’s” through muffled speakers and your short remarks ending with a pause and then the dial tone, I could write coupled with the pungent scent of cabbage and rice and a single newspaper adhered to asphalt, Ink faded, words of foreign dialect and a single phone number unscathed from the seasons. Inked by Marian Park, San Jose, CA by “Kent,” Mount Prospect, IL Unfriendly ink Eats into the delicate skin Of my wrist. A cigarette burn, An x marks the spot, A tattoo to remind me, A splash of paint to cover the stains. I carry it with me, Clenching and unclenching My fist, To make sure the hand is still Mine. The Ballad of No One in Particular by Meagan DeGrand, Clarkston, MI knife in the water I. the water is soft unlike the knives that are called words spewing from you II. i can’t cry at all i guess there’s someone to blame for that misfortune III. water is swelling in the deep part of my soul but not in my eyes by Honora Moore, Melbourne, FL by Maya Unfred Montgomery, Portland, OR Ovals and Other Besmirched Things Thirty-three sunflowers danced with an elephant in the dusks of Africa with amazing gusts of wind and the fascination of: a triangle. Hello my colorful, wonderful friends, I am light blue king of the trends, I am in the sky, hair dye, and fruit fly. Although I can be excessively, utterly, crazily, shy. Behold, amazing is the oval Not angular but mellow, an evolved circle. A questionable gift like a snowflake or rubble An underrated shape like a line or a circle An underused talent like a door or some purple Or a misunderstood personality, like myself or a person in trouble. I am a hyena, laughing at my predators, howling at my prey, I stalk the streets and YELL what I say. by Jada Smith, Cary, NC by Katie Fox, Chevy Chase, MD My Parents When I asked him, my fingers still tasting like tobacco As I bit them until they bled, How bad are you? He simply replied, “I don’t know My own phone number right now.” He has bruises on his arms in the shape of crescent moons and Deep cuts on his face from where The shaving cream didn’t cover He carries something you can’t see Like nails through his back up his spine He sings Simon and Garfunkel as I fall asleep And it sounds like a “thank you” covered in Red lipstick stains You let me simmer Until every original part has Evaporated into the air, Steaming up your glasses. All that is left is a Disgusting concoction That everyone is proud of Except for me. by Sera Thomas, Signal Mountain, TN Stagnant Stuck within these blue grey orbs, The color of stagnant water, beckoning yet never providing Lost in these toxic depths, the lamentations never surfacing Instead, becoming trapped in the rampant fields of algae that blooms out of assumption The spheres with their thick veils quiver in the wake of tomorrow’s trials Futilely trying to hold back the rapidly intensifying monsoon Never completely succeeding the water pooling on tile and fabric Creating tiny ponds before soaking into their newfound homes Keening for understanding Yet the water remains still, unmoving. by Shelbie Morrell, Spring Valley, WI Photo by Tirzah Meditz, Austin, TX My Mother I can’t decide if he’s angry or pathetic or Something entirely different But I’m pretty sure at least half of him is dying He’s laughing as if his velvet bones don’t Scream like God And in this moment, he radiates a sense of dizzying freedom And he’s beautiful My mother criticizes from the back of her kneecaps at floor tiles and kitchen cabinets She thinks I hold on to every word she shoots out of her mouth with her twang as she hacks up and spits out the swears from the back of her throat she hoists up a new half thought out barb-wired insult I know she has always been a time bomb of rubber bands and thumbtacks that have lost their resilience and sharpness I used to think she was invincible now I think she’s invisible under the years of weathered mountains that have planted themselves on her back and forced avalanches down her spine the wrinkles on her face scream stories at everyone whom she encounters I always thought she’d look like an entirely different human being if she’d just curl up the ends of her lips by Hanna Harris, Houston, TX by Angela Sabo, Milford, MA He could taste the stale cigarette smoke in this poem I can see him in his zodiac leather jacket Shaking and smoking and self-soothing and slipping Away from reality, tasting blood I should not be with anyone who forgets my name This easily I should not be pretending that someday we’ll Stop talking about monsters You stir my contents, Adding in the necessary ingredients – A dash of self-hatred, Sprinkle in the depression, Just a few more tears – Until you have me exactly the way you want. Part-time Job Give me your order Which I will fulfill I’m nothing but a waitress in your eyes. Tip me a quarter And pay the bill Allow me to shed this silly disguise. For twenty minutes You’ve been debating Between cheese curds and strudel For twenty minutes I’ve been waiting Knowing next it will be the chicken noodle. “You should smile more,” you’d say Or “We should go on a date.” And then you gave me a wink So I spat on your plate. And in your drink. Someday you’ll see my name on a shelf When I’m done with these minimum wages You’ll buy a copy of my book for yourself You’ll eat up my pages And drink my words But for now – Just shut up and order the cheese curds. by Madeline Henris, Fairfax, VA POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 43 Wolf Boys Caught Up My Dad The Way I According to the wolf, Romulus’s hands were rusty rakes When he scraped away the stone From his brother’s chest. We piled into the big red Ford truck as those initial solar spears glinted off its fresh high-gloss paint and the first warmth of the summer’s day was eagerly shaken off by its air conditioner. My dad used to say time is money. I didn’t believe him I won’t change to please someone, when I know someone else will fall in love with It was a hideous wolf-shaped thing; The edges! Were sharp at times, The edges! Were diluted at times, Block-lugged tires roar across the dew-stained pavement, and then jerk sideways across a bramble-ridden trail. We crawl along, steadily conquering nature’s feeble hooked barriers as though they were only twine. The brambles open like a gate and our rumbling beast of burden enters a grassy clearing, our target finally facing us: Like the blood in Remus’s mouth When the sky’s water guided it To the river. And just like that Every river Can be confused, Every body of water Can be faded, The history of an empire jaded The pond is innocent enough, sitting serenely between the field and a stand of mangled but strangely stoic oak trees, a few windswept leaves from last autumn forming a minuscule flotillas on its surface. We unsheathe from the truck bed our implements, a box of barbed hooks and flashy tablets of copper and steel and painted wood, and five Ugly Sticks, reels well-tended and lines untangled. By a pinch Of red mud. A little trickle A little regret It’s been raining In Rome Ever since by Maria Menendez, Miami, FL It’s Me! Mariooo Rainbows aren’t scary until you’re holding a wheel. Then it’s rainbow road. by Hannah Frankowski, Pewaukee, WI Just Give Me a Day Just give me a day A day to blare my music as loud as possible in order to drown out the rest of the world A day to stay under my covers and permanently hit the snooze button on the alarm clock A day to be angry at the world without being told to appreciate all that I have A day to feel sorry for myself But this won’t happen The world expects us all to plaster on phony smiles and walk around as if nothing is wrong As if she’s not starving herself to be skinny Or neglecting everything else to make it to the top There are dying children in Africa so I better not even think that about saying I feel upset Don’t I dare complain that I didn’t make the team because at least I have a house to go home to at night But my problems matter to me I want a day to just feel bad Just give me a day ’Cause I’ll eventually figure out for myself that my life is pretty good I’ll turn down the music and welcome the world back in I’ll stop being angry and appreciate what I have But Just give me a day by Sam Kenney, Naperville, IL 44 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 • Making haste, setting our lures in the crystal water as fast as we can; I’m only old enough to know rudimentary casting, and it shows though skill with a rod isn’t bringing any success to my companions. Hours pass as the rods flick every variety of bait in turn: worms, flashers, and even crudely thrown flies. In the face of total dismay, we ready the truck and load up discarded cans, wrappers and a spread of lawn chairs. Woefully I toss my lure out one last time, as voices impatiently call me back to the truck. In youthful optimism I sit on the bank, waiting for hopes beyond hope to be realized. And then they are: the line yanks taut and suddenly the reel twirls away, spitting line for my apparent prey to wrap among underwater forests and mires. As the rod’s tip snaps skyward in my hand, the calls from the purring truck change, guiding hands steady my adrenaline-rattled shoulders. Now I’m gaining on the squirmy bugger, under their guidance, and the line comes back dripping from the water. I feel, finally, the fish surrendering. I see silver scales shining and pooling terror in the eyes, and the essence of my conquest is apparent: the forces of nature’s resistance overcome like brush beneath the force of human tenacity. by Killian Gallagher, Gilford, NH POETRY My dad used to say life is a roller coaster I didn’t believe him Maybe I should have Because everything he said Turned out to be true The older I became. by Samuel Davi, Oak Park, MI True You Red lips, pink cheeks Trying to be what you shouldn’t be Clothes too tight, shoes too tall Wow, I don’t understand this at all Black surrounds those big brown eyes Yes, the ones you’ve always despised You try to cover up these features Try to please these rotten creatures the way I dunk Oreos in milk, how I sneeze, and the way I comb my hair in the shower; the way I pop my neck on road trips. how I curse, and the way I tuck the blanket over my head when I sleep; the way I stare into their eyes, how I sing, and the way I cry watching Disney movies me being me. by Josie Crawford, Scottsburg, IN They don’t want you to be The great you that you can be Can’t you see? So let the true you shine through That’s all you’ve ever had to do by Gabriella Naquin, Destrehan, LA The Approach What is the difference between Talking with people and talking to people? “With” brings unity. “To” requires an approach. It is that simple. Approaching, however, brings complexity. It can bring dispute, It can bring rejection. It requires courage, A courage that causes anxiety. I sit in one of many chairs lined up on the stage. A podium to my left, Another student to my right. Why does he seem to be so relaxed, while I am sitting restlessly? I covet his tranquility. My turn is on the verge. I aim to listen intently to others talk, But all I hear is my voice fluttering, Telling me to give up before trying, Telling me to run away to relief, To taciturnity. It is my turn. All eyes are on me, Like the sun’s rays beating on my skin, My face turns rubescent. My hands are clammy, aimlessly fidgeting. I look down: My foot is tapping to its own rhythm . My mouth opens, stumbling on what it had practiced to say. What a courageous fool I must look like. by Sydney Finkelstein, Cornwall on Hudson, NY Art by Peizhi Rong, Vista, CA On the Rocks She watches them with a virescence, Emerald and jade, in her eyes. Her skin itches and simmers, With festering blemishes and peeling skin. The dam of resentment starts to crack, the thoughts, the urges, seep through. Her blanket calls her Like a siren Like a feather Whispering in her ear, Tickling her mind. Glass and Condensation. Laying on the rocks, Her blanket warms her. False confidence repairs the cracks. Her eyes are blue again. Her skin stops itching. by Jenna Sherriton, Plantation, FL Nightmare Pomelo Startled awake at 3 a.m Out of breath Clothes sticking to my skin The room is quiet Moonlight pouring in I’m not dreaming anymore But I wish I was They wake up from nightmares But not me I wake up into one. We peeled apart the foam-finger flesh, Picked apart the fragile treasure inside, Sucked the sunshine out of the pale yellow rinds, And watched as rubies dripped down each other’s lips, The hang nails on my fingers stung, A bitterness remained on my lips long after the fruit had gone by”Sara,” Irvine, CA by Isabel Ling, Sunnyvale, CA The Main Grove What Is Perfect my husband and i kayaked through the main groves on turks and caicos island paddling our plastic boats against the currents and inevitably being pulled by the lapping waves, like the kissable freckle on my right bum cheek that the doctor looked at with concern – snipped off – and pronounced precancerous. i applied sunscreen thickly to my body wary of the freckles the sun might dot on my fair skin and my husband: “save some of the sunscreen since we have to do that g****** kayaking trip” and “i’d rather sit on the beach than have to paddle myself to nowhere.” red mangrove, like all other plants, needs fresh water. so it shunts all the salt from the ocean to one leaf. that yellow one. it looks poisoned – like the mole on my bum, irregular in color and shape and size – and it flutters onto the water, weakened by alkaline poison. two months later i get another mole removed and as the doctor injects anesthetic into my forearm i wonder how i will sign the divorce papers so numb. Pore by pore, I’ve seen the faults in my skin. Mirrors shard and perfect pierces my ears. When acne speckled my forehead and my eyebrows needed a tweeze, he whispered beautiful. What is beauty? Another glance at a reflection, but I’ll never see my eyelids flutter during REM or watch the wrinkles around my lips when I smile. But he thinks I’m beautiful, so don’t let me ever be perfect. by Rachel Troy, Greenwich, CT Watercolors Watercolors. We were watercolors. I was burgundy, and you were crimson. We slid on to each other and made a runny ugly brown no one would want to use. But when our lips first met, we were an explosion of bright reds, fireworks, and the stardust that is left on a little girl’s eyelash every night before she falls asleep. We were beautiful, even if for an instant. by Nicolette Natale, Tappan, NY by Angelique Maselli, Island Park, NY Bird-Shaped, GirlShaped Hole in the Universe Arched under the sky, she was beautiful, (though others couldn’t see it) she had feathers hidden (deep in her bones) in blue eyes like a bird held down to the slope of the sun (a glass globe of falling feathers). The sweat gathered in lines within her hands that touch the air around you, fragile (shatter it, she said), even as she stands at the edge waiting for her chest to hollow (and it burst). She willed her fingers to spread so she could join the others, thousands, with weeping words, pleas carved into their arms around her, that she only dreamed of after she woke. And now it was only air that separated them. You told her that you could help her forget, but she shook her head. Sometimes quiet things aren’t meant to be understood, she told you, but you knew she wasn’t a bird. And that she wasn’t silent when she fell, (so she flew). by Madeline Day, Princeton Junction, NJ About the Corinthians Verse for Aaron “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” – Corinthians 13:4-8 I once thought that I couldn’t believe this anymore even though I read it every day, trying: some vain, crazed attempt at reading in between those lines (I wanted to hear another whisper telling me that I couldn’t leave yet but I wanted it for so long to be a beautiful reason instead of the ironically caustic, murdering kind) Seagulls At least the waves still whitecap, leaving an echoing crashing on the pavement for the abandoned building to hear. The stop light still works, flickering yellow to red, red to yellow. The rusted red car on its four flat tires, still plays its radio leaving a faint static noise, waiting for the light to turn to a dim green. The seagulls still flap their wings, fighting the wind that trashes them around, letting out cries for help for only the vacant town and open air to hear. The once-populated town, with its gas station on the corner for 78 cents a gallon, the town halls clock tower stuck at 12:41, and the bakery with its smell of warm soft bread right out of the oven, but those are just washed out memories now, washing away like waves. by “Gary,” Arlington Heights, IL I can’t believe in this because love is not a solid entity it’s liquid and it splashes and stains; A Running Rumor it burns. I wanted to scream that at you then. Today I realized: love is not this corrosive liquid. it is solid, beautiful and true; Leviathan’s love is the higher law; It is God. that liquid, I know now, with visceral rumination: It is me. by Haley Boyer, Windsor, CT Point Limas Point Limas, on a normal day May remind you of a painting that used to hang, with a gradient of brown, black, one that raised goose bumps on the nape of your neck as you passed, Cold sweat and a restless sleep, with indecipherable visions Of a nameless place where the sun is a muted glow behind a tenebrous brow, Scrunched over the roiling sea, Salt-licked piers and paint pulling back to reveal shoddy brick work, an infestation of quixotic creatures in every bracket, brace, and timber, Pattering behind every surface, The inhabitants sit down on the beach, not inside their patchwork houses, They are overcome by the ocean, Flotsam bones too damp for tinder, sinews stretched over every Creaking tendon and taut fiber, Sea air in their lungs, permeated with salt and brine, Sea foam in their veins and anemones on their fingertips, Soddening each page they turn of their book, by Luca Foggini, San Francisco, CA He ran for president now he runs the nation. His fortune gave him a run in with a woman. She ran her fingers down his hair. The tabloids saw and ran the story. The speculation ran around, And his wife said, “Don’t come running to me for cover.” With his run of bad luck, He said he was going for a run, we didn’t know he’d ran away. Since the roads run forever, and the rivers run short. We can only assume he made a run for the border, where the cartels run orders. by Janai Robinson, Maplewood, MO Photo by Abigail Olmsted, Rochester, IL Desired Me Five seconds and I am in love With the voice, the hair, the clothes, the face Of a computer That prints out The desired image of Me by Kennedy Simone Marx, Dallas, TX POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 45 the plunge Ice in the Water Metaphors I Am Not Wild I remember how, On a summer evening scented with the traces of sunlight And flushed with the warmth of the glowing fields of flowers, You held out your hand and invited me into your boat. It’ll be fun you said. It’s perfectly safe you said. Skin grazed against skin as I took your hand and jumped Lightly into the boat. Thin summer dress brushed against cool jacket As the ropes tying boat to shore were thrown away, And our bodies knotted together and were borne away. The powerful stroke of your oars lurched me toward you: I would not have thrown myself to you of my own will; Smiling as if you knew this would happen, you locked your arms around me And held me in your embrace, tightly. Ice floated in the water while the Ship sank The Cold of the water, the Chill in the air Made the people even colder On the deck they shivered I tried to think of a metaphor for you the trees, the ocean, a stone skidding across a pond but then i realized you are the metaphor and nothing worldly could ever compare to you. I am not wild. I am not wild; Alone. Families ran, not only families, To the Boat, they ran, Yet the Boats were full, they cried, Some jumped into the water, It fell slowly deeper, the Ship, Into the water, Ice floated unmoving, Music was heard by the remaining, Sinking slowly, steadily, Until it was gone, into the water, Ice still remained there above below The Cold of the water the Chill in the air, Ice floated in the water. by Benjamin Guo, La Mesa, CA Final Fight p.s. wish you were here. The glint of sun in a mirror drawing your attention. The old hickory drawer sits quietly in the corner. A flashback, a storm of memories. The old brown farm with Chiquita, a tawny barn cat that was missing a patch of fur on its left shoulder that she lost in a fight with a coyote sitting on the broken wooden fence You check the drawer, is it still there? Reaching into the drawer you feel the cool metal On your fingertips. The ironbound photo of him. A cowboy hat, jet black suit, calm smile, and a blue tie. After being uprooted, all the turmoil, A new country a new home, A new language to learn. he was still happy. The anchor in the rapids for his family. But he didn’t know, he didn’t know his next challenge. This time, it was his body that was against him. A final challenge he couldn’t overcome. The white hospital bed, sterile rooms, the sickening smell of ammonia. A late night call, the terror grips your heart. You glance down at his cheery face again. You wish he had known, in your selfish and unjust rage, you wish he had fought harder. That the stationary television screen next to the white bed sheets would continue to send jagged green waves across the screen each followed by an unemotional electronic beep. by “Emma,” Seoul, South Korea by Ziggy Zamora, Mount Prospect, IL But when the tides grew rough and fast as night approached, As the teardrop pinpricks of the stars struck holes above us, As pools of oozing ink replaced blue sky, Your eyes grew wide with panic, and your arms withdrew from me, Gripping tightly to your oars, you began beating your way back to shore, Senselessly, not knowing exactly what you were doing Where you were heading Who you even were. I thought you knew what you were doing, I cried. But you were no longer listening to me; your oar, in roaring up, Struck the side of my face and sent me hurling out of the boat. I thought you said I’d be safe, I cried, I never said that, you replied. Help me, I begged, reaching out to hold your hand, But you only rowed further and further away from me, Your oar rammed against my face and left me bloody, Blinded, struggling to breathe through my tears, Leaving me to scream and gulp in huge mouthfuls Of brackish, briny black water Screaming only one word: Your name, Over and over again, Until I sank down like a stone to the miry depths And drowned in my cries for you, Oh my love, My love. From, The Girl You Left Breathless On the bottom of your world. 46 Teen Ink • M AY ’ 1 4 • POETRY by Maeve Early, La Mesa, CA Lucid There will be a 90% chance of rain and the tropical storm warning is in effect for the coastal areas and my eyelids are trying to recall the drunken lucid dream I had where the storms were swarming after the tail of my bicycle. I had to ride like grapes were under the pedals crushing juice between my toes – soft and almost guilty – thrusting to the Secret Cabin not afar. Did Katrina blow down all your fences and make me think it was one of your greeting hugs? Did Irene wash off the mud stains on the rocky path and mislead me to believe that you were clean? Did Sandy make your world spin in circles and misconstrue that it was my intoxication? Funny how I loved you the most when you were staring at her but all I could ever do was duct-taping your windows, refilling holes in the walls, building pipes to drain off the wine that she spilled all over the roof of your mouth until rain dripped down every second and made beats with the bottom of the ice cold bucket – I probably would still adore you with a glass of Chateau 1855 in my hand while I took a sip of the bitter liquid that was fermented from something so sweet. Before I could almost understand why hurricanes were named after people, I would call this hiding place after you; the haven that’s out of work; the shelter I once felt safe to live in; the home that I thought I had fixed; the worst thing someone could ever be. Placed among faces with which I’m acquainted, I find a time where I was wild in a pack. The sun rested and lent the earth to its cooling brother. That blind eye looked down on five wolves, females, before our prime. The day was spent in celebration, as was the night. Paws imprinted soft dirt. Headlong we raced, young tongues lolling, youthful eyes absorbing the moon-drowned road ahead. Crouched behind bushes we lay in waiting. We waited for the light-filled eyes of our prey, speeding ever closer until our battle anthem rose behind us. We charged, pelts glinting ethereal dances to the sky. The car belted an energetic approval. Startled by the noise, we flee, only to return to the hunt later. We were not wolves. Yet wild with our dim dances beside rural roads, not to be remembered, nor found again. Alone. Eyes glint only dimly, darkened orbs that distract from keen teeth. Precautioned people skirt left, right. I crave only the life I live, with the moon and myself. Being a wolf, pelt dancing. Being a girl, teeth clenched. Unconfined. Free. Alone. Dangerous. by Kaitlyn Knight, Rome, ME by Diane Poon, Hong Kong You you like a whisper you came and piloted my brain. like thunder you shook my soul sending me whirling away by Isobella Cerceo, Collingswood, NJ Art by Zachary Nguyen, Cooksville, MD Rose Bushes Your aura pricks my skin Just like the thorns On those oxymoron roses And I wonder If you planted rose bushes Around your heart by Brandalyn Booth, Waco, TX Birthmarks and Baby Teeth How surprising when you find that the song nestling in the corner of your head is not the one your bruised heart thought it was; in this one, life and love go on. And your bruised heart was thinking about mapping someone else’s permanent birthmarks on your own too-virgin skin while your head was remembering someone else’s clever poem and something about baby teeth, and how to not need anymore. by Mahalia Sobhani, Brookfield, WI I Am a Young Lady one time when i was little my father gripped the collar of my jacket a little too tight and shook me a little too hard. he said, “don’t you ever back talk me, young lady.” i’ve been a young lady for eight years now. i’m not afraid to tell my father what i think because my opinions matter. right? just last week i stood up squared my shoulders and i told him “daddy, i don’t want to be a young lady anymore. i wanna throw tantrums on the floor. i want my imagination to expand and i want nap time in my own dream land. i want my room in pinks and purples and tomorrow i don’t want to see the people that made me feel older than i really am.” he told me he was never more proud of me for saying what’s on my mind. oh, and it’s okay to fall apart sometimes. by Kylie Nelson, Moorhead, MN places of residence perhaps your walls are solidly cemented brick on brick without a hole (a gleam) but tell me, do seeds sprout from the soil of your soul? do flowers grow inside of you? shine your floors as i fertilize my dirt. may neither one of us be happier than the next. by Fadwa Ahmed, Safat, Kuwait Spring has came Diseased Touch The Trees Are Me The breeze whispers down my throat, She’s screaming that spring has came. Spring has came. Spring has been here. All along the dear sun, my love, is trying to manifest hisself through the snow, to penetrate the grass and dirt, so the worms may crawl, and the birds may caw, all over again. But my dear love, cannot get through this snow and had nowhere to go, except back up into my eyes. Blinded I can only stare at the pavement laid in nearly straight concrete, glazed with water, of what the sun has already let himself into. And though we wait and dance and cheer for spring, the sun has to rest to darkness, and in such darkness comes the cold. The cold that gives the snow a head start, and a harder job for Sun. One day again, the rabbits will dance, and the dogs will arf, the flowers will bloom, and I’ll see you, waiting on a swing, at the elementary school park. Ironically, the walls were yellow. As the days passed, the unbroken flat color Forced its way into my retinas Until I saw even the nurses Through a film of gold. The same leaf. Fell on me. Made of warmth. Newborn. New life. Sap seeps into me, making me be, a seed. A form. A creature, that awakes me. The trees are me. As I lay in the stillness I felt my soul dig slowly through my body Starting at the base of my spine and gently Burrowing up my throat. My soul was a lump of gold. I could barely discern Whether I was living in the real world Or if I had left my being Deep under the soft earth. Miners will find me when they search for gold. by Kevin McIlvaine, Freehold, NJ I am surrounded by a cocoon of silence. I feel the brush of clothes against my skin And the dry hum of a mass of tongues Vibrating, Rattling But I am afraid to reach out. They will turn to gold. by Irene Enlow, Pohang, South Korea by Nyssa Cerny, Port Huron, MI Drifting in the Snow Skiers, streaks of red and green, vanish far below. I exhale in a puff of mist, and my board slides over bumps of snow, gliding down through the slope. Chilly air blasts the side of my face, snow swishes under my board. I lower and weave in and out, swirls of white scattering, wind whistling in my ears. Snow engulfs me in frosty haze, and nimble shapes of skiers fade, the ripples of snow falling to a hush. I skim forth, steady and quiet, a cool wave breaking the surface. A stream of white breathes past, and my chest fills with a gush of air. I drift down on my board, swift and light as snow. by Daniel Zou, Vienna, VA I should have been born a mermaid To be able to play among the dolphins, To sing in harmony with the whales, To surf the currents with the turtles. Enjoy the everblue surroundings Watch as the light breaks through The water Lighting the stage for the coral To unveil their vibrant Show of colors of the lives on The reef. Maybe in my next life I’ll be allowed to join the sea life Making friends with the turtles Making friends with the whales Making friends with the dolphins Connecting with the ocean in the way I crave to as I look out on the Everblue. by Micaela Di Piero, Boulder Creek, CA I Hope You’re Happy I sweep my foot forward, the board chipping into blankets of snow. Icy wind scratches my face, white flakes cloud my sight. The path of white slithers down the mountain, deep and steep. I peer into its pale mouth, my palms tingling in my gloves. Longing to Join the Mermaids Art by Kayleen Cooke, Grants Pass, OR translucent i tried once to pull the pieces of me outwards until i was completely inside out, but i soon realized that no matter how many times i turned myself around and out, everything was still the same. there were no disguises i could bear to keep; there were no roles i found fitting to play. and as i turned in desperate circles, i realized that we are given what we have for a reason and maybe it isn’t all so bad. we just have to see in ourselves what is so clear to everybody else; that the same admiration we fling without a second thought could be spent on the reflection that perhaps we don’t appreciate enough A wandering eye Begins everything Creates the Despair Emails, texts, phone calls Find their way in your day Go and ruin your family How can you look me in the eye? I know what you’re doing “Just fishing,” or Kissing your mistress Lipstick stains on your uniform Mom may be oblivious Not me Over and over again Pork and beans for dinner, your favorite, but it’s Quiet, you’re Reminiscing about the quickie you had in your car after lunch Stop Tearing this family apart Underneath all the sadness, Vengeance and anger rises in me Wow Xilhirating, isn’t it? Losing Your family. Destroying the perfect image of happiness Zero regret. I hope you’re happy. by Hannah Cross, Cape Carteret, NC by Kalina Zhong, Brookfield, WI POETRY • M AY ’ 1 4 • Teen Ink 47 Stay connected with all summer! Keep your skills sharp. Take a Teen Ink online writing course! TeenInk.com Mobile Web Mobile Sessions in June and July. Check out TeenInk.com for details. TeenInk.com/Mobile Poetry To Go Free App Poetry To Go iTunes.apple.com Submit your work all summer at TeenInk.com/submit