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CONTENTSFE B R U A RY 2012 | VO L . 23, NO. 6

4 Feedback

18-19 College Directory

23 Art Gallery

Nonfiction6-7 POINTS OF VIEW Texting • Makeup • Equal-opportunity dating

8 OUR WORLD Inside the Bosnian Genocide

10 HEALTH My special education

12-15 TRUE LOVE STORIES Valentine’s Day focus

16 SPORTS Fight club

17 COMMUNITY SERVICE Guilty conscience

20 HEROES Educator of the Year nominees

22 PRIDE & PREJUDICE Standing up to sexism • Big is beautiful

24-27 MEMOIRS New ‘do • 17 and pregnant • Good-bye, ghetto • God is my head

26 ENVIRONMENT Beautiful cosmos • The Omnivore’s Dilemma

28-29 TRAVEL & CULTURE Ethiopia • Italy • Bangladesh • France

30 INTERVIEW Author Kate Klimo

Reviews31 BOOKS Into the Wild • The Little Prince • The Girl

With the Dragon Tattoo • The Road • Peter the Great

32 MUSIC The Sign of the Southern Cross • T-Pain • INXS • Dead Man’s Bones

33 MOVIES & TV Say Anything … • Easy A • Bill Cosby: Himself • Teen Mom • Drumline

34-37 Fiction

38-47 Poetry

The Love IssueNonfiction essays on heartthrobs & heartbreak pages 12-15Fictional tales of crushes & crushed hope pages 34-37Passionate poetry pages 38-47

I Joined a Fight ClubThe art of fighting Sports, page 16

Txting: the Gr8 Deb8Can texting be educational? Points of View, page 6

Bosnia: The Hidden GenocideA survivor’s story Our World, page 8

Cover art by Tze En, Pulau Pinang, Malaysia

• • • • • •

ON THE COVER

Missing the Health Care Bus

I enjoy reading essays on national andworldwide issues. These articles often con-tain strong, well thought out arguments. In“Missing the Health Care Bus,” RebeccaBooker explains why she believes thateveryone should have access to health care.When she was younger her parents were un-able to afford health insurance for her. Shehad to live extra cautiously, always anxiousthat she might get injured or sick and wouldnot be able to afford the medical expenses.

I agree that health care should be univer-sal in the United States. In today’s modernculture people should not have to forgomedical attention because they cannot afford it.

Maddie Brinker, Bethlehem, PA

A Peaceful RevolutionI’m not as hopeful as Amy Gofton is in

her article “A Peaceful Revolution.” Sure,there were many revolutions in 2011, butthe world is not a stranger to revolutions.We had the Atlantic Revolutions in the late18th century, when America, France, andHaiti liberated themselves from oppression.We had post-WWII Communist revolutions,when many Eastern European and Asiancountries were lit up in fiery red. We hadthe Revolutions of 1989, when the worldwitnessed the fall of Communism in East-ern Europe. In the past year, we have hadthe Arab Spring uprisings, Russian electionprotests, and the Occupy Wall Street move-ment. Frankly, I don’t see much difference.

Every generation is marred by hatred andbloodshed. Every time, we believe our ac-tions will change the future and that therewill be no more conflicts. That’s what hap-pened during World War I. It was called“the war to end all wars,” but little did theyknow that it would soon be followed byWorld War II, which would eclipse it inboth scope and casualties.

I’m convinced that as long as the human

race survives, this cycle of violence willcontinue. Call me a pessimist or a skeptic orwhatever, but I believe that this past year ofrevolutions will be just another bullet pointon the list of revolutionary waves that haverocked the world.

Timon Luo, Brooklyn, NY

She’s BeautyI loved the nonfiction piece “She’s Beau-

ty” by Courtney DeJoy. Courtney talksabout how she longed for a younger siblingand how she would do anything to have asister/brother. Courtney’s lifelong dreamcame true on October 31st, 2005. She got alittle sister.

However, this was not the ordinary “waitnine months and watch Mommy’s tummygrow” situation: Courtney’s parents adopteda baby girl. Courtney’s love for her sister issomething only she can describe, but I thinkI know how she feels. I longed for a littlesister too. On July 7th, 2002, she was born.

When my sister was born, I realized I hadmy work cut out for me. We are nine yearsapart, so I try to be the best role model andalways protect her. No matter what, she willbe by my side, and just like Courtney said,my sister is the greatest gift ever.

Anyssa Maestas, Thornton, CO

Thank You, Teen InkTeen Ink is great entertainment because it

provides a variety of selections. The maga-zine and website allow young people toshare stories, reviews, and poems with oth-ers. Writers like me are always looking toget their work out there, and Teen Ink givesus the opportunity to get published andshare our work with the world.

Teen Ink has so many options that younever know what to expect, which is whatmakes it great. I personally find the nonfic-tion stories most enjoyable, but the fiction,reviews, and poems are all well written too.

I want to thank you for creating this

magazine that I and other teen writers enjoy.Teen Ink is above all other magazines andbooks I have read. Thank you!

Mauricio Curiel, Commerce City, CO

The Snowman“The Snowman” by Caeleigh MacNeil is

a story about an innocent subject: drawingsnowmen. However, hidden between thelines is a message that shouldn’t apply to-day: don’t rock the boat. People who dosomething different get ridiculed andshunned. Though teachers claim that we areall unique and should be proud of it, a boyin Caeleigh’s third grade class was ridiculedfor drawing a purple snowman with fourcircles increasing in size.

Today in our society, you must be part ofthe “normal” group in order to be accepted.You must look a certain way, act a certainway, and have a certain set of beliefs that fitwith the crowd’s. The pressure to be part ofthe group is enormous, and nobody wants tobe viewed as a weirdo.

However, what would happen if peopledidn’t challenge the ideas of the “normal”group and let their imagination take charge?What would happen if people didn’t speaktheir minds? What would happen if peoplecared more about their reputation than do-ing the right thing? Without people like theboy who draws a purple snowman, who willstand out from the crowd and take chances?These are the people who make a differencein the world.

So instead of making fun of the boy whodraws a purple snowman, we should em-brace his creativity. We can all change theworld, one purple upside down snowman ata time.

Laolu Ogunnaike, New York, NY

You Are Lucky“You Are Lucky” by Jess Roberts defi-

nitely left a mark on me. Only seven para-graphs long, with its full-on power andemotion, it will touch anyone who reads it.

It is impressively original and speaks thetruth.

“You Are Lucky” reminds us of what wemay sometimes take for granted: littlethings do count. It’s true – we take lightlywhat we are given. This article is a reminderto be thankful for everyone and everythingwe have in our lives, and how lucky we areto be alive.

Jess made a brilliant choice in using thesecond person point-of-view; it puts thereader in a personal perspective, making herwords more attention-grabbing. “Out ofseven billion people alive on earth, you arethe only you that has ever existed or willever exist.” This sentence alone makes mefeel at peace with myself. There will neverbe another me.

“You Are Lucky” is a breath of fresh air.Anyone, from young to old, can relate to it.

Nicole Javillo, Wilmington, DE

Spreading the WordAbout Teen Ink

My father lives abroad and is alwaysteaching us about lots of interesting stuff.One example is Teen Ink.

When I told my father that I like to write,he said, “Try browsing through this site. Itmight interest you,” and he was right. WhenI went on TeenInk.com, I realized that it canhelp teens find our talents, share them withother teens all over the world, and improveour skills. Above all, what makes me happyabout Teen Ink is that teens who usually goonline without a purpose finally have some-thing that will interest them.

I keep introducing Teen Ink to everyone.When I was given a chance to speak in myclass recently, I told everyone aboutTeenInk.com and had the pleasure of writ-ing the URL on many notebooks so theycould check out the site. Teen Ink is indeeda brilliant idea; thanks to all who are re-sponsible for it.

Aafiya Fazie, Kandy, Sri Lanka

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poi

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ew Has high tech really reached a new low? Theaverage teenager sends more than 3,339texts per month. We all know how easy it is

to flip open your phone and type a quick “meet me@ the mall @ 2 plz!” to your BFF. But is texting asharmful and destructive to grammar as teachersclaim? Will texting cause – OMG – the death of theEnglish language? Despite popular belief, textingisn’t creating a generation of illiterate teenagers. Infact, it’s doing just the opposite.

According to recent studies by re-searchers at Coventry University andthe University of Toronto, texting actu-ally improves literacy. The studiesfound that texting had no detrimentallink with linguistic development, andthat it improved comprehension andreading development. The 10-year study, whichtested 88 eight- to 10-year-olds, found that thosewho were better at understanding and creating textabbreviations did better on literacy tests. This“boost” effect is similar to what happens when parents talk to infants or read to toddlers; the moreexposure children have to language, the more under-standing of the language they have. In the case oftexting, in order to comprehend shorthand abbrevia-tions, teenagers have to have a strong sense of thelonghand behind it. “What we think of as mis-spellings don’t really break the rules of language,

and children have a sophisticated understanding ofthe appropriate use of words,” states Dr. BeverleyPlester, lead professor of the study.

This research is fueling supporters of texting byencouraging school boards to incorporate the use oftexting within education. According to statistics, 54percent of those who text are teenagers. Because it’ssuch a huge part of a student’s life, educational or-ganizations are working to create a curriculum that

involves this technology and engages boththe attention and the interest of teenagers.

States such as Connecticut are beginningto see uses for this way of communicating,and are convinced that “nonstandard Eng-lish” doesn’t actually interfere with the development of the ability to write in stan-dard forms required by school, higher

education, and careers, as opponents claim. They believe that it helps motivate students and can bebeneficial in a teaching environment by testing stu-dents’ grammar and comprehension.

But these new findings are definitely overshad-owed by public perceptions, shaped by the media,which is constantly unleashing stories of studentsusing textisms in formal writing. Inone well-known case, a 13-year-oldgirl handed in an essay written entirelyin texting shorthand. As shocking asthis may seem, it does not prove that

the English language isdisappearing. Dr.Plester’s report states:“The alarm in the mediais based on selected anecdotes, but ac-tually when we look for examples oftext-speak in essays, we don’t seem tofind very many.” This is due to thetechnique of code switching – know-ing what type of behavior is appropri-ate in certain situations. One exampleof this is when teenagers switch fromtalking in slang with their friends tospeaking politely to a teacher or par-ent. Slang is much like texting, andthough there’s the occasional slip-up,it doesn’t happen often. Even morerare is the occurrence of texting short-hand in a formal piece of writing, and

most critics believe that in the instances when text-speak appears in schoolwork, the student has usuallydone it on purpose.

When looked at from another angle, texting maynot be damaging our language, but rather, buildingit. The English language has evolved over hundredsof years, and English from the Shakespearean timeschanged greatly to become modern-day English.Textese could be shaping the new and improvedEnglish language. It fosters creativity and, I believe,is not just an example of linguistic laziness. Like theclichés “all that glitters is not gold” and “star-crossed lovers” from Shakespeare’s works, texting isinspiring new phrases, words, and symbols that aremaking their way into our culture, for example,“smh,” “ily,” and “g2g.”

Opponents of texting have also claimed that itcauses grades to drop for many students, but it’s notthe physical action of texting that should be tar-geted; it’s the addiction. Instead of paying attentionto the teacher and the lesson, some students focusmore on their phones hidden under their desks. Onereason for this could be that teachers are not usinggood techniques to motivate and engage students

during the class. But this doesn’t let the teen who

write “LOL” in a term paper off thehook. Like any slang appearing in aformal research report, textese shouldbe considered a grammatical error andrebuked with a red pen. It may be truethat electronic communication has itsown faults and fosters its own care-

lessness, but texting slang can be seen as no differ-ent from academic terms or journalistic shorthand inwriting. And as for the texters, maybe they shouldconsider typing out the whole word once in a while.It really doesn’t take that much longer.

It’s time to loosen up the English language andtolerate texting as a growing part of communicationtoday. It may bend all the rules, but it is still 100percent a part of this language and is fostering newinnovation with words, all while improving the liter-acy of those who are heavily involved. Textese is themodern dialect of the world, it seems, and our soci-ety should accept it. That heathen Shakespearewould have been on board. ✦

We have all heard about thetragic deaths caused bypeople who text while driv-

ing, but how about deaths from tex-ting while walking? Like driving,walking while texting can be verydangerous. Has technology becomeso advanced and texting so addictivethat these tragedies are now an ac-cepted part of our culture? Some ofthe worst cases of walking while texting have led to death, injury, andhumiliation.

The most tragic cases of walkingwhile texting include the death of a14-year-old boy from Florida in 2008.He was so focused on his phone that

he stepped into oncoming traffic.Who’s at fault? The distracted textingteen or the driver who hit him? Theseaccidents warrant another look at thelaws pertaining to texting.

On a lighter note, inanother incident, CathyCruz Marrero was textingwhile walking in a malland tumbled into a waterfountain. But her humili-ation didn’t end there. Amall security cameracaught the mishap and it soon ap-peared on YouTube. The video nowhas more than three million views.The company that provides securityfor the mall issued this statement:

“The security officer responsible forsharing the video of this incident hasbeen terminated and is no longer withthe company.”

Now wait a minute, he lost his jobfor sharing a stupid mis-take that occurred in pub-lic? That’s a little harsh.

My point is that textingwhile walking will onlymake you look stupid.Exactly 40 years afterman first stepped on the

moon, a teen who was walking whiletexting stepped into an open manhole.City workers came to her rescue andapologized for the unmarked hazard,but the 15-year-old’s mother declared

she would sue. It may sound crazy,but she may have a point. Under anycircumstances, the manhole shouldhave been marked to prevent acci-dents. But on the other hand, the teenwho was texting while walkingshould have been alert enough to seethe hazard and avoid it.

So, in order to save yourself fromdeath, injury, or simple humiliation,don’t text while walking. It maysound crazy, but walking while tex-ting can be life threatening just liketexting while driving. As addictive astechnology can be, it can wait. My advice is to stay alert and keep youreyes on the sidewalk. ✦

Texting While Walking by Jake Langevin, Welch, MN

Is texting asharmful asclaimed?

Textese could beshaping the new

and improvedEnglish

Just as dangerous asdriving while

texting?

Photo by Tiffiny Le’Anne, Parker, CO

6

Txting: the Gr8 Deb8 by Teresa Chen, Brooklyn, NY

Last week I threw out my makeup. The mas-cara, the eyeshadow – all of it went right inthe trash. I hadn’t worn it in months, and as I

threw it away, I knew it was my final declaration. When I was in middle school I gravitated toward

the stuff. I wanted to be grown up. I had visions ofmaturity and beauty in it. My best friend taught meto apply eyeliner and my mother showed me how toput mascara on. I loved bright green eyeshadow andpale lipstick.

The last time I wore makeup it was snowing. Ikept pulling out a pocket mirror to inspect my eyesto be sure my mascara wasn’t running. I wore it forthe play I watched that night and for the guy in it.That was last winter. I haven’t worn makeup since.

Today I’ve come to a number of conclusions.Makeup is unhealthy for the skin. Makeup distortsgenuine beauty and real confidence. Makeup is aproduct of a consumer society. Makeup is sexist.

What’s in makeup? By reading a few labels you’llfind preservatives like BHT, chemicals, artificial col-ors, and if you’re lucky, some natural things like oatflour or zinc. Most of the ingredients, the averageperson cannot pronounce. Every time you put it onyour face, your skin is absorbing it.

Makeup has a way of distorting what is trulybeautiful. In my eyes, everyone isbeautiful. It’s when a person coversherself with products that I find it dif-ficult to see that beauty. Beauty issomething natural. It has to do withthe way a person sees and interactswith the world. It’s the way he or sheblends with nature, the urban envi-ronment, and what is real. Makeup simply covers upand distorts the beauty of being human. It’s steppinginto the world with a mask on, whether you con-sciously see it as one or not. Logically speaking, noone would spend so much money on something tocover her face unless she truly believed, either con-sciously or unconsciously, that beauty could begained from it. By trying to be beautiful, womencover their true beauty.

Makeup is the product of a consumer society. Webuy and buy and buy. Makeup doesn’t last long.When it runs out, the packing is thrown away and

more is bought and consumed. It’s a cycle that goeson and on, but where is the end? Women buy anoverpriced product as if it’s something they requireto be part of this culture. Maybe it is. Women aretold: you’re better, you’re more mature, you’re morecompetent if you wear makeup.

Makeup is sexist. Most women in high paying andprofessional jobs wear makeup. It seems to be ex-pected. Nobody says, “You must wear makeup,” butit’s the social norm. Take a look at your femaleteachers, politicians, and those working in any job

that requires a suit. The majority wearmakeup. Why aren’t the men expectedto wear makeup too?

You’re laughing at that statement.Why aren’t men expected to wearmakeup? Well, because men don’t wearmakeup. That’s the logical answer. Yes,there are products for men, but only a

limited number touch them. Welcome to inequalityin the workplace. Makeup makes the professionalwoman.

I say let’s scrap makeup! Leave it to actresses andactors who are playing a role. Leave it to the newsanchor who doesn’t want you to be distracted by aglare on his or her face from the lights.

Throwing away the makeup is a statement thatsays “I care about my health. I’m beautiful no mat-ter how ‘pretty’ I am. I am not a victim of a con-sumer society. I am equal.” Those are all things Ican say about myself. ✦

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink7LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK

points of

view

It always annoys me how willinggirls are to play the “damsel indistress.” Yes, we girls may not be

physically as strong as boys (on aver-age). We are, for the most part,smaller too. Evolutionarily speaking,we are supposed to depend on men tobring us food while we make babies.Historically it has made sense forwomen to look to men for protection.

However, society now is set up sothat we women can support ourselvesjust as well as men can, if not better.We can be just as independent asmen. Even so, many double standardsstill exist from the time when menwere seen as the dominant sex. Forexample, in high school, boys are stillexpected to initiateromantic relationshipsand pay for dates,while girls are ex-pected to be passiveand look pretty.

I like the idea of aboy treating me withrespect; girls should do the same forthem. However, it makes no sensewhatsoever that boys should be theonly ones to initiate a relationshipwhen girls are just as capable ofdoing so. Many girls believe it is nottheir place to approach a crush be-cause of standards that have existed in

our society for ages. However, theseideas are outdated and discouragegirls from empowering themselves.

“I don’t think I’d ever ask anyoneout because it’s so embarrassing. I’mnot a very forward person,” saysStephanie, a junior at my high school.She has always been shy and says, asa result, she does not have the confi-dence to ask someone out. Stephaniedoes not directly relate this to societalstandards but admits that this couldaffect her on a subconscious level.

Some girls, however, are confidentenough to take the first step. Imari, asophomore, has asked two guys out.

“I knew he wasn’t going to ask mebecause I wasn’t too obvious, so I

thought, if he’s notgoing to ask me, I mayas well ask him.There’s nothing tolose,” she says.

The first time sheasked someone out wasfor the Winter Semi-

Formal Dance her freshman year. Heturned her down. But last summerImari asked out someone else, whosaid yes. They are still dating, and sheenjoys the empowerment of takingthe initiative.

“When a girl asks a guy out, it’sdifferent. It’s a lot more fun because

the ball is in your court. You have allthe cards. You’re not sitting aroundwaiting,” she explains. Imari ac-knowledges that there are societalstandards that say boysshould take the initia-tive instead of girls.“There’s more pressureon a guy,” she says.“Girls expect a guy tojust ask.”

Imari believes thatit’s often surprisingwhen a girl asks a boy out because itis so out of the norm. “It shakes guysup and makes them realize that you’renot going to sit around waiting forthem.”

It takes courage and confidence toask someone out, regardless of gen-der. Whether you’re a girl or a boy,there will always be that uncomfort-able feeling of putting yourself onthe line, but that’s just part of thedating experience.

I look forward to the day when it’sjust as common for a girl to ask aboy out as it is for a boy to ask a girl.I look forward to the day when girlsdon’t hesitate to approach a love in-terest, and when shy boys won’t haveto assume that they’ll never get agirlfriend if they don’t ask someoneout. I look forward to the day when

people don’t do double takes everytime I explain that I’ve never beenasked out but I’ve initiated several re-lationships. I look forward to the day

when girls can, in theeyes of society, beequal to boys when itcomes to initiating rela-tionships.

It’s the twenty-firstcentury. We women areno longer fragile dollswho require special

treatment. We are capable of just aboutanything men are. Why shouldn’t weinitiate relationships too? ✦

Good-Bye, Wallflowers by Sarah-Alice Hanna, Portland, OR

Why shouldn’tgirls initiate

relationships too?

Makeup has away of distorting

what is trulybeautiful

Photo by Jess Deibert, Klingerstown, PA

Photo by Corrine Ramstead, Kirkland, WA

Throw Away the Makeup by Amy Gofton, Elmira, ON, Canada

Historically, girlscould ask boys

out on Leap Day,February 29

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 28

We’ve all heard of the Holo-caust. We’ve read about themass murder of 800,000

civilians in Rwanda. People writebooks, make movies, hold memorialservices, and advocate awareness ofthese terrible genocides. While itwould be nice to say that those werethe only genocides our world has ex-perienced, there are countless othersthat are rarely mentioned.

The Bosnian genocide took placebetween 1992 and 1995, around thetime my generation was beginning. Itwas a result of the war betweenBosnia and the Serbians (and a num-ber of Croatians). In 1946, Yugoslaviawas divided into six federated re-publics: Bosnia and Herzegovina,Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, and Slovenia. Bosnia passed a referendum for independence thatwas supported by the country’s Mus-lims and Croats, but rejected by repre-sentatives of the Serb population, whoestablished their own republic, Repub-lika Srpska.

Following Bosnia’s declaration ofindependence, Bosnian Serb forces(supported by the Serbian govern-ment), accompanied by the Yugoslav’sPeople’s Army, declared war onBosnia so they could take the land forthemselves. Although Croatia had firstsupported Bosnian in-dependence, theirpresident, FranjoTudman, decided tojoin the war to secureland for his republic.Along with this camean “ethnic cleansing”of the Muslims inBosnia, who repre-sented almost half the population. Thisgenocide wiped out 66.2 percent ofthe Bosniaks, or Bosnian Muslims, inthe country, according to the Interna-tional Committee of the Red Cross.

On October 13, 1991, on the eve ofwar, the future president of RepublikaSrpska, Radovan Karadzic, expressedhis view about the future of Bosniaand Bosnian Muslims: “In just a cou-ple of days, Sarajevo will be gone andthere will be five hundred thousanddead, in one month Muslims will beannihilated in Bosnia and Herzegov-ina.” There were no Bosnian forces tofight back, and because they had beenleft defenseless, the country ultimatelyceased to exist.

Bosnian Muslims and many non-Serbs were forced out of their homes,and women and children were sent tounhygienic detention centers or placesknown as “rape camps.” Zehra Sma-jlovic, a witness for the InternationalCourt of Justice and a Bosniak sur-vivor, stated that nearly two dozenwomen disappeared when BosnianSerbs came to the center where she

was being held. “They raped one woman whose

children and parents were present,along with everyone else,” testifiedAlija Lujinovic, another survivor. Ac-cording to the Red Cross, over twomillion people were displaced fromtheir homes during the Bosnian War,and 200,000 people died, including12,000 children. Fifty thousandwomen were raped, tortured, sold, orkilled. Men were sent toconcentration camps.

Osman Talic was asurvivor of not one, butfour camps. He was awitness for the Interna-tional Court where he attested to the torture heendured. I was fortunate to be able totalk to Osman Talic. His English is notperfect, and he searches for words,smiling after each sentence and saying“You understand?”

“I lived in a small town called San-ski Mos in Bosnia,” he told me. “Afterthe breakup of Yugoslavia, there wasfighting and anger between the Croats,Serbs, and Muslims. In my town, Iwas the leader (with a few others) ofthe SDA, an organization that repre-sented the Bosnian Muslims. In 1991,there was the first election in Bosnia.Since Muslims made up so much of

the population, many ofthose elected were Mus-lim. The Bosnian Serbswere very angry that theSerbians had become aminority. The Serbs de-cided to declare war andget rid of the Muslims.They had help fromCroatia, and the man-

power to destroy us. The Bosnians hadno weapons or outside help. We werebarricaded inside Bosnia.

“On May 26, 1992, Serbian soldierscame to my town and forced me andother men out of our homes. Mydaughters were 15; my son was 18 andhad joined the Bosnian army. My wifehad died. My sister took my daughtersto Slovenia to safety. I was taken to aconcentration camp called Betonirka. Ispent two months there while Bosnianmen came pouring in from all over.

“The last day in that camp was July25, 1992. That day my name wascalled from a list of men who hadbeen businessmen or leaders of someorganization, and we were put inbuses. During the trip, the other busstopped. The men came out and theSerbian guards, who had long knives,slit their throats. One by one they fellat the side of the road. There was noreason. They acted like it was no bigdeal to take a life. My bus arrived atthe jail later that day.”

This method of randomly slaughter-ing innocent men was very common

during the genocide. The soldierswould pile the bodies on top ofsewage drains to get rid of the blood,almost as if to eradicate the evidenceof their horrible deeds.

He continues: “At the jail theguards questioned me every day, ask-ing how many weapons I had andwhat political positions I had held inSanski Most. If I refused to answer, Iwould be beaten. They took my

clothes, documents,everything. I was put ina room the size of asmall garage with 70other detainees with nowindows so there wasno way to tell if it wasday or night.

“We were beaten every day andgiven very little food. Every day theguards would bring a loaf of bread for24 of us to share. We would get onesmall glass of water for two. Beforethe war, I was 220 pounds. A fewmonths later, I weighed 130.

“I would think each morning, Todaymight be my last day. Sometimes Iwould wake up at night with a gun tomy head. For some reason, once Iwoke up, the soldier would decide notto kill me.

“The guards would place my handson a cooker and put a knife to myneck. I was told that if I lifted myhands, the guards would slit mythroat. My hands were burnt so badly Istill have no feeling in my fingers. Islept on a slab of concrete for twoyears and not allowed to shower forseven months. During this time, I wasallowed no contact with the outside.

“Then, on August 28, 1992, I wastaken to a third concentration campcalled Manjaca. This was one of thebiggest, with 7,000 to 8,000 people.Here I was not scared. There were somany people, I knew that the soldierscould not hurt all of us. We were sentto do menial labor every day. I re-member, once I dropped a hammer onthe head of a Serbian guard. I thought,Now they will kill me.But although I was pun-ished, I still had my life.

“The lack of food wasstill a huge problem. Igave my food to anyonewho was sick or younger.When we went out towork, we would wewould eat grass and dirt. If we werelucky we found a frog or bugs to eat.The Red Cross came with food,clothes, and supplies. I did not understand why no one was trying to free us.

“In December 1992, everyone wasreleased and allowed to flee to Croatiaand Slovenia. I thought I would finallysee my family, but instead I and 221other men were taken to a fourth

concentration camp called Batkoviciwhere I spent a year. I was not killedbecause of my position in the SDA;the Serbs still wanted information.The men who were not as lucky wereordered to dig trenches. They did notknow the trenches also served as theirgraves. When they finished, the guardswould slit their throats.

“On the 9th of October, 1993, I wastraded for Serbian soldiers being heldhostage and sent to Tuzla, a free city innortheastern Bosnia. I brought mydaughters back from Slovenia, and mywhole family went to live in Vodice. Afew years later, we came to America.”

Osman looks down at his hands,which are now clenched fists.

“When I talk about what they did tome, I get agitated,” he explains. “Iimagine being beaten and tortured. Istill have nightmares. It made no sensethat my neighbor, someone I ate withand invited to my house, would be thefirst to turn a gun on me.

“I don’t understand the trauma andtorture these people put on innocentBosnians. My cousin watched 13members of his family killed in frontof him, including his eight-month-olddaughter and two-year-old son. This iswhat gives me the most pain, the deathof children and women. I saw a houseburned to the ground with 30 peoplelocked inside. I will never forget thesethings. I can never forget.”

We sit in silence for a few momentswhile he gathers his thoughts.

“It frustrates me that no one willtalk about what happened. It is notrecognized as a genocide. It is painfulto talk about, but it should not be for-gotten. I wish more people knewabout the genocide and the terriblethings Bosnian Muslims endured.”

He smiles at me, and though hisstory is horrific and hard to hear, Ismile back. “My English is good?” heasks, laughing. It’s hard for me, asheltered teen living in Utah, to under-stand how someone can even functionafter surviving four concentration

camps. I ask one last question:

“What do you want peopleto know?”

“My story,” he replies,“is the story of manyBosnians. This happened,and it was terrible and stillhurts me, but people need

to know what they [Bosnian Serbs]did to us. We had no help for fiveyears. This was not only the Bosnianwar, it was the Bosnian genocide. Thepast cannot be erased. Our storiesshould not be forgotten.”

Osman has since returned to Bosnia,but he says his country still has manyproblems and will never be fully wholeand peaceful. He is one of thestrongest people I have ever met. ✦

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

Bosnia: The Hidden Genocide by Sabiha Masud, Salt Lake City, UTou

r w

orld

“No one was trying to free usfrom the camp”

“They did notknow the trenches

also served astheir graves”

“Our storiesshould not be

forgotten”

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink9

www.earlham.edu/~eac [email protected] 1-800-EARLHAM

Classes offered in Art , Humanities, Languages, Natural Sciences, and Social Sciences.

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Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 210

heal

thWhen I was three, a doctor

told my parents I wouldn’tbe completely handi-

capped, but I would be “sortingscrews.” This came after an extensiveneuropsychological exam that indi-cated I had an IQ of 40. My classifi-cation was “Trainable MentallyHandicapped.” My Ivy League-edu-cated parents were devastated. Whenthey asked what they should do withmy college fund, thedoctor replied, “He’llneed it to live in a grouphome. College is out ofthe question.” Mymother cried for days,but with the help of bothsets of grandparents, shefound the strength to prove that doctor wrong.

My mother says I was a perfectbaby. In fact, I reached all the mile-stones early. In the spring of 1995,within hours of receiving my DPT(diphtheria, pertussis, and tetanus)vaccination from the pediatrician, Isuffered a seizure that lasted over 15minutes. I was rushed to the hospitalfor a battery of inconclusive tests. Iwent on to experience seizures for thenext ten years.

Seizures are a funny thing. Whenyou’re having one, you don’t havecontrol of your body, and you have nomemory of it afterward. This incredi-bly scary event affects everyonearound you, but you are strangely pro-tected. I have never witnessed anotherperson having a seizure, so I have noidea what it looks like. I wish I couldsay the same for my older brother,Marty. Many times he cared for mewhen I was seizing, laying me down,protecting my head, and calling 911.

At the age of three, I was enrolled

in a school for children with specialneeds. I received daily therapy foreight hours, which continued at home.My parents researched and took theadvice of many doctors on how tocope with my changing diagnoses:epilepsy, sensory integration disorder,autism, oppositional defiant disorder(ODD) and conduct disorder (CD),obsessive compulsive disorder(OCD), developmental delay, and on

and on. At various timesin my childhood, I was diagnosed with terms Ithink were invented justfor me.

My parents surroundedthemselves with greatdoctors who gave them

hope and encouragement. One, Dr.Jose Ferreira, my neurologist from AllChildren’s Hospital, told my parentsthey needed to treat me exactly likemy brothers – holding me to the sameexpectations and punishing me for thesame things. It might take me 50-100times before I learned a behavior thatmy older brother could easily grasp,but they had to be consistent. Thiswas reinforced by my Opa, my dad’sfather. He was very involved, sincemy dad was busy traveling and work-ing. Opa believed in me and treatedme as though I was normal. This wasa saving grace.

As a child, my days were spent getting hours and hours of therapy.Weighted belts, educational toys, aspecial diet, music ther-apy, and deep tissue mas-sages were all part of mydaily routine. Of course,there were also manymedications, each requir-ing extensive research bymy parents. Finally, in2002, my parents said, “Enough!”

They had a hunch that many of mybehaviors were medically induced.They decided to go against the doc-tors’ orders, wean me of my drugs,and re-evaluate my situation.

According to my family, whatemerged was a miracle. I still hadseizures, but not every day. I was inschool and could read, but had finemotor skill problems, speech issues,and needed occupational therapy forhelp with coordination. But one newpositive side effect was that I finallyhad a personality, something theyhadn’t seen since I was a one-year-old. Eventually, I was put back onmedication for obsessive-compulsivetendencies and remained on theseuntil I was 15, at which time I told myparents I no longer needed them, andthey agreed.

To say I was in special educationmy whole life is an understatement.When I was three, they didn’t evenhave schools for kids like me. Iwasn’t a behavioral problem; I was

just cognitively delayed. From agetwo through five I seized constantlyfor 20- to 30-minutes at a time. Someseizures left me paralyzed, some leftme twitching, others wiped me out fordays.

When I turned six, the seizures became fewer and farther between.Because my immune system wascompromised, the doctor recom-mended a non-contact sport, so myparents enrolled me and my brothersin swim classes. After the first sixmonths, the warts that covered myknees were gone, I suffered less ill-ness, and I was physically tired at theend of the day. And I have continuedswimming to this day.

In 2007 I informed my parents thatI wanted to go to a regular highschool so I could play sports. Theyagreed to let me take the entranceexam at a local Catholic high school.Apparently my scores were the low-est in the history of the school.They suggested I return to seventhgrade and try again in two years. Iwas crushed! My mom convincedthem to let me attend for a proba-tionary period, and if it was a com-plete disaster, they would pull meout in December.

They agreed, but I was expectedto earn at least a 2.0, and I would beenrolled in a class designed to helpdevelop study skills. Up until thispoint, I had no experience with textbooks, tests, homework assign-

ments, or reading require-ments. Attending aregular school would be ahuge adjustment for me.My parents knew I wouldrequire hours and hoursof tutoring just to learnthe basics.

I managed to maintain a 3.7 GPAand finished my last semester with a4.1. Unfortunately, as a result of mystruggles freshman year, I will nothave a career GPA high enough tomake National Junior Honor Soci-ety – one of my goals.

Today I have my driver’s license,which is great for getting to schooland to my nine swim practices eachweek. I hold a leadership position inthe Mission Club and hope to runfor president this year. This clubreaches out to less fortunate stu-dents to enlighten them and opentheir eyes to possibility.

I am the captain of the swim teamand have swam in several high-levelmeets. My times continue to im-prove, which indicates that the nextfew years should be my best. Lastseason I was the team statisticianfor varsity football. It was throughthis experience that I realized mygift: I have an incredible ability toretain sports facts. I have alwaysloved sports, with football, baseball,

and basketball being my favorites. Itis this interest and gift that led me tomy current goal of wanting to studysports management and broadcastingin college.

Current testing indicates that my IQis within the normal range, but thistest does not measure my will or de-termination. My experience in highschool continues to help me realizethat I am willing to work twice ashard as most of my classmates. I stillstruggle with final exams, but I ammore skilled with day-to-day studyhabits. Academic growth is alwaysmy top priority, with swimming beinga close second. My high school expe-rience has taught me many things, butthe most important is that success iscompletely in my hands. I know I willnot be sorting screws, because I havethe desire to be great! ✦

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

Sorting Screws by Christian Rauch, Sarasota, FL

Sponsored by

I was in specialeducation my

whole life

Art by Zuzanna Czerny, Phoenix, AZ

Success is completely in

my hands

Asthma(the Price of Life)InhaleExhaleI remindPuff1 …2 …3 …4 …5 …6 …7 …8 …9 …10 …Medicine flowsThroughTracheaLarynxOr was it pharynxTo alveoliClearing airwaysLetting oxygen throughTo the slowlyPulsatingBeast.

Giving itRenewedLifeVigorSo itsEternalHungerCravingFor affectionAttentionLoveCan go onBecause that’s the priceOf life.

by Lizzy Buckingham, Memphis, TN

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink

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11

It was a patchwork blanket. Just a sheet of fabric,torn and sewn and stitched a hundred times, thenfolded up and tossed over a chair in the corner of

the world.Before I met you, my front yard was dull. I know,

it sounds weird. But the trees were dead and theroses were dry and the fingers of winter were stilldragging through the mulch. You hadn’t come yet todrape silly string all over the garden and the side-walk, or to shower the driveway in a thousand sharppieces of glass. You hadn’t come yet, and my frontyard looked tired. It didn’t look like Spiderman hadthrown up on it yet, and my feet didn’tsting when I walked out to my car.

Before you sat next to me and gaveme a pencil you did not borrow, theblanket was wrinkled and torn. A boyhad wrapped it around his body like acape, calling himself Superman, andthen had changed his mind and torn apatch out – the patch of fabric thatlooked like my Halloween costume and smelled likehim – and he tossed the blanket aside.

I asked you once if you were sick of me. Youlaughed. Silly me, for thinking that after five days ofmy face, you might want to look at someone else’s.Silly me, for thinking that you would tell me even ifyou did. But you smiled and said you didn’t think itwas possible to get sick of me, and swore that younever thought you would. I appreciated that youthought I would believe that. To me, it was only amatter of time.

Before you told me I was, I never thought of myself as complicated. I thought I was simple,

unoriginal, and predictable, like every other bookon the shelf. But you said you liked my pages andthat my words kept you on your toes. I’d told youonce that you liked complicated things, and youtold me that was why you liked me.

When you first held my hand, you picked thepatchwork blanket up off the floor. It was cold be-tween your fingers, but I hope it felt soft. You stud-ied every square of fabric, quilted into a forgottenmasterpiece, and memorized every wrinkle andtear. And I loved you right then, when I waswrapped around your fingers.

You asked me once if someone hadgotten sick of me before. I thought ofthe boy who called himself Superman,and the others before him who hadtugged on my strings until patches ofme had come loose. I couldn’t explainit to you, even though it would feelgood to have you understand. But youunderstood just fine anyway, and you

traced shapes on my skin with your fingertips. Youpressed your lips to my forehead and said, “Well,I’ll just have to show you how much I like you.”

When you came into my room that night, yousaw the blanket on the floor. You picked it up andsat beside me, draping the quilt across our bodies.You held me against you beneath the broken andrepaired pieces of fabric, all sewn together tokeep us warm. You liked that blanket, every tatterand tear, and so I gave it to you. You took it withyou, and I hope it kept you warm. I hope youbreathed in the smell of me that clung to it.

It was just a patchwork blanket. But in yourhands, it didn’t look as battered. You sewed the tears

closed and cut off the loose strings. You patched onnew fabric where pieces were missing, and youmade the blanket whole and new.

I was just a patchwork blanket, forgotten andtossed over some chair in the corner of the world.

And then I met you. ✦

Patchwork by Catherine Malcynsky, Chester, CT

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 212

true

love

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

I thought I was simple, unoriginal

I want an honest poem,where “I did it on purpose” and “Yes,

it’s my fault” are dutifully wed,wrapped in a honeyed-moonand in a few years “It’ll never happen

again” poem is born.

Truthfully, I could use an honestpoem

so that emotions can gaze uponmetaphors

with unconditional love and tell themthose jeans

are not flattering,and say so because they care.

Yes, I dream of an honest poemso that similes are not subtlebut as potent as the scent of another

woman’s perfumeor loud like lipstick stains on a

white collar.No, I don’t want my similes to

stay silentfor the sake of the kids.

I want a poem so honestit cries.With tears woven in stanzasand stanzas woven in tears,a Matt Damon in “Good Will

Hunting” poemwhere what we’ve seen and where

we’ve BenAffleck’s our sensitivityand it is not our fault poem.

We are just victims of ourselvespoem.

I want a deliberately honest poemthat admits even though all the world

is a stage,the audience Jekylls us from time

to timeto the point of Hyding ourselves and

we can’thelp that sometimes we give in poem.

We all wear masks poem.Any doctor can see that.

I want a poem so vulnerably honest,that it… hesitates before exposing its soul

andst-st-stutters when it talks to a

pr-pr-pretty girland asksa lot of questions when it’s nervous

poemwhy are we herewhere do we go why is it I would do anything for

you, even write you an honest poem, but you can’t seem to

return the feelingpoem

I want a poem so free of deceit,you say our hearts beat the same,and even though we can’t be together

we always are poem.

You feel like home poem.

But we’re not like that poem.

So maybe I just want a love poem.

by Jenzo DuQue, Crown Point, IN

Photo by Katya Kantar, Westfield, IN

I Want an Honest Poem

Photo by Holly Cooper, Mole Creek, Australia

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink13

truelove

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What were you doing a yearago? You sat in the secondrow of the clarinet section,

listlessly staring ahead, probablywondering when the period wouldend. I watched you, only a couple offeet away. But the distance betweenus stretched for miles. What are youthinking? I used to wonder. Look atme! I only dared to hope. An entireyear has passed, and here we are, sep-arated by real distance. You’re happywhere you are, and me, I’m all right. Imanage.

What were your dreams a yearago? You had ninth and tenth periodfree and spent your time with friends.

I was stuck in the research room, star-ing into the depths of a microscope.Were you happy then? For months Iwas so near but never attemptedmore; I regret it always. I think thatmaybe if we had had more time to-gether we’d be somewhere differentnow. But I’m tired of what-ifs. I’mtired of wondering, because now Iknow. You weren’t available a yearago. You’re still, in a sense, not avail-able now. Yet I keep staring. Iwatched and observed you a year agoand I’m still doing it. Some thingsnever change; I didn’t change. Or per-haps I did but I can’t see it becauseretrospect hasn’t kicked in yet.

A whole year of memories: good,bad, terrifyingly real. A year of expe-riences just waiting to be revisitedfive years from now. I look back andwatch her fall in love with you. I seeher walk along a road that could havebeen better. Half a year of waiting,three months of happiness, the rest,pain. Was it worth it? Was the yearamazingly beautiful?Yes. Could things havebeen different if I hadchanged what I did?Yes. Could it havebeen better? No. Noth-ing is better thanknowing that there ispotential to love. Noth-ing is greater than waking up in themorning to someone’s face in mymind. Nothing compares to the soar-ing feeling of a first kiss. I wouldchange nothing.

A whole year of growing up – I’mfinally an adult. I experienced themagical moment of being kissed inthe rain. I explored the thrill of amovie date. The fluttering butterflies

that zipped and zoomed through mystomach as you held my hand for thefirst time are imprinted in my mind.The cuddling in the park, cold as itwas, romantic as can be, is forever en-graved in my heart. I looked at us inthe reflection of the building. Youwere handsome, tall, and illuminatedby the sun, and I stood next to you,

fingers intertwined andgloriously moved by theimage in front of myeyes: beauty.

Three hundred andsixty-five days, that’show long it’s been. Ormaybe a bit more since Ifirst saw you in class. A

lot has changed; you’re no longer in-nocent and I, I’m no longer cynical.You changed me, more than I like.You gave me what I was looking for:redemption. To this day, I love you,more than words can express. I’mthankful to have met you – so eventhough I can’t remember the day thatI first laid eyes on you, and thoughwe’re not together, happy one year. ✦

365 Days by Grace Zhou, Douglaston, NY

I watched and observed you ayear ago and

I’m still doing it

It’s spring. The sun is shining, the birdsare singing, and love is in the air. Per-haps you’ve been noticing how cute that

boy in your AP biology class looks withouthis protective goggles on, or maybe howthat girl in your SAT prep classes (thatyou’re retaking just to be safe, even thoughyou got a 2300 the first time) has beensporting a sexy new backpack, equippedwith an extra pocket for a mini dictionaryand graphing calculator. Yes, love is allaround us, and we’re all dying to find thatspecial someone.

Now, we geeks are notknown for our social skills,but with a couple of easy tips,you’ll be able to get a datefaster than you can completea complex trigonometricequation. (Trig is easy. Wemastered that in third grade.)

First you need a catchy pick-up line. Forexample, you could approach that attractivegirl/boy in your chemistry class and say,“You must be really electronegative, be-cause I’m highly attracted to you.” Or if it’sa physics student who catches your eye, youcould try, “I think I’m falling for you, andit’s not just because of Newton’s law of uni-versal gravitation.” No sexy supergeek willbe able to resist your charm.

Now that you’ve successfully asked outthe guy/girl of your dreams, it’s time to

plan the date. (Date [n]: A word used bynon-geeks that refers to socializing withone’s significant other outside of school.)Despite the fact that a date takes up hours ofprecious studying time, it seems to be avery popular activity. But don’t worry – youcan plan a date with just the right mix of academics and romance.

Many geeks accompany each other to thelibrary, where a romantic afternoon can bespent reading Shakespeare’s love poems orresearching courtship in the Middle Ages. If

you get tired of the library (as ifthat’s possible), you can alwaystake your special someone tothe museum and perhaps sharean ice cream while discussingthe techniques of post-Impres-sionism. Or if the geek you’reinterested in is more of a home-

body, you can just spend some time staringinto each other’s eyes, thinking deeplyabout the electro-chemical impulses in yourphotoreceptors that connect light withmovement.

If all goes well, you’ll soon be involved ina whirlwind romance with the geek of yourdreams. It might not seem as great asachieving a 4.0 GPA or writing the perfectresearch paper, but studies have shown thatthose with life partners live longer on aver-age. (Yay, more studying time!) So go polishthat pocket protector and get out there! ✦

A Geek’s Guide to Love by Maia Silber, Cortlandt Manor, NY

We geeks arenot known for

our social skills

Memory ThiefThe trophies I have of you are not writtenin photographs or notes.Not in tape recordings or sound bites,and our movie is about a German serial killerwith a penchant for whistling.But I’ve been a memory thief for quite some time now,and I want every sense of you seared into my temporal lobe.

Your eyes after you’ve been cryingare gleaming malachite cobblestones in the gray downpour.You don’t show teeth when you really smile,your lips pink as sunrise barely part.Sweat at your temple curls dark your hair,and I tilt your chin up for a feather’s kiss.

I swallow down the earthquake sounds you make,a laugh and a growl and a moanlike a landslide in your white throat.I draw your kiss with my teeth like a bee sting,good and painful.

I breathe your airlike the atmosphere of a different place,stepping out of a plane and“this is Africa, this is somewhere else.”Salt and sweet and hot like foods never tasted, wine never drunk, alien,you smell like exploring a new planet, a new star.

You sparkle, effervesce, a shock through my teeth like purple cocktails,electric buzz over my skin,pain and strange sherbet powder static on a tongue.A blue lightning jolt that rewires me to you,sent through synapses, every one, branding you to my tongue.

My palms and fingers and nailsknow you. I learn you, your movementsand shivers and luminescent shudders,the width of a joint in teeth, the scrape of callousor soft of hair on scalp,burning pathways through my brain.YOU.

by Beatrice Waterhouse, Santa Rosa, CA

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 214

true

love

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In a Matter of Eight MinutesThere’s a boy sitting in front of me. One table up, two chairs to the right. I use my pencil to help me squint. He’s got nice hair. If only his stupid hand would quit blocking his face. I think he’s doing homework. Looks like math.

I hate math.

It’s too quiet in here.

He’s texting someone. Probably his girlfriend. I’ll bet she likes math.

His leg is twitching, and he’s sitting at the edge of his chair.

He looks stressed. Or maybe disciplined. Intently studying his calculator. What is he really thinking? About his math, Or his girlfriend,Or that girl in the blue sweaterOne table down from him?

He can probably hear every scratch of my pencil. I get out my glasses to help me see. Is that too obvious? Yeah, he’s definitely cute. But I don’t think he’s all that good at math, Because he’s counting on his fingers.

Legs outstretched, Penny loafers lazily erected off of his feet. He touches his face a lot. Insecure, maybe?Or just thoughtful …He’s fidgety. He’s texting again. I wonder if his girlfriend wears blue sweaters. I bet he dreams of going to Princeton, or Harvard, |

or Stanford.

He sees a girl in a pink shirt run across the room. He smiles. (He has a beautiful smile)Maybe he dreams of having a family.

I hope he marries someone Whom he meets at HarvardI hope they have a daughterWho likes to wear pink shirts (Or maybe blue sweaters)

And I hope, one day, his daughter meets a boy Who is one table up And two chairs to the right.

by Tori Sargent, Middlefield, OH

It was evening on a Saturday and I wasrunning late. Flustered, I clutched mybag with my free hand and darted across

the narrow, crazy streets. Fair lights bubbledup like rainbow sparklers in front of myeyes. My feet, clad in navy ballet slippers,squished across the grass and into the midstof the tourists in belly tops and braided hairadorned with flowers. As I passed our meet-ing spot (he wasn’t there) and walked up theaisle between the rows of fairrides, I saw his Mohawk hairbobbing in the crowd, his headsearching. I was twenty min-utes late, but he waited.

In long-distance relation-ships, it’s all about waiting.Waiting for an Internet con-nection. Waiting for a letter, a postcard, aphone call. Waiting and saving and hopingfor a plane ticket. You spend hours of yourlife waiting, traveling, missing. But in theend, it’s worth waiting for something asclose to perfect as a 75% off sale at River Island. Honestly, the fact that I know he willwait for me is enough to staple my heart to-gether until I see him again.

I’ve never been a strong believer in love atfirst sight. I criticize friends who fall headover heels on the first date, and bathe in bit-terness about love songs and Shakespeareanplays that always seem to have a tragic end-ing. But something clicked with Connor.Something clicked for both of us, like a latchfalling into place or that cracking soundwhen a tennis racket hits the ball. Spot on.Perfect. Even though I’ve always preferredolder guys and he’s a year younger. Eventhough I wanted a summer fling and got truelove. Even though he’s the nephew of thewife of my uncle, and that’s undeniablyweird. Even though I tell myself I’m donewith falling in love, I’m not.

It took me five days to fall in love with

him. Head over heels, irrevocably, painfully,heart wrenchingly in love. And want toknow the funny part? I loved every secondof it. He loves my smile and he loves myfamily and he will wait for me. He makesme pinky promises and kisses me in the rain.With a rainbow and a sunset, no less.

This picture-book-perfect love is a newexperience for me, but I can’t say I don’tlike it. I deserve devotion. I deserve this boy

who will give his heart to me,and he deserves me. He de-serves to hold my heart theway he holds me, because Iknow he won’t let go without afight. Our hearts fold perfectlytogether like origami paper,and our hands are perfect puz-

zle pieces. And when I look into his eyes, Itrust him.

I want to spend more evenings on thecouch with him, just sitting there in perfectsilence, because I’ve never been happierwith anyone. These butterflies are crazy;every time he breathes, my heart jumps a beat.

Four thousand miles is a long way. Aneight-hour time difference is difficult, to saythe least. Internet connections are unreliableand post offices go on strike. Four monthsbetween visits is a long time to wait, and ayear is a long time to wait for him to movehere. But in the long haul, what is a year?It’s a blip in the flow, an ebb in the tide. It’snot enough to fracture this love.

Yeah, I miss him so much it’s hard to takesometimes. I have to let myself rememberour time together in mediated gasps, in inter-vals and stretches that aren’t long enough tocause my heart any further damage. The onething that keeps me believing? The fact thathe makes me so happy that missing himdoesn’t cancel out the happiness. ✦

Waiting by Coral More, No. Vancouver, BC, Canada

In long- distance relationships, it’sall about waiting

Photo by Kebree Alyzandra, Bartlesville, OK

Art by Jessie Archer, Lawrenceville, GA

CharmYou took my handsThough they were cold,Redeemed my bodyYoung for old,Returned my silverHair to goldAnd said it was a dream.

You stole the shadowFrom my eyes,Replaced the darkWith starry skies,Then softly laughedAt my surpriseAnd said inhale the theme.

You kissed a smileFrom every frown,Our bodies dancedIn eiderdown.We fell so deepAs if to drownIn passion’s racing stream.

by Carly Pierre, Stamford, CT

“What about the minute chance that weactually survive senior year and thissummer?” I said.

“That doesn’t seem likely,” Julie said.“But what if it happens?” “Stop thinking so much.”“I don’t think I want to date in college,” I said.The thing I’ve always liked/hated about Julie is

that she is an absolute pragmatist. She isn’t roman-tic, and it’s reassuring to know exactly where I standat any given time.

So many of Julie’s behaviors have both a lightside and a dark side. Because of this, I always imag-ined her personality as a penny. I couldn’t haveheads and not tails. I couldn’t have pragmatism andlogic but also sentimentality and romanticism.

But I can never forget that I was the one whospoke the words that broke us up more than a yearlater. The simple phrase “I don’t think I want to datein college” turned out to be so much more signifi-cant than I ever thought.

And yet, I had broken up with her before.I couldn’t always stand Julie’s degree of detach-

ment. I was tired of always trying to reach out. I wasdisgusted that I felt so far from her after a couplemonths of dating and years of friendship.

When she told me nonchalantly that her youthgroup was the only reason she was glad she didn’tgraduate early, I was frustrated and jealous. Butmost of all, I was done.

I tried to talk to her about it, but it wasn’t goinganywhere, so I gave up. I was breaking up with herbecause I was unhappy and didn’t see any otherchoice. I could only see half of the penny.

As I sat with her in my car outside Borders, readyto say those final words, a truck crashed into us. Ishould have taken it as a sign. God was clearlypissed. Instead we broke up a week later, and Istarted to date someone else a month later.

This was not my proudest moment.A month after that, my new relationship turned

out to be an unmitigated disaster and mercifully imploded. I took some quality alone-time.

Months passed, and then Julie and Iarranged to meet at a local café to talkabout everything that had happened.As I approached her, I caught her scentand a tremendous weight hit me in thechest. I stopped walking. I was frozen.

I guess what I was perceiving was shampoo, be-cause Julie is an all-natural kind of girl. I couldn’tstand it when she wore makeup, which thankfullyshe only did for dances. Makeup looked like plasticon this girl’s face. Perfume would only have been afurther insult.

I can’t begin to outline all the memories that smallsensory reaction set off in me. My heart beat in dif-ferent directions as my mind raced. I thought severalthings, the most important being that Julie had lovedme as best as she knew how, and that was all I couldhave ever asked for. I had more faith in this fact thanI had in God, and I knew that I wanted her back.

Weeks later I told Julie, for the first time, that Iloved her. I hadn’t said it in the six months we haddated. In fact, I had never said it to anyone else. I always hated the way others threw that term around.I wanted it to mean something. “Chasing Cars” bySnow Patrol played in my head – “Those threewords, said too much, but not enough.”

I think that she had been waiting to hear it. It musthave counted for something because, miraculously,

we tried again.At heart, I’m far more of an emotional person

than Julie. She is the logical one, the cold one, thethinker. Our biggest arguments have been aboutwhether it is better to be guided by our minds or ourhearts. Clearly, we were not normal.

But what bothers me is the thought: what if I amnot the emotional one? What if I am the cold one?What if I am everything I argued against? What if Iam a penny too and my personality has its own darkside that must accompany what’s good about me?

Trying again was hard. During the school trip toEurope, we weren’t back togetheryet, but I was sick and she took careof me. When we walked into stores,we played a game. I would pick outher top three favorite articles ofclothing, and if I got one right, Iwon. I was actually fairly good at it,because Julie’s style is pretty simple.She likes bright clothes with flowersand anything with a Spanish influ-ence. Her clothing reflects her personality.

Toward the end of the trip, we walked into onestore, and I was trying to describe how a shirt wouldlook on her. I went on and on about her body typeand how it would make her look beautiful, and sud-denly she kissed me on the cheek. It was so power-ful that I was speechless.

It took months to get back together from there, butI always consider that innocent kiss the turningpoint. We talked about the future during my time inrelationship purgatory, and that’s when I told her Ididn’t want to date in college. Little did I know thatthis statement was both more innocent and more sig-nificant than Julie’s lips on my cheek.

I asked myself, “What do we live for, if not tomake memories, despite whatever pain may come ofthem?”

If it wasn’t some inherent warmth that made hertake me back, then she must have been either dumbor crazy. Logic should have told her to run. But she

gave me a second chance. She lovedme far better than I loved her. In ourrelationship, we were certainly twosides of the same coin. But which sidewas me and which side was her? Am Icold or caring?

If I had ever asked Julie this, herfirst question would have been “Why

am I a penny and not a quarter? Is that all I am toyou?”

But here’s what I know. Julie founda penny on the road heads-down. Sheturned it over to make it good luck.She made me better.

The summer before I left for collegewas the best of my life. Our relation-ship was exponentially stronger than ithad ever been. She was my best friendand my first love. She put up with myquirks and I had faith in her love. Idon’t think I had ever had faith in any-thing before I had faith in her.

She and I traveled over the summer.We camped near Frank LloydWright’s “Falling Water” becauseJulie was interested in architecture. Iremember watching “Toy Story 3” at adrive-in and being thankful that noone but Julie could see my man-tearsat the end.

We drove to Charlottesville, down the Blue RidgeParkway to Myrtle Beach, and then to the OuterBanks and Chapel Hill. It was 75 degrees on the lastday of our road trip. We were listening to the radioand I had the T-tops off my freshly waxed Firebirdand a Slurpee in my hand.

“Why does everything keep breaking?” I yelled.“You mean in our relationship?” Julie asked.“I mean in my damn car. Relationships can be

healed. My car requires time, pain, and money.You’re relatively cheap.”

“Why did you buy a 13-year-old Pontiac?”“Because it’s awesome,” I replied.“Well, the CD player is skipping, the

pop-up headlights don’t work, wedon’t have turn signals, we can’t openthe trunk, and the sun visor just fell inmy lap.”

“We don’t really need the sun visor.Although the CD player is unfortunate.Plus I have a tool kit and I’m a futurejournalism major,” I coolly added.

“What could possibly go wrong?”She just shook her head and turned up the radio.“The car’s still moving, we have one sun visor,

and I’m with you,” Julie said. “Everything’s okay.”I thought for a second and then replied, “Like I

said, you’re relatively easy.”We had our moments and our chemistry, freaks

though we may have been. And it was, to summa-rize, a damn good day.

I popped in a mix tape and Semisonic’s “ClosingTime” blared through the speakers: “Every new be-ginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

My summer ended when I watched the girl Iloved leave for college. I did not know the meaningof bittersweet before that moment. I did not knowhow easily our love could dissipate. I cannot forgetthat it was me and not her who spoke the words thatbroke us up twice. I have not yet been able to figureout whether I regret giving in to cold-hearted logic.

More significantly, I do not know which side ofthe penny this makes me. I hope one day I will besure that I made the right choice, but throughout thisfirst year of college, my mind has been awash in re-gret and indecision every day.

The lyrics to “Closing Time” echo continuallythrough my head.

“I know who I want to take me home. Take mehome.” ✦

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink15

truelove

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Pennies by Brian Fanney, Gaithersburg, MD

Photo by Maria LaFauci, Boise, ID

She was my best friend and

my first love

I did not know how easily our

love could dissipate

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 216

spor

tsIdon’t know why fighting is

frowned upon. It is a primal, vis-ceral experience that releases a

number of chemicals in your bodythat are designed to make you feelgood. And yet, in modern society,we’re supposed to shy away fromfighting. We’re supposed to suppressthese urges that are as old as thehuman race itself. That’s why I wasshocked to find myself standing out-side of a tattoo parlor one cold Febru-ary day, a duffel bag in hand. I knewthat in the basement was a dingy little

gym containing roughly a dozen pro-fessional fighters. My plan that daywas, in essence, to go down there andlet them fight me.

I am a very self-confident person; Ican’t remember ever backing downfrom a challenge. I had just finishedwrestling season, and I thought I wasin great shape. So I threw the dooropen and stormed down to the gym.

Inside I found some of the most in-tense people I’d ever seen in my life.They were pounding on heavy bags,sparring, shadow-boxing, andwrestling. They barely noticed me,which was fine with me. I found theowner, Norm, in the corner, teachingMuay Thai (a combat sport fromThailand) to a group of men. It wasan intense session, with all of the mensweating and grunting. The thunderclap when a man kicked the mitts wasdeafening.

After he finished, I introduced my-self. Although Norm is not a largeman, he has the ability to fill a roomwith his presence. Quiet determina-tion radiated from his fierce eyes. Hisdark skin looked like beaten leather. Ioutweighed him by 30 pounds easily,but I still found myself slightly intim-idated by this man who had dedicatedhis life to the art of fighting.

Locking me in his steely gaze,Norm asked if I had any experience inMixed Martial Arts, or MMA. Unsurewhether a wrestling background car-ried much weight in this room of pro-fessional tough guys, I played itdown, simply telling him I had wres-tled without any specifics. After ask-ing about my height, weight, andbody fat percentage, he looked me upand down. He then snapped his fin-gers and waved over two of the mean-est-looking men I had ever seen.

They smirked as they swaggeredover. They were utterly confident,and I could tell that they were thrilledto have some fresh meat to play with.I was instructed to box with the firstman, Ed. With the second, who wascalled Bam, I was to do a form ofgrappling where the goal is to causeyour opponent so much pain that youmake him quit. This is called submis-sion grappling.

I strapped on a pair of gloves andshoved in my mouthpiece, ready toshow these guys exactly what I wasmade of. When the buzzer went off, Itouched gloves with Ed, then imme-diately began firing off punches withmurderous intent. I had been in myfair share of scrapes, but I knew noth-ing about the science behind throw-ing a punch, and Ed easily avoidedmy blows with a series of deft headmovements.

He shot back with a single punchthat went straight down the barrel. Itconnected flush with my nose, and Ifelt like I had been hit with a bat. Ikept fighting, but less aggressively.The wild punches stopped, and I fo-cused on keeping my face out of theway. My hands stayed up high, andmy chin stayed tucked in close to mychest. I kept circling Ed, but knowingnothing about boxing, I was circlinginto his power hand. It didn’t take Edlong to realize that I had no businessbeing in the ring with him, and hetoned it down a bit. Hestopped trying to re-arrange my face andfocused instead on myfootwork and stance,occasionally stoppingto give me pointers.

Regardless of all mymistakes, and relyingheavily on a strongchin and pure stubbornness, I sur-vived the initial five minutes of box-ing. However, I had forgotten allabout Bam and the submission grap-pling. I was heading for my waterbottle when I heard the buzzer. Thenext thing I remember was beingslammed onto the mat. Bam wasfreakishly strong and threw mearound like a rag doll. I put up asmuch of a fight as I could, but it wasno use. This was not my world; it was

Bam’s. He twisted my body into apretzel, locking me in what I laterlearned was called a triangle choke. Ifought against the blackness for whatfelt like eternity.

It was closer to three minutes. Finally I had to tap out. That was

when Norm blew the whistle. It wastime to begin warming up. Class had-n’t even started yet, and I had alreadybeen given two of the most severebeatings of my life. It was time tomake a choice: I could slink out tolick my wounds and pretend I’d nevereven been there, or Icould stick it out forthe practice.

It wasn’t even aclose; I chose to prac-tice with them. Mus-cles tightening, headthrobbing, and bodyaching, I threw myselfwholeheartedly intothe push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, tireflips, and sprawls. We must havespent an hour on that alone. But Icould see that Norm was impressedthat I hadn’t given up. I got a chanceto talk to him briefly before the nextset of drills, and found out that nineof every ten who come to the gymdon’t make it past the initial rounds ofsparring. That gave me the extra boostI needed to finish the class.

I lay in a heap on the mat, suckingin gallon-sized gulps of air and chug-ging water, when Ed walked over.Thinking he wanted to spar again, Ibegan to put on my gloves. Instead,he gave me tips on how to defendagainst certain punches and how tobob and weave my head. He said thathe looked forward to seeing me to-morrow. I hadn’t even thought abouttomorrow.

When I woke up the next morningevery inch of my body was sore. I hada black eye and was covered inbruises. I knew that the last thing I

needed was to go backto the gym, but a fewshort hours later I foundmyself walking downthose stairs toward whatI was sure was going tobe another beating. AndI have to tell you, it’smuch harder to go backa second time, because

you know what is waiting for youdown there. The first time I could pre-tend I was going to be the toughestguy, when in reality I wasn’t evenclose.

But for some reason, I went back,and I continued the day after that too,and the day after that, until eventuallyI began looking forward to thoseclasses. I started noticing openings inother people’s defense, and evenstarted winning rounds. As crazy as it

sounds, those men became like broth-ers to me, and all because I was will-ing to weather the initial beatings.

Not everybody I saw come downthose stairs was as passionate as Iwas. I saw many arrive with my samecocky attitude, and watched Bam andEd put them through the ringer too. Isaw perhaps two of them return.

Then, after three months, my defin-ing moment came. It was a typicalMonday practice. Everybody wasstretching and talking about the fightsthat happened over the weekend,

when the door flew openand a new guy camestrutting in. He wasbig – around six foot sixand 260 pounds – but hehad clearly gelled hishair before practice andhis arm band tattooscreamed “poser.” Heswaggered over to Norm

and introduced himself as “TheWrecking Ball.”

Norm put on his most serious faceand shook his hand. Everybody in theroom had stopped their warm-ups be-cause they knew what was coming:Norm was going to call over Bam andEd.

Norm snapped his fingers to silencethe room and yelled for Bam to sub-mission grapple with the guy. But in-stead of Ed, Norm called my name. Ijogged over, not completely sure whatI was doing there. Norm said hewanted me to spar with the guy. I wasa little nervous, but I nodded andjammed in my mouthpiece.

I touched gloves with Mr. Wreck-ing Ball, and he started throwing wildhay-makers at me. I used slight headmovements and easily avoided them.Then I saw my opening – he droppedhis right arm after throwing a punch –and I quickly threw a left hook witheverything I had. It connected flushon his chin and he went down hard,out cold. The entire room erupted intocheers.

The Wrecking Ball didn’t evenmake it to submission grappling. Hecame to a few minutes later and im-mediately scrambled out of the gym.He had obviously seen enough. Fromthat point on, Norm used me to breakin the new guys; I was a little biggerthan Ed, but most guys thought theycould take me simply because I wasyoung. Only two got past my initia-tion, and they’re some of the bestguys we have now.

As for me, I’m currently waitinguntil the end of wrestling season be-fore I go back. I’ve been talking toNorm, and he said that if my parentsagree, he could get me my first profight as early as July. Then I’ll have awhole new challenge ahead of me. ✦

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The Art of Fighting by Josh Burkhard, Saint Joseph, MI

I knew nothingabout the sciencebehind throwing

a punch

In modern society,we’re supposed

to shy away from fighting

Photo by Gemma Arioli, Lubbock, TX

“Please, Mom. It’s on sale for $24.99! It’sAbercrombie, and you know how expen-sive that store is!” I whined, my eyes

brimming with tears.“Exactly. I don’t see why you can’t just get the

one at Gap for five bucks! You can get five for theprice of that one at Abercrombie.”

“But it’s not Abercrombie!” I stormed out of theroom. She just didn’t understand.

That was the summer of 2007, and my 11-year-old mind was polluted with its obsession over de-signer clothes and Coach handbags. Every part ofme longed to be at the mall buying the latest fash-ions. Instead, I was trapped on an airplane draggingme halfway across the world to Beijing, China.

Once off the plane, I knew Chinawas different from any place I hadever been. People seemed conserva-tive and appreciative. An unfinishedsandwich belonged in the fridge,never abandoned in a garbage can. Atthe marketplace, a shopper wouldspend countless minutes hagglingwith a storekeeper just to save a Chi-nese dollar or two.

My mom and I spent a full Sunday afternoonemptying her wallet at a local mall. Our arms filledwith bags of clothing and shoes, we exited the shop-ping center to be immediately strangled by the sti-fling heat of a typical Beijing day.

“Ice cream?” my mom suggested.“Sounds good,” I replied. We found a shaded area

to sit, and my thoughts drifted to the shirt I had justbought, perfect for the first day of school. Everyoneat school is going to be so jealous. This shirt is to diefor! Mid-thought, something caught my attention.

My eyes were drawn to the nearby subway stair-well. I had taken those stairs a number of times inand out of downtown Beijing, but I’d never beforeseen the two kids sitting below the handrail. A girlof about six or seven hid in the shadows of the

passing commuters, gently shaking an aluminumcan. Printed in fading but delicate Chinese handwrit-ing was the word “money.” Her hair was greasy anduncombed; her clothes were soiled. I couldn’t be-lieve what I was seeing. I felt my throat tighten as Ilooked at her younger brother, sprawled in her arms.At most, he was two years old. Like his sister, theboy’s scraps of clothing were covered in dirt. Trem-bling, I reached for my shopping bags that nowseemed to weigh a million pounds. I moved closer.

I could see the girl had a water bottle that was al-most empty. Her forehead was beaded with sweat asshe lifted the bottle to the boy’s lips. His tearsstopped and for a moment, so did the world aroundme. He smiled, and I witnessed happiness in its

purest form. The girl’s face broke intoa smile too, and I broke into tears. Iwanted so badly to say something toher. I wanted to walk over and hug her.I wanted to tell her that I loved her. Iwanted to do so much.

She coaxed the little boy to sleep.Rocked between her delicate knees,his expression eased from stressed toserene. A tear slid down the girl’s face,

leaving a brown streak on her cheek. I covered mymouth to keep from screaming. How could childrenbe living like this when all I cared about wereclothes and shoes? As if she felt my connection withher, the girl looked up. Her eyes shot emotions at meall at once: anger, frustration, and loneliness.

For days, all I could think about was the girl andher brother. As if it wasn’t enough to handle, myaunt took my family out to dinner one night. As wepulled up to the fancy restaurant, my jaw dropped. Itwas beautiful; the massive chandelier hanging in thedoorway pierced the surrounding night.

A boy of about eight approached the car to tell uswhere to park. I was uncomfortably close to him,our faces and lives divided by the thin car window. Icouldn’t help but wonder who he was. I saw his tat-tered clothes and his sad brown eyes, but I didn’t

want to believe that there were children living suchshattered lives.

“Hold your purse close,” my aunt warned. Shepushed past the boy and tugged my hand.

As we sat down to dinner, my appetite disap-peared. I ate in silence, haunted by the boy’s face.God, why him? He doesn’t deserve this. At the endof dinner, my eyes darted across the table to an un-touched plate of food. I silently thanked God andasked the waiter for a take-out box.

“For him?” my aunt asked tenderly. I nodded.Stepping out into the heat of Beijing, I looked to-

ward our car. The same boy was standing next to thepassenger door, still but alert. I ran over, growingmore self-conscious with every step. “Here. This isyours. Eat it, please,” I begged. My American accentseemed to strain my words.

Unsure what to expect, I stepped back. Would hewant my leftovers, my garbage? Everything seemedto flash before me: the dress I spent hours beggingfor, the excessive amount of food I’d devoured in thelast hour. I was scared.

The rustle of the plastic bag shook me from mythoughts. He inspected the container’s contents, thenlooked up. For a second, I thought I was lookinginto the eyes of Brian, my little brother. I shivered.

“Thank you,” he blurted in an angelic voice. Heran off behind the building and out of sight. Thatcould be Brian.

I don’t know what the boy did with the food.Maybe he shared it with his family. Maybe they allenjoyed it. The possibilities were endless. Now, fouryears later, I wonder if that boy knows I’m writingabout him with a full stomach, in an air-conditionedroom halfway across the world, in a promisingcountry called America. I wonder if the subway girlhas a home. I wonder if she still has that strength Iadmired – the strength to smile even when the treas-ures in her life are practically invisible. I wonder ifthey both know how much they mean to a spoiledyoung girl like me. ✦

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink17LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK

Spoiled by Irina Huang, New City, NYcom

munity service

I didn’t want to believe that children lived

shattered lives

Art by Leonora Jew, Placentia, CA

Beulah Corum was 90 years old and dying of lungcancer when I met her. Her sparse cotton-whitehair was meticulously curled, and her lips were

painted red. She wore huge bifocals that went down pasther eyes, making her look bug-like. Her arms werefolded across her chest, and she wore a pink sweaterwith tan trousers. It was burning hot outside, and thenursing home did not believe in very much air condition-ing. I remember my blue volunteer polostuck to my back and my hair looked like tenhairdryers had hit it all at once.

I sat down on her loveseat and crossed mylegs. As my foot bobbed up and down nerv-ously, I asked her how she was doing. “I satat lunch for an hour before my food came.I’m ready to get out of this place.” Her apart-ment reflected that feeling, with its sparse decoration. Icouldn’t see a single personal item anywhere. The onlything that made it different from the rest was the hugeplastic breathing mask tucked under the television cabi-net. She caught me staring at it and explained the treat-ments she had to undergo to fight the cancer. I put themask into the cabinet, out of sight.

The next time I came to see her I brought a journal

and a pen. I said, “So, start at the beginning.” She took asip of water and began talking.

Words flowed and wrapped around each other, weav-ing pictures. I could suddenly see a three-year-old in ahospital bed. Tubes snaked from the girl’s left arm, and ayounger Beulah clung to her right. A machine screamedthe death. I watched the tears flooding the creases ofBeulah’s cheeks. We were both quiet for a long time.

I visited Beulah many times over the nexteight weeks. Each time, she would talk and Iwould listen. She gave me piles and piles ofmemories, some with more weight than others,and I complied them all into a scrapbook andtyped her biography. She held my hand andsmiled when I presented it to her.

I know that what I did for Beulah would fallunder the category of community service. And yet whenI tell people what I did that summer, no one seems to un-derstand the gift she gave me in return. I was able to seea life laid out from beginning to end. I learned that a sin-gle event can melt and spread its colors onto every mo-ment thereafter. She taught me to step carefully whenneeded and to leap high when not. Best of all, she wasmy friend. ✦

She taught me to stepcarefully

Beulah’s Story by Katie Collins, Manteno, IL

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COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

Before I first stepped into thefrigid atmosphere of Mr.Scalo’s realm, I pulled on my

fur-lined parka and took out my seal-skin gloves, well-prepared and readyto brave the cold.

Well, actually, I just shivered andtugged at the ends of my T-shirt,wishing I had brought a jacket. Istepped through the door and cranedmy neck to look for familiar facesthat first day of school. Unfortunately,I did not get to sit with my friendssince the assigned seats werearranged in alphabetical order. I wasforced to sit in the front column ofdesks while my friends sat far away,in the other half of the frozen tundraof a classroom.

I have an abundance of friends whohad Mr. Scalo as their history teacher,and I heard he was challenging. Iheard his classroom was an icebox.But all my friends described him asfunny. Whether they meant odd or hu-morous, I wasn’t sure. Now I considerhim to be both.

Mr. Scalo was a contestant on

“Jeopardy” a few years ago. On thelast day of school before winterbreak, he showed us a “special videopresentation.” Though we did notwatch the whole show, we saw himmake it past his first day on the show,and we couldn’t help but cheer himon. We were impressed with hisknowledge of presi-dents’ inauguralspeeches (to teens thisseems the most boringtopic ever), but we werenot the least bit sur-prised.

Mr. Scalo is undoubt-edly odd in his own way.Instead of the flexibledocument cameras that some teachersuse, Mr. Scalo insists on an old-school overhead projector that re-quires transparencies and squeakymarkers. In fact, he even told us thathe refused to change from chalk-boards to whiteboards in his previousschool. Eventually, he was forced touse them when he moved to teach insunny Cali, where the schools already

had slick whiteboards.His classroom is home to an ag-

glomeration of rusty, antique-lookingSwingline staplers that are probablyolder than I am. I had never seen astapler like his before. But despitetheir apparent age, they have neverbroken. Mr. Scalo once joked that

Abraham Lincoln hadused one of his staplers.Had his tone not been socomical, we might havebelieved him.

Mr. Scalo never fails tomake us laugh, which iswhy he still is my favoriteteacher. His humor is irre-sistible, and he makes his-

tory – a subject that some considerbland and boring – a class to look for-ward to. The words in our historybook become an enjoyable story whentold in a clever way. Of course, Mr.Scalo’s talent of speaking in hilariousaccents with edgy humor helps.

However, his class is still a chal-lenge for even the brightest students.We have to memorize the states, their

capitals, and their locations at the be-ginning of the year. This was just thestart of a long, hard struggle withmemorizing that year. After states, welearned the presidents, from GeorgeWashington to Barack Obama, andtheir vice presidents and terms. Thisonce caused me to have a dream thatJustin Bieber changed his name to J.Danforth Quayle (for those who arenot familiar with him, Quayle wasvice president under George H.W.Bush, the 41st president). We are cur-rently halfway through memorizing100 important dates in U.S. history.

Mr. Scalo is a dynamic teacher, oneI am very lucky to have. Though I’lladmit his classroom no longer feelslike Antarctica, he is still significantlydifferent from most of my teachers.His way of teaching through humor isappealing and easy to follow, but hischallenging requirements keep stu-dents on their toes. He is unique in histeaching skills and his quirkiness,which makes him an unequaled men-tor in the lessons of yesteryear. ✦

History Teacher • Carmel Valley Middle School

Gino Scalo by Morgan Chen, Encinitas, CA

His humormakes history a class to look

forward to

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” – Henry Brooks Adams

Iknow that those who taught me were once taught by others.In that way, one teacher’s influence on a student is a reflec-tion of another teacher’s work. I know that one day the im-

pact my teachers have had on me will allow me to impactothers. This is one of the many reasons I am privileged to knowMrs. Vickie Ball, English teacher at Harlan Independent HighSchool. Her influence on my life and my education more thanqualifies her as Educator of the Year.

Regardless of background, Mrs. Ball makes all students be-lieve in themselves. I have seen students enter her classroomexpecting to breeze by and get on with their lives. However,what they soon realize is that no one in her classroom will beallowed to “breeze by.” She believes in and en-courages her students to the point that they beginto believe in themselves. One thing she never al-lows students to do is tell themselves they cannotdo something.

She expects her students to put forth their besteffort – in other words, to try. She expects this sostrongly that none of her students ever utter “Idon’t know” in her presence (to do so would be near blas-phemy). Mrs. Ball will not accept that answer. Newcomers tendto use that as a safety answer, expecting her to move on tosomeone else, but they are sorely mistaken. Like a bird of preycircling, Mrs. Ball will patiently wait for that student to delvedeeper for the answer. She knows that they know, so she willnot accept defeat, and she teaches them to not accept it either.

Another reason Mrs. Vickie Ball should be Educator of theYear is the way that she teaches students to have inner strength.In tough situations, Mrs. Ball will kindly tell her students (maleor female) to “put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”She says this often when her students feel as if life is pressur-ing them or that something is too difficult. Although the phraseis comical, Mrs. Ball uses it to teach her students that they canendure – they can “deal with it.”

Mrs. Ball tries to include life lessons in her teaching. Even

on the first day, I remember Mrs. Ball presenting a humorousPowerPoint slide that compared a student chewing gum to acow chewing her cud. On another occasion, she showed a Pow-erPoint illustrating the dangers of misplaced modifiers. As welaughed at the funny examples, we learned and became moreaware of our own mistakes. As Shakespeare would say, “Thereis a method in the madness.”

Mrs. Ball’s experience as a mother helps her build characterin her students. Those in her classroom are treated more likeher children than students. She takes time to work with each ofus individually – something a good mother and a good teacherknows to do – ’til we understand the content. She expects allstudents to be well-mannered in and out of her classroom, andto develop morals and virtues to guide them in life.

I also believe Mrs. Ball deserves this award dueto her outstanding teaching skills. She begins teach-ing before the tardy bell rings, making sure that nota second is wasted in her class. I have experienceddays where I begin writing before the bell and donot finish until two minutes after class is over. Mrs.Ball teaches students to retain the knowledge theygain, rather than memorize for a test. Her assess-

ments are designed so students must explain what they havelearned, as well as apply those concepts on a deeper level.

I can say (without a doubt) that of all the tests I have taken inmy life, Mrs. Ball’s have been some of the most difficult, be-cause I actually had to think. One of Mrs. Ball’s best skills isher ability to realize when she has made a mistake and to cor-rect it, which few people are humble enough to do. And so,Mrs. Ball teaches by example for me how to admit my ownmistakes and correct them. She teaches her students humility.

The way I see it, Mrs. Ball’s influence on my life will last foreternity. As I influence those around me (whether it be offeringadvice, mentoring, instructing, or counseling), I know that thepart of me she has impacted will reach others. Mrs. Ball goesabove and beyond what is asked of her, and it has made all thedifference to me. ✦

English Teacher • Harlan Independent High School

Vickie Ball by Nicholas Howard, Harlan, KY

She takes timeto work with

each of us

1) Tell us why your nominee is spe-cial. What has your educator donefor your class, you, another student,or the community? Be specific.

2) Essays should be between 150and 500 words.

3) Only junior and senior highschool educators are eligible.

4) Include your nominee’s first and last name, position or subjecttaught, and the school where he/sheteaches.

Online: TeenInk.com/Submissions

or E-mail:[email protected]

Winners and honorable mentions will be announced in the June 2012 issue.

Educatorof theYear

Contest

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Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 222

pri

de

& p

reju

dic

eHe leaned over my desk, his body casting a

shadow over my writing. Two fists weresuddenly pressed hard next to my book, giv-

ing him an air of undeserved authority. “You knowthey’re just joking, right?” His voice was gentle, asif he were speaking to a timid animal.

I nodded slowly, confused, trying to focus on mywork as my blood boiled. “I’m aware that they’rejoking, but jokes can be offensive, and I was feelinguncomfortable,” I said.

He took a deep breath, a small, nearly unde-tectable smile playing at the corners of his mouth.He shoved his sleeves up his arms.“The more you ask them to stop,the more they’ll just keep doing it.That’s how they work.” He wastelling me what many men hadtried to explain before: men don’tchange, men don’t stop, men won’tlisten to you.

And oh, he was so very smart, hiswords so very wise. I knew that hethought he was imparting some helpful, kind-heartedwisdom on me. He was trying to save the silly girlwho was making a fool of herself by refusing to toler-ate something that made her and other girls uncom-fortable. He was playing big brother, daddy, thesavior on a white horse sent to shut me up.

I looked at him, anger burning the back of myneck and my cheeks. “So, because they won’t stop, Ishould just give up? I should let them make sexistjokes that make me very uneasy?” We were in his-tory class. I thought I deserved to feel safe.

His smirk faltered a bit. “They’re just joking.They don’t actually mean what they say.”

People were watching us; I could feel their eyes. Iwas suddenly vulnerable. I wanted them to stop star-ing, to go away. I wanted this boy to sit down and

talk instead of towering over me.“They may mean those jokes to be harmless, but

they’re ignorant,” I continued. “Believe me, thejokes don’t end at ‘Women should stay in thekitchen.’ They continue until they become sexualand inappropriate. I want them to stop now before Ihave even more reason to be angry.” I’d been downthis road before, many times.

“I think you should just give it up before theygang up on you,” he replied, calmly and reasonably,like an adult pacifying a cranky child.

I was so upset I wanted to cry, but the steam gath-ering behind my eyes made tears im-possible. I wondered who he thoughthe was, standing over a girl he’d neverspoken to, telling her that her wordswere useless, that she could try butshe’d always fail. If we had beenfriends, I would have listened; if he’dspoken to me like a peer, I would havecared. But he was just pushing medown, stuffing me into a box until

I suffocated on all of my useless, silly words.I looked him in the eye and said, “If they’re

going to be rude, then I will be rude back.”My comment didn’t even make sense. Ten

minutes earlier, a group of boys had been trad-ing sexist jokes about women. I had turnedaround in my seat, looked one of the boys inthe eye, and said, “Just please stop, for me. I’masking you to stop.” That boy looked doubtfulbut he stopped, and I resumed my work. I didn’t yell, lecture, or swear. I simply asked. Iused words, the only weapon I knew how touse, and everything was okay.

Now this boy had the nerve to tell me thatmy words didn’t mean anything. This boy hurtme more than he realized. He tried to take

away the only weapon I had to defend myself.But he didn’t have the power to do that. I will

never stop fighting for what I believe is right. I willnever stop standing up for myself, my friends, andmy gender, and I will never stop using my (stupid,useless, fruitless, beautiful, powerful, amazing)words.

He backed away, easing off my desk. Frustrationwas apparent in his face, but he kept his featuresstony and emotionless. “Fine, whatever. But you’llnever get anywhere with them, believe me.”

I didn’t believe him. To this day, I don’t believehim, because I have continually used my knowledgeand my words to make others rethink their actions.Sometimes I fail and they don’t stop. Sometimes mywords get me into trouble. But sometimes I evenmake a new ally.

Little did he know, that boy didn’t break medown. He made me stronger. ✦

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Take a Joke, Sweetheart by Jess Rockeman, Cottonwood Court, MN

Ihave size 12 women’s feet, and I’m proud of it. I like walking into shoe stores and having only six

pairs to choose from – it cuts down the decisiontime. I also enjoy being able to order my prom shoesfrom yourfeetmakeyouunique.com because I know noone else will have the same shoes. It doesn’t hurt, either,that the name of the store is a confidence booster.

People ask me how I deal with having big feet, but tobe honest, I rarely think about it. I have been the biggestgirl in my family, among my friends, andin my grade my whole life. I am athleti-cally built and am not meant to wear sizefour clothing like my sister.

There are benefits to my size. When I’mplaying softball, I am able to maintain mybalance if a girl slides into me at homeplate. My feet, hands, legs, and arms are allin proportion, so if I were to lose 30pounds, I would look abnormal and might even be mis-taken for E.T.’s twin.

I used to be uncomfortable with my body, which isnormal for kids my age, but I always thought I wasworse off than everyone else. I never ate more than nor-mal size portions, and I played sports, so I was not lazy.

When I was young, I was pretty frustrated, thinking Ihad been born with a less than ideal body. During juniorhigh and into high school, I was afraid to wear nice

clothes because I thought they only looked good ongirls who wore a size two and had size seven feet. In-stead, I would wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants, or oc-casionally jeans if I was feeling adventurous. In stores,I resented the cute clothing as if it was the clothes’ faultI couldn’t try them on. I wished I could wear mysmelly softball uniform everywhere because that waswhat I felt most comfortable in. On the softball field, itdidn’t matter what size I was, only how well I played.

I don’t know exactly when it happened,but one day I realized I didn’t hate mybody anymore. Maybe it was the day Ipitched five games in a row and could havekept playing, or the time I tried on a bikinifor laughs and saw that it actually lookedgood on me. Maybe I just grew tired ofwishing my body was different.

Now I’m happy when I step onto the vol-leyball court wearing tight spandex, because I know Ican serve a ball that most girls can’t dig up. I am evenhappy walking on the beach in a bikini because I feelpowerful. And when I walk down the halls at school orthe mall, I am not self-conscious. I wouldn’t change athing, even if my fairy godmother gave me threewishes. I will just keep walking with my head heldhigh, putting one size-12 foot in front of the other,knowing that I am beautiful. ✦

Loving My Size by Kellie Scholefield, Hollis, NH

“The more you ask them to stop,the more they’ll

just keep doing it”

On the softballfield, it didn’tmatter what

size I was

PerfectionMy body is perfect.Absolutely perfect.My head, shoulders, knees, and toes,My eyes, my ears, my mouth, my noseAre all fully functional, fully beautiful.Sure, not everyone will look at me and love

everything they see.I am not blonde, I am not flat,My nose is big,My legs are fat,My tummy’s too chubby,My skin is too white.I have cellulite.But these “flaws” are okay; I’m only human,

right?Well, these chunky legs let me walk upright,Let me walk right down the street with a smile

stretched across my cheeks.These crooked teeth, they let me eat french fries

and gummy bears and oranges and chocolate.Look at this – Look at ME!I can dance.I can do a cartwheel.I walk extremely well in heels.And at the end of the day when those heels have

blistered my feet,My eyesWill not cry because this body feels no pain.Even when they leave me stained black and blueMy brain lifts me up and carries me through.But my heart,I can feel it in this heart, my favorite body part

that feels sorrow, joy, love, and hateAnd I love to listen to the constant beat,The steady flow of blood through my veinsGiving color to the stains on my pearly

white skin,Giving life to all my parts withinAnd all my parts without.PumpingPumpingPumping to every beautiful, functioning cell in

my beautiful, functioning body.So even though I may not look like much to you,I dare you to tell me this body isn’t perfect.

by Blythe Culpepper, Gibson, GA

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink23

art gallery

Photo by Ellena Pfeffer, Northoaks, MN

Art by Maria Tomski, Vaughan, ON, Canada

Photo by Abdullah Abussaud, Qatif, Saudi Arabia

Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details

Art by Maria Sweeney, Whiting, NJ

Photo by Ashton Dixon, Vincennes, INArt by Emma Hoppough, Chico, CA

nonf

icti

on There’s something fundamentally wrong aboutputting your hair into the hands of a scissor-wielding fiend in stilettos and designer cloth-

ing with a hunk of congealing, over-gelledwho-knows-what growing on top of her head. Shehobbles up in her heels, grips your hand with claw-like red fingernails, and shows her teeth in a painedsmile somewhere between passing gas and extremeconstipation.

“Do something,” you say, “just wipe that painedexpression off your face and pull your lips back overyour fangs before someone mistakes you forMedusa and chops off your head.”

Okay, so maybe you don’t say that.But you think it. As the time-worn epi-taph goes, “Speak to the hairdresser atyour own risk.” It’s never good to of-fend the one wielding the scissors. Onewrong snip and – “Oops! Sorry.”Maybe you can tell your friends youwere mauled by a bear to explain thatgiant chunk of missing hair on the sideof your head.

After she shakes your hand and wins the Prize forMost Constipated Expression, she leads you over toone of those squishy swivel chairs and runs herclaws through your hair. You try not to shiver. Youfail. It’s a shiver of epic proportions, starting at thetip-top of your head and popping down each verte-brae of your spine. She takes you to another chair towash your hair, getting shampoo in your ears andmaking you shiver again. She leads you back to thechair and drags her claws along your scalp oncemore. Of course you shiver.

Maybe she’ll just think you have a weird twitch.Or maybe you can tell her you’re mildly epileptic.It’s a special case, you can say: no real seizures,only spastic shivers 12 or 15 times an hour. Exacer-bated by creepy hairdressers in stilettos with pointyred claws. Nothing serious.

She buries those pointy red clawsdeep in the shadowy recesses of a cabi-net drawer and emerges bearing theflashing blades of the dreaded scissors.The first thing you think is, If she tripsin those heels while holding those scis-sors, good-bye Left Eyeball, ol’ buddy.It’s been nice seeing out of you. Don’tworry, the glass eye will never takeyour place in my heart.

She’s poised over your hair, thensnatches a handful and positions theblade. You squeeze your eyes shut, pray,

and stifle a scream as thescissors rasp shut. You sitin stony silence for the restof the haircut, gripping theseat until your knuckles are white, re-fusing to respond to the hairdresser’sattempts at conversation. Maybe she’llthink you’re deaf. Or maybe you couldsay something like, “Me no speaky

Eenglee.” It’s a special case, you can say: normallyyou speak perfect English, but once or twice a dayyou undergo a vocal-cord bypass and suddenly allyou can speak is stilted Russian. Exacerbated bycreepy hairdressers in stilettos with pointy redclaws. Nothing serious.

You keep your eyes furiously glued to the floor,just waiting for the scissors to slip, skewer your eye-ball, and then pop it out again like a shish kebab.Just waiting for her to make an irreparable mistakeand shatter your life before your very eyes. Justwaiting for her to turn into a flame-eyed, bat-wingeddemon from hell. Wielding the Scissors of Death.

Finally the moment has arrived. She asks you to look in the mirror. No amount of twitching, shivering, and sudden deafness can save you now.You raise your head, feeling like a 100-poundweight is attached to your chin. You stare at yourself

in the mirror. Silent. Speechless. Thunderstruck.Flabbergasted.

Because you love it.It’s beautiful and light and stylish and sassy and

perfect. Everything you wanted but didn’t ask for.Couldn’t ask for. Wouldn’t ask for.

You gush over it, and fondle it, and feel the ruf-fled edges with your fingertips. You thank her. Thenyou thank her again. And again. And again. Becauseeach “thank you” is a secret “I’m sorry” that’s gluedto the roof of your mouth. Your smile stretches fromthe bottom of the ocean to the sky, the Golden GateBridge to New York, Mars to Pluto, Earth to Heaven.So you thank her again.

Maybe she’ll think you’re bipolar. Maybe you cansay you suffer from convulsive depression. It’s aspecial case, you can say. Every once in a while youundergo a sinking gloominess and you can barelyraise your head and look at yourself.

But it’s cured by smiling hairdressers in cutestilettos with pretty, red-painted fingernails.

Nothing serious. ✦

I walkBooks and paper in handHead downEyes to the floorJust trying to get through school

unnoticedI am a mountainA freight-train carrying unwanted

luggageI am a dumpsterWhere some boy threw

away his excessAnd then walked awayWithout looking back

I am that girl no one wants to be

The girl who wears her sin on her skinI am uncleanUnholyUnworthy of any affectionBesides the snubs and snide commentsFrom the sides of everyone’s mouth

Silver-violet rivers cutThrough my pale island shoresStretching the fabric of my body to its

breaking pointMovement insideSmall twitches of thrashes and kicksAre all that keep me movingAll that keep me alive

The life I carry inside meHe is holyHe is perfect

He is cleanThis tiny little lifeDefenseless against the cruelty of the outside worldMy tiny alienNow complete with toes and fingernails

I can’t give upI can’t let goNot when I am so closeNot when everything I ever fearedEver hatedEver ridiculedHas become the only thing I loveAnd cherish

So let them scorn

Let them snubLet them avert their eyesLike I am a disease

Because I am so much more than that

I am braveI am strongAnd I am going to be a momAt 17

So when I see himWalking down the hallIn his red shirts and faded jeansWhen I see him avert his eyesAnd walk awayWhen I see him sit aloneAnd when I see his unshed tearsI knowHe will never love the way I doHe will never care for somethingThe way he pledged those many

nights agoHe will never hear my baby’s heartbeatOr know his tiny fingersHe will never know his little faceLooking just like his father

And he will never know the edges of hischild’s heart

Because he is afraidBecause he cannot bear to stand up

And face the world the way I have been forced to do

Because he is not strong enough to saythose three words

To a life he helped create

He will never mean those three words to anyone he says them to

He will never say “I love you”

Because I am the only one who carriesour broken secret

Like a tattoo upon my skinI am a mountainComplete with silver-violet riversAnd a knocking sound withinI am an alienBearing life forms in my womb

But more than that?I am a motherThrust into life too soon ✦

Through the Eyes of a Pregnant 17-Year-Old by “Sara,” Fort Wayne, IN

It’s never goodto offend theone wieldingthe scissors

I am thatgirl no one

wants to be

Photo by Olivia Ezinga, Alto, MI

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM24Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2

Just a Little Off the Top by Keilah Sullivan, Eureka, MO

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink25

nonfiction

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Sometimes I forget I am an adapted pariah, anoutcast who fits everywhere but belongsnowhere. Which universe is the real one? Both

realms seem surreal to me, for both shock me on adaily basis and both have remarkably redefined myperceptions of right and wrong. I have come to seethat. And both realms, despite their vastly differentteaching conventions, have together molded mysocio-political identity.

I was born into a humble Mexican family 17years ago in the city of East Palo Alto. It was, is,and always will be my hometown, the roots thathold together the blossoming flower that is my intellect, the soil that erects the stem of my

philosophy. However, in spite of its native features,here is the problem since day one: I don’t belongthere. As a kid, I’d walk to school, hoping to greet agroup of students as passionate and devoted tolearning as I was. Instead, I’d see a bunch of pre-teens who let their impoverished state, their chau-vinist community, and their misguided intuitionidentify them. They made the ghetto look like theghetto, playing the Hispanic stereotype of baggypants, knotted hair, long white T-shirts, and worstof all, malicious faces. They preached racism to-ward white people, homophobia, and a general in-tolerance for anyone who refused to conform totheir lifestyle. I, however, strove to remain resilient,

reminding myself that this environment was aninterim step toward success and that the great-est leaders have always faced oppression, evenfrom their kin. I remained resilient – until myfamily wasn’t there to support me.

I love my family: they provide me with food,refuge, and constant concern for my needs.However, in my final year of middle school, mymother suffered a severe clinical depression. Inother words, the sole person who brought meinto this world, who always slapped a giant kisson my greasy forehead when I came home fromschool, who always cooked my favorite dish offrijoladas, transformed virtually overnight. Nolonger did I wake up to smell pancakes sizzlingon a cold morning. Now, I woke up with boththe house and my psychological state an ab-solute mess, with my mother, for reasons I stillcannot understand, sobbing silently in the cor-ner. And so, when I confessed that I’d beenbeaten, bullied, and ostracized from our commu-nity, she met me with empty eyes.

I began to wear long white tees as well, andmy accent was laced with anurban voice. But I realized thatI couldn’t just loiter around thefront door; if I wanted mybrothers to welcome me, Ineeded to demonstrate that Icould be as hostile and as men-acing as they were. All of this,frankly, I would have done, butI quickly realized that this lifewas not what I wanted; theseclothes weren’t mine.

Over time, I came to two important conclu-sions. First, everything you love, every piece offabric you weave together into the quilt that isyour life, can be ripped apart in a moment. Sec-

ond, when a friend waskilled in a drive-byshooting, I immediatelyrealized that this is notmy home; despite thefact that I grew up andlive here, I cannot sur-vive here. And so, without my mother’s approval, I applied andwas accepted to a privatehigh school in privilegedAtherton, a place I sowanted to belong.

Here, I feel relieved.Yes, I am angered whenI hear a white boy mak-ing racist allusions, or

when peers slander the very place I live, sayingthey’d “get shot instantly.” Yes, I am vexed at thesheer aristocracy that I immerse myself in everyday, where teenagers take luxuries for granted andcriticize perfectly good food, when I am simplythankful to no longer be eating moldy hot dogs forlunch. Yes, I am annoyed at the perfect academic/athlete profile this school has strived to maintain.Yes, I am infuriated when students assert thatpoverty is a result of laziness and a lack of dili-gence, not unfortunate circumstance. And yes, I feelpoorer when my peers know everything about col-leges and financial resources to visit them, not tomention SAT coaches to increase their odds of ad-mission, while I grew up in a place where highschool dropouts are as common as iPhones are here.In short, I have jumped from one stereotypical ex-

treme to another – from attending aninner-city school where being Mexi-can means that you are normal, to asuburban bubble where being Mexi-can means you probably clean toi-lets, serve food, or pick up trash.

However, despite the financial andracial isolation I face at this school, Iam generally thankful for escapingmy self-subjugating former commu-

nity and joining a collection of bright minds in aplace where pursuers of knowledge are not mockedbut exalted. I have been challenged to manage mytime wisely and to write a paper effectively, lessonsI may not have learned otherwise. It has preparedme as the son of a man who never graduated fromsixth grade, as the first member of my family whoplans to attend college, as that young boy who triedso hard to fit in and make his peers laugh, to developinto a powerful, confident individual for whom nei-ther of his worlds can take sole credit.

I cannot be a Mexican-American; I am either tooMexican for whites or too white for Mexicans. Icannot be a ghetto intellectual; I am either too ghettofor the intellectuals or too intellectual for the ghetto.But to be blunt, who cares? Conformity is simplythe absence of the courage to be different, andwealth is a poor, arbitrary way to measure such assimilation.

These stereotypical extremes have only strength-ened my beliefs. I sometimes get confused aboutwhich universe is the real one and which is the alter-nate reality. But in the end, it does not matter. I shallintertwine them. ✦

I Can Move Through Worlds by Antonio Lopez, East Palo Alto, CA

EnheduannaMagnetic attractionMy fingers hoverpoised over the paper with purpose

Praise the womanWho, like Enheduanna,loves the smell of concentrationWho writesAs if walking around a wall Could bring it down forever.Praise the woman who has trampled that wallTo the ashesWhere the prejudices of humanity crumble

to nonexistence

It calls me by my nameMy real name no one knowsAnd pensively I contemplate,perhaps it named me

My face shines with awe at the womanWho, like Harriet Beecher Stowe,does not mind inky handsAs if the work of her small hands could compel tearsI radiate awe to the womanWho has united this world through emotionAnd has wet the faces of her neighbors

Perhaps it is a fatal addictionIf so, I beg to capitulate to its poisonSpare me the opiate if this is painRather, hone the weapon which afflicts me

Honor the womanWho, like Maya Angelou,Fans her face with the wings of a bookAs if freeing her words

couldLiberate people from their

hurtingHonor the womanWho has left the cage

door ajarand still does not forget

the prisoner’s lamentsLong after it has flown

Praise the Woman whoWrites

by Keely Hendricks,Nashville, TN

Conformity is simply the absenceof the courage to

be different

Art by Heather Rose, Mill Valley, CA

Photo by Michelle Moy, Brooklyn, NY

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 226

envi

ronm

ent

Ayoung man, not yet a high school grad-uate, lies in a canoe floating on a stilllake deep in the North American

woods. An almost imperceptible breeze fluttersjust above the water’s surface, its chilling ten-drils faintly brushing over the contented teen.It’s just past midnight, and the cabins liningthe shore show no signs of life. This, coupledwith the only nearby town being a small com-munity, means that light pollution is negligi-ble. Without that nuisance, the heavens arefully revealed in all their glory.

He lies, overwhelmed. Theearth drops away and his breathis taken from him by the splendorof the night sky. He observes aglowing band of light, a highwayof billions of stars known by theancients as Via Lactea – theMilky Way. The galaxy abovehim spans the entire night sky,horizon to horizon, illuminating the otherwisedark, pitiless vacuum of space not 200 milesabove his head. He knows it’s massive,100,000 light-years across and another 1,000thick, the distances almost inconceivable.

But he knows there is more. He lets hisimagination pierce the confines of the visible,and his mind perceives the Milky Way as justone galaxy of 30 in the Local Group, and evenfurther as a member of the Virgo Supercluster,an immense collection of galaxies over 110million light-years across. His mind staggersas he realizes this supercluster is but one of

millions in the known universe.His mind’s eye now abandons its useless

forms of measurement; the distances he per-ceives now are of such dizzying scales thatthey render his puny world inconsequential bycomparison. He imagines the distant quasarsand pulsars, gamma ray bursts and red-shiftedgalaxies, toeing the edge of what the light-speed boundary allows us to see, and he isthankful.

He is thankful for the rod and cone cellscovering the walls of his retina, reacting to

every ray of light and firing apulse down the optical nerves to acentral location in a web of neu-rons. He is thankful for everychemical reaction, every electrontransfer through the synapses ofhis brain that allow him to feel thecool water into which he now dipshis hand. He is thankful for the

sun, the magnificent fusion bomb that powersevery action and reaction on Earth’s surface.

Tears brim the edges of his eyes as he re-flects on the laws of the universe, the notes,melodies, and harmonies through which thecosmos plays its tune. Quarks form hadronsform atoms form molecules form objects fromgrains of sand to galaxies. Gravity, electro-magnetism, the strong and weak forces, ther-modynamics – all play their pivotal roles in theintergalactic opera, and he is thankful. Theuniverse is an incredible place. ✦

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The Beauty of the Cosmosby Alex Fong, Golden, CO

21st Century EvolutionWe’ve lost their wingsSo we sprout plastic ones.Grow radar goggles to seeWhat we wantThrough the filmPlasteredOn our airplane windows.

Try to ignore natureKnocking. FacingOur own destructionHurts too much. Yet hazeThreatens us. It’ll engulfOur precious cities.It’s already started.

We shut the shadeTo sweep over the gash.We want to ignoreNature screaming, curledUp in a corner.

But it bangsOn the glass. ClawsUs to wake our dormantBrains, to openThem to scarred fieldsBelow. It begs us to hear overThe propellers, to notLet them shredMother into withered husks.

It tells the bubble people They’ve broken one wing.It pleads with our closed eyelidsTo protect the other.

But we crumple its pleasIn a paper fistTo toss behindAnd litterOur footsteps.

by Helene Lovett, New Orleans, LA

BOOK REVIEW

The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan

The main problem I’ve always had with books about the food industry is, if they do theirjob, they end up making you not want to eat anything. I’m not saying that that’s necessarily

a bad thing, but it makes me hesitant to recommend The Omnivore’s Dilemma. The first half of the book is a look inside the industrial food industry. All you self-loathing

neo-food-nature-hippies who want fuel to protest with should look here. It contains a startlingamount of information about the state of the food industry, from feedlot conditions to cattlefeed to chemical processing plants. It even goes a bit into the industrial organic industry, whichis in some ways just as bad as traditional industrial food. If, however, you are a more optimistic

neo-food-nature-hippy, you’ll be more interested in the second halfof the book.

Here, author Michael Pollan looks at a more natural way of ob-taining food: through local food chains that include grass-fedfarms, and by foraging in the wild. This section is less informativeand more philosophical, which made it more interesting to me. Itdelves into the idea that people should be personally connected totheir food, an idea supported by Pollan’s loving descriptions of themeals he enjoys during his expeditions into the natural food chain.In fact, Pollan prepares a meal completely self-reliantly, learning

how to identify mushrooms, hunt for wild pig, and harvest yeast from the San Francisco air. The way the book is divided into two separate world views helps to brilliantly demonstrate

the contrast between how we eat and how we should eat. The description of the cynical – somewould say realistic – portrayal of food in the first half, however, pales in comparison to the lov-ing detail given to the wholesome, delicious food prepared in the second half.

Reading how the animals actually live good lives on local farms may make you feel badabout eating a Big Mac next time you’re hungry and short on time and cash. But does that guiltmake reading this book not worth it? In short, no. ✦

by Kyle Ferris, Littleton, CO

The heavens are fully

revealed in alltheir glory

People shouldbe personallyconnected to

their food

Photo by Joanna Eaton, Spotswood, NJ

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink27LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK

When a person is born theyknow nothing, and I was nodifferent. All I knew was

what they told me to believe. I didn’tknow that what they had told me mademe different.

At my preschool in December, SantaClaus was all the talk. Most kids hadsat on the big red hero’s lap. Siaosiwanted a Nintendo 64. Brian wanted aTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bed. AndI wanted a Batman movie. I knew whoSanta Claus was. Likeeverything else myworld had told me tobelieve, I believed inhim. I believed in hisjolly smile. I believed inhis godly powers. I wasa nice kid, so he’dsurely be stopping by.

When my father came to pick me upI asked, “When can I tell Santa what Iwant for Christmas?”

“Santa doesn’t come to our house,Marky,” he confessed with a chuckle.Something was funny, but I didn’t getit. “We don’t celebrate Christmas. Jewsdon’t believe in Santa Claus.”

So now I knew. I was a Jew. My godwas not Allah. My god was Adonai. Hisson is not Jesus, but we were all createdin the image of God. Christians, Mus-lims, Buddhists, Hindus. They’re allwrong, and we’re right. My rabbi maynot have taught me this, but that’s thefeeling I got.

My pride began to gleam blue, silver,and white. Judaism was my identity. Itmade me feel like I belonged. I was oneof the “chosen people.” My ideas sur-passed those who had not been chosen.

Pretty cool.My parents entered me into classes at

my temple. The stories of the Biblewere taught to me like facts – whatgoes up must come down, and a glasshalf empty is the same as a glass halffull. There was no question: On the firstday, God created light. There was nodisputing that God took the next day toseparate the skies from the seas. Hecreated everything in existence. Nodoubt about it. God had the power to doanything. No one would suspect any-thing else – except maybe the kid sit-ting next to me in third grade.

Chris and I had no reason to hateeach other. We both liked sports. Wewere both nice people. We both hadJansport backpacks. We could havebeen great friends. We should havebeen great friends. Chris and I gotalong until one day when he asked if Ibelieved in God. I didn’t know this wassomething to be debated. Of course Ibelieved. Who didn’t?

“You’re an idiot,” Chris muttered.No, Chris, you’re an idiot. After all, Iwas chosen and you weren’t.

Chris wasn’t the only idiot, though.My class was full of them. Kids knew I

was Jewish because I refused to partici-pate in Christmas activities. While theycaroled, I mouthed the words. Whilethey made Easter eggs, I stood on thetables and made noise. They woreSanta hats, and for a time in sixthgrade, I wore a kippah under my 49ers hat, reminding me that God hadcontrol.

I loved the 49ers. In sixth grade, dur-ing a crucial playoff game, I prayed toGod that the 49ers would win. The

49ers had fumbled the ballwith only a four-pointlead. I know people usu-ally turn to God when aship is sinking or whentheir child is drafted tojoin the armed forces, butthe 49ers making it to theSuper Bowl was just as

important to me.“God, please let the Niners stop them

here,” I pleaded. “Please. I’ll do any-thing.”

The opposing quarterback took thesnap, dropped a few steps back, andthrew a long pass downfield to the endzone.

“Let there be an interception. Let thereceiver blink,” I begged, kneeling andgazing up at the TV screen. Everythingwas moving in slow motion. “Some-thing. Anything. Please.”

The ball continued in a perfect spiral.I expected God to make it wobble likean injured bird in flight. The receivercontinued downfield, galloping aheadof the defender. I expected God tomake him trip.

The clock wound down to the lastfive seconds. I was still waiting for amiracle. The ball continued to fall. Theonly force acting upon it was gravitynow, propelling it into the hands of thereceiver. I made one last prayer. Per-haps locusts would eat the ball. But instead it fell into the fingertips of thereceiver. Touchdown. Game over. Niners lost.

I didn’t understand. How did I knowGod was out there if he never re-sponded to my wishes? I thought backto what I had been taught in temple. Onthe first day, God created light. Butwho created God? For the first time, itdidn’t make sense to me.

The next week, my doubts increased;we started learning about evolution inschool. It seemed that each day in theBible was millions of years in evolu-tion. On the first day, we were apes. Onthe second day, we were Homo habilis.On the third day, we began to walk ontwo feet. On the fourth day, we becamecavemen – Homo sapiens. On the fifthday, we became human. It was awfullydifferent from what I had been told. Ifelt I had been lied to.

The next week in sixth grade socialstudies, we learned about the Holo-caust. That week, I found out that six

million Jews were killed because theybelieved something that others did not.Six million chosen people, includingmuch of my family and almost mygrandma. And where was God?

I began to question every momentsomething had gone wrong for the Jew-ish people. Had he just ignored uswhen we were kicked out of Spain in1492? Had God been sleeping for thepast 60 years as Israel has existed inconstant turmoil? God was supposed toprotect us. Why would he let us facesuch oppression? Why would he let usbe constantly attacked?

Like he created conflict between meand Chris in third grade, God had beencreating conflicts for as long as he’dexisted. The Spanish missionaries andthe Native Americans had fought overGod. People had killed in the name ofGod. A suicide bomber had smuggled abomb in his underwear for God.

First Chris told me God didn’t exist.Then God gave up on the 49ers. Thenevolution made me doubt that God cre-ated everything around me. And then Ilearned a troubling history that Godhad failed to prevent. All this pointed tothe same inconceivable idea: God isn’tout there. We’re alone.

And that was what I believed until afew months ago.

• • •Her eyes were shut. Her lips were

painted with vomit. Her legs were limpas she dropped to her knees. Her headslid down my legs to rest on my feet.

The smell of alcohol attacked mynostrils as Nick pulled out his phone.This wasn’t our fault. Everyone wassaying we needed to get her help andget out of there. If my parents foundout that once again I had gotten myselfinto trouble, I’d beshipped to Utah by tomorrow.

Nick dialed, gave ourlocation, her name, andher condition. A voiceechoed in my head, myvoice, reminding me thatI had brought her hereand there was no God to save her.

I looked down at Sarah. She was stillpassed out with her head on my feet,fastening them to the ground. I lookedaround me again. I was all alone. Whyhad everyone else left? Should I leavetoo?

I begged for an answer. I neededsome guidance, and so I waited. Ithought maybe, just maybe, God wasreal and would help me. Maybe he’dmake me invisible or make Sarah re-cover in time for me to get her out ofhere before the police arrived. So Iwaited. Frustration pulsed through myveins.

“Goddamnit!” I screamed. Every-one’s a liar. God’s a liar. God isn’t real.

But then, I heard it. It had been there

the whole time. I just hadn’t real-ized what it meant.

You brought her here, thevoice in my head reminded me.You’re responsible for her. God’swords resonated inside me, andmy feet stayed glued beneathSarah’s head. There was a God.There is a God.

It was then I realized that forme God is not a supreme being.He can’t make seas part and hecan’t control the weather. I havemy own god. I created him. Hedidn’t create me. My god is myhead.

He can’t save lives. He doesn’tcreate miracles. But my god doescreate nonetheless. He createsmorals and beliefs, talents andinterests. He tells me what’sgood and what’s evil. I don’t al-ways follow his orders, but I dobelieve in him. I believe in mygod. My god is my head.

God helps me when I need tomake a decision, and to me, he’s always right. He’ll rationalize mychoices and make suggestions like amentor, like a conscience.

My god has been my head ever sinceI could think. When I sin, my god pun-ishes me with guilt, and that’s enoughto make me want to do good. So I don’tneed heaven or hell to guide me. I justneed my god. And while everyonefights over where or whether or how orwhen God existed, I won’t fight. Iknow my god is my head and no onecan convince me otherwise.

So, with Sarah at my feet, I had achoice. I could stay and make sure shewas all right, because that was my re-sponsibility, or I could flee to avoid

punishment. Then, red andblue lights flashed, and aparamedic hopped out ofthe ambulance.

“She had too much todrink,” I told him.

As the paramedics loadedSarah into the ambulance, acop questioned me. He

asked who gave her the alcohol andwhere everyone went. I answered po-litely, knowing there was no way myparents weren’t going to find out. Henodded with each answer, then pushedme against the hood of the squad carand proceeded to pat me down.

“That was an honorable thing to do,”he said as he clicked the handcuffsaround my wrists and guided me intothe back seat of the cruiser. “Why’dyou stay?”

I looked at him through the barredwindow of the back seat and smiled.

“Something in my head told me to.Maybe it was God. Maybe it was myconscience. But I like to think it wasboth.” ✦

God Is My Head by Mark Levin, Los Altos, CA

How did I knowGod was out

there if he neverresponded?

nonfiction

Sarah was stillpassed out at my feet. I was

all alone.

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cult

ure Mother Tongue by Leeya Mengistu, Somerset, KY

28

“Sometimes I wish I had never come here.”My father doesn’t realize that his words stick with me.Backwards, not forwardsto the day he arrived in this countrysomewhere in 1992.Nothing in his hands but a medical degree,a waiting, pregnant wife,and his family’s blessing.The epitome of the American dream:an immigrant building himself up in the land of

opportunities.Even if that land killed one of his daughters,failed his wife’s business,and crumbled his family.He said those words in a conversationabout how I still couldn’t speakAmarangya, the language of his people.Not-so-secretly, I blame my older sisterwho spoke Amarangya first,but eagerly drank up English at school.And I, always eager to follow her,refused to speak Amarangya,waiting at the door like a friendly puppy,ready to hear what she had learned that day:“Hi”“My name is Leeya”“L-E-E-Y-A”“See Tom run”“The cat is fatand the rat has a hat”I absorbed the words and disregarded my parents’I was a first-generation AmericanGod bless the USA.But I guess I loved “my country” too muchAlways jumping from phase to phase that this place had

to offerPrincesses, then monkeys,then musicals, then photography,New York, to indie music,

to boys, and back.I didn’t know that because of my skinI already had a predestined trackI didn’t know that I was expected towear hoop earrings,listen to hip-hop,and love fried chicken.So just as I had denied Ethiopia,black America denied me.I remember going to the hairdresser’s

one day,and an elderly black woman asking me,

“Oh you’re not really black … are you?”I was flabbergasted.I vaguely nodded and moved on.That started the awakening.No one accepted me.Even though I wasn’t biracial,I felt split between two cultures.Be black, or be black?I remember being little and saying,

“I’m not black, I’m brown!”and I’d hold out my small armso no one could tell me otherwise.Is it odd that I found myself raceless?Clear as a glass pitcher,waiting to be filled.One day, in my grandparents’ house

on a hot day,I asked if I could look through some old albums.I flipped through pictures of my grandmotherbefore she got her gold teeththat used to mesmerize me as a child.Pictures of my father as a boy,scrawny as he was,with his eight other sisters and brother.Before long, my eyes began to sting andI swallowed back the rock in my throatwhen I saw the picture of my great-aunt as a

young woman,stunning, yet docile,wearing a shy smile,like she had a secret that no one would ever know.I guess I was crying because I would never knowwhy, even in her seventies,she still hasn’t married.Was she ever in love?Did she ever want to be?I guess I was crying because,with her barely passable English,and in my terrible Amarangya,I would never be able to ask.And I think my father said what he saidbecause with every day that his accent faded,he realized that I would never have one. ✦

The beautifully ragged cobblestone streets of Manarola,Italy, were no place for such an unkempt cat. Shabby anddilapidated, the stray wandered the bright avenues of the

coastal community. This creature was as misplaced as the bum-bling American tourists who ambled about the Piazza del Popolo.

From behind, fur matted tightly to its bloated torso, the felineeasily could have been mistaken for a canine. Its misshapen formhobbled along, the left leg dragging, bringing up the rear. Earsmauled, the animal was oblivious to the distant crashing wavesby the sheer cliffs on the Cinque Terre. One eye held the cloudi-ness of a murky pond, blind to the passing pedestrians whogawked at the scraggly figure.

Paved paths, absent of cars and the grumbling sounds that ac-company them, allowed for this beast’s existence. Slinkingamong villas shaded in every hue of the spectrum, the vagabondsported a gray-black coat like a spilled drink on the white table-cloth of an open-air café. Dirt-encrusted hair trailed wherever thenomad treaded.

Fresh, salty ocean air blanketed Manarola, but this aroma wasmarred by the fetor of the feline. Some attempts were made todisconcert the grimy degenerate by brashly swinging brooms inits direction. Elderly local inhabitants sympathized and embracedthe outcast, leaving gourmet scraps of pastas, breads, and fishthat added to its rotund belly. A quaint town is the last place tofind a bedraggled alley cat. Such a desirable location for such anundesirable animal. ✦

Photo by Zoe Case, Upper Arlington, OH

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His beautiful tanned skin didn’t look like it belonged in Brattleboro. His jetblack hair was short on the sides and longer on top, the army cut. He worefitted Levis, caked with dirt, and tan workboots that came above his ankles.

His shirt was just tight enough that it clung to his body. His small blue eyes weretucked back in his head, but when he got excited, they immediately lit up. Outside ofhis truck, he looked like a regular country boy. But inside the rigged-up white Chevy,his pride and joy, he looked like a true hick – the most beautiful hick I’d ever seen. ✦

Just as I had denied Ethiopia,black America

denied me

Il GatoRed Ruby Memoryby Lauren Mabie, Brattleboro, VT

by Mikayla Becich,Bradfordwoods, PA

Icome from two worlds. One is a land far, far away where barefoot girls

with gold studs through their noses carry chil-dren barely older than they are on slender hips, co-conut oil combed carefully through their plaitedhair. Where dirt roads, cheap sandals, and immensecrowds reign supreme. I come from a land of ricepaddies and lotus flowers, of corrugated tin roofs andoccasional air raids. A land of teeth stained red frombetel leaves, of gold bangles and bright silk, of ven-dors and henna tattoos. A land where unaccustomedeyes water from pungent chili peppers, where feetstruggle to pass through packed cars andrickshaws.

This is a land where hungry eyeswander the streets, rags tied to thin bod-ies, begging for a spare anna. This is aland I’ve seen, felt, dreamt about, andlonged for. I’ve walked the dirt roads ofa quiet village; I’ve seen the taut backsof young men carrying sugar cane. I’ve sailed alongthe Padma River in a canoe, and sampled puri froma vendor, his stall lit by a kerosene lamp. This isDhaka, Bangladesh, the land of my birth.

My other world is equally exotic, equally real. Itis a land of SUVs and spray tans, of ranch housesand homogeneity. Here, waves lap endlessly againstboats in the bay, and the sun rises on dewy, mani-cured lawns. Here I travel highways that stretch intothe distance. This land is dominated by swimmingpools and strip malls; it is run by PTA mothers whooperate minivan carpools like KGB missions. Here,Juicy Couture bags and blond highlights are ubiqui-tous among females. Here a driver’s license is more

than a rite of passage; it is the entrance into civilizedsociety. The scent of the air is strong, mixed aromasof Victoria’s Secret Love Spell and new money. Thisis Long Island, New York, where I live.

I sit astride a line that divides these two lands.They are separated by 8,000 miles, but I can closethis gap with a blink of my eye; I can erase thespace with the nudge of my finger. If home is wherethe heart is, my heart is everywhere. Pieces of meare in the bungalows of Rampura and the quiet, cul-turally barren streets of suburbia. I try to completethe puzzle, but there is always something missing.

I cannot say that I feel equally com-fortable in both homes, but, perhaps para-doxically, I am equally uncomfortable.To my suburban friends, I am an anomalyevery time I chatter in a strange tongue tomy parents; to my relatives in Dhaka, Iam forever whitewashed. I don’t knowwhere the Bengali Tausif starts and

where the American Tausif ends – all I can say isthat I am an alien, foreign to all, but grateful of thefact. I am a first-generation American; I am not suf-fering an identity crisis. It is difficult to merge thetwo cultures that compose my life, but I am lucky Iam not torn between the two – that would be such acliché.

If I dig through the file cabinets of my memory, Ican distinctly see a young, frail woman dressed inher new green salwar kameez, her hair done in a bunfor the first time at a fancy Dhaka salon. She isholding the hand of a small boy dressed in his nicestsuit, and her other hand is tightly grasping a BritishAirways boarding pass. This woman, my mother,

manifested her hopes and dreams of a brighter fu-ture in this little boy, and boarded a plane to meether husband in order to realize these dreams.

Thirteen years later, my mother tells me that I amnot an American, that I will never be American. Although I don’t tell her this, I think she is wrong. Iwill always be American and I will always beBangladeshi, but I don’t believe in the hyphenatedlove child of two cultures. They are separate worlds,but I have found a way to coexist in them. I am notconfused about who I am or how my race will playin the rest of my life. I am not afraid of losing myidentity in either world. I am simply trying to say,this is who I am; this is where I come from. ✦

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Photo by Toria Rose, Bethesda, MD

Two Worlds by Tausif Noor, North Babylon, NY

New YorkersLike vultures with talons outThey scramble for the last seat on

the subwayThe last H&H bagelThe last Marc Jacobs bag at a sample sale

Flying through the streetsOn neatly tailored wings Claws tucked in silkHard, sunglassed eyes stalk their preyThose elusive yellow taxi cabs

Mating calls join the chorus of the streetsBlackberry shouting and kosher deli

orderingHeels up, heels down, clickety-clack On the gum-strewn pavement.

At sundown comes the stampedeThey emerge from steel caves toJump on loud grumbling trainsFold wings down and read the Times on

slippery seatsRush-rush, clickety-clackThe New York vultures burrow into

Pottery Barn nestsHandcrafted beds with lavender

scented sheetsAt dawn, they fly again

by Maia Silber, Cortlandt Manor, NY

Bangladesh is the land of

my birth

My desktop wallpaper is a merry-go-round of places I’d like to visit. Previously, it was a black-and-white

checkerboard of broken hearts and band-aids, superimposed over what appears to be a couplekissing. Go figure.

Anyway. That was then. Now it’s a picture ofParis. Conveniently sans Eiffel Tower. I’ve neverreally liked the Eiffel Tower.

I find myself drawn to France recently. Thecountryside, Lyon, the Louvre,espresso, cafés with little wiry tables,châteaus, Normandy, wine, film.French nights and simple food and thetrickle of the river as it passes by ourpicnic blanket. Everything so stereo-typically French. Except for the EiffelTower. And baguettes.

I want to go to the land of Voltaireand sauces. I want to experience Hugo and NotreDame and the Bastille. I want to see Versaillesand the Jardin du Luxembourg. I want to breathethe atmosphere in which the opera Carmen waswritten. I want to hear the music of Debussy inthe land of its origin. I want to feel the Frenchgrass on my back as I admire the French cloudsand ponder the French penchant for stripes.

I want to be in Annecy for Christmas, and onthe beaches of Lorient by summer. I want to climbthe Pic du Canigou in spring and look out across

the rows of enchanting cherry trees. I want to visitthe St. Martin monastery on the way down andstare off the edge of its tree-covered cliff at itspastel-toned buildings. I want to spend the fall inBeaune, where the leaves match the latticework ofthe rooftops and the world becomes a wonderlandof orange and gold.

And even then, my need for France and allthings French would not be sated. The cyclewould repeat ad infinitum. A few months in

Chateauroux, a year in Orleans, a greatwhile spent in Avignon, simply sittingat the fabled bridge, watching, think-ing, writing, free from worry.

This is the allure of France: a placewhere inspiration runs freely in thehearts and art of her people. A place tofind peace, a place for contentment. Aplace where materialism can be put on

hold and at last the human connection can rise toprominence. A place where life can be what itwants to be, where introspection can form thecore of being. A place where life strolls leisurelyalong the road that defines it. A place for rejuve-nation and restoration. A place I want to be sodesperately. But until I get the chance to bask inFrench sunlight, I will sit, bathed in the glow ofdesktop pictures, and reminisce and idealize aboutthings that never were and that will never be. ✦

Idealizing France by Tim Rebholz, Stafford, VA

I want to go to the land of Voltaire and sauces

travel &culture

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 230

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COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM USING THE ADVANCED SEARCH

Kate Klimo has been creatingworlds since she was in the

fourth grade. Now, she is the au-thor and editor of an array of pub-lished books. Her latest work,Daughter of the Centaurs, is a fan-tasy that tells of a girl’s quest forsurvival and companionship in aworld populated by half-humancreatures.

Daughter of the Centaurs is full ofmythology and unusual creatures.What made you want to write afantasy novel?

Ever since I was in fourth grade,fantasy has been my favorite genre. Ofcourse, when I was in fourth grade, Ibelieved that the magical realms I readabout – Narnia and Neverland andall – were real. Now, of course, I don’t… except that the older I get, the moreconvinced I grow that this world, theone we live in, is but one room in alarge house filled with other rooms.So I guess you could say that I amgradually returning to a state of sus-pended disbelief, which is very usefulin the writing of fantasy.

What was your reaction when youdiscovered you were going to bepublished?

I’ve been a publisher/writer formost of my 30-year career, so I can’tsay that I experienced the anticipationof publication that other writers might.Nor, however, have I experienced theinevitable letdown authors discoverwhen, on publication date, the earthdoesn’t actually move. I also generallywrite my books in their entirety beforeI get a contract, so when I find out

from my editor that the book I havewritten is actually publishable, that’swhen I feel a genuine thrill: that allmy hard work has paid off! That thebook will be read by more than justme and one other person.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers, like me, whohope to be published some day?

Write, write, write. Get up everyday and write. I writevery early in themorning, when mymind is fresh, beforethe distractions of theday set in. And don’tlisten to the voice in-side your head thatsometimes says yousuck. That voice isjust subversive noise. If you writeevery day, and put your heart and soulinto it, you’re going to wind up,sooner or later, with something thatvery likely won’t suck … at least tosome readers.

What is the hardest part for you inthe process of writing? How doyou overcome those obstacles?

The hardest part of writing is notoverwhelming my characters with myown considerable personality. It’s adelicate thing, letting your characterscome alive on the page, giving themroom to breathe. It’s so easy to lean onthem, to hover over them, to pick themup in my sometimes ham-handed fistsand move them around like dolls on astage, rather than letting them – theircharacters and their own inner voices –determine their fate.

The other hard part of writing isdealing with reviews. Let’s face it –not everybody is going to love every-thing that’s written. But a bad reviewcan really hamper the creative process,make you doubt yourself and every-thing you’re doing. I learned this les-son the hard way.

Did you always want to be awriter?

I always wanted to be a writer. Atleast since I became a reader. I stillhave my notebooks from fourth grade,containing the unfinished fantasynovel my best friend, Justine, and Iworked on. My parents are dead, but Ihave recently discovered, goingthrough their journals and letters, thatboth were frustrated writers. Thismakes me all the more determined towrite my heart out. I’m writing, notjust for me and my editor and myreaders, but to honor my parents’memory.

What kind of books do you read?How have they influenced whatyou write?

All kinds. I’m halfway through TheGame of Thrones right now. There’s

some pretty epic world-building foryou. I love the books of TamoraPierce, Susan Cooper, Nancy Farmer,and Peter Dickenson. I love mysteriesfor the escape, and history, especiallybiographies, for the details of liveslived in other times. I am working myway through the presidents right now.I’m only up to Madison.

Why did you choose to write a daring character likeMalora?

I don’t think of Mal-ora as being daring somuch as a survivor. Iwanted to write about asurvivor. Malora is thesole survivor of her set-tlement, and possibly ofthe human race. In the

last five years, I lost my mother, mybrother, and a son. I know what it is tosurvive, and I wanted to share the or-deal of it, and the ultimate joys.

What do you think makes a pieceof writing worth reading?

Its honesty.

What inspires you?Dreams, traveling, my editor,

Mallory Loehr.

Why do you write?Because I am happiest when I am

writing.

What do you do when your riverof ideas runs dry? How do youovercome that and start writingagain?

I give myself permission to stopwriting for a few weeks or months.During this time, I usually take a tripand visit someplace new with my hus-band, almost always on the back of ahorse.

Riding, day after day,puts me into a zen stateof mind. My inner voicestops chattering and Isettle down to just being.During these times, Ikeep a journal and writeletters to friends where Iam storing up impressions, stockpilingideas and images for the day when Iam ready to fit them into a narrative.

What sort of schedule do you follow when writing a novel? Areyou organized or do you just sitdown and write?

I’m pretty organized. I start with anoutline, even though I may not windup sticking to it. The outline is sort oflike the Ouija board; you push itaround until you hear the voice of themuse actually breaking through andtalking to you. Then the outline usu-ally gets abandoned.

I wake up around four and I writeuntil I’m spent. Sometimes I’m fin-ished by 10 o’clock, and can go out

and do other things. Sometimes Iwrite all day.

I have to be careful, though, I don’twrite myself stupid. That can happen.I have to give myself time to regener-ate my mind and my ideas. If I drivemyself too hard, then I start musclingmy way through the narrative, bossingthe characters around and deprivingthem of the independence they need tobe surprising and interesting.

What do you hope your readerswill take away from your novel?

I hope that reading my book willtake readers to a time and place theynever imagined. I hope that the char-acters become lifelong friends withmy readers – friends they will want tocome visit in future adventures.

Did writing Daughter of the Centaurs change you in any way?If so, how?

I surprised myself by creating acomplete world. The more I writeabout it, the more I discover. And thisworld feels real to me. I enjoy spend-ing time there. I am always eager tofind out what’s going to happen next.

If you were not a writer, whatwould your life be like? Whatwould you be doing?

If I were not a writer, I would beoutdoors a great deal more. I would beleading a much more physical life as ahorse trainer. Working with horses isone of the most gratifying experiencesof my life. I’m only sorry I came to itso late. I started taking lessons, whichmy husband bought me, for my fiftiethbirthday. I started out in classes witheight-year-old girls. My husband and Inow have our own horses, and we rideevery chance we get. Horses keep youin balance; they make you aware of

your moods and quirks.They keep you honest.

What have you learnedduring the publishingprocess?

No publisher is going to –poof! – turn you into a best-seller. You have to get out

and promote yourself. This is some-thing that one of my favorite writers,Esther Friesner, told me. There is noroom for shy and retiring and modest.As a writer, I am a more modest per-son than I am as a publisher. But Ihave to learn to get out there and use alittle of my publisher’s brashness totoot my own horn.

How does writing affect your life,for better or for worse?

Writing makes me a bit morethoughtful person, but it also makesme a bit of a slug. In the best of allpossible worlds, I would hook up mylaptop to a treadmill and write while Iwalked. ✦

Author Kate Klimo Interviewed by Devin Murphy, Jackson, MO

“You have toget out and

promote yourself”

“It’s a delicatething, letting your characters come

alive on the page”

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink31

book reviews

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NONFICTION

Into the Wildby Jon Krakauer

Dead. That is how theyfound Chris McCandless –

just another crazy drifter whothought he could survive in thewild without the necessary ex-perience or knowledge. How-ever, Into the Wild presents adeeper and clearer picture ofthis misunderstood man whodied alone in the Alaskanwilderness at the age of 24.

Chris McCandless was notyour average drifter; he camefrom a good home, graduated

from college with excellentgrades, and had planned to at-tend law school, but somethingin Chris made him steer his lifein an unorthodox direction thatsome consider but few actuallytry. In 1990, he donated his col-lege savings, packed his be-longings, and set off to seeAmerica. Two years later, heburned his remaining moneyand headed into the Alaskanwilderness with a gun, a diary,a knife, and a 50-pound bag ofrice, never to be seen aliveagain. His body was found inan abandoned school bus.When he died he weighed ashocking 67 pounds.

As his story circulated, peo-ple began to wonder who Chriswas. An outdoor writer and ad-venturer himself, Jon Krakauertraces the solitary journey ofMcCandless from the Gulf ofCalifornia all the way toAlaska, comparing his story toother courageous adventurers’.

Through the journey,Krakauer reveals a muchdeeper look at McCandless, un-veiling a life led by few. As youread, you may find yourselfconnecting to a man who seemsnothing like you and wishingthings could have turned outdifferently for him.

One flaw of this book is thatafter Krakauer tells his story, herambles on comparing McCan-dless to other adventurers, evenhimself; it’s pretty dull andadds nothing to the story. Thisdiminishes some of the aweyou initially feel at Chris’s ef-fect on people. Up until thatpoint, however, Into The Wild isa book that you won’t be ableto put down. ✦

by Olivia Ryckman, Littleton, CO

CLASSIC

The Little Princeby Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Although The Little Princeis classified as a children’s

book, it should be requiredreading for every grownup –those who, according to the au-thor, are blinded by time andnumbers and cannot recognizethat a drawing of an elephantinside a boa constrictor is obvi-ously not a drawing of a hat!

In no more than 80 pages,The Little Prince teaches ushow to live a meaningful life.The little prince persistentlyasks questions, never answer-ing any, but the marooned pilotwho befriends him in the re-mote desert manages to put to-gether the prince’s magicalstory.

The little prince comes froma planet the size of a house.There he owned three volca-noes and a beautiful red rosethat, with its vanity and pushi-ness, made the prince leave hishome. On his journey, the inno-cent prince meets a lonely kingand a greedy businessman andfinally arrives on Earth, wherecountless beautiful truths abouthumanity are revealed. For ex-ample, the little prince discov-ers that his rose is differentfrom all others because heloves it for itself. He learns the“secret of life” from a wise fox:what is most important in life,like love, is invisible.

With each page it is as if youare peeling away, layer bylayer, the mistaken prioritieswe all have in life. Thispoignant book could be read athousand times, for all ages andfor ages to come, and the storywould still be as magical andtrue. After reading it you willnever look at the stars the sameway again. ✦

by Sugee Liyanage, Mississauga, ON, Canada

THRILLER

The Girl withthe Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

Lisbeth Salander is one ofSweden’s socially unac-

ceptable citizens. She has been

in and out of psychiatrists’ careand foster homes, there are tat-toos and piercings all over herbody, she never finished highschool, and she has a policerecord. However, she is a tal-ented hacker and a near ge-nius – and a good character fora thriller.

This book is about the miss-ing niece of one of Sweden’smost distinguished million-aires, Henrik Vanger. The mys-tery of her disappearance has

remained unsolved for almost40 years and Vanger wants onelast chance to discover whathappened. He asks MikaelBlomkvist, a disgraced re-porter, to help. In a weird tan-gle of events, Salander andBlomkvist end up working to-gether. That combo creates asuspenseful and exciting plot.

I really like Larsson’s style.He has no boundaries when itcomes to language. That said,the business parts of the bookcan get a bit confusing. Thisbook is definitely targeted foran adult audience.

This novel didn’t grab me inevery aspect, although I reallyliked the suspenseful buildup tothe end. The resolution waskind of lame, in my view, andthe antagonist could probablyhave been identified from thebeginning. This is a good bookjust shy of great. I’m really in-terested in the sequels and lookforward to seeing the movie. ✦

by Joe Keller, St. Louis, MO

NOVEL

The Roadby Cormac McCarthy

The Road is a tangled yetstraightforward look at a

post-apocalyptic world where aman and his young son areforced to wander through anashen, desolate America. Theyhave no one but each other torely on as they walk on an end-less road south.

The book is profound, but Ifound most of it monotonousand dreary. It did have excitingmoments, but they were shortand happened in the middle orat the end. Although it was abook I had to plod through, Idid enjoy it.

I had not expected The Roadto be so hauntingly disturbingyet darkly beautiful. I mustadmit there were parts of thisbook that I thought I would

give me nightmares, or at leastpersistent thoughts the rest ofthe day. But McCarthy wovethese unsettling moments sosmoothly, it was impossible tountangle them without unbal-ancing the rest of the story. Itwas etched beautifully throughthe use of careful details.

What propels the story is therelationship between father andson. This part is what I mostenjoyed. I think the main ideais the love between father andson, which often saves them.Without the powerful drive oflove, they could not have sus-tained the energy or desire tosurvive another day. Because ofhis love for his son, the fatherwas driven to provide food andshelter. Because of his love forhis father, the boy was able toprotect his father and trust himcompletely during their longjourney.

I am totally overwhelmed bymy reaction to this book. WhenI began reading, I could tell itwould be a dull and wearisomenovel. But coming to the in-triguing and mystifying partsopened my eyes to the power of

love, survival, and dark sin inthe world.

Especially in this day andage, Cormac McCarthy’s pow-erful and haunting post-apoca-lyptic world inside The Road ischillingly close to our reality. ✦

by Ruth Arriaga, Goodyear, AZ

HISTORY

Peter the Greatby Robert K. Massie

It took just the copyright pageto discover that Robert K.

Massie’s Peter the Great: HisLife and World is an oddity.Penned by an American histo-rian during the 1981 tensions ofthe misguided Cold War, itturns out to be an eloquent anderudite narrative of a dedicatedleader who transformed a prim-itive realm.

Though Massie sidesteps theRussophobic tendencies thatwill soon send R.R. Palmer’s AHistory of the Modern Worldinto textbook retirement,Massie cannot escape the influ-ences of his environment. Putsimply, the author is an Ameri-can historian writing for anAmerican audience. And withPeter the Great, he delivers abeautiful American tribute to a

man with “American Dream”activism – a man who isn’t anAmerican.

I began the novel with a setof preconceived notions, orrather, worries. What could anAmerican historian possiblyunderstand about a Russianking? Would it be yet anotherpiece of Reagan-era Russopho-bia? Anti-communist propa-ganda? A diatribe on Russia’sbackwardness? A compellingcase for capitalism? Most im-portantly: 800 pages? Really?

Let me set aside those worries by first giving you aglimpse into the historical con-text. Before Peter, foreign rela-tions were seen as necessaryevils; unorthodox obsessionswith the Orthodox Church fed a

self-defeating xenophobia; andmonarchs, fearing for theirlives, were powerless to the demands of their own soldiers.Peter took control of hischurch, his people, and hisarmed forces. He transformedRussia into the Russian Em-pire – and himself into Peter“the Great.”

So, what did I – with myRussian heritage, Russian patriotism, Russian spirit, and“Russia! Russia! Russia!” atti-tude – think of the book? It’sabsolutely fantastic. The narra-tive format makes it both read-able and relatable to audiencesspanning a historical, educa-tional, and yes, even ethnicspectrum. Students, teachers,and even casual readers willrelish Massie’s approachable,well-researched, and respectfulprose.

Massie does not sacrifice thedignity of his writing for eitherborder of the Cold War barri-cade. Rather, he writes genuinehistory. Profound history. Hon-est, factual, and fascinating his-tory. The book demands littlebut for the reader to simplypick it up. Despite its HarryPotter-esque length, it is a tomethat is almost impossible to putdown.

Whether you’re looking for abook to fill the Potter void, his-torical nonfiction that isn’t atextbook, or simply somethingto do on a lazy afternoon, givePeter the Great a chapter ortwo. You’ll be hooked beforeyou know it. ✦

by Anastasia Golovashkina,Naperville, IL

Teaches us how to livea meaningful life

Suspenseful and exciting plot

Hauntingly disturbing

Honest, factual, and fascinating

The solitary journey of Chris McCandless

inte

rvie

wKate Klimo has been creating

worlds since she was in thefourth grade. Now, she is the author and editor of an array ofpublished books. Her latest work,Daughter of the Centaurs, is a fan-tasy that tells of a girl’s quest forsurvival and companionship in aworld populated by half-humancreatures.

Daughter of the Centaurs is full ofmythology and unusual creatures.What made you want to write afantasy novel?

Ever since I was in fourth grade,fantasy has been my favorite genre. Ofcourse, when I was in fourth grade, Ibelieved that the magical realms I readabout – Narnia and Neverland andall – were real. Now, of course, I don’t… except that the older I get, the moreconvinced I grow that this world, theone we live in, is but one room in alarge house filled with other rooms. SoI guess you could say that I am gradu-ally returning to a state of suspendeddisbelief, which is very useful in thewriting of fantasy.

What was your reaction when youdiscovered you were going to bepublished?

I’ve been a publisher/writer for mostof my 30-year career, so I can’t saythat I experienced the anticipation ofpublication that other writers might.Nor, however, have I experienced theinevitable letdown authors discoverwhen, on publication date, the earthdoesn’t actually move. I also generallywrite my books in their entirety beforeI get a contract, so when I find outfrom my editor that the book I havewritten is actually publishable, that’s

when I feel a genuine thrill: that all myhard work has paid off! That the bookwill be read by more than just me andone other person.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers, like me, who hopeto be published some day?

Write, write, write. Get up every dayand write. I write very early in themorning, when my mind is fresh, be-fore the distractions ofthe day set in. Anddon’t listen to thevoice inside your headthat sometimes saysyou suck. That voice isjust subversive noise.If you write every day,and put your heart andsoul into it, you’regoing to wind up, sooner or later, withsomething that very likely won’t suck… at least to some readers.

What is the hardest part for you inthe process of writing? How doyou overcome those obstacles?

The hardest part of writing is notoverwhelming my characters with myown considerable personality. It’s adelicate thing, letting your characterscome alive on the page, giving themroom to breathe. It’s so easy to lean onthem, to hover over them, to pick themup in my sometimes ham-handed fistsand move them around like dolls on astage, rather than letting them – theircharacters and their own inner voices –determine their fate.

The other hard part of writing isdealing with reviews. Let’s face it –not everybody is going to love every-thing that’s written. But a bad reviewcan really hamper the creative process,make you doubt yourself and every-thing you’re doing. I learned this les-son the hard way.

Did you always want to be awriter?

I always wanted to be a writer. Atleast since I became a reader. I stillhave my notebooks from fourth grade,containing the unfinished fantasynovel my best friend, Justine, and Iworked on. My parents are dead, but Ihave recently discovered, goingthrough their journals and letters, thatboth were frustrated writers. Thismakes me all the more determined towrite my heart out. I’m writing, notjust for me and my editor and my read-ers, but to honor my parents’ memory.

What kind of books do you read?How have they influenced whatyou write?

All kinds. I’m halfway through TheGame of Thrones right now. There’ssome pretty epic world-building foryou. I love the books of TamoraPierce, Susan Cooper, Nancy Farmer,

and Peter Dickenson. I love mysteriesfor the escape, and history, especiallybiographies, for the details of liveslived in other times. I am working myway through the presidents right now.I’m only up to Madison.

Why did you choose to write a daring character like Malora?

I don’t think of Malora as being dar-ing so much as a survivor. I wanted to

write about a survivor.Malora is the sole sur-vivor of her settlement,and possibly of thehuman race. In the lastfive years, I lost mymother, my brother, anda son. I know what it isto survive, and I wantedto share the ordeal of it,

and the ultimate joys.

What do you think makes a pieceof writing worth reading?

Its honesty.

What inspires you?Dreams, traveling, my editor,

Mallory Loehr.

Why do you write?Because I am happiest when I am

writing.

What do you do when your river ofideas runs dry? How do you over-come that and start writing again?

I give myself permission to stopwriting for a few weeks or months.During this time, I usually take a tripand visit someplace new with my hus-band, almost always on the back of ahorse.

Riding, day after day, puts me into azen state of mind. My inner voicestops chattering and I settle down tojust being. During thesetimes, I keep a journal andwrite letters to friendswhere I am storing up im-pressions, stockpilingideas and images for theday when I am ready to fitthem into a narrative.

What sort of schedule do you follow when writing a novel? Areyou organized or do you just sitdown and write?

I’m pretty organized. I start with anoutline, even though I may not windup sticking to it. The outline is sort oflike the Ouija board; you push itaround until you hear the voice of themuse actually breaking through andtalking to you. Then the outline usu-ally gets abandoned.

I wake up around four and I writeuntil I’m spent. Sometimes I’m fin-ished by 10 o’clock, and can go outand do other things. Sometimes I writeall day.

I have to be careful, though, I don’twrite myself stupid. That can happen. Ihave to give myself time to regeneratemy mind and my ideas. If I drive my-self too hard, then I start muscling myway through the narrative, bossing thecharacters around and depriving themof the independence they need to besurprising and interesting.

What do you hope your readerswill take away from your novel?

I hope that reading my book willtake readers to a time and place theynever imagined. I hope that the charac-ters become lifelong friends with myreaders – friends they will want tocome visit in future adventures.

Did writing Daughter of the Centaurs change you in any way? If so, how?

I surprised myself by creating acomplete world. The more I writeabout it, the more I discover. And thisworld feels real to me. I enjoy spend-ing time there. I am always eager tofind out what’s going to happen next.

If you were not a writer, whatwould your life be like? Whatwould you be doing?

If I were not a writer, I would beoutdoors a great deal more. I would beleading a much more physical life as ahorse trainer. Working with horses isone of the most gratifying experiencesof my life. I’m only sorry I came to itso late. I started taking lessons, whichmy husband bought me, for my fiftiethbirthday. I started out in classes witheight-year-old girls. My husband and Inow have our own horses, and we rideevery chance we get. Horses keep youin balance; they make you aware ofyour moods and quirks. They keep youhonest.

What have you learnedduring the publishingprocess?

No publisher is going to –poof! – turn you into a best-seller. You have to get outand promote yourself. Thisis something that one of my

favorite writers, Esther Friesner, toldme. There is no room for shy and retir-ing and modest. As a writer, I am amore modest person than I am as apublisher. But I have to learn to get outthere and use a little of my publisher’sbrashness to toot my own horn.

How does writing affect your life,for better or for worse?

Writing makes me a bit morethoughtful person, but it also makesme a bit of a slug. In the best of allpossible worlds, I would hook up mylaptop to a treadmill and write while Iwalked. ✦

Author Kate Klimo Interviewed by Devin Murphy, Jackson, MO

“You have toget out and

promote yourself”

“It’s a delicatething, letting your characters come

alive on the page”

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 230 COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

book reviews

NONFICTION

Into the Wildby Jon Krakauer

Dead. That is how theyfound Chris McCandless –

just another crazy drifter whothought he could survive in thewild without the necessary ex-perience or knowledge. How-ever, Into the Wild presents adeeper and clearer picture ofthis misunderstood man whodied alone in the Alaskanwilderness at the age of 24.

Chris McCandless was notyour average drifter; he came

from a good home, graduatedfrom college with excellentgrades, and had planned to at-tend law school, but somethingin Chris made him steer his lifein an unorthodox direction thatsome consider but few actuallytry. In 1990, he donated his col-lege savings, packed his be-longings, and set off to seeAmerica. Two years later, heburned his remaining moneyand headed into the Alaskanwilderness with a gun, a diary,a knife, and a 50-pound bag ofrice, never to be seen aliveagain. His body was found inan abandoned school bus.When he died he weighed ashocking 67 pounds.

As his story circulated, peo-ple began to wonder who Chriswas. An outdoor writer and ad-venturer himself, Jon Krakauertraces the solitary journey ofMcCandless from the Gulf ofCalifornia all the way toAlaska, comparing his story toother courageous adventurers’.

Through the journey,Krakauer reveals a muchdeeper look at McCandless, un-veiling a life led by few. As youread, you may find yourselfconnecting to a man who seemsnothing like you and wishingthings could have turned outdifferently for him.

One flaw of this book is thatafter Krakauer tells his story, herambles on comparing McCan-dless to other adventurers, evenhimself; it’s pretty dull andadds nothing to the story. Thisdiminishes some of the aweyou initially feel at Chris’s ef-fect on people. Up until thatpoint, however, Into The Wild isa book that you won’t be ableto put down. ✦

by Olivia Ryckman, Littleton, CO

CLASSIC

The Little Princeby Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Although The Little Princeis classified as a children’s

book, it should be requiredreading for every grownup –those who, according to the au-thor, are blinded by time andnumbers and cannot recognizethat a drawing of an elephantinside a boa constrictor is obvi-ously not a drawing of a hat!

In no more than 80 pages,The Little Prince teaches ushow to live a meaningful life.The little prince persistentlyasks questions, never answer-ing any, but the marooned pilotwho befriends him in the re-mote desert manages to put to-gether the prince’s magicalstory.

The little prince comes froma planet the size of a house.There he owned three volca-noes and a beautiful red rosethat, with its vanity and pushi-ness, made the prince leave hishome. On his journey, the inno-cent prince meets a lonely kingand a greedy businessman andfinally arrives on Earth, wherecountless beautiful truths abouthumanity are revealed. For ex-ample, the little prince discov-ers that his rose is differentfrom all others because heloves it for itself. He learns the“secret of life” from a wise fox:what is most important in life,like love, is invisible.

With each page it is as if youare peeling away, layer bylayer, the mistaken prioritieswe all have in life. Thispoignant book could be read athousand times, for all ages andfor ages to come, and the storywould still be as magical andtrue. After reading it you willnever look at the stars the sameway again. ✦

by Sugee Liyanage, Mississauga, ON, Canada

THRILLER

The Girl withthe Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

Lisbeth Salander is one ofSweden’s socially unac-

ceptable citizens. She has beenin and out of psychiatrists’ care

and foster homes, there are tat-toos and piercings all over herbody, she never finished highschool, and she has a policerecord. However, she is a tal-ented hacker and a near ge-nius – and a good character fora thriller.

This book is about the miss-ing niece of one of Sweden’smost distinguished million-aires, Henrik Vanger. The mys-tery of her disappearance has

remained unsolved for almost40 years and Vanger wants onelast chance to discover whathappened. He asks MikaelBlomkvist, a disgraced re-porter, to help. In a weird tangle of events, Salander andBlomkvist end up working to-gether. That combo creates asuspenseful and exciting plot.

I really like Larsson’s style.He has no boundaries when itcomes to language. That said,the business parts of the bookcan get a bit confusing. Thisbook is definitely targeted foran adult audience.

This novel didn’t grab me inevery aspect, although I reallyliked the suspenseful buildup tothe end. The resolution waskind of lame, in my view, andthe antagonist could probablyhave been identified from thebeginning. This is a good bookjust shy of great. I’m really in-terested in the sequels and lookforward to seeing the movie. ✦

by Joe Keller, St. Louis, MO

NOVEL

The Roadby Cormac McCarthy

The Road is a tangled yetstraightforward look at a

post-apocalyptic world where aman and his young son areforced to wander through anashen, desolate America. Theyhave no one but each other torely on as they walk on an end-less road south.

The book is profound, but Ifound most of it monotonousand dreary. It did have excitingmoments, but they were shortand happened in the middle orat the end. Although it was abook I had to plod through, Idid enjoy it.

I had not expected The Roadto be so hauntingly disturbingyet darkly beautiful. I mustadmit there were parts of thisbook that I thought I would

give me nightmares, or at leastpersistent thoughts the rest ofthe day. But McCarthy wovethese unsettling moments sosmoothly, it was impossible tountangle them without unbal-ancing the rest of the story. Itwas etched beautifully throughthe use of careful details.

What propels the story is therelationship between father andson. This part is what I mostenjoyed. I think the main ideais the love between father andson, which often saves them.Without the powerful drive oflove, they could not have sus-tained the energy or desire tosurvive another day. Because ofhis love for his son, the fatherwas driven to provide food andshelter. Because of his love forhis father, the boy was able toprotect his father and trust himcompletely during their longjourney.

I am totally overwhelmed bymy reaction to this book. WhenI began reading, I could tell itwould be a dull and wearisomenovel. But coming to the in-triguing and mystifying parts

opened my eyes to the power oflove, survival, and dark sin inthe world.

Especially in this day andage, Cormac McCarthy’s pow-erful and haunting post-apoca-lyptic world inside The Road ischillingly close to our reality. ✦

by Ruth Arriaga, Goodyear, AZ

HISTORY

Peter the Greatby Robert K. Massie

It took just the copyright pageto discover that Robert K.

Massie’s Peter the Great: HisLife and World is an oddity.Penned by an American histo-rian during the 1981 tensions ofthe misguided Cold War, itturns out to be an eloquent anderudite narrative of a dedicatedleader who transformed a prim-itive realm.

Though Massie sidesteps theRussophobic tendencies thatwill soon send R.R. Palmer’s AHistory of the Modern Worldinto textbook retirement,Massie cannot escape the influ-ences of his environment. Putsimply, the author is an Ameri-can historian writing for anAmerican audience. And withPeter the Great, he delivers abeautiful American tribute to aman with “American Dream”

activism – a man who isn’t anAmerican.

I began the novel with a setof preconceived notions, orrather, worries. What could anAmerican historian possiblyunderstand about a Russianking? Would it be yet anotherpiece of Reagan-era Russopho-bia? Anti-communist propa-ganda? A diatribe on Russia’sbackwardness? A compellingcase for capitalism? Most im-portantly: 800 pages? Really?

Let me set aside those worries by first giving you aglimpse into the historical con-text. Before Peter, foreign rela-tions were seen as necessaryevils; unorthodox obsessionswith the Orthodox Church fed a

self-defeating xenophobia; andmonarchs, fearing for theirlives, were powerless to the demands of their own soldiers.Peter took control of hischurch, his people, and hisarmed forces. He transformedRussia into the Russian Em-pire – and himself into Peter“the Great.”

So, what did I – with myRussian heritage, Russian patriotism, Russian spirit, and“Russia! Russia! Russia!” atti-tude – think of the book? It’sabsolutely fantastic. The narra-tive format makes it both read-able and relatable to audiencesspanning a historical, educa-tional, and yes, even ethnicspectrum. Students, teachers,and even casual readers willrelish Massie’s approachable,well-researched, and respectfulprose.

Massie does not sacrifice thedignity of his writing for eitherborder of the Cold War barri-cade. Rather, he writes genuinehistory. Profound history. Hon-est, factual, and fascinating his-tory. The book demands littlebut for the reader to simplypick it up. Despite its HarryPotter-esque length, it is a tomethat is almost impossible to putdown.

Whether you’re looking for abook to fill the Potter void, his-torical nonfiction that isn’t atextbook, or simply somethingto do on a lazy afternoon, givePeter the Great a chapter ortwo. You’ll be hooked beforeyou know it. ✦

by Anastasia Golovashkina,Naperville, IL

Teaches us how to livea meaningful life

Suspenseful and exciting plot

Hauntingly disturbing

Honest, factual, and fascinating

The solitary journey of Chris McCandless

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METAL

The Sign of theSouthern CrossOf Mountains andMoonshine

For being as far north as pos-sible to still be considered

Southern, The Sign of theSouthern Cross is one of themost Southern bands you’llever hear, and they’re damnproud of it. Their debut album,“Of Mountains and Moon-shine,” is littered with Southern

influence. You can hear it in thelyrics, riffs, grooves, vocals:just about everything. Theydraw influence from multiplegenres including groove metal,sludge, blues, and – dare Isay – perhaps even country.They blend them all togetherextremely well, but they mayrely a bit too much on their in-fluences for their own good.

“Of Mountains and Moon-shine” isn’t the most originalalbum ever, or a groundbreak-ing masterpiece. Rather, it issimply a fantastic slab ofgroove metal. And riffs – don’tforget the riffs. This album hastons of ’em, and while theymight sound similar at times,you’ll find yourself headbang-ing and air-guitaring anyway.Everything about this album isthick and heavy, from the guitartones to the sound of the skinspounding away in the rhythmsection, even the vocals.

Seth Uldricks’ voice is simi-lar to Phil Anselmo’s of Pan-tera, but he can produce gruntseven lower and shrieks evenhigher, all while maintaining abluesy melody. In ballads like“Eating the Sun” and “WeepingWillow,” he sounds like he’sready to beat the tar out of youand steal your cattle. Sadly, thebass is hardly audible, but Iguess that’s the price you payfor riffs and solos this good.

The lyrics are basically whatyou’d expect in an album asSouthern as this. Covering topics including HuckleberryFinn, fathers who leave, andpig slaughtering, they’re wellwritten, albeit ridiculous attimes. They might be a tad overthe top, but I’ll be damned ifthey’re not awesome.

I’ve used the word “South-ern” a few times to describethis album; another appropriate

word would be “energy.” Songslike “Unwelcome in ThatHouse” and “Hog Callin’” haveenergy that you can’t find inthe most brutal death metaltracks. You can’t sit still andlisten to this; you’ll be movingin one way or another by thetime its 68 minutes are through.It’s a hell of a ride.

Not only is this the ultimatebackyard barbecue album, it’sjust an amazing record that de-serves your time. If you likethat swampy heaviness thatbands like Down bring to thetable but want some fast-paced,punch-in-the-face metal, this isfor you. It’s the best of every-thing the South has to offer:great riffs, blistering solos, andsome crazy man vocals. Let’sparty! ✦

by Jordan Baker, Romeoville, IL

HIP HOP

T-PainRevolver

T-Pain, a rapper known forhis reliance on Auto-Tune,

brings a familiar, slow vibe tohis new album, “Revolver.”Best known for his 2007 hitsingle, “Buy U a Drank,” T-Pain grew up in Florida andjoined the rap group NappyHeadz in 2004. In 2005, hebegan riding solo, cutting hisfirst tracks on “Rappa TerntSanga.” Six years later, hisstyle hasn’t changed, asidefrom the addition of excessiveAuto-Tuning and endless mon-otone lyrics. The songs on “Revolver” are similar to mostof his previous work.

“Revolver” contains a fewslower, sweeter songs. Very different from artists like Em-inem, T-Pain bases all his lyricson love, not hate. Even thoughthese songs may be more ap-pealing in an emotional sense,they grow extremely repetitive.

At the start, T-Pain includesheavier club tracks that aregreat for party-goers, while themiddle and end of the albumget more and more dry. Itwould have been better if hemixed the party tunes with theslower love songs.

Most of the tracks featuregeneric T-Pain qualities, includ-ing endless monotonous beatsand the same robotic vocals.The album kicks off with“Bang Bang Pow Pow,” a greatcollaboration with Lil’ Wayne,who rarely disappoints. Herehis style lights up the song and

makes it pop. The third track, “It’s Not You

(It’s Me),” is a great party songand stands out on this painfulalbum. It also features, Pitbull,one of the greatest Latino rap-pers of all time. He gives aspicy flavor to the song, mak-ing you want to jump up anddance. In the next few tracks,the album’s earlier potentialdrops. They’re basically T-Pain’s old style, twisting the

lyrics around a bit and keepingthe same slow instrumentalbeat. This kills the album andmakes it very hard to listen to.

Instead of changing his style,T-Pain shows he does not wantto move on. He is standing stillwhile the rest of the world ismoving around him. He mixesit up a little in “Best LoveSong.” Chris Brown’s vocalsadd to the track, making it funto listen to and sing along with.Overall, “Revolver” is bland,with a few fun songs to danceand sing to.

Two out of five stars. ✦

by Jojo Jorge, Roslyn Heights, NY

ROCK

INXSKick

If I had to describe INXS’sbreakthrough album, “Kick,”

in one word, it would be“funky.” Each song throbs witha dance beat, moving listenersto their feet. “Kick” propelledAustralian band INXS to super-stardom back in 1987, winningthem acknowledgment and hitsingles. And it’s no wonder –every track is upbeat anddanceable, even the weakest.

The album opens with “Gunsin the Sky,” in which vocalistMichael Hutchence grunts andgroans over a pounding drumtrack. As soon as the infectiousguitar riff hits, it’s impossibleto keep from nodding to thebeat. Next is “New Sensation,”an uplifting track with janglyguitars that was the album’sthird single. Indeed, “Kick”seems to thrive on its singles,certainly living up to guitarist/saxophonist Kirk Pengilly’shopes that every song would beperfect for airplay.

“Devil Inside” is undeniablythe sexiest song here. “Mystify”

contains an almost folksy pianoriff and spot-on guitars, as wellas some of the sweetest lyricsfor a lover. “Need You To -night,” the band’s first number-one single in America, isperfect for dirty dancing, withits driving drumbeat and catchyguitar hook. “I need youtonight, ’cause I’m not sleep-ing,” Hutchence sings.

However, all of these tunespale in comparison to “NeverTear Us Apart.” Its stringarrangement and convincinglyrics make it one of the bestlove songs ever.

Looking past the singles,“Kick” doesn’t have much else.With the exceptions of “Gunsin the Sky” and “Tiny Dag-gers,” every other song is filler

and, for the most part, forget-table. This is especially true for“Calling All Nations,” whichcontains some cringe-worthylyrics.

Overall, “Kick” is a solidalbum, but despite its fame, thisis definitely not INXS’s best.(That title would arguably go to their 1984 effort, “TheSwing.”) This album is worthbuying even if the singles areall you want, but the rest wouldonly be recommended for hard-core ’80s fans. Though “Kick”has not aged too well for teensof today, it remains the perfectparty album. ✦

by Keely Burn, Richmond, VA

INDIE ROCK

Dead Man’sBonesDead Man’s Bones

Mention Hollywood heart-throb Ryan Gosling, and

the grungy, bearded guy in“The Notebook” comes tomind. Most don’t picture him atan indie rock music festivalwith his best friend, ZachShields, and a bunch of kidsdressed in Halloween cos-tumes, and definitely not play-ing in an indie rock band.

Zach and Ryan met in 2005when they were dating sisters.They discovered a mutual ob-session with ghosts, zombies,and monsters, and decided towrite love songs about them.Their first album, self-titled“Dead Man’s Bones,” was

released in 2009, and they col-laborated with the SilverlakeConservatory of Music Chil-dren’s Choir. They chose toplay all the instruments on thealbum, including those they hadnever touched, and never didmore than three takes, believingthat imperfections highlightedthe strengths of the music.

My initial thoughts wereWhat the …? and This is thecreepiest thing I’ve ever heard.But after I got over these feel-ings, this album started to growon me. The songs provided afeeling of comfort through thetrance-like voices of the menand the choir of children. Eachsong has its own feel. Some arecatchy and humorous whileothers are resonant and serious.

I’ll start with the first creepysong, “Dead Hearts.” It beginseerily, with something thatsounds like a heartbeat andrhythmic guitar. At the climax,glass shatters in time with themusic, then it slows and youhear footsteps and scrapingnoises. I would probably getscared if I listened to this alone.

The title track is my favoritebecause of its upbeat rhythm.The beginning is similar to jazz music. When the choruscomes in, a tambourine andpiano join as well. The lyricsexplain that no matter whereyou are, chances are you’restanding on a dead man’sbones.

“Pa Pa Power” is one of thebetter-known tracks. It beginswith a techno beat and tam-bourine, drums, and synthe-sizer. Then a man and the choirof children alternate singing“Pa pa power pa pa power.”Lyrics like “Burn the streets,burn the cars” and “Brokenglass, broken hearts” seem tobe about the destruction powercan cause.

“Dead Man’s Bones” wasdefinitely not what I expected,but turned out to be a lot lesscreepy than I first thought. Thisalbum is worth the listener’stime, and I’d recommend it toany fan of alternative or indiemusic. It’s a combination ofcreepy, upbeat songs and back-ground music from a zombiemovie, and it’s perfect for anyfan with an open mind. ✦

by Kristina Mills, Waverly, KY

Fast-paced, punch-in-the-face metal

Standing still while the world is moving

Every track is upbeatand danceable

Background musicfrom a zombie movie

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink33

movie &

tv reviews

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DRAMA

Say Anything …

As a teenage girl, I have al-ways wanted a boy to lift

his giant radio to my windowand replace the sun with thewise words of Peter Gabriel. Insimpler terms, I have alwayswanted “Say Anything …” tobe my life. “Say Anything …”is one of those movies that isbest to watch on a rainy day.Every character, every detail,and every breakup and makeupwill leave you laughing andcrying for more.

The movie stars John Cusackas Lloyd Dobler, a recent highschool grad who, like many, is

wondering what to do with hislife. He’s a real “man’s man”whose two best friends arewomen. He’s not only the pop-ular guy from Lakewood High,he’s also the nicest guy you’llever meet, and happens to be inlove with the beautiful andsmart Diane Court (Ione Skye).Diane, like Lloyd, just gradu-ated, but she has her whole lifeplanned out and has won ascholarship to study in Eng-land. Also unlike Lloyd, shedoesn’t have many friends untiltheir first date, when Lloyd isgiven the role as “key master”of the party and Diane is left tosocialize.

Once Lloyd convinces Dianeto go out with him, he picks herup in his blue Chevy Malibu. Atthe party everyone is wonderinghow a guy like Lloyd got a girllike Diane. “He made melaugh” is the only explanationshe gives. He made her laugh. Ifonly love were that simple.

Lloyd and Diane seem to beperfect except for one thing:how different they are. Shegrew up in a wealthy, protectivefamily, while Lloyd lives withhis sister and spends his timetraining to be the world’s bestkickboxer. The two are greattogether, but their lives couldn’tbe more different.

The movie is not just everygirl’s fantasy – it seems to betaken straight from the pages ofa 15-year-old’s diary. Watching“Say Anything …” hits a softspot in my heart that just feelsgood. ✦

by Madie Rapp, Cannon Falls, MN

COMEDY

Easy A

On the surface, “Easy A” isa comedy about the reality

of the high school rumor mill.However, the film has severaldeeper themes drawn fromNathaniel Hawthorne’s TheScarlet Letter, including sinand redemption.

Published in 1850, The Scarlet Letter tells the story ofHester Prynne, a young womanliving in Puritan Boston, who isforced to wear a scarlet A be-cause she gave birth to a childout of wedlock. “Easy A” of-fers a unique, modern versionof Hester Prynne’s tale.

Protagonist Olive Pender -ghast (Emma Stone) is the archetypal high school nobody,unknown and unpopular. Un-like Hester, however, Olivenever commits adultery; shesimply lies to her best friendabout having sex. As any highschool student knows, gossip

spreads like wildfire in aschoolwide game of telephone.Olive, rather than deny therumor, embraces her newfoundattention and even decides toaffix a red A to her own cloth-ing, inspired by The ScarletLetter, which she is reading inEnglish class. Olive’s new reputation sets off a chain ofevents that drastically changeher social life.

Emma Stone delivers a con-vincing performance. She fitsinto the high school setting,even three years after playing ahigh schooler in “Superbad.”The supporting cast is surpris-ingly excellent, especially Stan-ley Tucci as Olive’s extremelyliberal father, and ThomasHaden Church as her favoriteEnglish teacher. The writing isclever, with clear and meaning-ful themes.

It is obvious that “Easy A” isinspired by The Scarlet Letter.In fact, my one and only issueis that this connection may betoo obvious, beaten to death bythe fact that Olive is readingHawthorne’s novel for school. Iwould have preferred if “EasyA” followed a similar plot toThe Scarlet Letter but didn’tmention it, as the Coen broth-ers’ “A Serious Man” followedthe biblical story of Job. I feelthat this style would have en-hanced the experience for those

of us who had read the noveland could identify similaritiesalong the way.

Overall, “Easy A” has greatacting and great humor. It’s afilm for everybody, even mychick-flick-hating father. Thefact that it uses The Scarlet Let-ter as inspiration allows it toexplore themes not normallyfound in this genre, includingsin, redemption, and slander.Olive is able to ask importantquestions: what is the worstsin – lying, adultery, or perhapslying about adultery? ✦

by Gregory Briker, New City, NY

COMEDY

Bill Cosby: Himself

Though the days of the VCRare long gone, the demand

for excellent old-fashionedstand-up comedy is still high.“Bill Cosby: Himself” satisfiesthis need with laugh-out-loudhumor. Cosby’s amusing twistson normal situations keep audi-ences laughing throughout thisspectacular show.

“Bill Cosby: Himself” wasfilmed in 1983 at the HamiltonTheatre in Canada in front of a

live audience. This whimsicalperformance, including anticsabout everything from going tothe dentist to giving birth, isdefinitely worth the 105 min-utes. Cosby combines storiessuch as his “people who drinktoo much” sketch with comedicanecdotes from his life. His fa-cial expressions play a key rolein the reason audiences havebeen laughing for years.

Another reason “Bill Cosby:Himself” has been so popular isbecause of his routine. Whenhe comes on stage and beginshis performance, he is having aconversation with the audience.He doesn’t try to force a jokebut goes with the flow, takingthe audience with him. Hisjokes are also relatable. Fromchanging stinky baby diapers todealing with annoying siblings,everyone can relate.

However, this film, alongwith every other movie outthere, has its flaws. Since it’sold, the video and sound qual-ity aren’t that clear. This film isalso not for those who wantpunchy one-liners. Cosby takes

time to develop his jokes. Nevertheless, “Bill Cosby:

Himself” is the best comedyI’ve ever watched. Cosby’s re-latable jokes and hilarious ex-pressions are a treat. The liveaudience laughing and reactingwith him make it feel like youare watching him live too. ✦

by Laolu Ogunnaike, Brooklyn, NY

REALITY TV

Teen Mom

The MTV reality show“Teen Mom” is based on

four teenagers who allow us toobserve their lives as they facethe challenges of the first yearof motherhood. Maci, Farrah,Amber, and Caitlynn all shareanecdotes of their struggles,complications, and accomplish-ments.

“Teen Mom” is an inspiringshow for other teen mothers.Being one myself, it has helpedme understand that I am notalone. Seeing other people’spoint of view helped me to bemore humble and flexible aboutcertain situations as well. It hastruly become therapy for me. Ican totally relate to the showand I’m certain, or hopeful, thatothers will be affected in a pos-itive way too.

However, for certain viewers“Teen Mom” has had a nega-tive impact. Some teens believethat the moms on the show aredoing well despite having ayoung child. They overlook thestruggles and only pay attention

to their good fortune: the factthey own a home and car orhave a job. They don’t under-stand how difficult it is being ateen mother, and the hard workthat’s necessary to get theseluxuries. Some believe “TeenMom” glorifies having childrenat a young age, but that is notthe case at all.

One of the show’s stars,Maci, demonstrates the realstruggles of being a singlemom. She faces custody andchild support battles with herson’s father and the challengesof balancing school, her son,and a new romance.

Another mom, Farrah, showswhat it’s like for her child tohave no father, since her daugh-ter Sophia’s father died. Farrahstruggles with her decision to

leave her child with her motherand father in order to attendcollege.

Caitlynn and her boyfriend,Tyler, deal with being “birthparents” and their decision togive their daughter, Carly, upfor adoption.

Last but not least, teenmother Amber faces domesticviolence from Gary, herboyfriend (and her daughter’sfather). Their verbally, emo-tionally, and physically abusiverelationship affects everyone,including their toddler, Leah.

I would recommend “TeenMom” to reality TV fans. Otherteen mothers especially maylove this show, as I did. ✦

by Felisha Feliciano,Hockessin, DE

DRAMA

Drumline

“Drumline” is an inspira-tional story about

Devon Miles (Nick Cannon), adrummer from New York Citywho earns a scholarship to At-lanta A&T University to play inthe marching band. As Devonfinds his rhythm within theband, he develops a conflictwith Sean, the leader of thedrum section.

Devon thinks he can carrythe whole band by himself, butafter challenging Sean to adrum-off, Devon soon realizesthat it takes more than talent tosucceed. I believe the movie’smessage to teens is simply “thewill must be greater than theskill.”

I particularly liked the development of the relationshipbetween Devon and Sean.Through their forged friend-ship, an outstanding marchingband is created. The team be-gins to work in amazing ways

and coins the phrase “one band,one sound.”

“Drumline” is a spectacularmovie I would recommend toall teens. It not only entertainsbut also teaches viewers aboutteamwork.

I really enjoyed “Drumline.”The rage, action, and excite-ment made it awesome. It’sdefinitely worth watching. ✦

by Khadia Baptiste, Wilmington, DE

Will leave you laughing and crying

for more

Great acting and great humor

Best comedy I’ve ever watched

Inspiring show forother teen mothers

Teaches about teamwork

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 234

love

sto

ry

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

I’ll tell you my story. I’ll start from the top.I’ll leave out no details, And at the ending I’ll stop.

My troubles with women Began right from birth,With my very own mother,Queen Beth Merryworth.That name that she gave meIs one no mother should give.I mean, what was she thinking?“Charming” is an adjective!I was only sixteenWhen I ticked off a witch.She made me a beast.Man, that girl was a b***h.I would have been beastlyFor the rest of my life,But Belle came and saved me.So I made her my wife.That was a mistakeI learned pretty quick.My new wife was crazy,A pure lunatic!She was convinced that the teapotWas the teacup’s mama,And had long conversations With the candelabra.So I put her in a madhouse,Went to France with a friend,And out walking one day,I saw a long braid’s blond end.Her name was RapunzelAnd with my strength and power

I climbed up her hairAnd freed her from her tower.I was already married,But I’m a sucker for blonds.And on the eve of our weddingShe got a dye job!The passion fizzled and died.I was in love with her hair.I explained this to her And then ran out of there.Not three weeks later,One crisp winter night,I met another woman.Her name was Snow

White.And she was a darling.No one was patient or

kinder.She’d been living for

yearsWith seven short miners.But Snow White had a problem:She loved talking to strangers.I’d come home each nightTo find her in danger.She’d shelter the wanted,Have thieves in for tea.“But they were so nice!”She’d say later to me.I hired a doorman,A gateman and some guards.But she cohorted with criminalsAnd was put behind bars. Three times I’d been married,

And none had been great.One in a madhouse, the other in jail,Hadn’t talked to Rapunzel since

our wedding date.My parents were desperate.So they hosted a ball.And I met Cinderella,The most famous of all.She was gorgeous and lovely,But I missed all the signs.Something was wrong

With my pretty wife’s mind.

I know that I found her With the glass slipper’s

match.But that girl would lose

her headIf it wasn’t attached.She misplaced her ring,

Lost her tiara, my crown.And when I’d question their

whereaboutsShe’d ponder and frown.“Your wife has dementia,”Said Dr. Gerome.And she moved from the palaceTo a retirement home.I was defending the border,Doing my princely duty.When I first came acrossMy dear Sleeping Beauty.She awoke with my kissAnd we were happy awhile.

But the queen of my countryNeeded this century’s styles.Now at this pointMy mother went crazy.She assembled a planOf which the logic is hazy.We had one different princessOver each nightAnd they slept upon mattressesAt a great height.My mom put a peaAt the base of each stack,And we waited for the girlWho felt a rock at her back.The one girl arrivedAnd we were married like that.But she was not sensitive,Just an insomniac.She could only sleepIf she was doped to the gills.And it wasn’t too longBefore she was addicted to pills.My wife was a drug addict.She was locked in a wardAfter two more attemptsTo take her life with my sword.

By this point in my life,I’ve been married six times.And I’m totally sickOf those wedding chimes.So I’m swearing off women.My dreams of wedlock are sunk.It’s just not working out …I’m now Prince Charming the Monk. ✦

Idial and my hands are trembling oh-so-slightlyholding the phone to my ear, as I wait for you topick up and say hi, and I’m praying because this

is really really important even if you don’t realize ityet.

And the phone rings eight times before finally –finally – you pick up and say “Hello?” and yourvoice has that little question at the end that peopleget when they don’t know exactly who is callingand they’re a little annoyed but still being polite.

So I say, “Hi, it’s me,” and you kind of laugh andsay, “Oh, duh, of course it’s you.What’s up?”

And for a moment I’m swept awayby your voice, what I know you looklike – your eyes, your hair, half-gelledand mussed from where you weresleeping on it. And I know that you’veprobably ruined yet another couchcushion with all that gel, and that this is why your mother knits those little cozies that cover thepillows.

And then you say “Hello?” again, like you’re notsure if I’m still here, like maybe I’ve hung up orwalked away because I really didn’t mean to callyou. But I did mean to call you, so instead I laughand say, “Hey, I’m still here. Just had to think for asecond,” and you give that half laugh again and say,“Think about what, stupid? We haven’t even startedtalking yet.”

And what I have to say is so important that Ilaugh and forgive you for calling me stupid, becauseof course you don’t know why I’m calling or howimportant it is.

But part of me is secretly hoping you do knowwhy, that you’ve already figured it out and have afantastic speech all planned so that as soon as I’vefumbled my way through this first bit, you cansweep this whole situation away with your wordsand your voice like you always do.

So I cheat, kind of, and say, “So, I’m guessingyou know why I’m calling ….” Andwait, holding my breath, hoping you’llfill in the blanks.

But you don’t. You stay there breath-ing on the other end, not saying any-thing, and I start to doubt myself just alittle, and still you don’t say anything,and now I’m seriously worried. I know

now you must need a bigger hint, a clue, so I say,“Well we’ve been hanging out a while” and “Youknow you’re one of my best friends, right?” and“I’m really fond of you.” It’s a big nudge, really;how can you not see where this is going?

But still you’re silent, so I take a deeper breathand curse you insincerely in my head for lettingwords fail you now when they never have before.And I clinch it, saying, “I really like you. I’d like tohang out more, just you and me.”

I’m proud of myself for getting through thiswhole speech without any help, all by myself,

nerves and awkward silences and everything. You say slowly, stuttering, your voice dull and

dim instead of bright and intelligent: “What are youtalking about?”

I start laughing, thinking you’re just pretending tobe stupid to be funny, even though it’s really not,and any moment now you’ll cover up the awkward-ness by laughing with me and saying, “Of course Iknow, stupid. I was just kidding.”

But then you speak up again, all confused, andsay, “Why are you laughing?” And immediately Istop.

For a long, tiny eternity I’m frozen, realizingyou’re not pretending, that maybe you really are juststupid. I’m horrified, and wondering, How couldthis have happened? and Could I really have fallenin love with a stupid person? And I’m confused,too, not wanting to believe it, wondering how youcould sound so stupid after how brilliant yousounded in math class on Thursday. How could youstutter now when you have always armed yourselfwith words before?

You say “Hello?” a third time, sounding reallyuncertain, maybe a tiny bit afraid, and not at allsmart. And I don’t say anything, just hang up,knowing you must have been stupid not to have anyidea this was coming.

And really, I can’t be in love with you, anyway, orif I was, I’m not anymore, because God forbid I everlove a stupid person. ✦

Stupid Love by Katie Callahan, Valrico, FL

“I’d like to hangout more, justyou and me”

My troubleswith womenbegan rightfrom birth

by Annie Krueger, Ilderton, ON, CanadaConfessions of Prince Charming

Isit and watch the clock, hood over my head,hands gently resting on the coolness of my desk.

Epistemophobia. Fear of knowledge.I am not saying I’m epistemophobic. I am simply

stating that I am not in the mood to be in schoolright now. Is that such a crime?

Mr. Patterson started class with a boring lectureand then left. He must be ephebiphobic. That’spretty much saying that he’s afraid of teenagers. Iguess I can understand why. I mean, consideringthat most of the girls have a crush on him and halfthe boys try to light his room on fire once a week,I’d be pretty ephebiphobic myself if I were in hisshoes. The thing is, he’s always mak-ing excuses to leave. A coffee stain onhis shirt. A paper cut. It never ends.

I peel my eyes from the clock asMr. Patterson walks in. Apparentlytoday’s excuse is a new student. Mr.Patterson doesn’t even bother to intro-duce him to us. The boy simply saun-ters in with a peculiar confidence inhis stride, walks to the back of theroom, and sits next to me. I notice he doesn’t make asound. He is so very silent.

The new boy is dark – his vibe, I mean. His long,pale fingers curl into a folded position, and the roomsuddenly feels thick, dense. Nobody watches himlike I do. They’re either asleep or plotting anotherway to light Mr. Patterson’s room on fire. Out of thecorner of my eye, I see the new boy staring.

Ophthalmophobia. Fear of being stared at.I feel the color rise in my cheeks.Ereuthrophobia. Fear of blushing.“What?” New Boy asks, as if wondering what I

said.Shoot. I must have said it out loud.“Nothing,” I mutter, hiding my face. It’s going to

be a long class.• • •

I am lying across the bench that connects to thelunch table. It’s raining, so we are not allowed to eatat our regular tree. I wouldn’t mind sitting in therain, but apparently the principal doesn’t agree. Taralooks at me with her unusually bright green eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” She pokes my stom-ach with a plastic spork. I think there should be aword for the fear of sporks. Sporkiophobia. Yes. Iquite like that.

I shrug.“You’re lying on the bench. Are you sick or some-

thing? Protesting the cafeteria tables? You could atleast sit on the floor.”

“Kathisophobia,” I say. “Fear of sitting down.” Iclose my eyes and don’t need to open them to knowthat she is sniffing her purple Jell-O, debatingwhether or not the lunch lady’s latest experiment isedible.

“Will you just shut up with all these stupid pho-bias?” she asks, accidentally knocking over her tinycup of raisins in the process. I know this, because Ihear them. It happens almost every day, only theants usually get to them before she can scoop themup. Because we’re inside, I hear her drop each oneback into the container. “Ms. Rickle really needs tostop the phobia lessons, or you need to switch to adifferent class.”

“I think it’s cool,” says a warm, honey-like voicefrom above me. I open my eyes and see the new kid.I turn my head and see Tara’s eyes go wide as shebrushes a strand of purple hair behind her ear.

Androphobia. Fear of men. I know she isn’t an-drophobic, but it fits. It almost makes me laugh.

“Desiree, right?” New Boy asks, looking at me. Ihate my name, so I have people call me Des. Newboy doesn’t seem fazed by my name, though. Hegrins a perfect, pearly grin. Gosh, even upside-downhe’s gorgeous. I sit up and turn to him, well awarethat gravity has made my frizzy brown hair a tangledmess. I try not to look directly at him. He is too distracting.

“Yes,” I say. “I never caught your-”“Ash.” He grins. “Call me Ash.” That smile …

My legs go numb as he runs his thin fingers – Tarawould call them piano fingers – throughhis dark hair.

“Right.” I swallow as he moves forward.

“Can I sit here?” he asks.“Umm …” I look at Tara. Will she

be upset if somebody – a boy – sitswith us?

“I need to go to the library. See ya!”She winks at me and hurriedly exits the

lunchroom.“Well, I guess you can now.” I smile at Ash.He sits across from me. “No lunch?” he asks,

gesturing to the bare table.I want to shoot back, “Okay, hypocrite. Where’s

your lunch?” But instead I shrug and say, “Sitopho-bia.”

He laughs. It’s such a genuine sound. “Fear ofeating?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m just not very hungry.”A period of silence follows before he says, “So I

have English next period, and I heard that you dotoo. Would you mind if I borrowed your poetry bookto see what I missed?”

I pull the old, torn poetry book out of my bag.I’ve written “metrophobia” all over it – fear of poetry.

“Wow,” he says.“What?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Does he think

it’s weird that I wrote all over my book? He doesn’t answer at first.Macrophobia. Fear of long waits.“There must be a lot of poetry in

there.” He whistles.I sigh. Right. “Yeah, the book really

is huge.”“Well,” he says, standing up and

stretching. “I’ll give it back in English.Thanks.”

He walks away, and I wonder why hedidn’t just stay and walk to class with me.

• • •We work in pairs in English, and Ash is my part-

ner. He hands me my poetry book, takes a look atthe test paper and says, “Testophobia,” showing mehis famous grin.

I smile. I’m beginning to like this guy.We are the first to finish the test, so we talk qui-

etly. “Why’d you transfer?” I ask, and immediatelyregret it.

His face clouds over and his eyes go dark. Thosefull lips form a thin, white line. “Things happened.”

“Oh,” I say. I am grateful when the bell rings, andI move to leave, but Ash takes my arm.

Haphephobia, I think, my heart pounding.“Fear of being touched,” Ash says quietly, as if

reading my mind. I shudder. “Look,” he says, “I’msorry I stoned up on you like that.”

I shake. I will not be tremophobic. I will not betremophobic.

“If you were tremophobic, you wouldn’t be shak-ing like this,” Ash says, brushing a piece of hairfrom my face.

“It’s like you know me – like you can read mymind,” I whisper.

“Come with me. I have something to show you,”he says as the next class files in.

• • •The clearing in the woods is soggy with rain. I am

grateful for my old rainboots and jacket.Nyctohylophobia and ombrophobia drift through

my mind. Fear of dark wooded areas and fear ofrain.

“Why did you bring me here?” My body tenses.My voice comes out raspy. “How did you know?”

“Des,” he says, his voice thick andtired as he looks into my eyes. I look athim. God, he is so familiar. I’d know that face anywhere. Why didn’t I see itbefore?

“Ash … as in Ashton.” My eyes widen.Mnemophobia. This is a fear I have

had for the past year and a half. Fear ofmemories.

It all comes back: the fire, the accident, the death ….

Arsonphobia, dystychiphobia, thanatophobia.Fear of fire, accidents, death.

“Ashton.” I take his face in my hands. His longfingers move to cradle my face as well. “Oh,” Iwhisper. “How?”

He kisses me. My boyfriend, my love, the one Ithought I had lost. They said he was gone. Howcould he be back?

Philophobia. I’ve been philophobic ever since theaccident – afraid to fall in love.

I open my eyes while my hands curl in his hair.The pressure of him – of the kiss – is still there, buthe is not. I pull away and gasp.

“Phasmophobia,” I whisper, my lips quivering.Fear of ghosts. ✦

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink35

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LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK

Panophobia by Elizabeth Waldie, Phoenixville, PA

Photo by Katya Kantar, Westfield, IN

Out of the corner of my eye,

I see the new boy staring

“Will you justshut up with

all those phobias?”

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 236

love

sto

ry Thursday Afternoon

The first time it happened toFred Perls, the setting was ahot dog stand.

It had been a cold morning, and byhalf past noon, when Fred left workfor his lunch break, it had not gottenmuch warmer. As he walked along thecrowded sidewalk and passed thescent of delicious, smoking hot dogs,there was little doubt in Fred’s mindthat it was a hot dog kind of day.

The Night BeforeFred slept on his stomach, as al-

ways, his left arm draped over theside of the bed. He was fast asleepand a small circle of drool had formedon the sheets under his mouth.

When he woke at 5:30, he sat upand thought about his dreams, but by5:42, as he walked tothe bathroom to brushhis teeth, he foundthem impossible to remember.

Thursday AfternoonAgain

Fred’s mind washappily empty as hestood in line to get his hot dog. Thetwo large women in front of him woreeven larger coats, restricting his viewof the hot dog stand to just the metalshelf for ketchup, mustard, and relish.

After a few minutes, the womenleft, and Fred took a final step towardthe hot dog stand. “One hot dog,please,” he said, although he feltstrange saying it because this was,after all, a hot dog stand, and therewas nothing else to buy.

As the man in the apron begangrilling the hot dog, a peculiar smilefound its way onto Fred’s face. It wasa feeling he couldn’t explain. Itwasn’t really that he was happy, butrather that he was amused. Fred couldnot – not yet, at least – explain why.

Once Fred’s Hot Dog Was DoneBeing Grilled

As Fred took the bills from his wal-let and handed them to the man in theapron, the strange feeling took hold ofhim again and his tongue stoppedworking in the middle of saying“thank you.” Only when Fred said it,it sounded more like “thu.”

The man in the apron, who was ofcourse unaware of the strange feelingFred was experiencing, was unsure ofwhat to do. Thankfully, Fred regained

his composure, handedover the money, took hishot dog, and hastilyturned toward his officebuilding.

What Was Happeningin Fred’s Mind

What was happeningin Fred’s mind was the

same as when he would hear an oldsong and struggle to remember thetitle. Or when, in college, he had stud-ied all night for a French quiz andthen could not remember the Frenchword for an English one. It was thenagging, annoying feeling of knowingthat you know something but just notknowing it at the moment.

In fact, Fred was trying to remem-ber something. He did his best to ig-nore it. Instead, he focused on all thereports he had to finish by thatevening.

Thursday EveningFred had not finished his reports.Thursday Afternoon AgainOf course, the exact moment Fred

began focusing on something elsewas the moment he figured it out.When he had woken up at 5:30, Fredremembered, he had just dreamtabout a hot dog stand. What’s more,the man at the hot dog stand had beenthe same man as in his dream.

And the more he thought about it,the stranger it became, because hehad dreamt about the two fat ladieswith their big coats too.

The smile still on his face, Fredwalked over to a nearby park benchand sat down. It was, for sure, thestrangest and most excited that Fredhad ever felt. It wasn’t just that hehad dreamt about the situation he hadbeen in; he had dreamt of those exactpeople, their clothes, their fuzzy bluecoats. He had dreamt of the ketchup,the mustard, and the relish.

All the details of the dream sud-denly flowed into Fred’s mind.

He imagined that this is what itwould feel like to discover a new

country, or to use magic. He got upquickly and walked back to work.

He had not eaten his hot dog.Early That NightHe was in his long green pajamas.

Fred was 30 years old and unmarried,and this was the most excited he hadever been to get into bed. He lay anotebook and pen on the bedside table,took off his socks, and climbed in.

He reached out from under thedown covers and moved the alarmback ten minutes. He squeezed hiseyes shut and, incredibly, fell asleepwithin minutes. The only sound wasthe ticking of the clock down the hall.

Early in the MorningImmediately after waking, Fred

began scribbling furiously in the note-book. He wrote about a box of Chi-nese food, a river clogged with boats,a giant key, masks, a girl, a shoe, anda bulls-eye. With a snap, he flippedthe cover of the notebook back intoplace and rolled out of bed.

Pleased with himself, Fred beganhis morning routine. As he dressed, heslipped the notebook of dreams insidehis jacket. At 7:15, he walked out thedoor and wondered if it would happenagain.

Fred’s Lunch BreakUnfortunately, it was cold again.

Fred walked in the opposite directionfrom the day before, toward therestaurant district and the shoppingmalls. Fred and his coworkers did notusually head this way because it wasquite a ways to walk and their lunchbreak was short. But work, and thepile of reports left on his desk, werenot on Fred’s list of priorities.

Later That DayThe reports were still not done.Back to Fred’s Lunch BreakIn the restaurant section of town,

delicious smells once again foundtheir way to Fred’s nostrils. Hesmelled garlic chicken.

There’s the Chinese food, hethought.

Like the day before, Fred followedhis nose. He opened thedoor of Oriental Panda.Sitting at a small table tothe left, with a menu ob-scuring most of her face,was Carla Hall.

Carla Hall worked in a cubicle nextto Fred and, like Fred, rarely finishedher reports on time. She collectedquarters. She often wore green, andbrought orange juice to work in a cof-fee mug. And if Fred were ever goingto be married, he wanted it to be toCarla Hall.

With a smile and a confident strideunlike those that belonged to theusual Fred, Fred made his way over toCarla and asked to join her.

What he said was, “Hi Carla, mindif I join you?”

And Carla said yes.Even Fred could not have dreamt

this would happen.Once They Were Finished EatingIt had been decided over lunch,

which had gone very well, that neitherFred nor Carla felt like returning towork for the rest of the day, eventhough two adjacent empty cubicleswould be very noticeable, a pointFred had brought up.

They left the restaurant and beganwalking away from their drab officebuilding, east along the river.

The river and the boats, thoughtFred.

“I need to step into that bank,”Carla said suddenly, letting go of hishand and jogging across the street.She turned and yelled, “Wait there!”

Fred turned toward the water andthought about how strange the lasttwo days had been. He reached intohis jacket and took out the notebook,and judging by the rest of what he hadwritten, decided that this day couldonly get stranger.

Fred turned back toward the street,leaning against the chains that keptpeople from falling into the water. Helooked into the windows of the bankand saw a man in a mask pullingdown a shade.

There’s the mask, thought Fred.At this point, Fred realized that the

bank was being robbed and that thelove of his life was inside.

Shoving the notebook into hisjacket again, Fred walked toward thebank with a confident stride. It wasthe stride of someone who thinks heis much braver than he is, someonewho is probably about to do some-thing very stupid.

He walked right up to the frontdoor and peered through a crack inthe blinds. A man in a mask, a differ-ent man who was much taller and fat-ter than the other one, pulled back theblinds and shoved a gun in Fred’sface, thus confirming Fred’s suspicionthat the bank was being robbed.

Fred backed away, hisstride much quicker now.On the one hand, he wantedto get as far away from thebank as possible, because hehad almost died. On the

other hand, Carla was in the bank.And so Fred neither walked away

from the bank nor toward it. Instead,he walked around it, and at the back ofthe building, he found a fire escape.Fred did not call the police, a decisionhe would later ponder. What he didwas take a step back, get a runningstart, and jump onto the bottom rung.

On the Roof of the BankHe looked around, trying to think

of a plan. There were some metalboxes, a flagpole, and right in themiddle of the roof, a metal

COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

The Dreams of Fred by Anonymous, Newton, MA

Fred had justdreamt about ahot dog stand

Fred was no superhero

Art by Ashley Lian, New Milford, CT ➤➤

F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink37

love story

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hatch. Fred scrambled over and tuggedwith desperation on the massive iron lock.

Although he was discouraged, he knewit couldn’t end here. His dreams told himit couldn’t. He felt along the sides of thehatch, trying to find something to tug on.There was nothing on the right, but hisleft hand grazed something small.

There’s the key, thought Fred.Ecstatically, he ripped off the tape that

held the key, jammed it into the keyhole,and twisted. The lock popped open.

Fred paused for a moment to considerwhat he was doing. Fred was no super-hero, nor had he worked out since his trialgym membership had expired the yearago. Also, his fighting experience waslimited to two years of karate in elemen-tary school.

A Moment LaterFred dangled his feet

over the open hatch andfound the first metal step.He began climbing down,aware how loud hisbreathing sounded in thenarrow space. Every 30seconds or so, he passed alanding that led to anotherfloor. After a while, he lost count of howmany he had passed. After what seemedlike hours, a typical feeling for someonedoing something they shouldn’t, his feetfinally touched the linoleum floor of astorage closet.

Fred stayed far from the door, afraid ofaccidentally opening it and falling intothe safe room where the men in maskswould put a gun to his head and kill him,right then and there. Instead, he tried tothink of something to do with the mops,brooms, paper towels, and shelvingaround him.

And then, because he had seen it inmovies, Fred thought about crawlingthrough the ceiling. The shelves wouldprobably hold his weight, and then it wasjust a matter of pushing aside one of thetiles and hoisting himself up there.

This procedure took quite some time,and he made so much noise that, had thestorage closet actually opened into thesafe room where the robbers were, hewould have been shot before his handeven touched the ceiling. Lucky for Fred,but not so lucky for the robbers, the stor-age closet was situated between the men’sand women’s bathrooms.

After Fred Managed to Pull Himselfinto the Ceiling of the Bank

Fred knew that he had done a prettygood job so far, at least in terms of hisathletic feats, but he still had no idea whathe was going to do about the bank rob-bers. He didn’t know how many therewere (there were two), if they all hadguns (they did), if they were holdinghostages (they were), or how he was

going to get out of thisceiling (by accident).

Fred did the only thinghe could think of, whichwas to crawl forward. Hepassed over the women’sbathroom, a hallway, andthen the tellers’ booths.

To move past this point,Fred realized he would

have to trust his weight to a thin beam.With his shirt already soaked in sweat, hegingerly placed his hands, then a knee,and then the other knee on the beam. Itcreaked and then snapped, and Fredbegan his descent into the lobby of thebank.

Ten Minutes Before the Beam BrokeThe two masked robbers, after forcing a

teller at gunpoint to open the safe, hadstuffed as many bills into two black duffelbags as they could. One, Jeremy, hadstood outside the safe with the hostageswhile the other, Stan, had done the actualstuffing.

Once the bags were full, Stan steppedout of the safe and threw one of the bagsat Jeremy’s feet. “Let’s go,” he said to hispartner in crime.

Jeremy was bending over to pick up the

bag of money whenFred fell from the ceiling.

Back to Fred’s FallThe beam, which

was pretty heavy, fellon Jeremy’s head andknocked him over,while Fred collidedwith the floor.

With pieces of ceil-ing falling everywhere,Jeremy, Stan, Fred,Carla, and everyoneelse in the bank wereblinded and confusedfor a moment. As Je-remy stumbled to hisfeet and started to run,Fred reached out and grabbed his shoe.Jeremy tripped, hit the floor with a thud,and fell unconscious.

There’s the shoe, thought Fred.Jeremy’s gun skittered to the edge of

the room, and Fred followed it on hishands and knees.

The debris from the ceiling had basi-cally settled, and Stan had figured outwhat was happening. He raised his gun.

As Stan Turned Off the Safety on HisGun

Fred grabbed Jeremy’s gun. He hadnever fired a gun before and had no ideahow it worked. On the other hand, Fredhad dreamt all of this the night before.And as he slid around to face Stan, thememory of his dream clicked into focusas it had the day before as he sat on thepark bench thinking about the hot dogman. Fred’s fingers found the safety,clicked it off, found the trigger, and shotStan square in the chest.

Bull’s-eye, thought Fred.Both guns clattered to the floor.The lobby was silent now, as everyone

(other than Stan and Jeremy) tried to fig-ure out whether it was safe to move. Fredwas the first to stand, and then the restjoined him. Slowly, the realization formed

that the two robbers were either dead or atleast not going to be doing anything for awhile, and the lobby of the bank eruptedinto applause. Even Fred began to clapafter he spotted Carla.

The police had been alerted to the rob-bery (Jeremy had not done a very goodjob), and at this point they arrived, crash-ing through the door, and were surprisedto see that, apart from two men on thefloor and a heap of ceiling tiles, there didn’t seem to be much out of place.

The Next MorningFred rolled out of bed, briefly reflected

on his dreams from that night, and wentto brush his teeth.

At 6 o’clock, he went into the kitchenand put two slices of bread into thetoaster. He poured a glass of orange juiceand walked out to get the mail.

On the front page of that day’s newspa-per was a small picture of Fred and ashort description of the failed robbery. AsFred sat down with the newspaper, thetoast popped up. It was a pleasant lightbrown color.

Carla came out of the bedroom, pickedup the glass of orange juice, kissed Fred,and sat down to eat.

And there’s the girl, thought Fred. ✦

He had no ideawhat he was going

to do about thebank robbers

For some reason, I cannot put away the mem-ory of you in that picture on your Facebook. Itwasn’t a particularly spectacular one, just you

in that perfect light blue shirt that matched youreyes, goofing off with your best friend, being boysfor whatever reason. But between theway the sun made your hair shine likemelted butter and the fact that yourcarefree laugh showed off your smilein the most flattering way, I becameinfatuated with you. And yet, I don’teven know what your motives werefor taking this picture. You certainlydidn’t mention them in the caption.Maybe you were trying to look masculine, like theperfect All-American teenage boy for that perfectAll-American girl, the one who’s a cheerleader and a straight-A student and Student Council presi-dent to boot (and much better than me in, well,

everything). If that was your motive, then you didn’tthink it through too well, because you certainlydon’t look too all-American: good looks and RalphLauren polos, yes, but football, Coca-Cola, trucksand/or baseball caps, no. I’m sorry, but your logic

failed. Besides, she has a boyfriend.I never liked baseball caps anyway. Maybe for some reason you did take

this picture for me. It would mean theentire world to me if you had. At thevery least, it would make me feel betterthan knowing you just took it to showoff that you had friends and a life. Idon’t want to sound like one of those

melodramatic Nicholas Sparks movies, but I wish Icould tell you how much I love this picture. Morethan Cherry Garcia ice cream, more than a newepisode of “Glee,” more than what it felt like to havethe Miss Maryland Crabs Jr. crown placed on myhead last summer. Did you see that picture? I may

have looked stupid in a giant crab-shaped tiara withtears streaming down my face, but I was thinking ofyour reaction when I got it. I wanted you to knowthat I’m special, like you, Mr. Quarterback.

Speaking of which, maybe you could come withme to one of my appearances for MMCJ, unlessyou’re allergic to shellfish. I hope you’re not, be-cause for the next eleven months, I’ll be eating morecrab cakes than you can shake a can of Old Bay at.If you did go, I guess you could eat the lemon. Andmaybe some tartar sauce, if you’re into that type ofthing. At least you have options.

Oh my gosh, you just made a new status update!Is it to ask me out? To confirm that you posted thatpicture for me? To confirm that you’re not allergicto crustaceans? To …

You’re now in a relationship with Miss All Amer-ica. Three people like this.

I guess I should stick to Cherry Garcia. ✦

Facebook Love by Leah Barteldes, Olney, MD

Maybe for some reason

you did take thispicture for me

Art by Vivian Tong, San Francisco, CA

RooftopHands dusted of peach pit,Gravel, and feathered things Which perch in souls,

Tiptoes clutching ledges, Rawboned, everything that is usGroped for the courage to leap.

Pulses jagged, Vertigo in every direction, A fraying tidbit of moment,All we ever wanted to do was fall.

You examined the sprawl below, The wrinkled visage of landscape and

fractal cities, Watched the people pursuing the horizon,And determined that the world was flat.

I remember looking at my toes and staringfor a long time.

You didn’t laugh when I asked you, But you didn’t say yes.

We walked back home.

by Thomas Costello, Hastings on Hudson, NY

self realizationthrough your eyesPlease have the decencyle couteau est dans le main, le coeur bat …Don’t twist, don’t turnMake the incision clean for my sakeOpen my body and the revelation of the

beating is faintNow you can see all that I am:The weight on my shoulders that I cannot

continue to carryThe reason you should bend and break meThe clarity of just how sick I can really be.Probe away at my lack of ambiguityAnalyze the absence of hopeYou’ll become surrounded in the depths

of my cynicismContinue to pry until it hurts, darlingFor this will be as unguarded as I shall

ever be with youFinally you will find just whyKeep prying until I scream and cryCome to realize that I am the nectar of

forbidden fruitI am poisonSo poisonous to you.

by Myah Jones, El Cajon, CA

Where Dandelions RoarVirginia, stop sinking –take those rocks from your pocketsand step away from the river.Let’s catch a ride, you and I,to the place where dandelions roar;where the alley-cat boysuse their cherry-red lightersto ignite the stars,inspired by firefliesbrighter than the sun.

What’s your rush, Virginia?Heaven may be nicebut it may not be there at alland death is on its waybut Virginia, I’m here now,and I’ll give you some deliveranceà la I-75,no Sunday dress required.

Think about it, Virginia:you could drown in your sorrows, ortake a dip in the honey pot with mebut either way, Virginia,promise me

you’ll keep trying to swim.

by Breanna Bowers, Burlington, KS

Excusesdistance has neverbeen an issue. you let itbecome an excuse.

by Myesha Bolling, Richmond, VA

The BoyI watch the boyWith blue eyes and the Breathtaking sweep of his hairAcross his forehead.

He’s all jock.Such a newbieStriving to fit in, but I will sayHe’s got good looks.

He’s probably a jerk.The cocky thinks-he-knows-our-systemKind of guy.When he doesn’t and we all know it.

I watch the boy With blue eyes and the Breathtaking sweep of his hairAcross his forehead.

Light filters through the blinds.Illuminating him, his face.The excitement of first dayHas died down.

He’s reading quietly at his desk.He looks sincere, real.The kind of nice guyEverybody wants to get to know.

It’s then I realizeThat’s all he is.A nice guy who, I must sayHe’s got good looks.

I watch the boyWith blue eyes and theBreathtaking sweep of his hairAcross his forehead.

by Grace Lemley, Highland, MI

My Hands Are EmptyYour green, green dress made me laugh.This is as nice as it will ever getYou said, and your knees were bruisedAbove red shoes ill-matched and still wetWith puddles of dirty rain.Would you like to dance? My hands

are empty,And your dress is green as love and coarse

as memory

We are made of layers, layers, layers,That has always been the wayAnd in season we shed these layersUntil there is nothing left to lose

And when you went home and peeled offthat green, green dress,

Inside there was a girlSmall and fair and young as anything;Inside her was a womanStrong and lovely, coursing energy,And inside her, an old, old soulAn old, old heart,A tree;Green as love and coarse as memory,SlowlySheddingIts leaves

Still, I cannot abstract you,But what will be left of usWhen we have lost every layerAnd shed every shell?What will we find togetherIn the cupped hollow of the hands of friendship’s love?Who can tell?

Love isGod isLoveIn empty hands

Waltz (2, 3)

Waltz (2, 3)

We danced the most terrible waltz (2, 3)Oh, but our words danced incredibly freeAnd so sparse like the dances of starsThat our feet no longer mattered to us;We were alone and time was ours(2, 3)(2, 3)2,3,FinThank youThis is as nice asIt will ever get,You said.Funny, I was thinking the same thing

by Ziggy Unzicker, Juneau, AK

And Then You Were GoneIt was not that they were too bigbut my feet were too smallto fit your prints left behindThey never go awayand always lead oppositethe way I’m heading

by Hope Klingensmith, Stuart, FL

Balloon CatchersWe were the balloon catchersThe tree jumpersAnd bread carriersWe were the coat pocket hide-n-go-seek

sunshine palsWe were the cat walkersBoy kissersCloseline hanging dirty-kneed trousersWe were the satin cigarette on the tip of

your fabricated tongue

We were the toad capturers Drum beatersAnd flower crown crafting field runnersWe were the carriage-pushing crocheted

baby blanket thinkersWe were the picnic haversPipe smokersBunkbed whispering wing flappersWe were the paintbrush whisking tulips

of your withered garden

You are the war fightersLove huntersAnd pumpkin-patch hand-holdersYou are the carnival-going popcorn

smile throwersYou are the music dancersTest-takersPicture-taking flower-pickersYou are the world fixing babies of

our destruction

Here’s the world, childDon’t mind the bruises

by Emily Watterson, Algonquin, IL

ColorsI love to watch the people,Rather, what is left behind:A certain color, flowing freeImprinted in the mind.

Adults shuffle hunchbackedBrown, and black, and gray,With cracking, folding facesCorroding every day.

And have they not a reason?For time has taken its tollWith future’s ceaseless task drivingFretting at the soul.

Poised on the edge of adulthood,Teenagers shift their huesAlternating from brightest redsTo the darkest blues.

Most distill their colorsWith cynicism, doubt.Pastels quiver to explore,Unwilling to venture out.

But my love is for the childrenStreaks of crimson, teal and limeGlancing off like rays of sunlight, striking every time.

They hear music for what it isThe magic behind the playFlaring brightest in happinessSlowly fading away.

I often have cause to wonder,Do we lose something as we grow?Is it children with the clearest lenses?I believe, I believe so.

by Nina Kamath, Saratoga, CA

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • POETRY 38

Photo by Grace Kim, Port Washington, NY

poetry

The Language ofListenerswell, if you do happen to rememberhow we used to take dictationfrom the trees

and scribble their murmuringsonto the skyin the script of our language

which everyone, including us,had forgotten how to speak

then please call me again tonightand we’ll both stand aloneon our separate mountains

and maybe listento what the stars have been trying to say

all these years.

by Evelyn Weinstein, Cold Spring Harbor, NY

Of JakeJake told me the weather forecastEven though he’s from Michigan.He said he’d be thinking of meAnd to stay safe.

All that day held foreboding.I wondered how the padded skyCould rear up and scowlEnough to bring a thunderstorm.But he always can.

Near supperI went outside to touch the kittens.I found the gusts Had already raised their hackles.Hot cotton rose in my throatAnd I knew I couldn’t stop What was coming.

Every time the wind began to waltz,Every time the sky was grouchyAnd I felt his outburst coming straight away,I saw us frantically preparingFor clouds to Explode.

With lightning lashing at our heelsAnd thunder taunting on every side,We covered the little plantsYanked jeans from the porch railingSlammed and latched the barn doorAnd dragged the trampoline to the woods So it wouldn’t flip.

Even filled with frightI remembered Jake said he was thinkingAbout me.And I could mock the fear.

We ate casserole and cantaloupeIn blackness for a few minutes;Dread dripped from my armpits.When the lights rejoined us,My forehead cooled.

Later that eveningThe sun danced a bitFor me.

It made me think of Jake.

by Kayla Ensz, Hillsboro, KS

DreamerTo pass the time I doused the lightand stumbled blind into the nightto brave the darkening twilight terrorin search of life’s most joyous error

In the deepening crushing blackI lost all hope of turning backAnd so I tread uncertain stepsWhere poets dreamt and madness slept

I left my common sense behindFor hollow prophets to someday find;I threw my soul into a gust Of fragrant multicolored dust

The skies were painted teal and goldWhere powdered-sugar clouds unrolledand touched the cresting milky seaswhile I gazed in awe from shaded trees

I danced with angels, and demons tooThey’re not so different from me and you.I cheated death, I beat the oddsAnd taught pottery to the gods

But when the end came slowly nearAnd my world was soaked in Heaven’s tearsI bid farewell to my friend, the strangeAnd tread slowly back from which I’d came

A league of men and women allWith impressive papers on their wallWill preach the worship of what is realBut I know none but what I feel.

by Zack Flint, Loveland, OH

Every MomentChanges YouAfter just a momenta different world is open.You thought of somethingbut then you noticedyou never get everything rightat first glance.

by Andrea Aguayo, Clinton, OK

Her LegsYou wouldn’t think.You wouldn’t think legswould weigh much, particularlythese ones, witheredas they are. People starvefor legs like these, exceptnot exactly these.no one passing bylooks jealously at them. Atrophiedmuscles and acresof nerveless skin would be highly fashionableif they could support weight. Insteadthey are carefully positionedin scooters and chairs, draggedbehind walkers. Shehas MS, and as weslowlyget her upstairs, one

stepat a time, she pullingher body up, I wrestling with her awkward, heavy, unbending legs

I thinkshe is beautiful in all the wrong waysfor all the wrong reasons

by Emma Tremblay, Kirkland, WA

An Old Familiar ShirtI wonder what it’s likeWhena heartso over-usedis sick of trying and loving livingweepingcaringmaking breakingkeeping

Does itstop altogetherits final beatringing like a last notein a songand then the singer steps off the stage that note still hangingin the air

Like a smell that lingerslong after the person is gone

and reminds you ofthe boy with his paint-stained fingersthe shy smile that makes you want to describe in a hundred different wayshow he looks in hisrumpled canvas jacketwith the gold buttonsthe one you promise to never wash for fear of losing that smell of paint and dusty rooms, ofsunlight pouring in the window

And so you do the laundryalways leaving out the jacketyou watch the clothesspinaround and aroundmaybe that is how a heart lookswhen it is all used uplike an old familiar shirtthat has been washed many different timesand mixed in with everything else

All of those memoriesspinning togetherthe smells and the feelings of those clothesyou can still rememberwhen you wore that particular shirton that datewith that boyhis name was Christianyou went to the moviesbut it was boring so you leftand walked around in the cool night airand he bought you a cinnamon rollwhich you atelicking the sweet sugar from your fingerswhich he held in hisintertwined

You get sad rememberingthe shape of his handthe skinny fingers with theirbeautiful boneshow they memorized your faceand his eyesthat shade of hazelso deep you would swearhe could read your mindand see your soulwith its markingsnot as beautiful ashis

Maybe a heart never wears outmaybe it justhopes and sticks it outuntilyou find someone who can hold it and never break itsomeone who you can take your “fragile”

sticker off forand just beyourself

Whole and alivewith your sometimes, maybe, beautifully

damaged, “alma”

by Taylor Powell, Ray City, GA

Room 201Then came the quarantine. Four white walls closing in. Benedictions have become too feeble to wrestle the debacle of body tissues.All I hear is nickels clink as my dad leavesto light a cigarette. Now the inertia. Taciturn, pretending to scrutinize cuticles. As we listened to him respire under the thin

bed sheetswe knew the steps to take and arrangements to make. Forty-five hours later, the

ice thawed why did we linger by the doorsteps until

the moon leaned over the private ward?

by Sera Park, Southborough, MA

POETRY • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink39

Art by Hillary Snyder, Waterloo, ON, Canada

Burn My HeartBurn! Like a thousand flames.Burn! Hear me scream your nameBurn! Like my heart tonight.And I actually thought I mightbe in love

Burn! You alone made my heart singYou were my everything.But no more, no more love, no hateLeave behind the past.No more pain, no more tears,like a burning photograph,Burn!

by Nathan Hart, Enfield, CT

TangledThe words are getting tangledAs they pass between my lipsThey grow twisted and contortedWith every passing trip

You say you need some timeSo you’ll avoid me for a whileYou promise that we’ll still be closeBut there’s reluctance in your smile

I never wanted what you asked forOr for things to be displacedI couldn’t give you what you wantedSo instead I gave you space

When I couldn’t handle waitingI took to knitting heartsBut the yarn tumbled from my fingersAnd our friendship fell apart

It’s the knotting of our stringsThat keeps us terribly confinedAnd the fraying of loose endsThat unravel over time

One day you’ll grow entangledAs you dance on twisted threadsWhile the spider keeps on weavingCatching insects in her web

by Marina Watanabe, Fair Oaks, CA

A New Kind of FallAs the ribbon is tied and cut a piece of

glitter falls.It falls right into her eyes, where everyone

says it belongs.As she walks to the car, her heel gets

swallowed by a crack in the earth, causing her to fall.

He is there to catch her.The smell of pumpkin fills the kitchen as the

leaves fall off the tress. A lightning storm approaches. Alone, you

cuddle up in a ball on the couch.You listen to the thunder crash and heavy

rain fall.As their lips meet for the first time, he

whispers, “I’m falling for you.”A clear night opens up the wonders of what

they call a falling star.Alone in the house, she falls down the stairs,

alone she slips away from reality.

by Rebecca Howe, Springville, NY

Another OneAnother tale of Romeo and JulietThey fell in love, forbidden yetThey stayed together through the endHere’s my take of Romeo and Juliet

There’s the lad who lives next doorTo the beaut who washes hardwood floorsAlways glances, never staresSoon they swore to have evermore

Away they ranA plan to seekEach other outBefore dawn’s peek

The beaut awaited for her ladUntil a cougar scared her madShe ran in fright right out of sightLeaving her veil of Persian white

The lad appearedThen saw his endIt stabbed his heartWhich he couldn’t mend

His eyes rolled backDrooled crimson redHis hand on his heartFor he was dead

Out of the bushes came the maidShocked in sorrow here she laidNext to her ladThis is where they stayed

They’d planned to get marriedTheir parents forbadeThey were to meet upIn a harmless way

To make their vowsTo be forever moreThe wish came trueAnd I’ll tell you how

Instead of saying “I do’’They took the plowForever will they have each otherPast the end with one another

by Becca Hooks, Homewood, IL

A Broken HeartA broken face can be replacedOr glued back togetherBut a broken heart Can fall apart And feel the love forever

by Desiree Granados, Montebello, CA

The ViewYou’ve got me smiling nonstop,Laughing like a childYou are beautiful, wonderful,Free-spirited and wild

I’d climb a mountain As long as you are thereAnd when we’re upI’ll stop and stare

Not at the trees Or at the viewBut at the stunningly breathtaking, Beautiful you.

by Camelia Alikashani, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Fall CameFall came todayand with it, the spare blankets from

the cupboardand the kiss of icy wind that blows the leaves from their

watch towersI will sleep with my window open tonight.Fall came, so I spread flour on the

rolling pinand tied back my hairpulled the old cookbook from off the shelfto make the first apple pie of the season.But when I cracked the spine, a handful of pressed violets fell out

onto the floorpaper thin, with summer’s lazy scent still holding in their petals.I have tried not to write about those days,it would be too easyor too hard,those days we slipped awayand learned how our bodies worked.Beforehand, you mowed the lawn

without your shirtwhile I sat on the fence and braided violetsand told you about my fatherbutevery inch of my apple-white arms justitched for you,so we left the rest of the world to

its businessand played a little game,geography lesson, can you find the capital?Charting unknown territory,mountains, valleys, forestsneeded exploringin the ocean of the blankets on the couchyou taught me how to learnand how to wantI hadn’t really felt that beforeit was strangeand fun, but notpoetic,becauseyou were not sweet and it really meant nothing at allbutI still saved the violets and pressed them in the cookbook on

the shelfso I could remember that it wasn’t all for nothing.I better make that pie.

by Indigo Erlenborn, Madison, WI

Why I Shouldn’tText at NightAt night, I lose my inhibitions in the darkAnd my filter in my brain all but

disappears, untilSuddenly it seems okay,Even smart,To tell you everything.To tell you more than what you want to hear.I will tell the truth as I see it, With no smooth edges, No – truth as ragged as a disc used as a

dog’s chew toy.Truth as bare as an Arizona desert.Truth as cold as the deepest secret corners

of the human heart.If it pops in my mind,I HAVE to share it.My fingers twitch, my mind rushes, and all

I want to do is sendOneMoreMessage.Maybe then my mind will clear.

But what will spill out?

by Kaitlyn Manley, Loveland, OH

Sunday MorningEvery Sunday morningYou can be sure to seeThe beautiful old couple Sitting in pew three.

I can’t help but noticeThe love in his eyes Not just for his brideBut his God lifted high.

The strong bond betweenThis man and his wife,It’s something I’ll strive forMy entire life.

I sometimes noticeMy thoughts drift away,I think of their loveAnd forget to pray.

We say the Lord’s Prayer,The church as a whole,Her hand in his,They pray with their souls.

He steals a glanceAt the woman on his arm, He smiles and blinksAs a tear causes alarm.

He bows his head, Quickly finishes his prayer,Squeezes her hand,And smiles with care.

As Mass comes to close,He looks at the cross,Mouths a quick thank you,Then nods in awe.

Now Mass is over,I slide out my pew,Smile at the man Who then smiles too.

The lesson I learned Is short but true, Love is so strongIt captivates you.

by Katelyn O’Brien, Watertown, MN

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • POETRY 40

Art by Emily Linville, Columbus, OH

My Heart Is theOnly One WhoCould Explain ItI have twenty-seven hour glasses,But there will never be enough timeIn the day for me to say how yourGrin makes me smile, how your smileIs the solemn lantern in this abandoned Town that we have all to ourselves.How your eyelashes battered and sparkledAnd lit the hormones seeping from our Bodies and into the air on fire likeA million fireflies, bred from your freckles,Kissing my cheeks lightly, giving

endless warmth.The silkworm sews the fabric of yourThoughts in strands of dreams and luxury.Forty-nine butterflies are born a minuteIn your mind, in my mind, in our mind,You pulled me from my cocoon andTold me to just flap my wings and fly,I did, and here we are, soaring like aA pair of mighty eagles, as bald as we are;The silkworm stole all our hair, our dreams.Even if we could fly like the ostrich runs,Chasing the sun over the fleeting horizon, Making every second of a falling day last,I could never explain why I chased theSunset to begin with, why I was braveEnough to flap my wings and to fly,Why I even left my cocoon in the first place,And how I had the audacity to dream

with you.Just take my hand, like a friend should,Place your head against my chest when You cannot hold your head high like

you taughtMe how to hold my head high, and listen;My heart is the only one who could explain it.

by Phillip Helget, Kensington, MD

Before We DieI thought of you tonight in sleep,My heart you stole away.You gave me yours and said to keep,I cherish it every day.

When bloody battles and wars we’ve fought,Turn into desperate pleas.I’ll think of you with my last thought,And wait to be set free.

I tried to warn you about my wrongs,My pain, my fear, my hate.But I hear you singing our last songs,I take it as too late.

One last thought, I’ll hold you tight,Wipe your tears before you cry.Remember, dear, the key to life,Is to love before you die.

by Marilyn Wolbert, Dover, PA

Umbrellai’ll always be yourumbrella if life tries torain on your parade

by Emily Jones, St. John, WA

ThunderstormsWe sat on the sidewalk in the thunderstorm

that day.It is the only day that I remember being

with you,because fortunately, I have remembered to

forget everything else. Or, I have remembered to want to forget

everything else. Or, I have remembered to try to want to

forget everything else.

I remember the lightning as it dripped down our throats.

It never tasted sweeter than on that day.It almost tasted likeyour tears.And likethe millions of fireflies that lit up your chest,making your heart look brighter than it

really was.

I remember holding the thunder in the palms of our hands,

and I remember pretending that the thunderwas your kiss,

because, I really wanted it to be,and because,I knew it never could be.

I remember that there was no rain,and I cried that day because of it. Because,what was thunder, no matter how soft it

was to hold,and what was lightning, no matter how

sweet it was to taste,without rain?So then you told me that I was the rain.It was a lie.I knew that then, and I know that now.But today, I would give anything to

believe in Your Lies.

by Loisa Fenichell, Nyack, NY

How Far?how far would you go?everyone asks but I haven’t a clueI think it depends on the moonand the stars and that blade of grassyou can never tell with a heartit changes like dish cycles one minute it’s on heavy rinse next it’s on filter out …but I think if you’re set like a tablethen you’ll be fine a glass will fall once in a while yet it only takes seconds to clean upbut if you’re set like a calendarthen I’m sorry, but you’re better off dead if you miss a week or even a dayyour world is chaotic and topsy-turvyhow far would you go?blank eyes and quivering lipsthat’s not the answer she wants to hear “I wouldn’t for you” realization.how far would you go?For the one you love?

by Lilian Cruz, Medford, NY

Zest of My HeartA piece of paper floated down from the

hands of aBoy who held the rest of my heart in

his fingers. Careful, he whispered, and i wished he’d let

the fake words linger. Delicacy was on my mind in a way, andEverything seemed to take longer in this

place that was quiet.Forget me, okay? I haven’t been around

so long that you shouldGive up on who I made you. He pressed a piece of paper into the hands of

me, andI realized I held the rest of my heart in

my fingers. Just so, he whispered, I can’t Keep myself away from you. You know

that I’ll Linger:and I remember thatMalt liquor was your father’s favorite

thing in the hands of aNew accomplice and none Of those things were relevant to the fact

that we were Protecting ourselves from askingQuestions. I Revolved around you and my revolutions had Stopped. Turn around, you whispered, and I wished

he’d let his hands stayUnder my cashmere sweater, staying warm

and applyingVarying pressure to my hips that were

moving farther away from our diluted Water of love. I forget about thoseX-rated lies and I held the rest of my heart

in my fingers.You threw that piece of paper down from

your hands and the remainingZest of my heart didn’t linger.

by Chela Novak, Southampton, NY

I Met You WhenRed Met BlueI met you When red met blueWhen Harry met SallyExcluding the blending of primary colorsYou left blue on meAs I rendered your face purpleBlue rained in my eyesLooking at our colors clashOn my armsLike a tiger being striped by GodWith a color not his ownLike a whip we clashed and cracked And I bled blueI started to bleedThe day I met youI saw red in my dreamsI saw red behind my eyesRed was a flower in a field of flowersRed was a volcano surrounded by volcanoesRed was brave and funny and strongRed had a heart, a soul, a songRed was red until red was blueRed was redUntil the day I met you

by Abigail Holloway, Broken Arrow, OK

An Old FriendOn my shouldersA jacket tortured,Enduring every aspect of living.

A cigarette-burned hole,Matching left-arm scar.Hip torn by barbed wire.Blood-stained from fights, briars, and masochistic needles.

If I shake the sleeves,the wafting scent of an October campfire will kick-start memories.

He has warmed the bodies of several girls.Loves, lovers.He has caught their tears, and mine.

Fought off sickness and addiction Made lonely feel like just a word in a song Danced to every punk-rock power chord that made my parents worry.Reminded me that I’m used, not uselessFelt the wet of rain.

I wonder if He could use a jacket.

by Zach Turner-Ball, Nashville, IN

Shopping for LoveIs love ever considered gratisOr is there an unspoken return policyWho to askOperator: can you find me love’s managerCertainly a well-spoken man, woman,

or neitherTo be running such a large array of

department storessplattered across the world in humans and

non-humansalikePut me through the lineBecause I have a shopping cart of love’s

embodiments thatI’d like to returnFor someone who wants or needs it morethan meI’ve so much stock, it seems unjust andI think I’d like the savings back, you seeThat porcelain pig took many years to feed

by Kira Weiss, Arcata, CA

POETRY • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink41

Art by Kelsey Kenney, Denham Springs, LA

What a Man Your thin lips curled at the endsTelling me you lied about the “No more than a movie”night

I caught myself staringAt that stupid thingYou call a mustache

The handful of overrated hairson your upper lip Refusing to shave them You’ve only encouraged their stay

Beads of objectiveGrew from the dimples in your skin

Your thick eyebrowsArchedActing as though they knew nothing of the lips’ intentYour restless legs

Snitched on your thoughts as you shifted in your seat

“It’s okay”My thin bangs whispered back I’ll be damned if I let yourChapped reddened lips Touch the soft surfaceOf mineI’ll be damned if I let your grease-filledMechanic’s knucklesInvade the waves in my hairAnd I’ll be damned if My taste buds are soiledBy your Heinous chewIn response to your face’s entranceto my side of the vehicleI introduced you to my Left cheek

I hope you enjoyed the threeCarefully picked eye shadowsI applied for blush And the grand view of my silver earringsPlaced perfectly in my ear

Maybe you got lucky As I turned my headto smell the scent of black amethystAs my neck was made exposed

Enjoy, stupid boy Enjoy

But before I leave, let me ReiterateThis was no Shy Accident

Hopefully your nose stungWith embarrassmentAs I smiled and slammed the passenger doorTo your feeble excuseFor a truck

As my hair waved good-byeMaybe you answered a reply to my mind’s only question

Who flaunts a Ford?

by Valerie Williams, Oshkosh, WI

Pick Me Up a FlowerPick me up a flower, not a rose or an orchid,don’t buy it,I only want one.Pick me up a flower,off the side of the road,from a meadow,I don’t care,I only want one.Fine, don’t pick me up a flower,buy one for someone else,buy her a dozen long stem roses,wrap them in crinkly plastic,give her all the flowers you can buy,all the flowers in the world,I only wanted one,just one.

by Kelsey Traeger, Palmetto Bay, FL

Stuck and Unstuck LoveWe were two birds stuckOn the wire between the telephone poles.We were perchedJust far enough so our wings could

not touch.Sparks danced between us,Sizzling on the electrical wire,And all we could do was gazeInto each other’s beady eyes.

But when we did,We felt like we were soaringAbove rooftops, and treetops, circling

each otherBut we were two birds stuck in love On the wire between the telephone poles.Our feet gripped and could not ungripWe could not scoot closer,We could not shift farther.

We looked at each other,Sorrow in our black eyesAs we began to realize There was no point in wasting time.For we were two birds stuck in loveOn the wire between the telephone poles.Our talons grew tired from gripping,Our hearts became weary of wishing,And we little by little accepted the

heartrending truth.We could not scoot closer,We could not shift farther.

Until one day,A gusty wind cameAnd toppled our telephone poles That had once held us in place.We could stretch our talons.We were two birds unstuck and free.

I flew and flew and flew away,So shocked that I was unhandcuffedUntil I found you flew another way.And it was with the freedom that the

wind finally gaveThat I lost the love I had always meant

to save.

by Samantha Cassidy, Duncan, OK

Cigarettes and Tangerine(the nearness of you invoked a lonelinessi never knew before)

Only when I sleep,am I awake.

Sleep,

and reels of thoughtsspin on infinitesimal hopeand sound waveslock with ropes of tears

Sleep,

and I’m driftingon the black waves of slumber,dreaming of your opaque eyes,the November sun,cigarettes and tangerine.

But wake, and you will be just a quiet hopetucked undera wing of my prayer.

Wake,and I cannot love you.

by Fatimah Zainal Abidin, Georgetown, Malaysia

Dreary ArizonaDreary Arizona, dripping cold, wet

rain today.Blurry cars drive past out the windows undera low gray winter sky, butinside the temperature is risingas anger seeps through the walls likered paint poured on an altar.This day was meant for the oppositeof what’s being felt right now;roses lay crushed and forgottenand the explanation is in pieces,set aflame all on the ground.Maybe if it was brought outside,it would turn to steam and thenrelease the red-hate feeling to the grayand float away, harmless, on

Saint Valentine’s day.

by Kara Wixtrom, Gwinn, MI

Of Poets’ Eyes &Mechanical HeartsA breeze, a breeze,the sweet wind of winter whispers lovesick

fools in my eara sighing song of crystal butterflies that i

pinned in your hairafter we fell down dizzy from dancing

in the fog.

The buzz of my mechanical heartis beating away at your concrete walls and

brick by brickI tear you apartso that ice sharp love can pierce your soul.

Our laughter a husky smoke-stained melody,we pop soda cansand toast them like ambrosia.the cliff we watch from withered with tattoo

love and hate.

But your poets’ eyes are fixed on me and my sutured scars

throb with hope because your eyes are

freedom life hopeblue andthey whisper behind frozen shadows the se-

crets of life (of death?) I sometimes wonder

where you got those bruises on your armsbut i don’t ask ’causemy bruises are pretty fresh too … (did i tell

you that I love you?)

So in my purple-leather princess trenchcoatand ratty jeans my sister wore

I sit and watch the sunset with you, yourscarlet hair tickling my hands

as you rest your head on my thigh.The patchwork quilt of black and silver

and garish blue is tucked around yourcurled form

to keep off the winter’s laughter as we soakin heat from our concrete bed.

And I sing us folk songs from countrieswe’ve never been to with you hummingabstract chords to keep the roar of highway traffic at bay.

as dreams and salt-scoured breaths take oursouls to flight to adventures

with our well-loved monsters and closet-skeletons as our guide

while we wander away into the peace of oblivion.

(Did i tell you that i Love You?)

by Erin Osterlind, Oceanside, CA

four lettersGuilt drips off and burnslike a melting candle.I still can feel a lingering flamehaunting in the back of our minds.you snapped the Us in two.Summer nights with moviesOur own romantic comedy in theatersMaybe you shouldn’t have saidthose horrific thingsand you wouldn’t have madea cut into a scar.I want to forget and let goOf your lifelineBut a four-letter wordTightens my grip.

by Hannah Schacherl, Oshkosh, WI

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • POETRY 42

Photo by Christopher Wright, Cave Junction, OR

One of Those PeopleShe was one of those people who ate

breakfast in bed,Who woke up alone andNever listened to what her parents said.She was one of those people who bought

window seats,Who boarded the plane and closed

the shutter,Complaining of heatShe was one of those people who closed

her eyes,Who closed her eyes to the worldAnd mumbled her good-byes.She was one of those people who put on

her headphones,Who refused to talk,Who preferred to be alone.She was one of those people who thought

the world was beautiful,Who believed it was good,But never tried to live in it.

He was one of those people who lived life with ease,

Who never took a coatAnd who loved the cool breeze.He was one of those people who loved

with his heart,Who appreciated time togetherAfter being apart.He was one of those people who watched

with his eyes,Who listened to his heartAnd who deemed it wise.He was one of those people who opened

his soul,Who let into his life The world as a whole.He was one of those people who watched

the world,Who lived,Who never let a second go by too soon.

by Jason Tinero, Calabasas, CA

Series of Haikus:DetachmentThis is how it is:I loved you a little then,but not anymore.

Perhaps once, I fellinto old habits of love –accidents happen.

I’m not hiding nowbecause trying to be yourswas too difficult.

There are no fancywords to describe us becausewe were simply there.

We were not specialor brilliant or lovelierthan most. Not profound.

We just were, right then.And so it worked, for a while –Then time slowed us down.

by Kaitlin Duchene, Tallahassee, FL

Scar TissueI don’t need himI don’t need his complimentsto float through the telephone wireand slither in my earBecause once he’s gonethey’ll festerturn ugly and backwardslies.

I don’t need his kissesleaving trails from mylips to my neck.Bread crumbs that will lead meto himafter he’s left.

I don’t need the butterfliesin my stomachwhenever I think of him.When he changes his mindthey’ll turn to beesand sting meso I can’t hardly breathe from thepain and swelling.They’ll fly upto my heartpuncture it.And the scar tissuewill be so thickthat no one will everbreach my securityever again.

I don’t need him.No.But I want himin a masochisticself-harming way.My bee-stung stomachaches with the thoughtof another lovebut it’s a good ache …He is a pain that hurts every partbut makes every part stiffand strongerwith light pinkscar tissue.

by Hannah Kiel, Bloomington, IL

A Cadaver’s HeartAshen light strikes his jigsaw puzzle heart,Cut with precision so rapier sharp;It’s fixed upon a tray, with gunk and grime,And handed off, a macabre Valentine.

by Amirio Freeman, Hampton, VA

The Absurdity of a Heart-ShapedNecklaceSometimes I wonder why jewelersmake necklaces shaped like hearts. They’re inaccurate, to begin with, they get the shape wrong, every time.

I’ve never gotten an x-ray of my heart,but trust me, I’ve seen enough doctor showson television to know what a heart

looks like.Kay Jewelers, I’m sorry, but your design

is wrong.

Besides, why would I want to wear a heartaround my neck? I have one already, thanks,beating loudly and proudly inside my chest.I don’t need a hunk of gold impersonating it.

Plus, if I were to wear a second heart aroundmy neck

I would want it on something sturdy, maybea chain like the kind in prisons to lock up

the inmates.I want my heart safe, not dangling from a

flimsy metal string.

Heart-shaped necklaces seem so unnecessaryAlthough I guess I can reason that

it’s alwaysconvenient and even rather wise to holdan extra heart, just in case mine

breaks somehow.

by Michelle Lesniak, So. Plainfield, NJ

Ninety-FourYou said you wanted to be with me till

we were 94,but the more and more I think about it I seeyou played me like your own guitar,you let me believe the distance wasn’t so far,and all the while you never gave an answer.You let me smile and trust,and now it’s all rustcrumpled,scattered in the dust,and I must confess that I hate the fact that

even though it was rushedI LOVED YOU.

I guess you have another girl to share yourinsomnia with now,

I guess you’ll tell her how she’s a “cutecherry” the same way you did with me,

and I guess you’ve shut the door on 94and I hope you know you can’t open it back up.

by Emi DeBruyn, Durham, NC

Loveful LustLove is a funny thingIt can be a cruel gameAdd -ed and it becomes what you were to meAdd -s and it is whatI still do to you Add -r and it is the thing you were, The thing that ended when we kissedFarewell and good-byeLove is funny sometimesIt delights us in messing with our minds

by Ellen Zhang, Troy, MI

I Hate Your LaughI hate your eyes.But it’s not that murky excuse for green

that I hateIt’s their ability to stare in mineHold them so intenselyAnd pour Grade A lies so fluidly

I hate your laugh.Like a teacher’s sturdy nails against

the blackboardWith a hint of base of courseTo make up for the basics that define you

as a man.Maybe.

I hate your hair.The eight-dollar bottle of that pharmacy

chestnut brownThat now traps your natural beach

blonde locksI believe your haircut has been long overdueBut that would mean chopping off your

wannabe Bieber shag.

I hate your teeth.Who knew behind those pearly whitesFestered so much rageWhen you would clench them togetherThrowing one of your first-class hissy fits.

What [I] hate the most about you?I don’t even know If you would be ab[L]e to comprehend

the truthThat I’m about to sh[O]ot through

your veinsIf it could e[V]en sink through that

thick skullLay[E]red with your various comicsAnd your classic John Ma[Y]er CD’sY[O]u wo[U]ldn’t even be able to grasp it.

So the question still stands.I can’t exactly put my finger on it.But.

I’m pretty sure I just hate you.

by Hannah Sawyer, No. Brunswick, NJ

This MuchI’ll write a love poem for youOn the graffiti-covered wall of the

bathroom stallIn a rundown gas station in the middle

of nowhere

And I hope that says enough for youI hope it means enough to youThat you won’t leave me hereAt a rundown gas stationIn the middle of nowhere.

by Kelly Long, Holbrook, MA

Crying LoveI feel these butterflies biting at the lining of

my stomach,And that shock burning through my veins

every time your hand brushes mine,Sitting at this tableIn this bar,Drawing our names on napkins, And sipping Dr. Pepper,It’s obvious what’s going on.But I’ve cried “love” too many times, and

no one will believe us now.

by Allyssa Lantis, Naylor, GA

POETRY • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink43

Art by Juice Choe, Powell, OH

educationthey were learning each other. figuring each other out.there was no textbook, no equation,

no handbook, no rules. they were trying. experimenting, testing, working.they learned each other by trial and error,secret by story by fear by passion,baby steps, then bigger, then bigger –

but still not too fast.they asked questionsshe wondered he guessedwhat made her smilewhat made him laughwhen to talk – when to listenwhen to challenge – when to acceptthey reached in through their stomachsand found each other’s soulhidden there in a nook behind the ribsadjacent to the hearta place where no one would think to gothey mapped out the geographythe ridges and the valleys the depths of the brokennessthe mountains of elation they charted and plottedbar graphs of happiness line graphs of eventsdata tables of everything in betweenthey turned each other into math,

for a while,before they knew betterthey learned the contour of the other’s facewhere the light had to hit to reflect their eyesthe size of their handsthe shape of her mouththe curve of his chinthe freckles, the dimples, the indents,

the printssome things they did wrong,only to be expected,here was an unexplored place –the being of another –they each knew to tread carefullybaby steps, then bigger, then bigger –

but still not too fast.they were only learning.

by Danielle Colburn, Byron Center, MI

Contrasting ShadowsI wish I could justdip my hand into the light of morningand spread it evenlyacross your deepest shadows.These are the places where you hideand everything is tucked away neatly:all the words you want to set freebut that remain cagedbehind the soft darkness.Don’t you know these things multiply?They only strengthen behind the bars.And someday they’ll spill, made savage by time.They’ll cut across this townthis sad, awful, beautiful townwhere day and night lean toward each otherbut never meet.

by Angela Adduci, Glen Ellyn, IL

SpanishMira she saysMy name’s Miraas she shuts ourfront doorcalm cooland I nodto her fake Crocs andthick coffee hair

Eyes careful I think sheknows why I stumble red and shakyHelloHola

I am embarrassed I want to sayyeah we eat at McDonald’s tooall the timelike youlike you

Mira’s momshe cleans thefloors so hard and shinyI feel small standing over thesmall womanas she wipes my dustand smiles

We listen to “Swan Lake” in my roommusic box whirringand her lighter eyessoftly clench mydarker ones and shesays

I don’t know about you but this sort of depresses me

I want tosay metoo me toobut I keep quiet

And I wonder aboutSpanish musicnot sad droopybut lightsgold hoopslike arms legs spinninghair wavingtumbling

She will be havinga quinceañera in four years

Eating quesadillas dancing with boyswho are tall andknow how

And I know it is stupid butI want her to take meaway

by Hayun Cho, Wilmette, IL

Weirdo Weirdo is what we called herbecause her name couldn’t fit into

our mouths. In our second-grade classroom while we

were throwing books across the classroom and wrestling on

the rug, she was reading a chapter book. In the corner, alone, with concentration that couldn’t possibly

be natural. All quiet and peaceful. It was like watching water stand still. And I can’t remember her saying a word. She didn’t like playing tag either. She ran funny. Her skinny legs took her nowhere. Once she was it, that was it – game over. She wore green leggings (Sometimes, they still had tomato sauce

stains from last night’s dinner)with “sensible sneakers” without any brand name. Because her dad refused to condone

Nike sweatshops A view that I would adopt later in life But was allowed to be blissfully unaware

of until she told me while she sat on the sidelines during gym

in middle school.That same day she told me she wanted pink spaghetti

strap tops tight jeans and platform sandals like all the other girls She’d started crying in a shoe store once when her mother wouldn’t buy them for her. I nodded my headBut she never gave me the chance to tell her“I understand” before she went back to reading.But I didn’t know that it mattered then

I used to think of her when I watched “Matilda”

I imagined that one day she was going to prove us all wrong. and start moving glasses of water with

her mind,and that her name would be chanted in the

schoolyard roll rhythmically off our tongues.Mostly I imagined her huddled in the public

library on Saturday mornings reading every book in alphabetical order. She must’ve been in the Gs by now. Smack in the middle of Great Expectations She would show up in my dreams when

things got lonely usually a white turtleneck and green

legging ensemble. It was only in those dreams that I realized

that the green matched her eyes just right

I saw her for real once.I was fifteenand there she was on a fire escape,with a cigarette dangling from her lips, wearing a pink dress. I had to look away.

by Cecilia Stein, Brooklyn, NY

You are my habit.You are nicotine-stained fingers,A rattling cough that reminds me that, yes,there is still air in my lungs,I can keepbreathing. You are my ragged,broken nails, every chip and curvea canyon filledby nervous energy. You are a bag of chips, a banana,a cheese stick, a quart of ice cream, a pack of Starbursts, and a hot dog,every bite struggling to replace the empty pit that ismy stomach.You are a shining, new credit card,purchase after purchasefilling my arms,a poor facade fordebt and guilt. You are my habit,and I’ve found,that the first step to quittingis admittingthat you’re not my habit.You’re my addiction.

by Audrey Deiss, Bethel, AK

Coming Soon to aLife Near YouIn the air last night, there lurked an

all-too-familiar cat.It snuck close and wrapped around us with

the sound,a breeze that rustled soon rusted leaves as we sang of opening a restaurant in

Santa Fesince all this misery pays no salaryand as the L word fell like lightning boltsthrough the silence of the nightThe chill grew at the back of my mind“It can’t be Fall,” said the left side“It will be soon,” said the right

by Brian Fitzpatrick, Chicago, IL

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • POETRY 44

Art by Vivian Tong, San Francisco, CA

The YearThe year they played Frac JackWas the one where he smiledAnd told her she was fine the way she wasIt was the year she blushedAnd locked her feelings out like intrudersBecause she didn’t know what to make

of them

The year they felt olderWas the one where he whistled in

the hallwaysAnd made friends with the right kidsIt was the year she forgot about himAnd was satisfied becauseShe couldn’t handle any intrusions

The year they stopped listeningWas the one where his wrist borrowed the

razor from his faceAnd he kissed the pretty girl who had it allBut it didn’t make things any betterIt was the year she opened the doorAnd they talked about the treesWhile her stomach hurt and no one had

any idea why

The year they did nothingWas the one where his road stopped

twisting for a momentAnd let him take a restIt was the year she spent in silenceAnd watched him sleep while she tossed

and turnedWaiting for somethingJust anything at all

The year they made speechesWas the one where he stopped and listenedAnd gave her the chance to change his mindIt was the year she begged and pleadedAnd ripped her hair outWhile he held her closeFor no reason at all

The year they saved the worldWas the one where he chose redheads

over blondesAnd felt like for once, he was nothing more

than ordinaryIt was the year her wrist stole the razor

from hisAnd she began to give upOne scratch at a time

The year they almost finishedWas the one where he felt like things

were hardAnd began to wonder why she always

looked so sadIt was the year she closed the bookAnd turned out the lightGave him one last look because it was too

hard not to

The year he was leavingWas the one where he couldn’t let goAnd wondered whyHe hadn’t held the book open with all of

his might.

by Isabel Kerr, Greensboro, NC

Capturing LoveIf love could be drawn,I’d grab every color,Use the globe as my canvas,And paint the world for you.

by Emily Jones, St. John, WA

CarouselWould you like to buy a ticket?said the master to the girl.And how could I refusethe lure of the whirl in your smile?

Snow glare was our disguise,and gold-gilt poles that glitteredeast-to-west, in a spectrum of white and blue.

The winds blew ice flakesinto my eyes,they bit and stung, narrowed,my horizons shrank to you.

You were beautiful, so bright,your gaily colored wooden horsesspun us ’round and ’round.

A perfect picture showyou paintedin mirrors and cracked glass,I thought it showed me everything.

When dusk gathered,and the flying flakes slowedto a thinning veil of bright,

I saw our horses could only run in circles.

by Beatrice Waterhouse, Santa Rosa, CA

Plumey’s BrotherI remember spotting you,a sleeping flame pushedagainst dirty glass andmy heart got attachedjust from the very sight ofyour burning.After all, it was August andthat coat you were wearinghad me staringbecause it was hot as f***from the sun’s constant blaring,and I wanted you out of that heat-ridden cage.And so it was; I unleashed you and your brotherand only minutes passed beforemy mother came to a decisionwithout my permission.Although I am not upset about theone we came to choose,time after time my thoughts moveback to you, and I wonderif your fireis still burning like it used to.

by Lauren Skaroff, Yardley, PA

Memoir #67I’d like to say we met at the homecoming

dance But my Sneakers squeaked too much And he was too curious Because Shoes make sounds that grate

on nerves In a way that lets you know they are here I’d like to say that we both fell in love Staring into each other’s eyes as we

passionately –but he thought I was annoying and I had no timefor ones who did not appreciate my presence Squeaky Shoes or otherwise so a day passed and we saw each other in

the hallway me with my Shoes and him with his unnerving stare Personally, though, I felt attached As if every passing glance or blink in My direction meant the world to me

and therefore meant the world to him I didn’t understand the importance of dance But it was important to him and therefore important to me And so with loud Sneakers that sang along

with the music and a dress that would much rather be

paired with heels I moved and danced and my friends

laughed and I squeaked and he stared and looked away

and stared And I realized that prettygirls loved him

and wasipretty? But he paid no mind to prettygirls and

walked to me his shoes scuffled toward canary Sneakers beckoning him with sounds that only Shoes

can make And we Danced and He Talked and Smiled

and my sneakers were less audible Replaced by the beat of the music pounding Within my chest.

by Annabel Sharahy, Wayne, NJ

Parallel ParkingInk fingerprints stain the palms of my handsAnd your terrified white words whisper

along alleyways Masking my forearmed fear with hopeFor starlight encrusted highways of tomorrow

Tingling sensations in my toes point me inyour direction

Knowing that I’ve taken these defiant steps before

And even with car-crash likelihood I’ll take them again

Tainted solemn criesFrom one or two or all of us, togetherGasping for breaths or twinges or jolts

of happinessRinging from the ones we’ll somehow

justly love, always

Molten black asphalt stains the soles of our feetAs we chase after your soul along derelict

suburban roads Palpably, I hear her grovel for more chancesHoping, if nothing else, mine are superior

in eloquence.

by Tess Edwards, Perry Hall, MD

FindersI found the words hiding. Curled between my toes, Itching with every step.

They are the poems.

Poems hiding in corners of mouthsPulled upwards in a smirk. Drifting through fingersOf pleading hands.

Fingers running rough, Feeling the raised edgesOf blank canvasAnd listening to whispersOf words indiscernible

But still I listen, Blessed by ignorance, Blessed by things I can’t understand, While my strained ears Line thick with perfect words.

by Caitlin Wolper, New City, NY

On Life Not Havinga Pause ButtonShe likes a boyAnd her grandfather’s in a hospitalSome six thousand miles away,Surviving every day butSlowly losing his smile. She likes a boyAnd her grandfather has thirty-sixTumors on his spine,Two in his pancreasAnd says he feels fine but He’s refusing to eat. She likes a boyAnd her grandfather might notMake it until Christmas, Her grandfather who played chessAnd laughed his chesty laughAnd poured her wine she wasn’t Really supposed to have. She likes a boyAnd she doesn’t know if she shouldKeep on living orPause,Temporarily, and pray thatHer grandfather, who sat every morningReading the paper and jumping at her hello, Could make it through. She likes a boyAnd her grandfather was never religious,And he wants to live so badly,Because he never wants to waste a secondOf what he has,Because life is the only thing that isSolid and certain. She likes a boy And she feels selfish, livingWhen her grandfather’s life is so tentative, But when she tries to Pause,She can’t get life to stop.She likes a boyAnd she walks with him And she thinks of her grandfatherAnd she lives Because it’s the only thingShe knows she can do.

by Amy Clark, Santa Monica, CA

POETRY • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink45

Photo by Abigail Price, Uniontown, OH

LibertyWhen the sun glares in from the

wrong direction,I sit down in the kitchen with my coffee mug

in handpeering down into valleys in the creaky

teak table.

“It’s actually supposed to be a soup bowl,”my mother would mention gently –embarrassed by my incorrect usage of the mug:

concerned, as she wasto teach me social graces and mannerstying me down arbitrarily.

A house sparrow tickles the attic, gigglingAnd I hear bees dozing with a quiet purr

under my shuttersoutside; it is cold, I rememberwiggling my toes inside woolen socks.

“We’ll have to set traps to get them out,”my father would conclude, sighing.

Still I climb the stairs,carefully opening my attic doorand excited sparrows flitterthis way and that around my head,past my ears with a sing-song longingas they careen down the stairs with me;

I see their wings, striped tawny and whiteblaze past me

and I let the windows fly open,embracing the buzzing bees, awakened

from their winter napwhile the curtains float melodically in frigid airsurrounding me like a blanket of ice,hugging me as the sparrows swerve into

the openlike freed souls dancing down from heavenback to the life they had missed, to the

life they had wished for.

I remember now that my parents aren’t here;and their advice, well-founded, maybe,

isn’t always right.

Dust bunnies hiding in corners cautiouslywaltz onto the open floor

desiring the same freedoms, but too afraid toask outright,

“Go ahead!” I cry, “Go!”The doorway accepts them without doubt,without judgment, without prejudice.

“Go ahead!” the hinges on the door shout, “Go!”

and everyone now has found freedom, I know,

myself included as I sink blissfully to the earth

and blow away with the affectionate wind.

by Rachel Spayd, Stockton, NJ

$limy The color of the bad weatherHas let go the hundred little fingers of

red, green, yellow, blue, and numb of black sticksCecito and Arturito, scuttles off dodging

the many schoolyard colorsWith a geography of scarsCrooked hair and crooked teeth

by Jacob Wilson, Clinton, TN

Dragging Me In Sapphire eyesWith little flecks of greenBursting with light Caught in the undertow of your stare.

Long black lashes Contrast with the deep blueReach out and grab meDragging me in.

Drawing my eyes to yours Our eyes so closeAlmost touching Our lashes knit together

Making us Part of each other. Binding a couple into One.

by Rachel Henline, Irmo, SC

This Poem Will Satirize PoemsAn Apple (notice the capitalization It’s important(That line break was too)And the reference to Adam and Eve)Sidles and slouches in a wrinkled

cluttered place(the line is Clutteredand there is an alliterationalso I am vague) Mold creeps, With personification,On our old apple(I’m addressing you) A worm won’t ever choose To reside within Such a place. (Nobody wants the apple because mankind has ruined Our knowledge (that’s commentaryOn society with a rhyme.)

by Abigail Schneider, New York, NY

What Love Taught Love has only taughtMe how to hurt somebodyWithout a weapon

by Kate Dudek, Memphis, TN

A Winter’s BreezeThe crisp wind, like freshly prepped

cookie dough, isNumbing my skin with a burning brush.As the soft air scrapes past me,I peer across the terrace.

I can see a winter’s eternity burning with passion

The liberated winter landscape concealedwith the color white

Just then a rabbit hopped across the sceneWith clumsy yet precise movements through

the deep snow.It’s time to go back to sleep.It’s winter.

by Nick Lee, Clarkston, MI

Fairy TalesI used to call you my white knight.When we were five, You saved me from the dragons in

my backyardAnd promised to make me your queen.

In time, you threw aside yourPlastic breastplateAnd grew steel under your skin.I always wondered whether you really

felt no painIn your new armorOr if it simply kept the hurricane in

your eyes fromSpilling out.

I dropped my tiara at the last show-and-tellBefore middle school.The flexible plastic snapped on impactAnd I learned to find a different kind Of dragon: a dragon that breathed sweet talk and empty promisesI learned to spar with my own wordsI learned to stand my own groundI learned to play carefully with needlesNever to accept fruit from strangersAnd not to underestimate the utility of

talking mice.

But sometimesWhen the walls of my castle feel a littleToo thinAnd the drawbridge shakes under my feetI think I still need a knightAnd I wonder if that hurricane hasFinally seen itsRainbow.

by Catherine Kulke, Wellesley, MA

FacesI told her that her facewas my favorite face of allthe faces I had ever been with.

She laughed and told methat her face had nothingto do with who she was.

So I told her I liked her laugh, too,and she seemed to like that better.

I asked her if she liked my face.She said she preferred my hands.

by Tyler Peschel, Newburgh, NY

What Georgia Did“I’ll paint them big,” she said, and so she did –sending huge splashes of color rolling across sinewy canvasses, rioting through art halls. She escorted the dusky palette of the desertto the ambitious New York skyline. She brought the beauty of bypassed details, blossoming with swirls of fluorescents

and pastelsto the eyes of the fast-walking, fast-talking, fast-living city-people.Her careful eyes searched out the

modest furrows, the bold ripples of huddled petals, breathing soft reverberations of life

into her page. Georgia paid homage to what no one else did:The flawless energy of a flower.

by Bethany Clarke, Gilford, NH

What ApparentlySeems OrdinaryAn ordinary Experience of life,So it would always Seem.A life with Ordinary Leaves,Randomly placed on Ordinary Trees.

A capture of Ordinary Skies,Melted together with Ordinary Greens –And some Ordinary Sea –Past illustrations of how ordinary life –Was previously Seen.

Years have added some “Ordinary” War.Years have added some “Ordinary” Gore.Years have added some “Ordinary” Sin.Regretfully Now –These are All seen as ordinary Happenings.

The ordinary Car-Crashes-into that ordinary Tree.

The ordinary Plane-Falls-from that captureof ordinary skies.

The ordinary Being-Dies-onto those ordinary Greens,

And the ordinary Ship-Sinks-within that ordinary Sea.

These used to be Unordinary things.Until the moment He saw that Ordinary

Life as something –No Longer – Interesting.

by Jenna Atta, Kensington, MD

KissesFirst, exploratory, exciting, and nervous.Fumbling, young, freckled, and watched.Bossy, uncomfortable, worried, and new.Titillating, right, wrong, and exhibited.Deep, sweet, delicious, and loving.Curious, devastating, exciting, and

of cannabis.Casual, wasted, forgetful, and regretted.Friendly, acceptable, fun, and arousing.Funny, desirable, awkward, and a lost bet.Erotic, swirling, hair-pulling, and exotic.Rough, unexpected, hungry, and perfect.Non-consensual, struggling, aggravated,

and slobbery.Clumsy, doomed, musical, and unlikely.

by Jenn Smith, Shelburne, NS, Canada

Teen Ink • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • POETRY 46

Art by Ama Liyanage, Mississauga, ON, Canada

SorryI won’t do it.I can’t.Who do they think they are,Trying to make me loseAll status at school, at home,In all of my life?

To do that nowWould beTo back down,To show weakness,To be forever rememberedAs the one who listenedTo the voiceOf “authority.”

And who do they think they are anyway?Just a bunchOf people who come and tryTo teach us stuff, but really,Really,Does anyone think that they actuallySucceed?

I can’t back down.I’ve done nothing wrong.I don’t need some adult taking my handAnd saying, “Come on, girl, apologize to What’s-her-face,”Because,Goodness knows,That would be the Be-all, end-allOf humiliation.

What’s the point of apologizing anyway?Just because you maybeSay someone’s shirt is not gorgeous,Or that their art project looks like An elephant painting(Which was meant to be a complimentAnyway, you idiots –I was being kind and not callingIt the garbage heap it truly is!)Doesn’t mean you shouldProstrate yourself before them, saying,“Oh, you poor mistreated little person (Calling them idiot, sadly, is not an option)I’m sorry, so sorry, Will you ever forgive my humble soul”And all that nonsense.It’s time people learn to grow up, ’cuzIn the big, wide world out thereNot everything is perfect.Not everything is great.And people need to get over it.

I’m not perfect.Nobody is.And how, just how,Is it fair that someVery imperfect(Drinking coffee while we do their

stupid assignments,Treating us like little kids)People get to chose when and to whomWe repent?

There’s another thing I’m annoyed about.When we have to say sorryFor every little thingy-ma-bopper,It kind of diminishes the purposeFor when there are big “Sorry’s”Necessary, when youKill people,Hurt people,Tell your parents big whopping lies –That type of thing.Sorry is overused now,

Like no offense.So I don’t like apologies.And while you have the authority,And are determined to make it happen,I will say sorry.I will not like it.And I will not mean one letter of it.

Goodness gracious, what’s happeningTo the English language now?

Sorry if I’ve offended you.

by Katelyn Hefter, San Ramon, CA

RapunzelHer hair broke the scales.5 minutes for every strand to reach the bottom,celestial threads moving as one animal.Undeniably,

it’s beautiful, like a National Park or a thingolden hand.

But what would happen if each nervous fiber was daintily

cut from its own system? Would the littleumbilical cords

scream in their own detachment like stirred spaghetti?

Would a weight be lifted from her head?There, she couldgrow a halo.

I don’t want to tell you how many hair stylistshave either cried or paid her just to touch it.She hasn’t used it as a whip, or a lasso,or a blanket, but she could.If it came to her waist, maybe even skimmingher hips, I’d be satisfied. I’d wait until she’d fallen asleep,take out blades, scissors, andhack it all off.

Grasp it in my hands, victoriously,glue her severed locks to my own head.

by Claudia Taylor, West Tisbury, MA

Esmeraldashe wore daisies, woven into a Crown, in her hair. her bones were thin, like the pages of the Bible, but her heart was strong. her winged shoulder blades and sharp elbows were batons. she said the color gray smelleddeeply of The New York Timesand fish. she said that power and beauty were distributedequally like communism.

eventually her lips partedto reveal the gleam of a white Lie, mistaken for her teeth. her words then made an incision in my chest and stole whatever remained inside. that Esmeralda was in such a daze for so longthat one day, she was forgotten.

by Luo Qi Kong, Brooklyn, NY

The Mystery of MeAt first I don’t exist, But I can be brought to life by anyone

or anything. Just like everything else, As I get older, I get bigger I grow and grow and eventually, As I come to the end of my life, I disappear …But, In contact with another person or

another thing, I come to life again, And the process starts over, I get bigger, And bigger, And then I disappear. This is my life. I die, I reappear. A single touch, Creates my entire being. Young at first, Then old not seconds later. Here I am, And there I go, I am a ripple or a ring in a stream.

by Kara Oyer, No. Tonawanda, NY

Pastoral SeaA current whips across green tendrilsA wave of emerald spreading over a

vast voidA shoal of robins floats up to the sky And come down again to glide over

the crests.

A school of wooly crittersFrolic in the foam And a solitary trawl Springs from swell to swell.

The fisherman wades in the depthsWhistling to his beast A swiftly moving shark That hauls the mob together.

by Mariah Cleveland, Gilmanton IW, NH

Break Up, Wake UpToday I woke up and washed the tears off my faceI made myself tea and not in the mug you

used last

in fact, I washed it twice, with fresh lemon soap

and scrubbed all the coffee away

and I wrapped it up in the shirt you left inmy car

it's all clean now and smells like flowersnot you

so yeah, mug in shirt in the box by the doorOh, and I vacuumed up the footprintseven the teeny tiny crumbs of dirtevery last atom of you

I threw all the letters and dead flowers awayand put the box out on the porch

Today I shut the door with a final clickand honey, I opened some windows.

by Lisa Moskowitz, Orange, VA

TodayI wrote a song.I called an old friend.I ate an apple.TodayI drove barefoot.I sang loudly in the car.I let my handCatch the air.TodayI rolled down a hill.I caught a ladybug.I named it Frederick.TodayI bought a homeless person food.I walked with him to the park.I taught him how to play guitar.TodayI realized life doesn’t have to be complicated.

by Sarah Logan, Tulsa, OK

MaybeMaybe todayThe words will bloomand I will walk barefoot through the grasscollecting them, sweet and ripe, in a warm woven basket nestled beneath my arm.

Maybe today I will thread my glistening needlewith long pieces of pale blue string take the words from their placeand string them into a garlandof what-I-want-to-tell-yous

Maybe todayI will take my dented hammerwith its worn wooden handleand pound my words above your doorwhere you will see thembefore I can change my mindagain.

Maybe todayI will watch you walk through your green picketed gate with its peeling paint I love so muchand see your kind lips shape the message I have left you.

Maybe today. ButThe words hanging on their soft green stalksare too high for my reaching fingers,my thread is twisted and knotted,your peeling picketed gate is closedand my hammer cannot be found.

Maybe todayI will be brave enough to give youMy carefully strung garland of words.

Or maybe tomorrow.

by Emma Vargo, Grand Rapids, MI

POETRY • F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2 • Teen Ink47

Photo by Michelle Kiss, Vancouver, WA