Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  I pinch Sarah the way she taught me to, back in fifth grade. It's the best way to pinch 'cause it really, really hurts. She squeals and looks at me, annoyed. "What?"

  "Am I depressing?"

  "Yes, you're negative, morbid, cynical. . . ."

  I sigh.

  She puts her arm around my shoulders, "But that's why we love you."

  I'm also known around school as being depressed.

  That's not to say I actually am depressed. I'm not; I'm a complete and utter sucker for corny, happy endings (I practically live on films like While You Were Sleeping and Addicted to Love). A movie can be incredible, but if the ending is sad, I'll immediately despise it. But when people want to know about you, they usually ask certain questions, and my answers sometimes feed their "depressed poet" image of me. Fave color? Black. Hobby? Writing poetry and stories. Oh, what kind of poetry? Sad? Usually.

  Of course, I don't exactly dissuade them from the tortured writer concept they have of me, because at least I'm known for something. Maybe it's negative, but it's better than nothing, right? So let them think me forlorn. I have my own friends and I don't really care what any of them think. Except him. . . .

  But a long time ago, I really was depressed. I'd just been

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  dumped by my first boyfriend and felt really crappy. I thought about death and suicide a lot. I know it was dumb, but I'd never been dumped before and it just . . . hurt. That's the only word I could think of to describe it. And I know it sounds clichéd and all, but my heart actually felt as though it had been broken in two. But I got over it (with the help of my therapist, school guidance counselor, my parents and a really long letter to Mara that I never gave her and ended up gluing into my diary). And now when I think of Xander, I feel so miserable. . . .

  Sarah and I reach the street where we split. We stop and I turn to her, "This is where I get off," I say, "I'll call ya later," I begin crossing the street.

  She continues on. "Alright. Bye!" she calls.

  I turn onto my street and look down at the ground. The snow around here is all white and beautiful. It reminds me of cream cheese. Not like the snow in front of our school. That snow is all gray and dirty and yuck. This snow is nice. Nice. Like how he thinks of me. Nice. The chances of Xander ever liking me are about as good as me passing math. I know that!

  I giggle. But hey, maybe I'll get a few poems out of this unrequited love thing. Ya think?

  Rachel Rosenberg

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  Confused

  My knees start to shake,

  When you're in sight.

  My mind is filled with wonder,

  My heart with fright.

  When will this feeling stop?

  When did it start?

  How can I listen to my mind,

  Without breaking my heart?

  I'm so confused.

  What should I do?

  I can't think of anything,

  Except you.

  Should I ignore you,

  Or just give it time?

  I can't think straight,

  My heart controls my mind.

  Anonymous

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  Starting a New Path

  "But I love you, Jessie," he says as we sit on the couch in my living room, his voice quivering and unstable. His pleading eyes look directly into mine, begging my forgiveness. I don't recognize these eyes that once provided me with a sense of comfort and security. The warm blue of his eyes that used to reassure me of a love that would last forever is replaced with a colder gray. I shiver and look away.

  Tears cloud my eyes as I feel him breathing next to me on the edge of the couch. My mind wanders to a time a year earlier, a happier time, when I had also been acutely aware of his breathing as we sat in silence on that same couch. My heart had pounded that day as I glanced nervously into his eyes, unable to hold my stare, yet unable to look away. It was that particular day that my heart decided to surrender itself to the magic of first love. And as I sat beside him, overwhelmed by the certainty of my love for him, I struggled to say the words out loud for the first time. I wanted to scream to the world that my heart felt bigger than my whole body, that I was in love and nothing could ever take away that feeling, but no sounds came out of my mouth. As I fidgeted with the edge of a

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  pillow, he gently placed his hand on my arm and looked directly into my eyes. His soft stare soothed my nerves. "I love you, Jessie," he told me, his eyes holding my stare. A small smile formed on my face as my heart began to beat quickly and loudly. He had known that night, just as I hadand he had felt the power of the realization of love, just like I had.

  But that power is gone now, I remind myself. That returns me from that distant memory to the present moment like a slap in the face.

  "Doesn't it mean anything to you that I love you?" he asks. "Please, I'm so sorry." His hand reaches for my face to brush the hair out of my eyes. I duck my head to avoid his touch. It has become too painful since I found out. He had told me two days before that he had kissed another girl. I had sat in stunned silence, unable to move or speak.

  I sit now in silence, not because I don't know what to say, but because I am afraid that my voice will deceive me and begin to quiver. As I start to speak, I look into his eyes and stop myself, wondering if I will be making a mistake. Maybe it can work, I think, and I imagine his arms around me, hugging my head tightly to his chest, making everything okay like he had done so often in the past when I was in need of his comfort. Now, more than ever, I ache for the comfort of his arms and for the reassurance of his warm blue gaze. But it is not possible, for the trust is gone and our love has been scarred. His gaze is no longer a warm blue and his arms no longer provide comfort.

  Now I struggle to find the words that I know must come out of my mouth, not like before when I knew the words would lead us to a place of magic on the path of our relationship. I now struggle to find the words that will end that path. It's not that my love for him has been taken away, it's just that I know my heart can never again feel bigger than my whole body when I am with him. When

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  he gets up from the couch to leave, the pain in my heart feels too strong to endure, and I have to stop myself from calling after him. I know that I have done the right thing. I know that I am strong, although at this moment I feel anything but strong.

  I sit frozen on the couch for a long time after he has left; the only movement in the room is the tears that run down my cheeks and soak the thighs of my jeans. I wonder how I can possibly go on when it feels like half of me is missing. And so I wait. I wait for time to heal the pain and raise me to my feet once againso that I can start a new path, my own path, the one that will make me whole again.

  Jessie Braun

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  Discovery

  My class was two weeks away from the opening night of our play when Sherry walked into my classroom and in a hesitant voice announced that she would have to quit.

  Hundreds of reasons for such a declaration rushed through my mindtragic illness, death in the family, a terrible family crisis.

  The expression on my face prompted a further explanation. Sherry stammered, "My boyfriend Dave wants me to quit. The rehearsals are taking too much time away from our being together. I bring him sandwiches after football practice."

  Her boyfriend was a football player who later went on to play in the pros. He was the opposite of his brother Dan, who also played on the high school team. While Dan was easygoing, had a terrific sense of humor and was liked by nearly everyone, Dave seemed to always be angry and in need of someone to boss around.

  "Sherry," I said, "we're only two weeks from opening. You're outstanding in your role. I'd never be able to replace you."

  "Really?" She beamed.

  "Really," I said, and I meant it. "Everyone should be

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  allowed to do the things they are good at. You're a good actress. Dave
should realize that. I know you know how much he loves football."

  "Yes," she agreed. "But I still have to quit."

  "I'll bet you're his best fan."

  She measured the words. "I am," she said.

  "Has he ever been to a Saturday morning rehearsal to see how good you are?"

  "No."

  "He should," I told her. "He should be your number one fan."

  The next day after sixth hour, my door flew open with a thud. Dave thundered toward me, looking twice as big as his 260 pounds. His arms dangled by his side, his large fists clenched as if around my neck.

  He leaned across my desk, veins popping, face red as a beet. "You . . . you . . . you . . . " he stammered.

  "Can I help you, Dave?" I asked, hoping that my voice wouldn't shake the way my knees were.

  He never got beyond "you" before he turned and stomped out the door. I listened until the heavy footsteps started down the stairs to the first floor.

  Sherry did continue with the play, and I can honestly say starred in her art. I also noticed that she smiled more, and I occasionally saw her interacting with other students with a great deal of poise.

  Dave, I heard, found another girlfriend.

  Eugene E. Beasley

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  Hopscotch and Tears

  I watched the blue Toyota speed down my street and listened to the sound of the diesel engine fade. Tears collected in my eyes and trailed down my cheeks until I could taste them. I couldn't believe what had just happened. Making my way into the house, I quickly ran up the stairs, hoping that my brother wouldn't see the frozen look of terror in my eyes. Luckily that rainy day, his eyes were glued to the TV.

  Plopping down on my unmade bed, I buried my face in my pillow. Light sniffles turned into cries, and cries into hysterics. I couldn't bear it; the pain was too strong, and my heart was broken.

  We had been seeing each other for three months and two days (not that I had been counting). I had never been so happy. We had brought out the best in each other. But that day he threw it all away, out the window of his rusty blue Toyota, in a speech that still rings in my ears.

  "I don't think we should see each other anymore. . . .'' his voice had trailed off. I wanted to ask him why, I wanted to scream at him, I wanted to hold him, but instead I whispered, "Whatever," afraid to look him in the

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  eyes because I knew I would break down.

  I lay there crying all afternoon and into the night, feeling so alone, so upset, so confused. For weeks I cried myself to sleep, but in the morning I'd put a plastic smile on my face to avoid having to talk about it. Everybody saw right through it.

  My friends were concerned. I think they thought I would recover sooner than I did.

  Even months after the breakup, when I heard a car drive up my street I'd jump up to the window to see if it was him. When the phone rang, a chill of hope would run down my spine. One night as I was cutting out magazine pictures and taping photos on my wall, a car came up my street, but I was too preoccupied to notice that it was the car I'd been listening for over the last two months.

  "Chloe, it's me, it's . . . " It was him, calling me to come downstairs! On my way down, my heart was pounding and my thoughts were of a reconciliation. He had seen the error of his ways. When I got outside, there he stood, gorgeous as always.

  "Chloe, I came to return your sweater. You left it at my house. . . . Remember?" I had forgotten all about it.

  "Of course. Thank you," I lied. I hadn't seen him since the breakup and it hurtit hurt a lot. I wanted to be able to love him again.

  "Well, I guess I'll just see ya around then," he said. Then he was gone. I found myself alone in the darkness, listening to his car speed away. I slowly walked back to my room and continued to tape photos on my wall.

  For weeks, I walked around like a zombie. I would stare at myself for hours in the mirror, trying to figure out what was wrong with me, trying to understand what I did wrong, searching for answers within the mirror. I'd talk to Rachel for hours. "Rachel, did you ever realize that when you fall in love, you only end up falling. . . ." I'd say before

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  breaking down in tears. Her comforting words did little but give me a reason to feel sorry for myself.

  Pretty soon my sadness turned into madness. I began to hate him and blame him for my troubles, and I believed he had ruined my life. For months I thought only of him.

  Then something changed. I understood I had to go on, and every day I grew a little happier. I even began to see someone new!

  One day, as I was flipping through my wallet, I came upon a picture of him. I looked at it for a few minutes, reading his face like a book, a book that I knew I had finished and had to put down. I took out the picture and stuck it in a cluttered drawer.

  I smiled to myself as I realized I could do the same in my heart. Tuck him away in a special place and move on. I loved, I lost and I suffered. Now it was time to forgive and forget. I forgave myself also, because so much of my pain was feeling like I did something wrong. I know better now.

  My mom used to tell me, "Chloe, there are two kinds of people in this world: those that play hopscotch and sing in the shower, and those that lie alone at night with tears in their eyes." What I came to understand is that people have a choice as to which they want to be, and that each of us is a little of both.

  That same day, I went outside and played hopscotch with my sister, and that night I sang louder than ever in the shower.

  Becca Woolf

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  Inside

  Bottled up inside

  Are the words I never said,

  The feelings that I hide,

  The lines you never read.

  You can see it in my eyes,

  Read it on my face:

  Trapped inside are lies

  Of the past I can't replace.

  With memories that linger

  Won't seem to go away.

  Why can't I be happier?

  Today's a brand-new day.

  Yesterdays are over,

  Even though the hurting's not.

  Nothing lasts forever,

  I must cherish what I've got.

  Don't take my love for granted,

  For soon it will be gone

  All you ever wanted

  Of the love you thought you'd won.

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  The hurt I'm feeling now

  Won't disappear overnight,

  But someway, somehow,

  Everything will turn out all right,

  No more wishing for the past.

  It wasn't meant to be.

  It didn't seem to last,

  So I have to set him free.

  Melissa Collette

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  Lost Love

  Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

  Iris Murdoch

  I don't know why I should tell you this. I'm nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing has happened to me my whole life that hasn't happened to nearly everybody else on this planet.

  Except that I met Rachel.