Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff Page 2

  “Neighhhhh.”

  “Huh?” I couldn’t believe it was still going on.

  “Neighhhhhh.”

  Click.

  Whoever it was hung up. Was Max behind all of this? What had I done to be treated this way? Did I miss something? Would it ever end? I couldn’t take it any longer. This wasn’t going to stop until I did something about it. I needed to find Max and talk to him. I needed to do something.

  I found him at his locker. I had purposely avoided that hallway for the past couple of months. I didn’t want to see him. But today was different. I was tired of avoiding confrontation. I wanted my life back.

  He ignored me at first, and I grimaced.

  “I have to . . .” he began.

  I interrupted. “So why? What did I ever do to you? You broke up with me. You spread rumors about me. I don’t understand. What did I do to you?”

  “. . . get to class,” he finished.

  “Why, Max?”

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and even if I did, it’s not my problem.” He didn’t care. He didn’t want to.

  I don’t know what I expected; maybe an apology or an explanation. I guess I hoped that he would take it back. I wanted himto tell me that he was sorry and that he would undo the rumors and set me free. I wanted him to tell me that, after all was said and done, I really didn’t kiss like a horse. He didn’t say a thing.

  It turned out that I didn’t need an explanation after all. His silence spoke words that he could never muster. Max was afraid. He couldn’t be with me. He wasn’t supposed to. His friends hadn’t approved and so he got rid of me, even though I know he didn’t want to. He had to convince himself that I was a monster or the worst kisser in the whole school. He had to convince himself that he didn’t like me anymore, and for that reason, I felt sorry. I felt sorry for him and for all the pathetic souls who believed him. I felt sorry for the girls who wasted their baby-sitting money on toilet paper and their weekends fabricating degrading lists. I felt sorry for all of them. And for the first time in months, I felt relieved. I knew who I was, and the rest didn’t matter.

  Max was just some guy—some guy who needed to grow up. And I refused to be just some girl. So what if I was a lousy kisser? It took me years before I was steady on my Rollerblades. And so what if the older girls didn’t like me? It wouldn’t be long before I myself was an “older girl.” And so what if there were rumors? They weren’t true. I held my head high, defending my morality and reputation with a string of confidence. I wasn’t the only one.

  Lies and rumors, hate and envy fly like bullets every day in high school. I got hit, like many unfortunately do, and I was ready to get back out there, shielding myself with the truth and a force field of confidence I forgot I had.

  About a week later, a boy at school stopped me in the halls and asked, “So, is it true that you kiss like a horse?”

  I smiled. “You know what, I’ve never kissed a horse before, have you?” He shook his head, embarrassed, as I turned around and walked away.

  Rebecca Woolf

  Have You Ever

  Have you ever lived my life?

  Spent one minute in my shoes?

  If you haven’t then tell me why

  You judge me as you do.

  Have you ever woken up in the morning

  Wondering if this was your last day on Earth?

  Have you ever left your house

  Unsure if you’d return?

  Have you ever seen your friend get shot

  Outside his favorite store?

  Have you ever seen a friend die

  From drugs he’d never used before?

  Have you ever seen your mom get beat up

  By your stepdad messed up on booze?

  Have you ever had an unwanted pregnancy

  Forcing you to choose?

  Have you ever sat beneath the stars

  Hoping God will hear?

  Have you ever seen your friend drive away

  After way too many beers?

  Have you ever had a friend

  Experiment with weed?

  Have you ever covered up guilt

  By doing a good deed?

  Have you ever considered suicide

  As the only way?

  Have you ever tried to hide yourself

  Behind the things you say?

  Have you ever wanted to protect

  Your friends and everyone in sight?

  Have you ever felt such pain

  That you cried yourself to sleep at night?

  Have you ever lived my life,

  Spent one minute in my shoes?

  If you haven’t, then tell me why

  You judge me as you do.

  Tiffany Blevins

  I Am Loni

  To be nobody but yourself in a world that’s doing its best to make you somebody else is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting.

  e. e. cummings

  Why do I even try? If there’s one thing I should have learned, it’s, try or not, I’ll probably screw up. Mom says, “Loni, a lady shouldn’t say things like ‘screw up.’” That just proves my point. I even screw up how to tell you that I screwed up.

  I know, I have so much going for me. Don’t even go there. Dad brags about my grades, and Mom’s proud of the person I am and all my activities. Grandma goes on and on about my pretty face. Yeah, too bad about the rest of me, I think to myself.

  I’m not, like, big enough to be featured as The Amazing Amazon Teen in The Guinness Book of World Records, but I am big enough not to like shopping with my friends. “How cu-u-u-u-ute!” they squeal over every rack of clothes. They know they’ll fit into anything. I can’t commit until I scan the plastic circle dividers to see how high the sizes go.

  I pretend that clothes don’t matter to me. That explains my semi-grunge look everyone takes for my chosen style. No outfit is complete without a sweater, flannel shirt or sweatshirt tied around my waist to cover up . . . oh . . . everything.

  So, when we go to the mall, I’m the designated shopper. You know, like the designated driver who goes to a party but doesn’t partake. I stand outside the changing rooms to ooh and aah when they emerge for the three-way mirror check. Only after a careful inspection do I reassure them that their thighs, legs, waist or bottom do not look too big in that outfit; otherwise, it would be taken as insincere.

  It takes all I have not to roll my eyes when they hand me a piece of clothing and plead, “Can you see if this comes in a smaller size?” Give me a break. Where should I look? The children’s department?

  I really did screw up, though. Being a self-appointed good sport, I tried out for the volleyball team with my friends. Here’s the bad part: I made it.

  It seems I have a killer serve. I use it for self-defense. The harder I ram the ball, the less likely it will be returned and force me to clod around the court keeping it in play.

  To make matters worse, we keep winning. This is the first winning season of any girl’s sport in our school’s history. Volleyball fever took over, and attendance soared. Just my luck. And those pep rallies. There’s a thrill. Jumping around high-fiving while my name echoes over the PA system.

  In our small town, making it to State Finals is newsworthy. Our team was pictured sitting in the bleachers in a “V for Victory” formation. I was the connecting bottom of the “V,” front and center in all my glory.

  “Loni Leads the Charge to State!” read the headline. Not bad. I didn’t even pretend to protest when Mom bought copies for the relatives. I was pleased when the team framed the picture and hung it in the tunnel between our locker room and the arena. It soon became our team gesture to blow kisses at our picture every time we passed it.

  It was the night of the final game, and we had home-court advantage. The series was tied two games to two. I led the team’s run for our triumphant entrance. Cheers stormed down the tunnel to meet us. We glanced at the banners posted along the walls, taking
energy from the words.

  YOU GO, GIRLS! YES YOU CAN! WE’RE #1!

  We were ready to blow kisses at our picture when shock froze me. Two words were written in red on the glass. Two words that totally changed the headline.

  “Loni THE BULL leads the charge to State!”

  The horns drawn on my head completed the insult.

  I felt myself emptying until I wasn’t me anymore. I was nobody. The team bunched behind me.

  “Who did this?”

  “Who would be so mean?”

  Their questions had no answers. They thought they were as upset as I was, but they were wrong. I wasn’t upset at all. I was in shock.

  So this is the truth, I thought. This is who I am.

  And all the words around me didn’t heal the hurt because nobody said the three words I needed to hear most: “That’s not true.”

  The team moved me down the tunnel. There was no time to sort myself. What was real seemed like a dream, and I couldn’t shake myself awake. The chants of “Loni! Loni!” sounded hollow. I let the cheers of the many be muted by the jeers of the few.

  We won the coin toss and took to the court for my first serve. Around me the team was pumped and ready to go. I rolled the volleyball in my palms to get its feel and mechanically went into my serving stance. All I could see were the words . . . THE BULL. THE BULL. THE BULL.

  I tossed the ball up, but before my fist made contact the shout “OLE!” hit me. I stutter-stepped and missed the ball.

  I told myself not to look, but my eyes were drawn anyway. I couldn’t pick out who it was. The team tried to buck me up with back slaps and “that’s okays.” But it didn’t help.

  I went through the rotations until I was at the net. My concentration scurried between the game and the bleachers. When the ball skimmed the air above my head, a loud snorting sound came from the front row.

  “That’s taking the bull by the horns!” someone yelled. The player behind me made the save and set up the ball for me to spike. But I wasn’t looking at the ball. I was staring into the faces of the five high-school guys who were mocking me. My humiliation only fueled their taunts.

  “Give me a B, give me a U, give me a double L, too. What’s that smell? LONI! LONI! LONI!”

  Why didn’t someone shut them up?

  The coach called a time-out. “Loni, can you get your head in the game?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why are you letting a few people who don’t even know you decide for you who you are?”

  I shrugged again.

  “Loni, you’re valuable as a person and to your team. Unkind words don’t change who you are unless you decide they change you,” she said.

  Sounds good in theory, I thought, but this is the real world.

  “I’m keeping you in, but if you can’t work through this I’ll pull you.”

  I nodded.

  I walked past the boys to take my place in the game.

  With each step I took, they stomped their feet to shake the floor. I got the point. Very funny.

  I also had to walk past my teammates, and in spite of my weak showing, they were still rooting for me. “You can do it.” “You’re the best.”

  Something in me gave way. The quote on a magnet on my grandma’s refrigerator popped into my thoughts: “God don’t make no junk.”

  I knew what I knew, and I knew myself—I wasn’t junk. I felt my value to the very depths of my soul. Who was I anyway? What did some immature boys know about me? There were so many people who loved and supported me, and it was time to do my best for them and for myself.

  And just like that, I was free of them. Oh, they continued to stomp their feet with each of my steps. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t matter. They were powerless over my life.

  The game was close, and we played hard. The winning serve fell to me. It was my moment, and I took it. The ball went up, my fist came forward and hit it right on. It was a perfect power serve unreturnable by the other team. The crowd went wild. The pep band started beating out our school song. The team huddled around me.

  Shouts of “Loni! Loni!” vibrated the arena. The funny thing is, the cheers didn’t feed me like they used to. They were great, but the joy I felt, the freedom I felt, the sense of myself I had filled me more than any cheers.

  There was more than one victory that day, and the game was not the most important one.

  Loni Taylor

  As told to Cynthia Hamond

  Again

  If when you wake up in the morning,

  And the hurting is so great,

  You don’t want to get out of bed

  And face a world of hate.

  If everything in life goes wrong

  And nothing you do seems right,

  You just try a little harder

  And soon you’ll see the light.

  For every person who has put you down

  And filled your life with pain,

  You must strive to achieve greatness

  And show them you can win.

  For every disappointment,

  For the times you are let down,

  There will be a better moment

  And your life will turn around.

  Because everyone feels heartache

  And everyone feels pain,

  But only those who have true courage

  Can get up and try again.

  Teal Henderson

  Why I Have to Take U.S. History Again

  I think of myself as an intelligent, sensitive human being with the soul of a clown, which always forces me to blow it at the most important moments.

  Jim Morrison

  What was I thinking? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone? Stupid, stupid Valentine’s Day. I had to write that dumb poem, and I had to go and put it in Lisa’s locker. Why do they have those vents on lockers anyway? What needs to breathe in your locker? I don’t keep puppies in my locker, and I don’t know anyone who does. And my textbooks are just as stale as ever, with or without air. But they have to put those vents on, just big enough to stick a stupid valentine with a stupid poem inside.

  It all started at the beginning of last year in U.S. History class. I was walking into class with my friend Dave, minding my own business, talking about some play in some game that we both watched the night before, when I saw something bright out of the corner of my eye. I looked over. Actually, it wasn’t a bright spot at all, but a head of brilliant blonde hair. Beneath that hair were two amazing, beautiful blue eyes. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was the beginning of the end for my chance of a good grade in U.S. History.

  I spent the next twelve weeks staring at that beautiful head (or at least the back of it). Seating was alphabetical, but I was fortunate enough to be three rows back and four seats over from Lisa so that if I stretched my neck in just the right way, I could see that head. When the bell rang, I would try to get up at just the right time so that I could bump into her or catch her glance as she left the room. I’m sure Mr. Houston, our teacher, must have given his lecture every day, but all I can remember is something-something Appamatox and something-something Battle of the Bulge (although that last one might have been from Saving Private Ryan).

  We broke for the holidays, and all I could think about was Lisa. I would go play video games or hang out at the mall and hope to see her. Surely Lisa shopped at the Gap. Maybe I’d see here there. I think I once heard her say she liked movies. Maybe I’d catch her at the movie theater. I saw a girl at the mall that I thought I once saw talking to Lisa at school so I followed her around for about twenty minutes, but it turned out she was with her mom and she looked at me like I was a little creepy, so I gave that up.

  So anyway, the next semester started. Lisa never made her move, and so I somehow decided it was a good idea to write a stupid poem and put it in Lisa’s locker, through those evil vents. I knew when Lisa’s next class got out, and I somehow got a hall pass so I could sneak out of my class early and position myself at the wall around the corn
er from her locker before she did. My plan worked, and I was there in time to see Lisa open her locker. The bright red envelope came flying out and nearly poked her in the eye. It hit the ground, and Tyler Coleman picked it up.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Did someone send you a valentine? Who’s your boyfriend?” Lisa’s friends suddenly gathered around. Tyler opened the envelope and began to read my poem.

  Dear Lisa:

  You may not know much about me

  So I’m sending you this little plea

  Today is Valentine’s Day

  And I have something to say

  I have admired you from afar

  I wish I had a car

  So I could take you out on a date

  To the movies or maybe to rollerskate

  Because I think you are cool

  The best in our dumb school

  So please hear what I have to say

  It’s really important, okay?

  The words resonated in my head, each one striking me with the force of a sledge hammer. And there was my name at the bottom of the page—for all the world to see! What was I thinking? Everyone laughed. The force of their laughter caused me to move, ever so slightly, and someone noticed me. I had nowhere to run and had to walk past them all on my way to my next class: U.S. History. They saw me.

  “Look, Lisa, it’s your boyfriend.” “Why don’t you give him a big kiss?” “Hey, superdweeb, come over here and give your girlfriend a big old kiss.”

  Tyler grabbed my arm and tried to shove me toward Lisa. She turned away with a look as though someone had just shoved dog poop in her face. I think I turned a new color of red that’s not even available in the Crayola 64 box of crayons. All I could hear was the laughing. Other kids started coming around to see what was so funny, and Tyler handed over the card so they could pass it around. I tried to move, but Tyler had a firm grip on my arm. How could this possibly get any worse?

  I looked to Lisa for some support, some sign that she wasn’t part of this ugly mob. But her expression had changed from a look of disgust to laughter, too. She had joined in with the rest. This was clearly the single worst event of my entire life.

  If I was distracted in U.S. History before, now multiply that by ten. I couldn’t even look at the back of Lisa’s head because everyone was looking at me to see if I was looking at the back of Lisa’s head. I could only wallow in self-pity. The whole rest of the year I was either Lisa’s boyfriend or superdweeb. Everyone forgot my name.