01 BoxCover_Summer12_Cover Reflected Boy(art) - Teen Ink

TEENS, GET PUBLISHED!
Submit Online – www.TeenInk.com
Or by E-mail – Submit@TeenInk.com
THE FINE PRINT
• Submit your work through TeenInk.com. We no longer accept
submissions by snail mail. Writing and artwork submitted through
our website is not only considered for publication in the magazine,
but may also be posted on TeenInk.com. If you don’t want your work
posted online, e-mail it to us. You must include your first and last
name, year of birth, home address/city/state/ZIP code, home phone
number, school name, and English teacher’s name.
• Submitting art or photos. We prefer that you submit through our
website or by e-mail. If you must send art by mail, attach all the
above information to the back of each piece and send to Teen Ink,
Box 30, Newton, MA 02461. Please don’t fold art and don’t send us
the original since we can’t return it to you.
• Plagiarism. Teen Ink has a no-tolerance policy for plagiarism. We
check the originality of all published work through WriteCheck, and
any submission found to be plagiarized will be deleted, along with
any other work previously published on our site.
• Your submission may be edited. For space and other reasons,
we reserve the right to publish our edited version of your work
without your prior approval.
• Anonymity. If, due to the personal nature of a piece, you don’t
want your name published, we will respect that request, but we
must still have all name and address information for our records.
• Gifts. Teens published in the magazine will receive a
complimentary copy of the issue containing their work, a
congratulatory letter, a Teen Ink pen, and a Teen Ink Post-it pad.
• Submitted work becomes the property of Teen Ink.
By submitting your work to us, you are giving Teen Ink and its
partners, affiliates, and licensees the non- exclusive right to publish
your work in any format, including print, electronic, and online
media. However, all individual contributors to Teen Ink retain the
right to submit their work for non-exclusive publication elsewhere,
and you have our permission to do so. Teen Ink may edit or
abridge your work at its sole discretion. To
prevent others from stealing your work,
Teen Ink is copyrighted by The Young
Authors Foundation Inc.
SUBSCRIBE
■ $35 INDIVIDUAL SUBSCRIPTION
One copy per month for 10 months (we don’t publish in July or
August). Please enclose a check or credit card information for $35.
■ $79 EDUCATOR SPECIAL
Get an individual subscription plus three 30-copy boxes.
■ $189 CLASS SET
30 copies of Teen Ink each month. Subscribe now for the
2012-13 school year.
■ CHARITABLE DONATION
I want to support Teen Ink & The Young Authors Foundation.
Enclosed is: ■ $25 ■ $50 ■ $100 ■ Other_____________
Prices include shipping & handling.
PO# (if available) ____________
Name:________________________________________________________________
Title/Subject:____________________________
School name (for Class Set): ____________________________________________
Address: ■ School ■ Home ___________________________________________
City:_____________________________State: ____________ ZIP: ______________
Email address: ________________________________________________________
Phone number:________________________________________________________
Mail to: Teen Ink • Box 30 • Newton, MA 02460 WW/PP
■ MC ■ VISA Card #_______________________________ Exp. _____
6/12
CONTENTS
S UMMER 2012 | V OL. 23, NO. 10
4 Feedback
18-19 College Directory
21, 28 Art Gallery
Nonfiction
6 EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR 2012 winners announced
8-10 MEMOIRS Spring break with Grandma • My first supper • Cottage people
11 COMMUNITY SERVICE Passage from India • Horseback therapy
12 HEALTH Rape: a survivor’s story
13 POINTS OF VIEW Suspend suspensions • Unplug and reconnect
14-17 WORKING Tutoring • Camp counselor • Farming • Fast food •
Receptionist • Barista • Waitress
Reviews
20,22 BOOKS The Future of Us • A Separate Peace • On Writing •
Shiver • Divergent • The Glass Castle • Water for Elephants •
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Fiction
23 REALISTIC FICTION ”The Escape Artist”
26 REALISTIC FICTION ”Fair-Weather Friends”
30 WAR ”The Success of the Dying”
31 HISTORICAL FICTION ”Liberation”
34 REALISTIC FICTION ”Inside the Pink Room”
36 REALISTIC FICTION ”Symbiosis”
40 DYSTOPIA ”The Strange Misadventures of Octavius Jones”
41 REALISTIC FICTION ”That Feeling”
44 REALISTIC FICTION ”Bus Journey”
46 SCI-FI ”Presumed”
47 REALISTIC FICTION ”Three Twenty-Seven”
24-43 Poetry
Cover art by Carly Long, Downingtown, PA
Photo by Karly Wooten, Norwalk, CT

FEEDBACK To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com
Dear Sexist Pigs
In her article, “Dear Sexist Pigs,” Alexandra
Zurkan described how the chauvinistic
boys in her algebra class constantly demean
women and how degraded it makes her feel.
Just like her, I believe that this is a serious
topic that can affect many negatively.
This piece was written in a sarcastic
voice, but it is apparent that Alexandra does
not find sexist jokes amusing. In fact, she
made it clear that these comments are very
hurtful. Reading her examples of the immature
remarks her peers made, I could feel
her frustration and even anger. I have met
similar people at my school who find such
jokes funny, so I could relate.
It should be made perfectly clear that
Alexandra was not generalizing about all
boys. She was referring to one group in her
algebra class. In fact, the piece was written
as a letter to those students. This is another
point I agree with, because gender stereotyping
is wrong and hypocritical.
Overall, “Dear Sexist Pigs” was wellwritten
and had a distinct voice. I appreciate
that the author stood up for women and
A Summer a at UVa,
V
Memorie Mem
r es
fo f r a Li L fetime.
et
me.
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
Editor@TeenInk.com
www.TeenInk.com
Publishers Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
Senior Editor Stephanie Meyer
Editor Emily Sperber
Production Susan Tuozzolo
Katie Olsen
Associate Editor Cindy Spertner
Outreach Meagan Foley
Advertising John Meyer
Intern Alex Cline
Volunteer Barbara Field
4
Academic Enrichment Camps
Golf Camps
Tennis Camps
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
refused to let sexist comments bring her
down.
I also applaud Teen Ink for continuing to
print inspirational and thought-provoking
articles like this one.
Michaela Papallo, Brooklyn, NY
A Simple Gesture
I must tip my hat in recognition and
thanks to the editors of Teen Ink. Not only
does the website look sleeker and more polished
with the recent makeover, but many
submissions with garbled quotation marks
have been fixed.
Little things like the correction of these
odd quote marks are what make me love
Teen Ink. The editors could easily have let
them rot in a pile of forgotten submissions,
but instead they fixed them. This shows
Teen Ink’s dedication not just to integrity
and high standards, but also to the little guy
typing an article in his ancient Word 2000
program that he knows may only be read by
himself and the editor who reviews it.
This seemingly simple gesture proves
that the editors care equally
for each and every article they
receive. Sure, their job is to
CIRCULATION
Reaching millions
of teens in junior and
senior high schools
nationwide.
THE YOUNG AUTHORS
FOUNDATION
TheYoung Authors
Foundation, publisher
of Teen Ink, is a nonprofit
corporation
qualified as a 501(c)3
exempt organization by
the IRS. The Foundation,
which is organized
and operated exclusively
for charitable and
educational purposes,
provides opportunities
for the education and
enrichment of young
people.
FREQUENCY
Ten monthly issues,
from September to
June.
ADDITIONAL COPIES
Send $6.95 per
copy for mailing and
handling.
separate the great from the
good, but I don’t believe they
see submissions in terms of
good and bad. They know that
every one represents a voice –
the voice of a teen somewhere
longing to be heard by someone
who will listen and take
him/her seriously.
I recently wrote an article
about how the editors don’t
get the respect they deserve,
but even I didn’t expect them
to fix articles no one bothers
to read. I no longer merely respect
the editors; I admire
them. Maybe you’re sitting
there right now calling me a
suck-up, but I am simply giving
credit where credit is due,
NOTICE TO READERS
Teen Ink is not
responsible for the
content of any advertisement.
We have not
investigated advertisers
and do not necessarily
endorse their products
or services.
EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
journal dedicated to
publishing a variety
of works written by
teenagers. Copyright
© 2012 by The Young
Authors Foundation,
Inc. All rights reserved.
Publication of material
appearing in Teen Ink
is prohibited unless
written permission is
obtained.
PRODUCTION
Teen Ink uses Quark
Xpress to design the
magazine.
and the editors of Teen Ink have more than
demonstrated that they are worthy of a
thank you.
Teen Ink has done us all a great service,
giving us a precious medium to reach out as
authors, peers, and especially as friends.
Zachary Wallis, Jefferson City, MO
Editor’s note: Thanks, Zachary! We
don’t think you’re a suck-up.
The Wonderful World
of Facebook
Aimee Camarena’s article, “The Wonderful
World of Facebook,” gives us the lowdown
on the characters we see daily on social
networking sites, from the annoying to
downright idiotic (as if we didn’t already
know them). We’ve all seen the flood of statuses
that pour in whenever some mild
stratospheric action is going on, or been
victimized by the swooping Grammar
Nazis. Aimee highlights these irritating
users in her article.
Here, I suggest, is the solution: an “Are
You Annoying?” quiz on Facebook. Want to
sign up and join your friends on the new,
up-and-coming site? Well, you’d better
learn how not to be so darn annoying and
pass the “Are You Annoying?” test, or your
cursor is getting nowhere near the “Sign
up” button. Sample questions include: Will
you frequently post about how much you
“love one direction 4ever” because they’re
your “bbz”? and Do you have the need to
spam others with photos of yourself in order
to feel good about yourself?
This quiz will rid Facebook of those guys
and gals we all despise for ruining our
News Feeds. It’ll even get rid of those snobby
writer types who think they’re so much
better than other people, when really, with
their poor sentence structure, are the real
pet peeves.
Wait a second …
Winton Yee, Brooklyn, NY
Dear Teen Ink,
I am writing to thank you with all my
heart. Although I have not won any awards
or been published in the magazine, because
of Teen Ink I learned a lot and became a bet-
We Want
Feedback!
Tell us your
thoughts about
what you read
in Teen Ink
Submit at
TeenInk.com
ter person.
Except for assignments at school, I had
not written for years. However, Teen Ink
motivated me to write, care more about the
world, and express my feelings. Last year
was the year I wrote the most. Again, thank
you. Although there are only a few people
looking at my work online, I am still content
because at least someone cares. At least
this little voice can inspire someone and
change the world a bit.
Recently, I read masterpieces with their
own style and uniqueness. Clearly that is
why they were chosen to be in the magazine.
It’s amazing that there are teenagers
out there caring about the environment and
problems of today’s society. We’re not as
naive and ignorant as some think.
Furthermore, I realized that the problems
I face every day (including bullying and depression)
are actually similar to what others
are facing too. It’s not just me fighting for
myself; in reality there are millions of “soldiers”
defeating pressures from family,
school, and friends at the same time.
I know Teen Ink wants to encourage people
to write more and enjoy the process.
Writing can be fun. Thanks to Teen Ink, I
now understand the true meaning of writing
– to enrich our lives, to think about the
underlying reasons for everything, to inspire
people, and to become wise.
Christina Choi, Hong Kong
Acrylic Bruises
Vanessa Gillespie’s poem, “Acrylic
Bruises,” touched my heart. I am from an
abusive background, and knowing that there
are people who see the victims’ pain is a
relief to me.
Vanessa’s lyrical sentences and poetic
images create a cry for help that is rarely
heard. The raw emotions that run throughout
this poem – “The artist anxious to create
his next masterpiece” – reach out to everyone
and every perspective.
I know the pain of the victim, and the
reaction of the author reaches even the
deepest corners of the human soul. This
poem really spoke to me, and, as a fellow
poet, I give Vanessa my highest regard and
complete lyrical respect.
“Rose,” Phoenix, AZ

THE HUN SCHOOL
OF PRINCETON
Summer Academic Session
June 25 to July 27
Now accepting registration for our
summer boarding school for Ages 13 to 17.
• Credit Courses
• Enrichment Courses
• Activities and Trips for Resident Students
• Minutes from Princeton University
For more information or to register
visit www.hunschool.org or call
(609) 921-7600, extension 2265.
176 EDGERSTOUNE ROAD, PRINCETON, NJ 08540
WWW.HUNSCHOOL.ORG
Written a Book Lately?
Submit Your Novel Online!
www.TeenInk.com
Poets & Writers
selects Black Elephants for
Page One: Where New and Noteworthy Books Begin.
Kirkus Reviews
says Black Elephants is
“poetic…filled with idealism and adventure.”
Christian Science Monitor
reader recommends Black Elephants,
“a moving and thought-provoking memoir.”
amazon.com
karolnielsen.com
“In a world that continues to bleed from the wounds of intolerance, here comes a love story with the power to heal.” — Michael
Soussan, author of Backstabbing for Beginners: My Crash Course in International Diplomacy, Wall Street Journal standout selection
“Reading Karol Nielsen’s words is like talking to a friend, a very well-traveled, generous-hearted and deeply reflective friend.” —
Anna Kushner, translator of Guillermo Rosales’s The Halfway House, Goncalo M. Tavares’s Jerusalem, and other works
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
5

educator of the year
Journalism • Roosevelt Intermediate School
Marc Biunno by Corinne Petersen, Westfield, NJ
On day one of Marc Biunno’s journalism
class, I knew he was not an ordinary teacher.
He ambled down the hallway in a sweater
vest and greeted us with, “Ah, journalists! You are
about to embark on air-conditioning. So enjoy it.
’Cause it’s awesome.” I chuckled to myself. This
guy is a character!
In a school built in 1926, an air-conditioned room
is an oasis – and as we stepped in, we were confronted
by newspapers plastered on every
available surface. Headlines screamed
for attention; pictures demanded a
double-take; keyboards begged to be
rejuvenated; the clock buzzed with
anticipation.
When he became a teacher, Mr.
Biunno’s goal was “to be someone
who is important to kids,” and he definitely
achieved this as he led us to discover
the importance of our newspaper. We’d
go to him with questions and struggles and he’d give
us input – help us work through issues, while teaching
us to open our eyes and make little things extraordinary.
“You don’t learn from lessons,” he
emphasized. “You learn from experiences.”
Mr. Biunno showed us how unique an opportunity
being a journalist is, and that our voices could be
heard through a class centered around students. It
was much, much more than just a class. He taught
us, impassioned us, and in turn, we were dedicated
His charisma
seeped
into us
History • Amador Valley High School
Mairi Wohlgemuth
by Ke Zhao, Pleasanton, CA
Itake AP classes. I do school activities. I am
the student teachers count on to revive class
discussions, the girl school librarians know
by name, and the classmate who never turns in
an assignment late. And so I am, supposedly, a
good student. But I harbor a shameful secret: I
used to despise history.
Like many of my peers, I took my first AP
course in sophomore year. AP World History
was a rite of passage – a litmus test that filtered
out the brilliant students from the “average”
ones. And if tests were any indicator,
I was definitely,
undeniably average.
I grew to loathe World History.
Frankly, I simply could
not understand The Earth and
Its Peoples: A Global History.
The entire textbook might as
well have been written in Arabic
because whether or not I read the
chapters, I failed the tests.
Before long, I had set my World History textbook
aside to collect dust the way America collects
debt. History, I reasoned, is taught by
sadistic old men so youthful high school students
learn to appreciate the great outdoors. At
least, that’s what I thought until I met Mrs.
Wohlgemuth. For one, Mrs. Wohlgemuth was
not an old man, so there went that theory. And
she didn’t just teach, she flew.
In her AP U.S. History, Mrs. Wohlgemuth
Lifted
characters
off the page
to our mission: the newspaper. Always stressing the
importance of relying on each other to complete our
task well, Mr. Biunno – or “The Biunnocorn” as we
affectionately called him – was the center of our
journalism family. He said, “This class is messy –
that’s what I love about it. But out of the mess
comes a beautiful newspaper.” His charisma seeped
into us; students voluntarily came to school an hour
early to work on the paper. I watched kids who usually
grumbled through the school day come
alive in the midst of this adventure.
I never could have imagined journalism
without Mr. Biunno – but on a freezing
day in January, he entered room 103 for
the last time. Since he’d broken the
news to us that he’d been chosen to be
an assistant principal a couple of towns
away, we’d all been trying to forget that
soon he wouldn’t be our teacher anymore.
“Pull up your chairs,” he said. “Let’s talk.” We
did, and he said, “I can’t think of a better way for us
to end our time together than in the middle of this
process, this endeavor, of creating a newspaper.” He
took out a tissue and wiped his eyes.
People have a hard time understanding why it was
so difficult for Mr. Biunno and his students to say
good-bye. “He’s just a teacher,” they say. “How can
you be friends with a teacher?” But his role went far
beyond the curriculum. His teaching philosophy was
evident in all he did, said, and in the way he interacted
with us. He never “paints a group of people
had a way of packing every class like a teeny
suitcase – filled with more than enough clothes
and shoes, as if we were all going on a trip and
never coming back – without feeling overwhelming.
She animated history and singlehandedly
lifted characters off the page and
breathed life into them.
When Mrs. Wohlgemuth spoke, she whisked
us away with stories and anecdotes of America’s
founding fathers, as if classrooms could
transcend time. Her lectures turned an hour
into minutes, yet it still felt as if it’d be
years before we would catch up to
anything she said because she flew
so quickly through the pages of
history.
Through her class, I discovered
in history what I failed to see before:
thrill. I learned to digest
decades of American history every
week, to write in-class essays at 3,000
words per minute, and to articulate my own
theses by dissecting and synthesizing history
through the eyeglass of a historian.
Of course, there were ups and downs to the
class with Mrs. Wohlgemuth. Some days I
didn’t even know what hit me before we were
flying into the next political era. Other days I
could barely move my right hand after writing a
four-page in-class essay on Jacksonian economic
policy. But I would never trade our class
debates, the infamous 939-page textbook, or my
favorite U.S. history teacher for anything. ✦
with one brush,” and to him “failure is information.”
He encouraged us to question society and not let its
standards dictate who we are: “I really respect those
of you who just do your own thing.”
He put the importance of learning first and grades
second – in fact, he wants to entirely reform the educational
system. “Do you know what the GPA is that
college officers look for for being nice to someone,
or for being helpful?” he asked. “There is no GPA
for those things, but those are the things that matter!”
Mr. Biunno wants students to take ownership
of their learning and become independent in how
they think and live – and he provided us with an opportunity
to do this before he left.
Our new teacher had never taught journalism before,
and Mr. Biunno wanted her to feel supported.
To this end, we students were given the chance to
become advisors for the following semester. The
process was a unique, real-world experience: he
interviewed each of us, asking questions about journalism
and how we would handle different situations.
I was very fortunate to be chosen, and I will
never forget what the experience taught me about
being a leader and having responsibility over something
that matters.
So as our class sat there on his last day, laughing,
crying, talking, he told us, “Just care about something
to the point that it rips your heart out if you
leave it.” When I’m a teacher, the sign on my classroom
door will read: “Welcome to the Journalism
Experience.” ✦
It’s a great feeling to walk into a class and want to be there,
not just have to. Physics wasn’t originally my favorite subject,
but it definitely is now. Mr. Zuercher, with his ADD personality,
is by far the most amusing teacher. That isn’t to say we
didn’t get down to business – business being physics – because
we did. He took a complex concept and related it to his students,
allowing us to see the real-world applications, the possibilities,
and the fun in physics.
I attained the desire to take AP Physics from Mr. Zuercher – I
simply enjoyed every lesson, every lab, and every class. I soared
in his class with high A’s, and he later informed
me I could be successful with a
career in physics. I believed him be-
I grew to
love physics,
not just the
class
Physics • Arrowhead High
Andrew Zuercher
by Justin Froze, Hartland, WI
6
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
cause I grew to love the subject, not
just the class.
I walked into class each day
looking forward to hearing another
one of his odd stories – Mr.
Zuercher’s infamous stories. He
was just so comfortable with his students
that his delivery made them
memorable. They were original, and always
funny, but every story related perfectly to physics.
As I’ve spent time out of his class, I have begun applying
everything from physics to real-life. And I think to myself, Nerd,
but I just can’t help it! I apply Mr. Zuercher’s lessons to working
out, track, basketball, mechanics, everyday chores, even water
pouring from the faucet. And when I do, I think of Mr. Zuercher
and some crazy story pertaining to the application.
I have been waiting for the moment I would suddenly fall in
love with a subject – as every kid does. Now I have found my
inspiration and will be majoring in physics at the University of
Wisconsin-Madison. ✦

Coach • Delaware Military Academy
Noel Breger by Delanie Capuano, Wilmington, DE
Ithought I knew what it meant to suffer – until
the first day of preseason, the first day as a part
of a team I will never forget. That day I realized
what “to suffer” actually meant. That was my first
day having Noel Breger as my cross-country coach.
I have had an uncountable number of coaches in
my life, but Coach Breger stands out. I had
never run cross-country before, and to be
honest, I wanted nothing to do with it,
but my parents made me do it and
told me I’d thank them later. I remember
that first day clearly. We
went on our warm-up run (I thought
I was going to die), then stretched,
and then ran another 30 minutes. I
thought we were done, but then I heard
Coach say, “Go make a line next to that
tree.” Yeah, we weren’t done. It was time for
conditioning, which included bear-crawls, power
pushups, and jumping squats – repeated over and
over. I wanted to cry.
I think Coach Breger’s determination overwhelmed
me at first. After a few weeks, he saw our
potential as a team and started setting goals for us.
The most
motivating and
inspiring person
I have ever met
2012 Teen Ink
Educators of the Year
⋆ Marc Biunno ⋆ Journalism ⋆ Roosevelt Intermediate School
Nominated by Corinne Petersen in this issue
⋆ Noel Breger ⋆ Coach ⋆ Delaware Military Academy
Nominated by Delanie Capuano in this issue
⋆ Alison Eeds ⋆ Art History ⋆ Vacaville High
Nominated by Elena Valeriote in the December issue
“Mrs. Eeds makes art history a class her students adore. It would
be entertaining enough to watch her wild gesticulations and animated
expressions as she lectures, but her commentary makes the
subject especially memorable. She has encouraged us to follow
our hearts across the world, to the cobblestoned streets of France,
the sandy deserts of Egypt, and the intricate pagodas of China.”
⋆ David Lee ⋆ History & Coach ⋆ John Dickinson High
Nominated by Britney Fontes in the April issue
“Mr. Lee isn’t your average teacher; I don’t think he ever sits at
his desk while teaching. He is so dedicated to his students that he
never misses a day of school for personal reasons. Not many
coaches have his ability to make every athlete feel like a winner,
even after losing a big game. He is a man you can depend on for
anything.”
⋆ Joseph Percefull ⋆ Math ⋆ Oldham County Middle School
Nominated by Zachary Gabbert in this issue
⋆ Mairi Wohlgemuth ⋆ History ⋆ Amador Valley High
Nominated by Ke Zhao in this issue
⋆ Kristin Zerbe ⋆ English ⋆ John Dickinson High
Nominated by Ryan Merritt in the May issue
“Mrs. Zerbe is one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Her style
of teaching has motivated me to exceed expectations, no matter
what they might be. What was my least favorite class is now the
one I can’t wait to attend. Her rules on respect keep the class in
order, so I learn better. Above all, the understanding and advice
she provides makes me feel like an individual, not just a number.”
⋆ Andrew Zuercher ⋆ Physics ⋆ Arrowhead High
Nominated by Justin Froze in this issue
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
Personally, I did not see my potential, so when I
heard Coach’s goals, they scared me. I never
dreamed I would end up on varsity my first year.
How could he know what he wanted for our team
before we understood our own abilities?
Coach Breger is the most motivating and inspiring
person I have ever met. Before practice,
he gave speeches I don’t think were
planned but just happened. In the begin-
ning of the season I would think,
Please keep talking – I don’t want to
run, but by the end of the season I respected
every word, and they inspired
me to do my best.
Three of his speeches stand out in
my memory even now. The first was the
day before the county race. It was pouring
rain and freezing, and he told us how he believed
that fate brought our team together that year. I will
never forget the different feelings I had during that
long speech. The second one was the day of States.
We were huddled together on the starting line ready
to go, and Coach made a speech that brought tears
to our eyes. Then he got mad that we were crying
before a race and walked away. It was funny and
Math • Oldham County Middle School
Joseph Percefull
by Zachary Gabbert, LaGrange, KY
Math. The very word may bring tears to
your eyes. We struggle through it year
after year, and for what? The most common
question asked in math class is, “When will
we ever use this?” Mr. Percefull would answer,
“Probably never, but don’t you want to be able to
help your kids with homework? Don’t you want a
base for further learning? Honestly, all the math
you need to know you were taught in fifth grade.
Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division
are all an average person needs. I hope, though,
that all of you will go beyond that, because none
of you are ‘average.’”
What makes a good teacher? In
most cases you learn the same thing,
but the difference is astounding.
Mr. P (as we call him) teaches
students based on what he knows
we’re capable of. In the past two
years, he has taught me not just
about math but life and personal
obligation. We’ve explored topics
that go beyond the definition of “teaching.”
I love math class because every day is a
surprise; I never know what the lesson will develop
into.
Usually math inspires fear, but Mr. P turns that
fear into a unique kind of understanding, and, surprisingly,
progress and learning. His teaching
style is based on the idea that we need to come to
the answer ourselves. He has us arrive at the answer
through logic and reasoning.
The pace of the class is fast, but Mr. P will go
through the process as many times as necessary
so all of us understand. He works hard to make
sure we know what we’re doing – and why. The
reason why something works is something most
teachers won’t address, but Mr. P is different. The
motivating at the same time, and we ended up placing
fourth. The third speech was when he introduced
us to the word agon. He told us it comes
from the ancient Greeks who endured great suffering
to fight for the prize. He compared this to us because
by halfway through the season we wouldn’t
complain about hills; we would put up with them
because we knew it was what we had to do to win. I
will never forget these memories.
Coach Breger is the best coach out there. He
brought the Delaware Military Academy girls’
cross-country team from sixteenth place last year to
fourth place this year. Coach Breger has won many
“coach of the year” awards and multiple state titles.
It would be amazing to be a part of the team when
he wins another state title. Hopefully by senior year
I will experience that.
The minute I crossed the finish line of my last
race, I thought about how excited I was for next
season. Cross-country and Coach Breger have
changed my life. He taught me to love running,
which is something that will be part of me forever. I
am proud to nominate Coach Breger as Teen Ink’s
Educator of the Year. ✦
Every day
is a
surprise
process is always clear, concise, and easy to follow.
We’ve been learning quadratics – a fun topic,
I know – but he has been there the whole time,
pushing us and telling us that we can do it.
In spite of having kids of his own, Mr. P is very
involved with school activities. He teaches two
math classes, hosts a leadership group, is the
Gifted/Talented Student Coordinator, and guides
students in Independent Study classes. All this on
top of being in charge of the Kentucky Youth Assembly
and the Kentucky United Nations Assembly
for our school. We appreciate every second he
works to make school more enjoyable and
helpful for our futures.
Our world will one day be left in my
generation’s hands; we are the ones
who must fix today’s problems and
those of tomorrow. My generation is
the most enlightened in history, and
yet we have been dubbed “The Generation
That Doesn’t Care.” Mr. P’s
response is that that’s dead wrong. He
gives us every opportunity to better ourselves
and potentially make a difference for the
future; leadership is something he constantly
stresses. He wants us to be willing to come forward
and say, this is the problem and this is how
we fix it. Students in Mr. P’s class quickly learn
that if they want to be treated like an adult, they’d
better act like adults.
No teacher has encouraged me to share my
views on current issues more than Mr. P. We have
had heated debates about gay marriage, religion,
and immigration – to name just a few – but we
have also done fun projects like paper-mache and
creating music videos. Mr. P stresses both academic
and artistic success. He goes beyond teaching,
and for that I want him to be recognized. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
educator of the year
7

nonfiction
8
Spring Break with Grandma by Marisa Shira, Raleigh, NC
Boring doesn’t even begin to
describe my spring break.
Boring is when there’s nothing
to watch on TV and your Internet
connection is down. Boring is when
your history teacher decides to explain
the causes of the Cold War in
depth. But spending a week at my ancient
grandmother’s apartment was
more than just boring.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my
grandma, but bunking with a 93-yearold
woman is not my idea of a good
time. And the apartment building for
old people smelled – a mix of stale
Doritos and the kind of mall perfume
that makes your nose itch. Everything
there was just so de-
pressing. Whenever I
walked through the
halls, I couldn’t help
wondering how many
residents died each
week. I mean, really,
when you have 256
closet-sized units full
of elders, there are bound to be casualties.
How many of my grandma’s
neighbors had been hauled off on a
stretcher just that month? My dad advised
me not to ask, no matter how
curious I was.
The week started off with me complaining,
just like I had been since my
dad told me I would be forced to
spend spring break with Grandma in
Florida. My friends oohed and aaahed
over the fact that I was going to
Florida, even though I would be staying
with a lady who was older than
Dumbledore in Harry Potter.
“You can sneak out and go to the
beach!” “You could get on MTV!”
I informed my friends that a) being
14 and in the foreign land of northern
Art by Gina DeCagna, Cranford, NJ
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
“Can you
imagine what
it must be like
to be that old?”
Florida, I would be lucky to find a
McDonald’s on my own, let alone the
nearest beach (which was 57 miles
from the apartment – I googled it) and
b) If I ever did find this magical
beach, the last thing I wanted to do is
party with sweaty, belligerent
MTVers.
It had been years since I visited my
grandma, and the apartment was different
than I remembered. It was
grimy and in the part of town you try
to avoid. I stopped complaining for a
minute to let it sink in that this was
where my grandma was spending her
last days.
After a ridiculously long elevator
ride, we arrived at my
grandma’s room. When
the door opened, I had to
look down to see the tiny
woman before us. Even
though I stand a measly
five feet, my grandma
was a head shorter. She
wore her hair in the typical
white bob of an older woman, and
her pale scalp showed through. Her
veiny hands gripped the door to keep
her upright. Even though she was approaching
her one hundredth birthday,
she refused to use a walker.
We exchanged excited hellos and
small talk about our flight, working in
several awkward hugs. Grandma led
us into the apartment and shuffled me
to the room where I would be sleeping.
It was small and contained a
midget-sized bed and a TV that
looked so old I wondered if it was
black and white. The walls were covered
with framed pictures. Familiar
faces stared at me as I set my suitcase
down.
Every picture was of my family,
from school photos of my dad to
snapshots of me at the last family reunion.
As I scanned them, one caught
my eye. It was one of those super-formal
portraits from long ago. A woman
smiled genuinely at something I
couldn’t see. Her face was young and
her blonde hair (I assumed it was
blonde – the picture was black and
white) was fixed in a complicated
bun. She wasn’t breathtakingly beautiful,
but something about the way her
skin glowed made it hard for me to
look away.
A cold hand suddenly gripped my
shoulder, and I jumped. My grandma
laughed in her gravelly voice. I
blushed as I realized that I had been
scared by a woman who couldn’t
sneak up on a blind person.
“Who is this?” I asked.
She was quiet for a minute, and I
was afraid that maybe I had done
something I wasn’t supposed to. Her
eyes scanned the picture and she
smiled sadly.
“It’s me.” Her voice held an emotion
I couldn’t quite place. “I must
have been about your age. I haven’t
looked at this in a long time.” She
stared at it, and I suddenly felt like I
was witnessing something deeply personal.
I shifted uncomfortably.
As I looked closer, I slowly saw
that the young face was in fact my
grandma’s. She looked so youthful
and happy – more like an actual person.
I felt a pang of guilt as I realized
what an awful thing I had just
thought. I quickly broke the uncomfortable
silence by saying the first
thing that came to mind.
“So what’s for dinner?”
• • •
You might say that my grandma is
a great cook – that is, if you enjoy
Brussels sprouts, reduced-fat kugel,
and liver. Yes, liver. I’ve heard that
grandmas are supposed to make
amazing food from original recipes
that have been handed down for generations,
but unfortunately this is not
true for mine. Although she does have
a gift with matzo ball soup, when it
comes to everything else we’re out of
luck.
My dad and I wordlessly moved the
food around our plates, occasionally
forcing teeny bites into our mouths.
When my grandma wasn’t looking I
glared at my dad. His eyes said, I’ll
get you pizza later.
My dad was able to keep the conversation
going throughout the meal,
but he had to talk so loudly that I
swore the rest of the building could
hear. Not only did Grandma refuse to
use a walker, but also a hearing aid.
After dinner, my worst fears were
confirmed. Not only did my grandma
not have a computer (was that even
legal?), but her TV got just 13 channels.
As I lay on the midget bed, ankles
hanging off the end, I realized
that this week would
be incredibly long.
• •
“No, I’m in northern
Florida. There
are no beaches
here!”
My friend Bridget
sighed dramatically.
That was not the answer she expected.
“So, if you’re not partying it up at
the beach, what’re you doing?” I
rolled my eyes as I stared at the ceiling.
There was a small water stain that
looked like the person upstairs had
peed on their floor.
“I’m just …” I thought for a
second. Bridget’s whole family
lived in California, and both her
grandmas were the type that took you
shopping and made you call them
mom-mom because they refused to
accept the fact that they were actually
“Marisa, lighten up.
Old people don’t
just fall apart”
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
grandmothers. She wouldn’t understand
that you can’t roam Sunset
Boulevard with a woman who can
barely get around her apartment.
“Well, we haven’t really been doing
anything,” I said lamely.
“Oh, Marisa, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I mean, it’s not like I
don’t like my grandma, but she’s just
so … delicate. It’s almost like I’m
afraid to go anywhere with her,” I
continued. “She’s so fragile. Just yesterday
she was eating and one of her
teeth fell out.”
Bridget burst out laughing. “Fell
out? You mean it just like dropped
onto her plate?”
“Yes! It was sad, though. Bridget,
stop laughing! I mean, she was really
upset. Can you imagine what it must
be like to be that old? Like one day
you’re eating a Big Mac, and the next
you can’t eat mashed potatoes without
your molars falling out?” I waited
until Bridget caught her breath. I
knew I shouldn’t have brought it up;
she was totally missing my point.
“But anyway, today we went to an
absolutely disgusting diner and then
spent the afternoon just sitting around
the apartment. And even that seemed
dangerous. I mean, I’m seriously
afraid she’s going to break a hip or
something.”
“Marisa, lighten up. Old people
don’t just fall apart. I mean, you never
hear stories that an elderly person
snapping in half in the middle of a
bingo game.” I cringed at the visual.
“I know, you’re right. I just really
miss you. And my mom. But please,
never tell her I said that.” Bridget
giggled.
I heard my grandma shuffling outside
my door and quickly said goodbye
to Bridget. Guilt settled into my
stomach, but I wasn’t sure why. It
wasn’t like I had said anything bad.
My grandma
slowly opened the
door and appeared
before me in a pink
nightgown. I suppressed
a giggle as I
spotted lace trim
along the bottom.
“Just wanted to
say good night,” she said as I awkwardly
sat on my bed, cell phone still
in hand. I got up and gave her a gentle
hug, making sure not to squeeze too
hard. I was sure Bridget was right
about old people not snapping in half,
but I didn’t want to push it.
• • •
By Wednesday I was officially willing
to go home and back to school if
it meant I could leave the stuffy apartment
and get a good night’s sleep in
my own bed. Stay strong. Only two
more days, I reminded myself. ➤➤

My First Supper by Brandon Hilker, Wilmington, DE
I’ve had many dinners. Thousands. I’ve had dinner
in the evening, in the morning, alone, in the
wild, with strangers, with friends, in the rain, in
the sun – but most often in front of a television. Not
many of my dinners could be described as notable. I
sit down, put food in my mouth, compliment the
chef, and go back to ignoring the world to hunt
down that very last pea that I can never seem to
spear on my fork. But as far as I can remember, I’ve
only had one real supper.
• • •
Hmm, what do I do? I think, standing
awkwardly in the middle of the
huge kitchen. It’s odd how in such a
big room I still manage to get in the
way. “Can I help?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” calls out
a small woman hidden behind a
floating stack of plates. “We’ve got it
covered!”
Figures. They’ve been doing this for years, they
have the routine down. There goes trying to be helpful.
How do I make a good impression now? I
covertly scan the room for an answer.
Nothing. I pull out my cell phone and pretend to
look occupied. Wrong move.
Maria’s father comes in, nods to me, and makes
his way to the table. So much for a good impression.
Everyone around me has something to do, and I’m
on my phone, conspicuously doing nothing at all.
This is what I get for dating a pastor’s daughter. I
bet he thinks I’m just another heathen – and I’m one
of the good kids … usually.
I flipped through the channels and
stopped on an episode of “The Price Is
Right.” It was the only thing that wasn’t
in Spanish or deeply religious, and somehow
Bob Barker seemed appropriate in
this building filled with old people.
“Show us, Mom,” I heard Dad say
from the next room.
“No. It’s ridiculous. I told you I didn’t
want one,” Grandma said.
I decided that whatever they were talking
about had to be more interesting than
“The Price Is Right.”
“What’s ridiculous?” I asked as I sat
down on the couch.
“For her birthday, your aunt and I got
Grandma a very, very nice wig, and she
refuses to show me.” My grandma made
a hmph noise and tried to cross her arms.
She wobbled a bit and had to steady herself
on the kitchen table.
“Come on, let’s see it,” I gave my
grandma a pleading smile. I was in desperate
need of some entertainment.
Grandma paused for a minute before
scooting over to the closet. She muttered
to herself as she opened the door and
rummaged around: “I never asked for a
wig. Completely unnecessary.” She
pulled out a manikin head wearing a perfect
bobbed hairdo. It was a deep silver
color that was done in the sort of dramatic
short style you’d expect to see on
Helen Mirren. If I was a balding old lady,
I definitely wouldn’t mind wearing that.
This is what I
get for dating
a pastor’s
daughter
“Wow, Mom, that’s really nice.”
“Really, Grandma, that’s a cool wig.”
She grumbled some more to herself
and set the head on the counter. My dad
and I stared at her in anticipation.
“What?”
“Well … aren’t you going to put it
on?”
Her eyes widened like I had asked her
to go on a roller coaster. “And mess up
my hair? Are you crazy? I just went to
the beauty parlor this morning!”
My dad smiled and shook his head.
Sometimes I forgot how
feisty my grandma was.
“But it’s such a shame
for it to go to waste,” he
said.
My grandma’s eyes shot
daggers at my dad. “Fine.”
She picked the head up off
the counter and set it in the
middle of the kitchen table.
She smiled at herself as she stared at her
work. I looked at my dad, but he just
grinned like it was normal to use a plastic
head as a centerpiece.
• • •
I was awakened by the sound of a dog
barking somewhere in the distance. The
clock read 5:58. I groaned.
It was officially the last day of my vacation,
but I hardly felt rested. If anything,
I felt even more in need of a
vacation. I tried to go back to sleep, but it
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
I follow the chaotic procession to the table,
lowering myself down awkwardly, trying to find the
right way to sit in the chair. I’ve been using these
things for years but today is the day I forget how to
sit in one? A quick look around the table tells me
that no one has noticed. Everyone is busy with a
conversation or trying to get themselves situated.
Suddenly, the room quiets, and everyone looks toward
Maria’s father. I see open hands to my left and
right, and realize that it’s time for the prayer. Oh
crap, He is here.
Now you see, He and I aren’t close.
We never have been. So times like these
aren’t exactly my favorite. I tend to feel
like I don’t belong. I walk into a church
and I start getting jumpy and nervous
like I’m about to rob the place. And
here I am trying to make a good impression
on her father. Yet when I look
around the table, I feel no hostility,
no judgment.
The pastor begins to speak, telling of the gifts
that have been given to his family and giving
thanks. That’s it. Amen. I don’t know what I expected,
but that wasn’t it. The words weren’t out of
the ordinary, but the emotion they conveyed certainly
was. It felt like he was speaking to a friend. I
don’t know what to make of it. Maybe I have no
reason to fear the big, scary Christians after all.
They’re just people.
The conversation starts, and food is passed
around the table. Maria gives me a look that says,
“I’m glad you’re here.” I grin like an idiot.
I was in
desperate
need of some
entertainment
was no use. The mattress was stiff, and
my pillow reeked of moth balls.
I opened the door to my room. My
grandma’s small body was curled up on
the couch. At Grandma’s insistence, my
dad was sleeping in her room.
I tiptoed over to the doors that led to
the small balcony. The glass rattled as I
slid them open, but my grandma didn’t
stir. I plopped down on a mesh chair.
A pinkish light filled the sky, and I realized
that I had never noticed what an
awesome view the apartment had. You
couldn’t see the graffiti or
the junky old cars. In the
distance were trees and a
small lake that was probably
part of a golf course. A
peacefulness filled the air,
and I let my shoulders relax.
In the light of the approaching
sunrise, the view was
enchanting.
I heard a muffled snore from the living
room and was transported back to reality;
I wasn’t in an exotic land but rather my
grandma’s dilapidated apartment. But if I
focused on the view, it was like I was in a
different world. My grandma snored
again, and I wondered if she ever sat on
her balcony and took in the sights.
Well, of course she does, I thought.
What else can she do? It suddenly
dawned on me that I didn’t know what
my grandma did when we weren’t
“So, Maria tells me you’ve decided to join the
Navy. Why is that?” I take in the scene of warm
faces around me and realize that this won’t be as bad
as I thought. “Well, it’s a long story ….”
As the evening progresses, we discuss everything
from philosophy to college shenanigans to hilariously
disastrous dates that happened nearly seventy
years ago. We stay at the table, talking and snacking
on whatever is at hand until after midnight, when we
remember that we have to eventually sleep.
On the way home, I can’t help but think about the
events of that night, and I know I probably won’t
ever forget it. My first supper. I’m glad that it won’t
be my last. ✦
Art by Samantha Streitman, New City, NY
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
nonfiction
visiting. Her husband had passed away
before I was born, and she rarely drove.
Most of her family lived in New York,
and she had outlived most of her friends.
I suddenly felt cold as the sky’s pink
became tinted with shades of yellow and
orange. Sadness settled into my stomach,
but I didn’t know why.
My thoughts were interrupted by footsteps
behind me. The slow pitter-patter
instantly gave away that my grandma had
awakened. The glass door opened and
she took a seat next to me. Her nightgown
was blue this morning, and her hair
was sticking out at awkward angles.
We exchanged hushed greetings and
then fell silent. It’s weird how whenever
you’re seeing something beautiful, like
the sunrise, words don’t seem necessary.
The air around us was quiet but the silence
felt natural, unlike the heavy
hushes of an uncomfortable moment. A
fly awakened and danced between us.
A hand suddenly came to rest on mine
and I startled in surprise. Embarrassment
washed over me as I looked down to see
her hand embracing mine. Luckily she
didn’t seem to notice, instead continuing
to gaze at the view. Even though this sudden
show of affection was unexpected,
the warmth of my grandma’s hand was
genuinely comforting.
The sun crept through the trees and
washed the countryside in pale light. ✦
9

nonfiction
10
Cottage People by Maryanne Grant, Forest Hill, MD
Neat, orderly, and clean. Row
upon row of plastic storage
containers seem to exude an
air of calm, a sense that everything
is right in the world – everything
has its place. If only I could transfer
this to my house, my life. Perhaps
these thoughts are why I find myself
drawn to this aisle
whenever I set foot in
Target – I scan the
various shapes of bins
and make a mental
list of what I could fit
in them. Maybe this
behavior isn’t healthy,
but on the few occasions
that my need for order doesn’t
drive my mother crazy, she actually
likes it.
• • •
All I want is the boat pump, the little
contraption used to rid the paddleboat
of rainwater. I know it would be faster
just to use a bucket to bail the water
out, but I’m in no hurry and it has to be
in the boathouse somewhere. Our cottage
is one of those places where things
don’t change. The old pair of scissors
Photo by Caitlin Wolper, New City, NY
are in their holder stuck to the side of
the fridge, where they have been since
before I was born. The blue toolbox is
in the side bedroom, its corners nosing
out just enough to catch my toe over
and over. So the boat pump should be
where it always is, hanging over a rafter
in the cramped boathouse.
It’s not there. Instead there’s a pile of
life jackets, foam noodles, and odds and
ends all piled in a blue and white dinghy
that hasn’t seen the water in years. For a
moment my mind snaps back to the
aisles of organizational bins and storage
containers, and I imagine the boathouse
and those aisles melting into one. It
takes about ten seconds to decide; my
original plans for the day are shot.
I don’t like wasting time. Diving into
massively unplanned undertakings is a
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
I felt like I
was peeling
back a layer of
cottage history
trademark of mine. I begin yanking out
life jackets and floaty toys and tossing
them on the lawn. The stream of neoncolored
noodles and brightly patterned
life jackets prompts my mother to ask a
question I’ve heard countless times.
“What are you getting yourself into,
Maryanne?” she says from her sunny
spot on a lawn chair. “I
hope it’s not something
I’m going to have to get
involved in.” My mother
knows that most of my
projects either require
money or her help. As I
continue further into the
boathouse, eyeing the
cobwebs cautiously, I start to realize the
extent of this project.
“Just cleaning,” I reply in a strained
voice. “It’s a mess.” I pull on the
dinghy. Chewed acorns roll in the
bottom.
“Just make sure you put everything
back,” she says, settling in her chair.
My grandma calls from the porch,
“What’s going on? What’s she doing?”
and we go through it all again.
• • •
I’ve already jumped in the lake twice.
Once to squelch the fear of spiders in
my hair, and another to rinse the dirt and
grime from my sweaty skin. The bank is
now strewn with 50 years of stuff, and
the boathouse is empty except for bare
shelves and piles of leaves and stones on
the dirt floor. With each piece of clutter
I hauled out, I felt like I was peeling
back a layer of cottage history, to when
my father was a small blond boy sinking
boats off the end of the dock. I imagine
my grandpa diving into the lake, and
Grandma sunbathing in the boat.
My grandparents bought the cottage
in 1958, a few years before my father
was born, making him the first child in
our family to spend every summer at
the lake. The cottage 50 years ago
seems like a different world, a world
where everything is done the same as
now but the boats are replaced with
older models and the people are replaced
with newer ones – younger
ones – in some cases, maybe even nonexistent
ones. Cottage People, that’s
what we call ourselves. A name that can
only be acquired after spending every
summer bathing in the water of Milsite
Lake, gazing at the diamonds dancing
on the water’s surface, and patting
slimly frogs.
Some vacationers may be Beach People,
but I’ve been wired to crave the
crisp feel of the lake as I wade in
slowly, letting my skin get used to the
cold. I’ve been spoiled by the ability to
swallow huge mouthfuls of fresh lake
water instead of the briny tang of the
ocean. My love for this place was cultivated
in the same way as love for a person.
The same love that developed
naturally in my father was placed in me
over the years, little bits at a time.
Sometimes I think how scary that must
have been for him. The thought that
perhaps my mother, sisters and I might
want to be Beach People. If it weren’t
for the cottage, we could be just another
family packing up the car for a week at
an overpopulated beach, renting a
beach house full of other people’s
memories.
These thoughts swirl in my mind as I
stand among the relics of past summers,
feeling nostalgic as I always do when
I’m there. Things are changing. If this
summer foreshadows my summers to
come, then the words “carefree” and
“summer” have lost the association
honed by days when the only time I
peeled off my bathing suit was to go to
bed at night.
I decide I need a break, and leave the
debris scattered for my father to pick
through. I walk along the water’s edge,
subconsciously watching for the telltale
rustle of a frog. After years of catching
the slippery creatures, looking for them
has become habit. I see a small one
scoot under a rock, his back the color of
the shiny pebbles of the lake bottom. I
tortured these poor critters as a kid. Not
intentionally, but in that overeager way
kids have with living things smaller
than they are. At one point I even believed
that I could make them fall
asleep by rubbing their white bellies; in
reality they were probably just scared.
The frogs were my friends. I loved
them, I named them, and in seventh
grade, when I was forced to dissect one,
I cried.
My bare feet magically find the
smooth rocks leading back to the dock,
avoiding the ones responsible for numerous
scars on my
knees. I stop to pick a
raspberry. After years of
searching, we finally
have a plant growing by
our cottage. I start to
feel that familiar pang
of fear, and wonder if
some day my kids will
hunt frogs and pick
raspberries and proudly announce to
their friends that they are headed to the
lake for the summer.
I reach the top of the stairs and notice
the pile on the lawn has shrunk. The
junk has been weeded out and carried
to the top of the hill, ready to catch the
next ride to the dump. I begin to
thoughtfully arrange the remaining
items back on the shelves, leaving a
bare shelf for the souvenirs of summers
to come.
• • •
I’ve been staring at the computer
screen for the past twenty minutes, trying
to add as many words as I can to my
paper on women’s suffrage. I’m almost
at the five-page mark when Rebecca,
my roommate, comes bounding in.
To me, the lake
will always be the
most beautiful
place in the world
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
“Please come to the picnic with me!
Don’t make me go alone,” she whines
as she grabs a blanket and a sweater
from the cramped closet. It’s Labor
Day weekend and most of our friends
have gone away for one last taste of
summer. I study the photo on my shelf
from earlier this summer – my dad and
I sit smiling in his new sailboat at the
lake. A wave of guilt washes over me; I
should be there helping close up the
cottage. Recently, as the youngest child,
I’ve been the most available, earning a
spot as Dad’s helper. I wonder who is
on call this weekend, ready to fetch him
a tool.
I turn in my chair and notice Rebecca
is gone. “Rebecca?” I call. She pops her
head around the bathroom door. “Let
me finish this paragraph and I’ll be
ready.”
I would rather not sit wallowing in
my dorm; it’s too dreary on a holiday
weekend. My parents left for the lake
yesterday, but with a paper due Tuesday
and an exam on Friday, joining them
wasn’t an option. I said my good-byes
when we left the cottage in August. As
we drove off, I watched the sparkling
lake disappear behind the trees, calculating
the months until next time I will
be there. I have to convince myself that
it’s better this way; Labor Day weekend
has always been a depressing time at
the lake. By Sunday evening, the boats
are tucked away in the garage, pieces of
aluminum dock will litter the bank, and
the deck will be empty. Signs of fall
will be everywhere, the cycle of summer
at the cottage completed once
again.
It all begins on Memorial Day. Each
May we drive seven hours to open the
cottage and brave the
still-frigid temperatures
of the lake. An inch of
pollen is mopped off the
screened-in porch, the
dock is put in the water,
and the boats are prepped
and dropped off at the
launch. It’s a weekend
full of preparations and
expectations; the summer seems to
stretch out before us. Everything between
Memorial Day and Labor Day is
bittersweet in comparison.
I reach over and press my thumb into
the soil of the plant on my desk – a hen
and chicks flower just like the ones at
the lake. I keep it as a reminder that
summer will come again, no matter
how long this in-between period feels.
To me, the lake will always be the most
beautiful place in the world. I look forward
to the people, the laughter, the
sunny days, and the rainy ones too. Our
neighbors have become a second family,
the mutual love of this place bringing
us together. When I go to the lake,
I’m not just going on vacation, I’m
going home. ✦

To India and Back Again by John Klingelhofer, Rockport, ME
From the assault rifle-wielding
security personnel who observed
our every step in the
airport, to the journey through
scorching-hot plains and forested
mountains to my new home in the
south of Tamil Nadu, I was immediately
struck by how India differed
from my home in Maine. As I was to
learn, the difference extended much
further than the architecture, the
weather, and the culture; it is also –
and most importantly – the condition
in which so many Indian people live.
The lack of proper nutrition, clean
water, and accessible health care all
starkly contrast with my situation at
home. Violence and poverty, though
certainly not absent in my country,
seem more blatant here. From the
begging widowed women cast from
their homes, to the lepers suffering
from a disease long since cured in
our country, to the street children
forced to beg by their guardians – I
felt that no amount of effort could
begin to relieve these terrible conditions.
This feeling began to change,
though, with my arrival at Kodaikanal
International School, where
my parents were volunteering as
teachers and I would be spending six
months as a high school sophomore.
Along with challenging science, language,
and music programs, the
school offered a variety of volunteer
opportunities, including waste removal,
tree planting, delivering food
to the poor and elderly, and playing
with the children at several orphanages.
After seeing some of the problems
firsthand and being offered a
chance to get involved, I immediately
realized that while the problems that
India (and much of
the third world) face
are daunting, there is
hope for change once
people become aware
and start working
together to look for
solutions.
One day, while delivering
the school’s
surplus food to various organizations,
we stopped at the Shenbaganur Orphanage,
a Catholic-run facility on
the side of the mountain below Kodaikanal.
The children here made an
immediate impression on me and for
this reason I continued to visit every
weekend and after school for the rest
of my stay. This orphanage was unlike
the others in that many of the
children were not actually orphans
but had been given away due to their
parents’ poverty – a poverty so severe
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
In India,
learning English
is often the key
to finding a job
they could not support their children.
With the younger children, the
youngest of whom was three, I would
read picture books. For the older children,
I taught basic math skills and
more extensive English.
For many of these kids, language is
a major barrier to a better future.
Their families were often from a low
caste in the rigid Indian social structure,
and their language was not even
Tamil but one of a hundred
tribal dialects. In
India, learning dominant
languages, especially
English, is often
the key to finding a job
that’s better than the
dollar-a-day laboring
work many of their
parents are forced to
do. Teaching them English was the
most worthwhile work I could do for
them.
As I taught them my language,
they taught me theirs, describing the
pictures in their books and the
scenery on our afternoon walks in
basic Tamil, often laughing at my
sincere (albeit futile) attempts to
pronounce and memorize words in
this different tongue. In addition to
academics, the students enjoyed
playing sports, including cricket – a
Horseback Therapy by Karan Ishii, Westbury, NY
Walking toward the barn, I hear a chorus of
whinnies that makes me smile. I began
volunteering at HorseAbility two years
ago and have helped people of all ages and abilities
learn to ride.
HorseAbility was started in 1993 by Katie Mc-
Gowan after she witnessed a child with cerebral
palsy riding a horse. Seeing the child’s progress, she
decided to found an organization that would provide
physical therapy through riding. Therapeutic riding
is helpful for people with social,
emotional, and physical challenges.
These riders strive to one day ride
independently. Hippotherapy is for
people who need therapy prescribed
by a doctor. By horseback riding, the
central nervous system and muscles
are activated. Some hippotherapy
riders eventually progress to the therapeutic
riding program.
Volunteers at HorseAbility help the therapist or
riding instructor with the rider, as well as do barn
and office work. Staff members don’t think of the
participants as disabled; instead of focusing on what
they are unable to do, HA focuses on their abilities.
Riding can expand these abilities, lessening the disabilities.
Once, I witnessed this firsthand. I was assisting a
rider who was nonverbal. We always interacted with
The horses
provide a type
of therapy
humans cannot
her as if she were talkative. We said hello to her and
encouraged her attempts to make sounds. One day,
all of a sudden, we heard a small voice say “Hello.”
Her proud parents had tears in their eyes as they witnessed
this accomplishment. Although I never saw
her again, I know she is out there somewhere telling
someone, “I love you.”
During my time at HA, I have noticed that even
though the program is for people with special needs,
I have benefited as well. By being around people
who are so different from me, I have
learned to interact naturally with spe-
cial needs people. This is because I
have discovered that those with special
needs are not that different from me.
Just like me, they love horses. Also, I
have learned that with work, anyone is
capable of anything. Sometimes, when
I think I can’t do something, I remember
these riders. With grim determination,
they face challenges I can’t even imagine, and
over time they overcome many obstacles.
I have also learned a lot about life by volunteering
at HA. When I see a person who is normally confined
to a wheelchair sitting tall atop a horse, moving
freely, I know I am part of something very
special. The horse and rider become one, moving together,
understanding each other. The power of animals
has always interested me. Just by sitting on a
horse and feeling the four-beat walk, a flailing child
complicated game for a novice like
me, made all the more confusing by
the language barrier. This, and getting
to know them, brought many issues
into perspective for me and
helped immerse me in the culture of
India. I’ve never felt more proud than
when the school van would arrive at
the orphanage and the boys and girls
would run out to greet me with cries
of “Thambi!” – the native word for
brother.
Returning to the United States was
a culture shock even more severe
than my arrival in India. To go from
working with intelligent, creative
young people living on the brink of
starvation, to working as a dishwasher
eight hours a day, disposing
of the excess food of wealthy
tourists, was a truly eye-opening
change.
Knowing what those kids would
give for the opportunities I once took
for granted – namely, the availability
of education – has spurned me to
apply myself in school, at work, and
in life in general. I hope to return to
India one day. I’ve seen firsthand
some of the problems the world faces
and am all the more motivated to help
solve them. I now have many friends
who will bear the consequence if
these issues are not addressed. ✦
calms down. These animals provide a type of therapy
that humans cannot.
During my time at HorseAbility, I have matured. I
have seen miracles. Through these miracles, lives
are lived to the fullest and joy is spread: to the riders,
horses, parents, instructors, and me. I hope that
one day I can find a way to thank the people and
horses who have made my life so much better. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
community service Sponsored
by
Art by Logan Zoelle, Houston, TX
11

health
Sponsored by
12
Taking Back Control by “Cara,” Boston, MA
Imagine you’re lying in bed – but
not your bed, a stranger’s bed.
Imagine a thin wall between the
bedroom and the room where the
stranger is sitting, watching TV. At
first you’re silent and still, afraid to
move or make a sound. Then you hear
him laughing with his friend. You
start to cry. You’re crying so hard you
feel like you’re going to
suffocate. Trying not to
be heard, you bite your
lip so hard it starts to
bleed. Your chest tightens
and horrible images
flash in your head. The
pain is unbearable.
You have just been raped.
• • •
Rape is not a word that most people
can hear and understand immediately.
Sure, it’s a common topic on TV, in
books and in music, and is even used
by some as slang for “defeated” or
“owned.” But if you haven’t been a
victim, you don’t understand its
meaning. The emotional pain and
physical discomfort of sexual abuse
cannot be explained.
After my assault I went through the
usual phases of shock and disbelief.
The next morning, I told my friend
what had happened. She held my
hand as I cried. Then she loyally
walked three miles with me to the
Little Flowers
Every time I draw a flower.
Every time I pass up the knife.
She yells at me when she sees the pen marks –
would she rather see scars?
Every little flower is a heartbreak, a misstep.
Better a little flower than a little red line.
by Elizabeth Artlip, Round Lake Beach, IL
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
Rape is not
something I
had planned for
Photo by Christopher Wright, Cave Junction, OR
nearest convenience store, where, out
of embarrassment at the thought of
buying one, she stole a pregnancy test
for me.
I was 15 at the time. In my naivety
about sex, I assumed I could take a
test right away and find out if I was
pregnant. After reading the box, I realized
I was wrong and resumed panicking.
We walked back,
mostly in silence. Nei-
ther of us wanted to talk
about it. For the rest of
the week, I tried to enjoy
myself. I didn’t want the
rape to ruin my vacation
at the seashore with my
friends, so I pushed it to the back of
my mind. I hid the pain and let myself
be 15 again.
After the vacation, my father
dropped me at my mom’s, where I
live full time. I still did not let myself
think about the rape. I denied it so
hard that it almost seemed like a bad
dream. For four more days I continued
to live life normally, but on the
fifth, I cancelled plans with friends
and went to my room. I turned off the
lights, closed the shades, and pulled
the covers over me. I slept for the next
seven hours until my mom came
home and knocked on my door. She
asked if I was okay, and I said I was
feeling under the weather. She
brought me a glass of water and left
me alone.
For two days, I only left my bed to
eat and use the bathroom when no
one was home. The rest of the time I
hid under the covers, feeling only
shame and embarrassment. Then, on
Tuesday morning, I finally decided to
tell someone. I gathered all my
strength to climb out of bed and go
into my sister’s room. We are very
close, but I was still scared to tell her
something like this, not knowing how
she’d react. I broke down and told her
everything.
She listened to my story through
my muffled crying. She cried too. She
hugged me and said it would be okay
but we needed to go to the hospital.
At first I refused, but she slowly convinced
me. We drove in silence.
Silence soon became unmanageable.
It was a constant reminder of
what had happened and the reaction I
got from people when I said I was an
assault victim. For a long time I
wished people would just say something.
Even ask about it. I wouldn’t be
angry at them for asking. It would be
a relief to have them say aloud what
everyone was thinking.
The hospital visit made the assault
even more embarrassing and real for
me. Nothing could be done, they said,
because I had waited too long to report
it. They suggested I tell my mom.
I was horrified at the thought. How
could I tell my mother that my virginity
had been stolen from me, her
youngest daughter?
I cried the whole way home, silent
sobs, hot tears running down my
cheeks. My sister called my mom at
work and asked her to come home. I
lay in bed until she came home. She
slammed open my door, pulled me up
from my pillow and screamed,
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong with
you?” Somehow she had an idea.
“Did you have sex? Are you pregnant?”
I cried harder and harder. Finally I
said, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t
want to.”
“You were raped? Oh my god. My
baby, my poor baby,” she cried as she
hugged me. We cried together for a
while, then all I wanted to do was
crawl under the covers and hide my
face again. I felt so guilty for causing
her pain. Irrationally I felt it was my
fault for burdening her with a pain I
should have been strong enough to
deal with myself. Eventually, after the
crying and hugging was over, I fell
asleep, exhausted.
At first, my mother was good about
it. She took me to the doctor and
asked if I wanted therapy. I really
didn’t want to talk about the assault
and don’t like talking about my feelings,
so instead, I denied it all. I denied
it for the rest of the summer and
into the school year.
Denial is a weird concept. Some
people can’t do it. They can’t help but
think about things and face them head
on. Some people, on the other hand,
can deny things so hard they can
make anything seem like it was just a
nightmare. I am the second type. I can
deny anything to the point of pure
ignorance.
Then one day in Octo-
ber, as I was cleaning my
closet, I found my hospital
bracelet. Memories
flooded back. Images I
had been trying so hard
to forget suddenly were
the only thing I could
see. Looking at that
bracelet, I couldn’t help but cry as I
remembered the most painful experience
of my life.
I cried for a long time. I couldn’t
stop; even when I told myself enough
was enough and to toughen up, the
tears wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t sitting
there feeling bad for myself. I knew I
was lucky to be alive and to have a
support system, but crying was the
only thing I knew how to do.
Then I opened my journal and
started to write. I wrote about what had
happened and how I felt. “Out of control”
is what I was feeling. It may not
I may not ever
“get over it,”
but I will rise
above it
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Art by Elsa Smith, Almonte, ON, Canada
be an emotion, but it has a huge meaning
and is a vital part of one’s life and
happiness. To lose control is one thing,
but gaining it back is another. It’s hard
to get something back that you didn’t
know you were missing.
If someone had asked me two years
ago, “Do you feel in control of your
life?” I’d have said yes. Yes, but only
because I had never experienced anyone
or anything telling me differently.
Then the rape happened. And suddenly
everything I thought I knew
changed. The plans I had for myself
were gone. Rape is not something I
had planned for, and it made me
think, What else could happen I
didn’t plan for? Why plan for anything?
For a while, I tried to take back
control in any way that I could. I became
self-destructive. I stopped eating
and became dangerously thin. I
stopped going to class, resulting in
countless disciplinary talks and detentions.
I mouthed off at teachers and
drank and smoked. Bottom line, I was
pissed off. I did things out of pure
anger. I had emotional
outbursts out of my control.
I did anything to
make myself feel better,
but it was all self-destructive.
It wasn’t until junior
year that I realized the
rape doesn’t control me. I
am not a slave to the effects
of rape; I am strong enough to
know I can overcome it.
I may not ever “get over it,” but I
am learning to cope. I will rise above
it. The rape does not have the power
to make me feel bad about myself or
tell me I am not worth anyone’s time.
The rape has no right to make me feel
dirty, or embarrassed about who I am,
ashamed of what happened, or afraid
to touch others. Most importantly, the
rape has absolutely no control over
the direction of my life and the plans I
choose for my future. It does not define
who I am or what I am capable
of. ✦

Suspend Suspensions by Kellen Garrity, Oak Creek, CO
Every day hundreds of students are suspended
from school for petty misdemeanors and insignificant
offenses. Although suspension was
once considered a positive practice that promoted
good behavior, this punishment is often exercised
unjustly, reinforcing discrimination against minorities
and students with disabilities.
A study by the New York Civil Liberties Union
showed that about 450,000 suspensions were given
between 1999 and 2009, nearly double the rate of
the previous decade. In Texas, a survey showed that
60 percent of students were suspended between seventh
and twelfth grade, many more than once. Recently,
in Minnesota, 52,652
suspensions resulted in 110,033
missed school days. “We can fill over
4,500 classrooms with the students
who were suspended at least once last
year,” said Angela Ciolfi, an advocate
for the educational rights of children
and author of a recent study.
For many students who are constantly
suspended, this practice is not
a punishment. Repeatedly suspended students often
come from troubled homes with limited parental supervision.
After being sent home, they are free to do
as they please. Suspension is simply a way to avoid
school – a reward for their bad behavior. Also, when
students are given assignments to make up during
their suspension, these are not evaluated, but become
an automatic zero. There are “shockingly grim
statistics about students never being able to catch up
with schoolwork, dropping out of high school,” says
Johanna Miller, who cowrote a study on suspensions
in New York City schools.
Lately, suspensions are being given at an alarmingly
high rate for surprisingly minor offenses, such
as not completing homework or being late to class.
This inspires anger and rebellion in students, who
Irushed into school Thursday morning,
afraid that I was late for my first class.
Finding a clock, I confirmed that I had
arrived with time to spare. Relieved, I let
my bag slide off my shoulder and land
with a thud. With my head finally cleared
of its worries, I turned to acknowledge the
others waiting in the hallway. Two girls
began to complain about waiting in the
hall for the last hour with my brother
James. Apparently, he was being extremely
annoying – but, hey, what else is
new?
“He drives me crazy. How do you live
with him?” one of the girls asked.
“I don’t,” I told them honestly. “I spend
more time at the library or with friends
than I do with my family.”
The girls laughed, but for the rest of the
day my comment haunted me. Had I really
become so absorbed in my life that I had
isolated myself from loved ones? Recalling
the past few days, I remembered times
when I had chosen to be by myself – for
example, when my brother Owen asked to
play cards, or when Eli wanted to go on a
For many
students this
practice is not
a punishment
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
feel they have been treated unfairly. In perhaps the
most ironic case, 2,500 suspensions were given in
Minnesota as punishment for missing school.
Minority students and those with disabilities are
suspended more often, for lesser offenses, and for
more time overall. Over 65,089 suspensions last
year were given to students with disabilities. Children
suffering from ADD, dyslexia, and ADHD are
often sent out of the room for not paying attention or
disrupting class, even though this is because of their
disability. African-American students received 53
percent of all suspensions, and black children with
disabilities made up 50 percent of the disabled suspension
rate. The ratio of suspensions
for black boys to white boys is three to
one, while black girls are four times as
likely to be suspended as white girls. In
a Minnesota survey, African-Americans
accounted for 40 percent of suspensions,
despite constituting only 10 percent
of the student body. Despite many
reassurances to the contrary, racism still
seems pervasive in schools, and it’s unfair
and unjust to punish disabled children for “misbehavior”
that they cannot control.
Continually removing students from school has
harmful emotional effects that often impact the rest
of their lives. Students who have been suspended
may develop the belief that they are worth less than
other students. They gain a reputation as troublemaking,
disobedient kids who will never amount to
anything. They develop low self-esteem and often
become depressed or angry. But instead of trying to
help them, the school system often punishes them,
adding to the resentment they already feel. They also
miss out on the benefits of participating in class and
interacting with peers, which teaches essential communication
skills. They grow to hate the education
system, which vastly increases high school dropout
rates. One study revealed that over two-thirds of a
group of imprisoned high school freshmen in Baltimore
had been suspended in middle school. Suspension
more than triples the chance of dropping out of
high school.
Admittedly, at times the only choice is to remove
a student from the classroom. But this can be done
without suspension. Other effective disciplinary
methods include phone calls to parents, sending students
to another classroom, or detention before or
after school. A better alternative to sending students
home is in-school suspension, where they stay in the
principal’s office during the suspension period and
receive supervision to ensure they complete class assignments
and don’t fall behind.
One might argue that suspension shows other students
that punishments for misbehavior are real and
severe, but these alternatives will serve that purpose
even better than out-of-school suspensions, which
for some students are like bonus vacations.
Additionally, to make sure discipline is doled out
fairly and without race discrimination, for specific
incidents there should be predetermined punishments.
It would also be helpful for students with disabilities
if teachers received more instruction on
how to address their specific needs, allowing them
to share equally in the benefits of the classroom environment.
The issue of unjust suspension is an ever-growing
problem. It is the responsibility of students and parents
to draw attention to this rising injustice. Antisuspension
views must be aired at school board
meetings, and it is the duty of the victims to publicize
unfair treatment. Banning students from learning
environments and causing them to fall behind is
a waste of time for both schools and students. It’s
time to stand up against suspension in schools and
fight these unfair penalties. ✦
Step Out of Your Isolation Zone by Whitney Jester, Orondo, WA
walk. Both times, I told them I was too
busy. Did I really want to grow up not
knowing my family?
I tried to make excuses. I’m in high
school, I have too much homework to
waste time playing games with kids. But I
had to admit that this wasn’t true. Recently
I had come to school early after a piano
lesson, unaware that my
brother was there early too. I
could have walked with him
to the coffee shop if I had
known. If I had thought
about someone’s schedule
besides my own. My excuses
were unacceptable. Yes,
school is important, but
would I be happy with a
strong education but a crumbling family?
After much thought, I came to this conclusion:
Many teens – myself included –
have become ridiculously self-centered,
most without even realizing it. We’ve become
unplugged from the real world, creating
our own that suits us better. Sure, we
know the names of the hottest celebrities
Many teens
have become
ridiculously
self-centered
and the newest trends, but those around us
and issues that matter are foreign to us.
In twenty years it’s not going to matter
what clothes you wore or which CDs you
owned. What will matter is the people in
your life. Teens are isolating themselves
from the real world and focusing on themselves.
They live on Facebook and Twitter,
complaining to the world
about how bored they are or
how much homework they
have instead of interacting
with their siblings. When teens
have a problem, they go online
instead of to parents or siblings
– real people who can
give real advice.
Teens often ignore issues
around them – the homeless man asking
for change, the girl at school who hides in
the shadows, afraid that someone might
notice her bruises. Too many turn a blind
eye to others’ problems.
So I took an oath to stop caring just for
myself, and began to make changes. I
started small, smiling and talking to my
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
points of view
siblings and others more, helping my parents
with chores, sitting next to a lonely
looking student on the bus – and the
change grew from there. Before I knew it,
I was helping my brothers rake leaves for
an older neighbor, who became a good
friend. Tomorrow, I’ll be going to an allnighter
with James, getting to know him
better. Just a few minutes ago I was playing
poker with my brothers and my parents
instead of hiding in my room, stressing
over homework.
I’ve begun to interact with the world,
and I’ve never been happier. Finding time
for others is hard, but you just need to do
it. Skip a few sleepovers or do your homework
later instead of while your siblings
are playing. Take the opportunities that
come your way. If your soup kitchen needs
donations, collect canned goods with kids
at your school. When your museum needs
volunteers, give time. It will be worth it, I
promise. Get plugged in to the world
around you, starting with your family. Step
out of your isolation zone and enter the
real world. ✦
13

working
14
Triumph by “Mary,” NY
As far as after-school jobs go, I
consider mine pretty easy. I
work as a reading assistant for
a tutoring facility, instructing a group
of bright kids and correcting papers. I
don’t have to walk slobbery dogs or
flip an endless pile of greasy burgers
like some kids at my school. I can just
get through my shift, get paid, and go
home without expending much
thought or care. I could, that is, if it
weren’t for Sarah Jane.
One Wednesday evening, I sit at the
front of the room, correcting a
spelling test. Straining to read the
large, messy handwriting, I try to determine
whether a misshapen “r”
might really be an “n” or an “h.” But
even while concentrating on an indecipherable
word that could either be
“rainbows” or “hair bows,” I see that
she has arrived. Maybe I don’t see it
so much as feel it – the way the whole
room tenses up, seems to shiver. Who
can inspire so much dread in a group
Summer Bummer
by Ashley Green, Chatham, ON, Canada
At some point every teen’s parents
ask what we plan to do during the
summer. We respond “nothing.”
For us it’s simple. Sleeping in ’til noon,
watching TV, swimming, hanging with
friends, throwing parties, and staying up
late is what we plan to do. We work hard
all year, and this is our break. Shouldn’t
we spend it the way we want?
Our parents always crash our dreams.
This year they gave me a choice: babysit,
work in the fields, or find another job. I
wanted a job that didn’t involve suffering
in the corn fields, so I applied
at various places from McDon-
ald’s to the library.
Secretly, I didn’t want to get
a job. The idea scared me, and
it took me some time to realize
why. Sure, I’d be making
money and meeting new people, but I was
scared to take that leap: to begin my life as
a young adult and start to support myself. I
was scared to take on too much responsibility,
maybe work during the school year
and watch my grade point average slip. I
was scared to have my freedom fly away
before my eyes as I watched my perfectly
planned schedule spin out of my control. I
was worried I’d be expected to start paying
for school supplies and other necessities or
pleasures. Most of all, I didn’t want to
waste my summer, and be too busy to see
friends or miss the chance to sleep in.
When I was little, I enjoyed all the comforts
of home and didn’t worry about anything.
I was free to do what I pleased. I
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
I didn’t want
to get a job
of high school students? A sevenyear-old
in a pink jumper.
Her name is Sarah Jane, and she
comes to the tutoring facility every
Wednesday and Saturday. While the
other students sit quietly and study
diligently, Sarah Jane simply refuses
to learn. Every day, she leans back in
her chair, crosses her arms, and stares
at the ceiling. She twirls her pencil,
grinds it into the desk, braids it into
her hair – anything but write with it.
Every few minutes, one of us walks
over and says, “Sarah Jane, do you
want some help?”
“Nope!” she replies.
One of her favorite tricks is to let us
help for a while, smiling as though
she understands. But then, the second
we walk away, she throws down her
worksheet and goes back to staring at
the ceiling.
It’s not that I don’t want to help
her. That’s why I applied for this job
in the first place. And for the most
swam, rode my bike, played soccer, and
went to the park whenever I wanted.
This summer, I was determined to be
lazy and carefree. When I realized this was
no longer an option, I became more aware
of all the things I hadn’t taken time to
enjoy when I was young. I should have
slept in instead of waking up at 8 a.m. I
should have thrown more parties, hung out
more with friends, taken advantage of that
hot sun, and gotten dirty like crazy.
Now when I see little kids, I want to
scream at them to take it all in, to be glad
for the chance to stay home and
be bored, because it won’t last
forever. It’s true what they say:
we don’t realize what we have
until it’s gone.
When I finally did land a job, I
was lucky: I work at a summer
camp. Sure, it’s early hours and I have a
headache by the end of the day, but I get to
help kids create wonderful summer memories,
and remind myself what it’s like to be
carefree during the summer.
As for the rest of the year, I’ll be sticking
to the job of being a student. It was a
big step taking a summer job, but I don’t
think I’m ready to work all year long. I’m
not ready to give up after-school activities
or sleepovers or even my TV schedule. Not
just yet. My whole life’s ahead of me. I’ll
get the experience and make more money
when I’m ready to reprioritize. Parents
should trust that teens will get motivated to
enter the working world soon enough, but
we need time to veg out and chill while we
still can. It’s all part of life. ✦
part, I really like tutoring. I like working
with children, teaching them new
things. But I’ve grown so frustrated
with Sarah Jane – it seems as if
there’s no way to get through to her.
At this point, I’ve given up.
The clock reads 6:30. My shift ends
in half an hour. Then I can go home
and finish my painting, something I
have been dying to do all week. Most
of the students have left, their worksheets
finished and corrected, but
Sarah Jane still sits at her table. I tell
myself to let her stay there; I’m going
home in a few minutes and hopefully
she’ll be picked up soon. I decide to
see if anyone in the back needs help
grading papers.
But something stops me. Grading
papers is easy. That’s not what I
signed up to do. When I interviewed
and the supervisor asked why I was
applying for the job, I
told him I wanted to
help kids understand
and enjoy books, because
reading was such
a huge part of my life.
Did I only say that because
it sounded like
something an employer would want to
hear? Before I can talk myself out of
it, I tell Sarah Jane to come to my
table. “Bring your book,” I say.
She sits down next to me, looking
confused. Charlotte glances up from
the math test she’s correcting and
raises her eyebrows at me. I shrug.
“Have you read this story yet?”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
Sarah Jane looks at me and tugs on
one of her pigtails. “The words are
too big,” she says.
I look for the longest word. “How
many letters does this one have?”
She counts. “Seven.”
“Right. And you’re seven years old.
So you can handle that one.” Okay,
maybe that doesn’t make much sense.
But it’s all I can think of right now. I
tell Sarah Jane to start reading.
She eyes me warily and looks down
at the page. The first sentence is short,
and she reads it easily. She looks up at
me and I nod.
The next sentence is longer. Sarah
Jane stumbles a bit, and I put my finger
on the page to help keep her
Sarah Jane
simply refuses
to learn
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Photo by Danie Klein, Belle, MO
place. She pauses when she gets to
the seven-letter word – triumph.
“Take it one syllable at a time,” I
instruct. I cover up part of the word so
only “tri” shows.
“Tri … um …”
“Remember what sound ‘ph’ makes
sometimes?”
“Triumph,” Sarah Jane reads.
I ask if she knows what it means,
and she shakes her head.
“It’s when you do something well
and you feel proud,” I explain.
She thinks about this. “Like when I
won my soccer trophy?”
“Exactly,” I say, and we keep reading
the story. It’s about a boy who
finds a chimpanzee in a library.
Whenever we get to a big word, I remind
her to read it one bit at a time.
She asks me how the monkey got behind
a book shelf.
“I bet he escaped from a
book.”
Sarah Jane sighs. “That
can’t happen. Obviously
he’s a robot chimpanzee.”
I decide not to argue. We
finish the story. I was
right – the chimpanzee did
escape from a book. Sarah Jane still
insists that he’s a robot. I suggest she
read some science fiction. At 7, Sarah
Jane’s mom picks her up and I get
ready to leave.
Sarah Jane still comes for tutoring
every Wednesday and Saturday. She
still has trouble paying attention at
times, but she always tries to read the
stories. And when I see her staring at
the ceiling or playing with her pencil,
I have her come over to my table to
read.
Maybe when I started tutoring I
thought I would be working with
seven-year-old geniuses, that I would
simply give them an assignment and
they would breeze through it. Some
kids can do this, but that doesn’t
mean I should ignore the ones who
need a little more patience. Not everyone
I meet will be easy to talk to or
work with. Sometimes I may have to
edit for stubborn writers on our student
newspaper, or work on a project
with classmates I don’t like. But if I
try to find some way to reach them,
we may just triumph. We’ll have to
take it one syllable at a time. ✦

Being My Own Boss
Growing up in a subdivision, I classified myself
as a “city girl.” I had very little knowledge
about farming and rural areas, but all of
that changed six years ago when my mother and
stepfather married and we moved to my stepfather’s
farm. Surrounded by cows and cornfields, I felt out
of my element. I was not accustomed to hundreds of
acres of farmland separating me from my closest
neighbor; however, I did enjoy the beauty and peace
of the countryside.
I had lived on the farm for about three years, and
had helped with odd jobs like feeding cows, when I
was old enough to get a real summer job. My stepfather
said I could choose between two options –
getting a job at our local Dairy Queen
or selling produce that I grew on our
farm. While I came up with a short list
of pros for working at the fast food
restaurant, I found more advantages to
selling produce. Shorter work weeks,
more free time, flexible hours, and the
potential to make more money appealed
to me. Yet I realized the numerous disadvantages
to selling produce: responsibility
for the success or failure of the operation,
manual labor, early mornings, and long days. Ultimately,
I decided to start my own farming business.
My stepfather and I began planning in March. Together
we chose three varieties of seeds, prepared
the land, and planted the first batch of sweet corn at
the end of April. Throughout the spring, my stepfather
continued to plant sweet corn every two weeks
as I rode in the tractor with him.
Great care was taken over my growing cornstalks.
As the corn began to tassel, we applied nitrogen fertilizer
and sprayed pesticide to prevent worms. I
watched the stalks grow taller, and as time passed, I
dreamed about the money I would soon make. We
planned to harvest and sell the corn at our local
farmer’s market with paid help from my friends. It
sounded easy and looked good on paper, but it
worked out a little differently.
pulled porks, one
grilled chicken, and three
“Two
chips.”
“Fifteen dollars, sir,” I say after a
second of calculating. After two summers
working at this barbecue stand,
I’ve memorized the prices. I take the
$20 bill and spin. Quickly, I duck out
of the way as Sara whips a bag of
chips from above my head. I crouch
and slide a $5 bill from the register.
By the time I’ve gotten correct
change, deposited the twenty, and pivoted
back to the window, the two
pulled porks are ready, along with the
chips. I stack them on a plastic platter,
Breann places the chicken on the
plate, and I hand it to the customer.
“Thanks! The barbecue sauce is
around the corner. Have a great day!”
Breathe. “Hi! How can I help you
today, ma’am?” And so the process
repeats until my shift ends.
It’s a mirror there, in that 4-by-9-
I decided
to start my
own farming
business
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
Nonstop rain stunted the first batch of corn and
delayed the harvest by a week or so. When my
sweet corn was finally ready to pick, I found that a
pack of raccoons had raided the field at night, ruining
about half of it. How could this happen? Raccoons
were supposed to be cute. We picked what
was still good and prepared for market.
This was it – my first day at market! I was excited
to see my hard work finally pay off. I loaded my
materials into the pickup truck and arrived early at
the farmer’s market to find a good spot for my tent
and set up before the market opened. There were
many customers and several other vendors. Probably
because I was young and new, potential customers
would look at me and smile, then head
straight to my competition, Mrs. Cates,
who had sold corn and other produce for
years and had an established following.
At the end of the first day, about half of
my corn was left, so I donated it to a
local homeless shelter and went home
disappointed.
Soon I noticed that Mrs. Cates and her
crew did not arrive at the farmer’s market
until about 11 a.m. So I decided to show up an
hour earlier. This meant that we had to start picking
corn at 6 a.m., no easy task with teenage workers.
But the effort paid off; I was selling half of my corn
before Mrs. Cates arrived, and most of it by the end
of the day. Things were looking better. Not great,
but better.
Although the farmer’s market was only open three
days a week, the corn needed to be picked and sold
daily because it would not keep. On days the
farmer’s market was not open, I developed a marketing
plan that included personalized e-mails to family
and friends. I also went to local businesses to sell
corn and distribute business cards. Customers began
calling, and I took orders over the phone. Before I
knew it, I had a loyal following. I stayed busy by
making weekly and sometimes daily deliveries to
these businesses while maintaining my produce
foot stand; if I smile, the customers
smile. If I’m pleasant and kind, they
are pleasant and kind. If I’m tired or
grumpy, they retaliate with harsh,
rude tones. People live by the cliché –
I will respect you if you respect me.
The tip jar normally starts with
only a couple of cents, but as the
night progresses the tips
increase to $2 or $3 per
order. And the more smiley
and pleasant I am,
the more I can jack up
that tip. I lose my sense
of space. I am running
into coworkers left and
right, slipping behind
them, gliding under their outstretched
arms to get to the fridge, waiting
outside the door. It’s not the lack of
space that starts to infect my brain;
it’s the lack of time. As soon as one
customer walks off happy, I’m greeting
another, calculating their order,
by Chandler Headdy,
Henderson, KY
The Barbecue Stand by Emily Schulte, Mason, OH
I am comfortable
in this
spinning world
of craziness
and preparing it. But I am comfortable
in this spinning world of
craziness.
This hectic world isn’t always the
reality for the barbecue stand. Some
festivals are sleepers. In other words,
no one comes and the few people who
do have either already eaten or get
food at another stand.
Lack of activity tests the
mind as well. I park myself
on a fold-out chair and
fidget helplessly. Breathe.
If I stare out the window,
I can watch the world
move by. I witness men
holding close the women
they love; I examine the way friends
act when they don’t think anyone is
looking. Hidden from view, I observe
the ways of humanity. The kindness
shown between friends and complete
strangers. The way people move and
interact. I learn about the world
Photo by Crystal Snaza, North Branch, MN
stand at the farmer’s market. Then something wonderful
happened.
Mrs. Cates announced that she would be out of
sweet corn for the next two weeks. For me, this was
like finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I
knew that this was my opportunity to shine at the
farmer’s market, and I took advantage of it. I sold
the majority of my sweet corn during this time,
making more money than I ever had – as much as
$400 a day. By the time my competition returned to
the market with corn, the season was nearly over.
I had made more money than any of my friends
with typical teenage jobs. I was satisfied with my
success and have continued to sell produce grown
on our farm for the past two summers. Each summer,
I have been more successful than the year before.
I am proud to be known around town as “the
young girl selling sweet corn.” I feel a sense of accomplishment
when I see people bypass my competition
and buy produce from me.
Although many days I would rather have slept in
or hung out with friends, I would not trade this experience
for anything. My farming operation
brought me a monetary profit, taught me how to
work with people, and gave me determination to
never give up. I know these are lessons that will help
me throughout life. ✦
without moving from my stoop.
Humans are naturally good. Watch
them long enough and it will become
apparent, but don’t let them catch you
staring. When people-watching fails,
conversation begins between Sara and
me, or Breann, or whoever else is
working with me in the stand. We talk
about random and personal things.
Through boredom, we become
friends. The walls around my heart
fall: a rare occurrence. I let them into
my head: a rarer occurrence. I spill
about my past and she tries to help
with my present; when I’ve learned
all I need to hear, the roles reverse
and I attempt to help her. A Christian
radio station plays softly in the background
as we live life together.
And then it’s over.
Shifts completed, we separate into
our diverging lives until the next
weekend that we do a shift in the barbecue
stand. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
working
15

working
16
The View from the Front Desk by Sarah Surprenant, Attleboro, MA
Iam a receptionist. Other than sit around, I answer
phones, disengage the alarm on the front and
back doors, and call the kitchen to bring more
coffee to the lobby. Being a receptionist at a nursing
home means I spend the majority of my time inhaling
the smell of sick. I have actually become immune
to it. Most newcomers walk in and crinkle
their noses; I get ready to say “Bless you,” only to
remember my initial reaction on the day I filled out
my job application.
It is risky business working at a nursing home.
Too often I find myself a human
barrier preventing residents from
escaping into the free, fresh outdoors.
“But we just want to go outside,
and then we’ll come back inside.”
These are words I hear in my
sleep. The man who speaks them is
from Toronto. His name is Lenny,
and he speaks French and English
at the same time. If not for my Canadian ancestry
and love for the French language, I would not understand
a thing he says.
“Mais, vous ne pouvez pas sortir.” (But you cannot
go out.) It breaks my heart to say this to him.
Some days, I dread coming to work. Six hours of
sitting in a chair in a freezing lobby is less than enticing.
They say that germs spread less easily in the
cold, which must be why it is never warm in here.
Maybe I should bring a sweater to work. This idea
never occurs to me before I leave my house each
Saturday and Sunday. From 2 to 8 p.m., I regret my
absentmindedness.
While I freeze, I find time to do homework or, in
the summer, read a good book. This is one thing I
appreciate about my job; I can get my English
reading done, type up a lab report for physics,
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
I didn’t think I’d
be able to handle
such a depressing
environment
brainstorm ideas for my next journalism article, and
quiz myself on whatever region we’re studying in
global issues. I don’t have to worry about flipping
burgers or making someone’s iced coffee.
Don’t get me wrong, I love people. I don’t think I
could be a receptionist if I weren’t comfortable talking
to strangers. It’s just that I’d rather help somebody
find their ailing Aunt Judith than have to make
them a turkey, cheese, and tomato sandwich with the
works, minus the pickles, mayo, lettuce, pepper,
and‚ oh heck, the bread. As for ailing Aunt Judith, I
think I’d also rather converse with her
about how her day is going than run
to the back to find her those shoes in
another color and size.
The truth is, working here is one of
the best things that has happened to
me. I don’t think I would have come
to appreciate life the way I have
without watching so many elderly
people lose everything. As sad as it is
to befriend that cute old woman in Room 108 and
then lose her two weeks later, I think it has taught
me to live life to the fullest – while I have the ability
to do so.
“I might as well leave now. My wife doesn’t know
who I am anymore.” I cried on my second day of
work when a visitor said that. I didn’t think I’d be
able to handle such a depressing environment.
Since then, I’ve seen many people enter the
facility. Some were happy, even healthy-looking, despite
their condition. Some didn’t know that they
had a condition. Or were in a new facility. Or had
children.
Many of them have left too. The lucky ones return
home. Yet, still, many remain. I have learned lots of
their names.
There’s John, Lenny’s best friend and roommate.
Confessions of a Cult Member by “Karen,” Metairie, LA
My name is Karen, and I am a
practicing member of
Metairie’s own Coffee Cult.
My membership in this unknown yet
undeniably unique cult began when I
was just 16. Previously, I held a job at
the local frozen yogurt place, but I applied
to the coffee shop when the fro-yo
joint was sold and became
a sushi restaurant. Although
I knew some of the
workers at the coffee
shop, I had no idea that I
would soon be part of
their selective Coffee Cult.
Within the first month, I
discovered that these people
were unnaturally close to each other.
Even though this diverse group ranged
in age from 15 to 40, they all found time
(and by time I mean one to three days a
week) to get together and blow their
paychecks on dinner, movies, or some
other form of entertainment, despite seeing
each other every day at work. My
first attendance at a secret cult meeting
was in July at a local bowling alley.
These people
were unnaturally
close to each
other
Although some members welcomed me,
it was some time before I would officially
be initiated.
In addition to their extraordinary
gatherings, the Coffee Cult has also created
some of the most original sayings
I’ve ever heard. “Blatant disregard,”
“irrelevant,” and “truth bomb” are just a
few of the many mottos
that almost every Coffee
Cult member has uttered
at some point. Learning to
decipher their strange yet
enjoyable language has
been both a challenge and
an important step in my
Coffee Cult initiation. I
began to use their odd expressions and
once caught myself shouting at an oblivious
driver, “BLATANT DISREGARD
FOR THE STOP SIGN!” As soon as I
started using these sayings in a nonwork
environment, I knew I could not
be far from my long-awaited initiation.
One of the last steps before initiation
was learning the orders, habits, and even
the nicknames of the regular customers.
One white-haired lady always orders a
small café-au-lait with
medium roast coffee
and skim milk; once a
day, an athletic middleaged
man dashes in for
a large iced royale with
“extra whip cream, no
top.”
Along with the regulars’
orders, I have also
made note of the
strange habits of our
loyal patrons. For example,
Mrs. Sylvia loves to
inform the counter staff when
the bathroom is out of toilet
paper, while Mrs. Eloise always studies
the menu for a lengthy five minutes,
even though she eats here every day.
Finally, and most enjoyably, the Coffee
Cult has created affectionate nicknames
for its everyday customers.
“Freeze with an Extra Shot of
Espresso,” “Sketchy Medium Latte,”
and “Creepy Dark Roast” are some of
the magnificent pet names for the lovely
faces we see each day. My skill for
picking up on the meticulous habits and
He doesn’t remember any more about his life than
Lenny does, but he does know his car is a Chevrolet
and that he and Lenny met a long time ago.
There’s Sophie, a smoker who’s in her late
nineties. She asked me to knit a hat for one of the
many grandchildren who comes to visit her.
Leona’s Coke-bottle glasses make her eyes look
seven times larger than they are. I don’t always understand
what she’s saying, but I love to stop and
talk to her. She grabs my hands and won’t let go; I
think she forgets that she’s holding them. After a
while I tell her that I need my hands back, but she
can’t hear me. No matter what, I always smile at
her; that is the one thing she understands.
Don used to be a teacher. He has three daughters,
and one is named Sarah – spelled the same way I do.
Once we spoke for an hour about the importance of
education. He told me that I had admirable aspirations
and thanked me for the conversation.
“Any time,” I replied and meant it.
Florence was my favorite. She was a tiny woman,
and her son made her look even smaller. One day he
asked me to take a picture of them. From then on,
she always held out her arms to me when I walked
by. I would offer her my hands, which she would
kiss. “I love you” was the one thing she always had
enough strength to say to me. A month later, she
passed away.
It is because of these people that I understand the
world. The oldest can be the youngest at heart. The
slowest wheelers can make it halfway out the front
door the second you turn your back. The least coherent
can say the most.
I am a receptionist. This means that I get to meet
the most beautiful, intelligent, interesting people in
the world. This means that sometimes I’d rather go
to work and listen to their stories than hang out with
my friends. ✦
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Photo by Katie Cloninger, Rock Island, IL
orders of regular customers, along with
my ability to talk about them with cult
members, was the final step that sealed
my Coffee Cult membership.
Although there was no formal initiation
process, the invitations to dinner
with the cult, the lessons I’ve learned
from both my co-workers and customers,
and most importantly, the genuine
friendships I’ve made at the coffee
shop have been the most rewarding parts
of my membership in the Coffee Cult. ✦

Not Applicable by Claire Kennedy, Bethel, CT
Icould just see the insults building up behind critical
lips. His sharp teeth biting his tongue so as
to not let them slip. Vicious blue eyes scorched
my skin as they scanned my attire, eyebrows furrowed
in an attempt to hold back a smirk.
There I stood.
And there he stood, as if he were
royalty. As if his Calvin Klein jeans
were more important than the plastic
cross I wore around my neck. As if I
was privileged to meet him – like he
was doing me a favor.
If I had walked past him on the
street, I probably wouldn’t have noticed
him. He was nothing special – mid-thirties,
clean-shaven, black shoes so polished that he could
check his reflection in case he had forgotten what he
looked like. He looked at my brown suede flats from
Costco as if they weren’t even fit for his girlfriend’s
Art by Katherine Franken, Holland, MI
My entire
being on a
piece of paper
Extra Ranch by Elena Ender, Hemet, CA
Friday nights, when most teenagers are partying,
vegging out, or cramming for exams, I work at
my father’s family-owned Italian restaurant. I am
a waitress for the elderly who migrate in herds at a
leisurely pace. And for young couples on an uncomfortable
first date. And for the middle-aged sports fans
who come in for Coors Light and hot wings while they
watch baseball or football on the big
screen.
I approach each table wearing a baseball
jersey, white apron, high ponytail, and
plastered-on smile. “Is there anything else
I can get you folks?” I ask after I bring
them their appetizers. The answer is always,
“Yes, can we have more ranch
dressing?” Finish the one I just gave you
first. Geez, so American – drowning everything
in ranch. “Sure, I’ll be right back!” I reply in my
peppiest voice. Every time.
On my quest to get table 12 their ranch dressing, I
dodge through the busy kitchen. “Runner!” the pizzamaker
shouts. Table 12 will have to wait. I pick up the
large pizza for table 43. The aromas of sautéed mushrooms
and spicy pepperoni fill my senses. I once again
navigate the kitchen traffic and enter the dining room.
“Is there
anything else
I can get you
folks?”
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
chihuahua.
And my clammy, shaking hand gave him
the now-crinkled résumé that I had spent
hours perfecting, even though I knew it didn’t
matter what was on there. First impressions
were everything. And I was clearly nothing.
As he scanned my résumé, I felt
his cruel eyes rip through it like a
chainsaw, tearing my accomplishments
to shreds. My entire being
on a piece of paper – to him it was
clearly garbage.
Of course, I never expected to
be standing here, surrounded by
green Styrofoam cups filled to the brim with
headaches. But the way the economy was
going, I was lucky to have found this opening.
I really shouldn’t say lucky, because at
this moment, and for the past five minutes, I
felt anything but lucky.
Standing in front of him, I felt underdressed,
under-achieving, and under-privileged.
I couldn’t even afford to buy what he
sold, let alone what he wore. His smile alone
probably cost $300 to perfect.
Perfect. What a funny word. Pronounced another
way you get “perfect.” If one is always perfecting,
one can never be perfect, right?
Maybe I like being un-perfect. Maybe I like my
unruly dirty blonde hair. My braces and white, untanned
skin. Maybe I don’t like coffee and don’t
care to know what the hell a mocha frappuccino is.
And he could sense this in my demeanor. How I
was a small fish in a big pond. But I felt like a big
fish in a small pond. A small pond that was so selective
that it only wanted identical rainbow fish.
Clearly a whale would not fit.
But whales are much cooler anyway.
I scan the room – is it this table? Nope. The booth in
the back? Nope. Why on earth can’t people put their
number at the edge of their table? Oh, it’s that one right
in the middle of the room. How am I going to reach
that picture-perfect blond family without tripping over
Granny’s cane? I play Frogger through the maze of
customers until I finally reach table 43. I place the
pizza on the tray and ask, “Is there anything
else I can get you folks?”
The son grabs a slice of the pizza and the
daughter looks around as if I had not said a
word. The mother looks at her husband and
nods. The father finally pipes up and says,
“Yes, can we have some more ranch dressing?”
I sigh. “Sure, I’ll be right back!”
By that time, table 12 is flagging me
down for their ranch dressing, and Granny at
table 9 is asking where the kettle for tea is. I don’t have
the heart to tell her that we don’t serve hot tea, so I go
fetch the extra ranch.
Does everyone have a sufficient amount of ranch
dressing? Is Granny all right? How many babies have
spilled their parents’ sodas? Is everything fine? Yes,
everything is good. Now, back to the kitchen to bring
out an appetizer. ✦
Smoothie Girl
The girl at the smoothie stand is at it again.
Stripping down half a dozen barely ripe bananas,
Drenching them in juice and sweet nectar,
Rocketing ice down afterward.
She flicks the switch and commences the tempest.
The chunks shake and splat against the thin
plastic walls.
Scuffling for a spot from which to peer out
As their souls are shredded from them, their
brothers destroyed.
The frowning blueberries squish to puce mush
Now part of a whole.
What fun it must be, to render such a turmoil.
She knows it well, standing by the pool in her
barely-there bikini,
Like her boss has suggested will up their sales.
Tearing up the boys like the fruit from the trees.
All for minimum wage.
by Haley Dobart, Bel Air, MD
So maybe I had given up trying to impress him.
Maybe it had been 10 minutes and we both hadn’t
said a word, but maybe it was better that way. Because
if his eyes told me I was a loser, his voice
wouldn’t come up with anything better.
So finally, after what seemed like an hour, he
handed back my résumé, clearly amused by the fact
that I had dared to enter his sacred sanctuary of pretentious
customers and overpriced caffeine.
There was no point in objecting; he had already
beaten down my self-confidence, so it was a wise
choice to leave with my dignity.
Guess I’m not getting that job at Starbucks. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
working
Photo by Joey Gonnella, Boston, MA
17

UA has a rich tradition of excellence in
academics, student life and sports.
Ranked in the top 50 public universities
surveyed by U.S. News & World Report;
9 undergraduate degree-granting schools and
colleges; 19:1 student-teacher ratio; all located
on a 1,000-acre historic campus.
To learn more, visit gobama.ua.edu/teenink.
Box 870132 Tuscaloosa, AL 35487-0132 800-933-BAMA
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
99 Main Street www.dean.edu
Franklin, MA 02038 877-TRY DEAN
Earn a BA in Global Studies while
studying at our centers in Costa
Rica, India, China, NYC or with
our programs in Australia, Taiwan,
Turkey and Thailand!
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • globalcollege@liu.edu
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
3D Modeling and Animation
Multimedia/Web Design
Design
Illustration
Life Drawing
Painting
Watercolor Painting
American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
• 1,600 Undergraduate Students
• Nationally Ranked Athletics Teams
Excellent Programs.
Outstanding Facility. Faculty.
Affordable Cost. BUSINESS
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
Fostering creativity and academic
excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
An experience of a
lifetime, with experience
for a lifetime.
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
Since 1904
• Academic • Academic d iexcellence Excellence ll i with in h the a rich, rich
Catholic Catholic intellectual tradition
• World Highly Class regarded Faculty faculty in Small and Classes
small classes averaging 20 students
• Close-knit, Quality very of Life active in a residential 90%
community Residential (90% Community of students live
on campus all 4 years)
500 Salisbury Street
500 Salisbury Worcester, St.,
Worcester, MA 01609 MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
www.assumption.edu
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Add your college
to this monthly
directory.
Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
• Private New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.becker.edu
CORNELL
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and
remains a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
Teen Ink • Summer ’12 • Page 18
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts college
located just outside of Philadelphia
offering an outstanding and truly
personalized academic experience
grounded in an environment of faith.
2945 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA 19009
267-502-6000
www.brynathyn.edu
Dartmouth
U N I V E R S I T Y A member of the Ivy League and
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: admissions@duq.edu
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where You
Want To Go o
Get Where Yoou
www www.hpu.edu/teenink
.hpu.edu/teenink
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate
program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit
of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences,
and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission

Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
Princeton
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college
in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
SWARTHMORE
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
• A tradition of service-learning
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health, Arts and
Sciences, Nursing, Education and Law.
Located midway between New York City
and Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Regional Colleges in the North
in U.S. News & World Report.
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Located in beautiful northeastern
Pennsylvania, Wilkes is an independent
institution dedicated to academic excellence,
mentoring and hands-on learning. Wilkes
offers more than 36 programs in pharmacy,
the sciences, liberal arts and business.
Check out www.becolonel.com.
www.wilkes.edu
84 West South Street
Wilkes-Barre, PA 18766 I 1-800-WILKES-U
Add your college
to this monthly
directory.
Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
Attention Students!
Join the Teen Ink
Student Advisory
Board
TeenInk.com/StudentBoard
TM
Pace University offers talented and
ambitious students the opportunity to
discover their potential and realize their
dreams. Campuses in New York City
and Pleasantville, NY.
Experience the Power of Pace.
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email infoctr@pace.edu
www.pace.edu
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
you can go
beyond
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
BACHELOR ❘ ASSOCIATE ❘ CERTIFICATE
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
SlipperyRock
University
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh,
the University is ranked number
five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic
quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
called “Writing and Rhetoric.” Prepare yourself
for a career as a journalist, a novelist, an
advertising copywriter, a public relations
professional, or an English teacher! Located
minutes from RI’s gorgeous beaches.
Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100
uri.edu/artsci/writing/
Teen Ink • Summer ’12 • Page 19
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential
campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: jaaron@pratt.edu
www.pratt.edu
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused
college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
Want to become a better writer?
ONLINE Writing Classes
Creative Writing and Nonfiction
Six-week Summer Sessions Start:
June 5, 12 & 19th
July 10, 17, 24 & 31st
For more information, go to TeenInk.com/writingclasses
Questions? Check out TeenInk.com
E-mail: editor@teenink.com
Call: 617-964-6800 (Weekdays, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. EST)
Only teenagers age 13-19 are eligible
Enrolled students will also receive a free
one-year subscription to Teen Ink magazine.

ook reviews
20
SCI-FI
The Future
of Us
by Carolyn Mackler
and Jay Asher
hey power up and log
“Ton – and discover themselves
on Facebook, fifteen
years in the future.” In this
book, Carolyn Mackler and Jay
Asher show many perspectives
of the future. The Future of Us
is an excellent example of how
Every moment
impacts the future
every moment impacts the future
in many ways. Almost
every kid at some point would
love the chance to see into the
future. But as Emma and Josh
find out, it changes everything,
including friendships.
Jay Asher is the New York
Times bestselling author of
Thirteen Reasons Why. Carolyn
Mackler is a Printz Honor winner
for The Earth, My Butt and
Other Big Round Things. After
reading Thirteen Reasons Why,
I was eager to plunge into the
action-packed world of Emma
and Josh. As we discover, these
two have been best friends
through everything, up until a
day that changed everything.
Together these authors do a superior
job putting a twist on the
unknown future.
I would emphatically recommend
this book to readers of all
ages, teen and up. If you are
looking for a mystery with a little
romance, this is definitely
one for you.
After reading The Future of
Us I have changed not only
what I put online but also my
everyday actions. I try to cherish
every moment because, as
Emma finds out, it may be the
last. Emma and Josh have big
decisions to make and learn
that not making a decision can
be the best of all. They discover
that technology may have a
positive or negative impact.
This is one of my favorite
books. The Future of Us inspires,
while also telling the intriguing
story of two teenagers.
The Future of Us is at the top
of my list of recommended
books. Now go out and begin
the mystical journey of Josh
and Emma. ✦
by Ashly Serres,
Cannon Falls, MN
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
CLASSIC
A Separate
Peace
by John Knowles
John Knowles is not only a
skilled and resourceful author,
but also one of the best
kinds of philosophers – the
type that makes you think
about problems without telling
you to directly. A Separate
Peace is not only a riveting tale
of the coming-of-age conflict
between two boys during World
War II, but also a beautiful
analogy using WWII and the
nature of humankind.
The protagonists are students
at a boarding school during the
war, and as the violence rages,
they peacefully grow and learn
and play at school. The main
A poetic masterpiece
characters, Gene and Finny,
end up characterizing the war
itself: two sides of a conflict,
each striving to outdo the other
but hindered by his own humanity.
Hindered by the fact
that human nature is not war,
but to react to the war-impressing
circumstances of the world
they live in.
Blind impulses and violence
only intensify the conflict between
the two best friends. As
one heart-breaking tragedy
leads to another, the author
continues to personify the
world around them. A comfortable
rhythm of imagery and
sensations floods the reader’s
mind, broken continuously by
climaxes that spike the end of
each chapter.
Knowles shatters the normality
he builds, describing a bland
but passable world, then brightening
it with unique characters.
The only possible way to end
the story is obvious, but that’s
not the surprise awaiting you.
The surprise is realizing that
the reason you know what is
going to happen is because
what happens is, in the deepest
and purest sense, human.
Human nature, combined
with the nature of the world the
boys live in, creates the conflict
and its ending. Knowles constantly
describes the world
using vivid imagery and disturbingly
accurate sensations of
anxiety and happiness. Then, in
short, raw bursts, he lets the
characters sharply contrast their
world with their unique personalities.
This book is a masterpiece
of philosophy and
literature; it’s a must-read for
anyone. ✦
by Samuel Breece,
Summerville, SC
NONFICTION
On Writing:
A Memoir of
the Craft
by Stephen King
Ihave never read a Stephen
King book. I never really
even thought of it before reading
On Writing, in which the
acclaimed horror novelist
blends tales of his own childhood
with helpful tips for any
aspiring author.
Tools to write well
Stephen King tells of his
youth, not as a continuous tale,
but as a series of events and images
that shaped who he is and
how he writes. Between shutting
down power to the entire
town with his older brother in
an attempt to create a Super
Photo by Jess Deibert, Klingerstown, PA
Duper Electromagnet, and
meeting his future wife, Little
Stevie manages to accrue a sizable
stack of rejection letters
and write his only attempt at
satire – a newspaper article
calling his high school principal
“old cue ball.”
The middle section begins by
explaining how writing is really
just telepathy. His reasoning
actually makes sense. (You’ll
have to read the book to understand
though.) He also explains
the tools needed to write well,
his own personal methods, and
other tidbits from inside the
world of a very published author.
He not only gives advice,
but describes how he applies it
to his own life and work. He
gives examples of good writing
and not-so-good writing.
The book closes with his
story of getting hit by a van
halfway through writing On
Writing. He describes the struggle,
both physical and mental,
to continue with the craft he
loves: writing.
I’ve never read a horror
novel I liked. Well, I haven’t really
read all that many horror
novels, to tell you the truth. But
after reading Stephen King’s
On Writing, I think I will. ✦
by Paige Ballard,
Portsmouth, OH
MEMOIR
First Person
Plural
by Dr. Cameron West
Usually when you see someone
with a mental disorder,
one thought pops into your
head: crazy. That’s what I
thought too, until I read First
Person Plural by Dr. Cameron
West. This book is an eyeopening
and page-turning
memoir about living with dissociative
identity disorder
(a.k.a. multiple personality
disorder).
Amazing,
life-changing
West is a typical middle-aged
man when we first meet him.
But he has a secret – one even
he is unaware of. His sickness
starts off as strange, haunting,
and demonic voices yelling in
his head, along with bizarre
nightmares that leave him covered
in sweat. Then he starts to
have out-of-body experiences.
Eventually, West is diagnosed
with dissociative identity
disorder, a rare but serious condition.
It is after this revelation
that the book dives into a world
of complicated emotions and
fears most people can’t even
imagine.
Dr. West is a truly gifted author,
painting a picture with
clarity. Besides some graphic
scenes, this book is surprisingly
uplifting. This is a great read
for anyone who has faced a
seemingly impossible challenge.
First Person Plural is an
amazing, life-changing book
that many can appreciate and
relate to. It makes us realize
that some of the best stories
come from life’s trials. ✦
by Megan Warhurst,
Hayward, CA
FANTASY
Shiver
by Maggie Stiefvater
Goose bumps are lining my
arms as I write, and it’s
not because of the weather outside.
I just finished Shiver by
Maggie Stiefvater, a book that
is on the right track, but may
need minor adjustments to appeal
to more people. Shiver’s
plot is focused on werewolves,
a huge trend since Stephenie
Meyer’s hit series. The amount
of mainstream content was almost
enough to prevent me
from reading it, but I persisted,
given the five-star reviews the
book has received.
Riveting tale
of conflict
Similar to books by Sarah
Dessen, a mild teen romance
drives this story, but I applaud
Dessen for steering clear of the
familiar Romeo and Juliet story
line. Shiver is a redone version
with werewolves as the stars.
Still, Stiefvater’s writing is a
poetic masterpiece that captures
every emotion of the characters.
During the winter
scenes, I literally had goose
bumps. When a hot summer
day was described, I was convinced
that the sun had gotten
closer to the Earth.
Fans of romantic fantasy will
enjoy Shiver, but do not expect
it to score a perfect ten in every
category – just most. ✦
by Richelle DeBlasio,
Lower Burrell, PA
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

Art by Tze En, Bayan Lepas, Pinang, Malaysia
Photo by Savanna Sherstad, Woodinville, WA
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details
Art by Darina Davidenko, Donetsk, Ukraine
Photo by Chelsea Chen, Venetia, PA
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
art gallery
Art by Robert Glamp, Williamstown, NJ
Photo by Ellena Pfeffer, Northoaks, MN Photo by Laura Davis, Oldsmar, FL
21

ook reviews
22
SCI-FI
Divergent
by Veronica Roth
When I first heard of
Divergent by Veronica
Roth (and who hasn’t? It’s a
seriously hyped-up book), I
didn’t think I would like it. I
mean, this is Roth’s first book,
she wrote it in her twenties
(which is not too far from 15 –
and anything I write should not
and will not be hyped by the
general public), and it’s a
dystopian story. Don’t get me
wrong, I like dystopian novels
Roth is a
talented author
(Hunger Games, anyone?), but
they are being churned out by
the second. At some point, you
get sick of it. But in this case I
was wrong.
The story is set in dystopian
Chicago, where society has
been split into five factions. In
each one, the residents are focused
on cultivating one virtue.
Candor’s is honesty, Abnegation’s
is selflessness, Dauntless’s
is bravery, Amity’s is
being peaceful, and Erudite’s
is intelligence. On a certain
Photo by Sierra Lux-Jurek, Ashburn, VA
day each year, the 16-year-olds
take an aptitude test to see
which faction they’re best
suited for. Then they all choose
a faction to live in for the rest
of their lives, be it the one their
family is in or a different one
entirely. Did I mention that
there’s also a saying that goes
“Faction before blood”?
Our main character is Beatrice
Prior, who renames herself
Tris. Her family is in Abnegation
(otherwise known as
Stiffs). Tris can’t stand being
in Abnegation, and I can’t really
blame her. Because of Abnegation’s
custom to live a
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
plain life, the poor girl doesn’t
know what a hamburger is!
When she takes the aptitude
test (with unexpected results),
Tris has to make a tough decision
that could change her
whole life.
Having finished the book, I
can confidently say that Veronica
Roth is a talented author.
The book is 500 pages, and my
initial thought was, Oh boy,
this is going to be a long read.
But it’s such an engrossing
story I couldn’t put it down.
Tris is a great character.
She’s devoted enough to her
family to consider staying in a
faction that she really doesn’t
want to be in. But she has real
flaws, like her stubbornness
and occasional selfishness, that
have serious consequences.
Despite this, Tris is easy to
like. She doesn’t let fear get
the best of her, and she doesn’t
let jerks push her around.
In other words, you have to
read this book. If not because I
recommend it, then because
there’s a movie coming out.
And if you don’t read the
book, you can’t compare it to
the movie and go on about how
the movie left out so many important
details, can you? Furthermore,
if you think I’m
overreacting and that this book
is going to stink because it’s
insanely hyped up, then prove
me wrong. Go on, read it! You
know you want to. ✦
by Sahar Siddiqi,
Upper Darby, PA
MEMOIR
The Glass Castle
by Jeanette Walls
After reading The Glass
Castle by Jeannette Walls,
I realized that the saying
“Never judge a book by its
cover” is true! I thought it was
going to be boring. I mean, it’s
a memoir, and I’m more into
mystery and suspense stories.
But this book was nothing like
I expected: it was full of fun,
sad, and exciting stories from
Walls’ childhood. It was one of
the best books I’ve read.
This amazing memoir gives
us a different perspective on
the traditional American family.
Walls and her siblings
(Brian, Lori, and Maureen)
have to survive the irresponsibility
of her parents and are
pretty much on their own.
Her dad never stays in a job
long, and he spends all their
money on alcohol and cigarettes.
Her mom is too focused
on pursuing her dreams of becoming
an artist to worry about
raising her family. They are always
moving because they either
can’t afford the rent or her
dad is in trouble.
When I began this book I
thought Walls’ life was totally
different from mine, but as I
read I was shocked to find that
we have something in common:
the paths our fathers
chose to follow. Both our dads
are alcoholics and ruined their
lives. My dad was pretty much
always drunk too, wouldn’t
show up for work, and when
he came home drunk he would
beat up my mom. And so I
could understand how she felt.
Walls’ detailed writing also
helped me picture her memories.
She is so descriptive that I
felt I was actually there. The
unique way she describes her
life turned a simple memoir
into a stunning one that will
touch your heart and help you
see things in a different way.
There are people out there
who are born storytellers, and
there are lives that are worth
telling about. When these two
come together, it creates the
most magnificent memoirs. In
Walls’ case, that’s exactly
what happened, and the result
is this fabulous book. ✦
by “Mary,” Nooksack, WA
NOVEL
A different
perspective
on family
Water for
Elephants
by Sara Gruen
True heroes don’t have
to be people. Water for
Elephants proves this. It’s an
epic novel filled with heroes,
villains, heartbreak, and even a
circus. It will catch readers and
sweep them off their feet, giving
life to a difficult time in
our history and opening your
eyes to animal cruelty.
In the early 1940s, just after
the Great Depression, Jacob
Jankowski is finishing veterinarian
school at Cornell University
when his parents are
killed in a car accident. He is
left with nothing. Starting on a
journey to one day reach New
York, Jacob follows some
tracks and sees a train in the
distance. He hops aboard and
finds a circus train filled with
workers, animals, and a new
job.
Jacob’s adventure with the
circus has many twists which
lead to friends and love, but
also sacrifices and enemies.
These enemies in the Benzini
Heroes, villains,
heartbreak, and
an elephant
Brothers’ Circus are brutal and
callous. If you crossed them,
you’ll be thrown off the moving
train. Though these conflicts
have a great impact on
the story, the heartfelt friendship
that Jacob and his elephant
share is the most
important. He is willing to protect
her against any harm and
truly cares for this animal.
Sara Gruen shows the marvel
and dread of circus life. I
really enjoyed the glimpses
into the past through the photos
of old circuses found between
the chapters.
I would recommend Water
for Elephants to readers of
almost any age. Anyone
who appreciates love but also
heartbreak and action will
enjoy it. ✦
by Caroline Bowen,
Cannon Falls, MN
CLASSIC
A Tree Grows
in Brooklyn
by Betty Smith
Iwas introduced to the classic
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
when I was 11. I was quite a
prodigious reader for my age,
but I doubt that I’d have stuck
with it if I’d actually been reading
it. However, my mom purchased
the audiobook, narrated
by Anna Fields, and we listened
to it in the car. It’s best
taken in large doses in order to
notice the understated humor
and pre-referencing, but the author
includes just enough condensed
summary to keep her
inconsistent readers up-to-date.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
needs a patient and sensitive
reader. It begins in 1902 and
follows Mary Frances Nolan,
or Francie, through the slums
of Williamsburg in Brooklyn.
The book is narrated in the
third person, but we get frequent
peeks into the minds of
Francie’s parents, her brother
Neeley, and those they
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
encounter.
It could be described as a
coming-of-age story, but that
phrase is overused. A Tree
Grows in Brooklyn doesn’t just
illustrate Francie’s coming-ofage,
but also her mother’s
childhood, her childhood, her
brother’s birth, her first kiss,
and her father’s death. Betty
Smith tells of Francie’s world
with sincerity, clarity, and objectivity,
without any wavering
at her protagonist’s tears or
broken dreams.
In one of the most poignant
and subtle metaphors I’ve
seen, the author suggests a parallel
between Francie and the
irrepressible tree that sprouts
up in all Brooklyn tenements:
The Tree of Heaven. Without
saying, “Francie was like a
tree: small, delicate, but unbreakable,”
Smith opens the
book with a description of the
Tree of Heaven, slipping in images
of the tree’s growth over
the years.
Each time the Nolans move
to a new home, the tree is included
in meticulous (but
never tedious) description. In
one tenement, the tree grows
up and overshadows the
Nolans’ balcony, providing
book-devouring Francie with a
private, shady retreat in which
to read, savor precious peppermint
candy, and spin tales of
the people passing below. She
often watches from her
balustrade as older neighbor
girls prepare for dates, taking
delight in watching their intimate
rituals.
Needs a patient,
sensitive reader
The story closes as Francie,
who is preparing for her own
date, looks out the window and
sees her young neighbor seated
on a balcony with a book in
her lap and a bag of candy by
her side, watching Francie in
the dim light.
Although A Tree Grows in
Brooklyn contains some material
unsuitable for younger
readers, the unflinchingly honest
narrative and Francie’s reaction
to the events subdue the
more mature aspects of the
book. I’d recommend it for
ages 12 and up, although the
audiobook will hook younger
readers who are ready for the
content. ✦
by Margarita Moesch,
Fremont, CA

The Escape Artist by Tiff Chan, Toronto, ON, Canada
The sound of laughter around
the corner made Jed jump. For
a moment he stood squinting in
the dim light of the streetlamp. Then
he leaned back against the wall with
his arms crossed. He checked his
watch. Only thirty seconds had passed
since he last looked. Exactly nine
minutes and twenty-three seconds
since Talia had said she was going to
the washroom. Exactly eighteen minutes
and thirty-seven seconds until
their train left Vienna for Lucerne,
Switzerland.
He watched the digital numbers
tick by, more anxious with each passing
second. She’d now been in there
ten full minutes. They still had to
walk back to the hotel to get their
bags and check out before hightailing
it to the station. At least he’d insisted
on packing before they left. Girls always
took longer in the washroom –
something Jed never understood but
grudgingly accepted – but this was
getting ridiculous.
Jed’s patience, already worn,
snapped. He said the only German
swear he knew under his breath before
charging up the steps to the bar
two at a time.
The first thing that hit him when he
opened the door was the smoke. It
pricked his eyes and squirmed its way
up his nose and down his throat. He
stood still, waiting for his sight to adjust
to the dim, ghostly blue light.
Coupled with the haze of the smoke,
it made him feel like he was underwater.
The buzzing of fifteen different
conversations did not pause to acknowledge
him.
“Talia?” he said so timidly it was
more a plea than a call. Unsurprisingly,
no one answered.
He found her sitting at the bar, legs
crossed gracefully with
one heel tapping ab-
sently on the stool. Her
skin, usually a warm
brown from her mixed
heritage (a mix of what,
he’d never asked),
looked slightly pale
under the lights. His anger evaporated
as soon as he saw her – something she
always did without fail or effort.
Jed slid in next to her, but she
didn’t look at him. Her eyes were
glued to the television while she
sipped a drink.
“I thought you were going to the
washroom,” he said with as much
fake resentment as he could muster.
“I did,” she answered. “Then I
came out here to watch the game. It’s
the World Cup Final, you know. Only
comes around once every four years.”
“You don’t even like soccer,” he
countered.
She smiled back, her teeth gleaming
light blue. “This is Europe, Jed.
He’d chase
her wherever
she went
Everyone likes soccer here.”
“We’re not from Europe.”
This seemed to strike a chord. She
turned to him with such burning exasperation,
he might as well have insulted
her. “But we’re here now,
aren’t we? We’re traveling the world.
Loosen up and live a little!”
They fell silent for a moment. Her
eyes drifted back to the TV.
“We’re going to miss the train,” he
muttered.
“Then just leave without me,” she
responded acridly.
But Jed didn’t want to go anywhere
without her. He could not tell her
what made her so alluring to him. In
her, he saw an escape from a deadend
job (where they’d first met) and
especially from his mother, who
nagged him good-naturedly but incessantly
to be a “good Christian.” If
God was anything like Jed’s father, he
must be tired of being brought into arguments
that he had long ago escaped
from and never returned.
He liked everything about Talia,
down to the sweat drying on the back
of her neck. He’d seized so completely
on her whim of backpacking
around the world that he’d convinced
himself it was his idea. But while
he’d dreamed of postcard-picturesque
cabins in the mountains, she’d kept
them in urban jungles.
He wanted to bring them together.
She just wanted to lose herself.
He cleared his throat. “How much
did the drink cost?” Money was always
an issue. He was surprised his
mother hadn’t frozen his accounts.
She grinned mischievously. “It was
free.”
“Free?”
“Courtesy of that fine gentleman
there.” She nodded at a man sitting at
a table against the far
wall. When he caught her
eye, she pursed her lips
and sucked on her
maraschino cherry. Then
she winked at him.
“Stop it,” he snapped,
failing to hide just how
much it bothered him, and she
laughed. She’d already known, which
made her smile wider.
On the TV, someone scored. Talia
cheered. She probably didn’t even
know who was playing. Jed shifted in
his seat. If he tried to make her leave,
she’d cause a scene and everyone
would automatically take her side.
Reluctantly, he ordered a drink
from the bartender. If he was staying,
he might as well try to enjoy it.
For once tonight, he had her full attention.
“What are you doing?”
“Have it your way,” he grumbled.
“What?” she asked, bewildered even
though he was sure she’d heard him.
“I said, have it your way. I’m
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
staying with you.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it
quickly once he realized he couldn’t
answer. He looked away.
Something flitted across her eyes
like the phantom of a strange and foreign
emotion. If he was kidding himself,
he’d say it was love. But he
knew that it was fear – fear of being
clung to and weighed down until one
day she found herself caged. Sitting
here in a smoky Austrian bar, they’d
already cut it too close.
She turned to the TV again, her
voice toneless and
her face as impassive
as stone. “When
does the train leave
again?”
He looked at his
watch. “In thirteen
minutes. We’d have
to get our bags and
check out of the hotel anyway.”
His drink arrived, and the bartender
turned away before Jed could thank
him.
“How long does it take to get back
to our hotel?”
“Five minutes, maybe.”
“And from there to the train
station?”
“Six.”
“Then we still have two minutes to
spare,” Talia said with her trademark
grin.
Jed knew better than to think she
was joking. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re the last person to figure
that out. Come on, I’ll race you to
the hotel.”
She jumped up and ran to the exit.
He emptied his wallet of all the
change and dropped it on the bar,
hoping it was enough. Then he tore
after her.
As back on the street, he caught
sight of the tail of her dress whipping
around the corner. For a moment, he
stood motionless at the top of the
He would not let
her escape, no
matter how good
at it she was
steps. He was tired of this – tired of
succumbing to her every whim that
brought him more anxiety than joy.
It was stupid. They weren’t even
officially together – not that he hadn’t
pretended. Especially late at night,
when they slept in the same bed – to
save money (fully clothed, of course).
She’d roll around in her sleep until
her arm pressed against his, and no
matter how sleepy he was, he’d force
his eyes open just to savor every moment
it lasted.
He charged down the steps two at a
time, nearly twisting his ankle. The
door to the bar slammed
open, and it took Jed a
few sentences of loud,
furious German to realize
he hadn’t paid
enough for the drink.
Jed took off for the
hotel, hoping against
hope that the bartender
wouldn’t bother chasing him but too
afraid to check. Instead, he fixed his
gaze on the black dress that was already
a block ahead. At least he’d
learned more German today.
He would not let her escape, no
matter how good at it she was – and
she was a veritable artist. She’d had a
lot of practice too. He could tell that
in the way she opened the door ever
so slightly and slowly before walking
out to where she insisted he wait at
the bottom of her driveway. He could
tell in the way she’d make him drive
around a few times before she’d let
him drop her off at home – ten times
once when the light was on. He could
tell, and it broke his heart.
And that was the real art of it – not
the actual escape, but the way she always
managed to make him chase her
without saying a word or lifting a finger.
Well, he’d chase her wherever she
went. He’d chase her if both his ankles
were broken. And he’d chase her
around the world until the day he
died, collapsed from dizziness. ✦
Photo by Ellena Pfeffer, Northoaks, MN
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
23

poetry
The Fourth
A sea of colorful blankets
Cover the burnt grass
With sweaty bodies
Lazily scattered across
The cotton surface.
A child flies a kite
Unaffected by the heat.
The ends of sparklers
Are ignited by Bic lighters
Held by adolescent hands.
Couples find comfort in
Each other’s arms
As they wait for the show
To begin.
Like a flock of birds,
The fireworks suddenly
Rocket into the July sky
With a thunderous boom,
Showering a spectrum
Of hues against the sunset.
Dozens of eyes stare into
The vacuum of space.
I sit uncomfortably on
A splintered wooden bench
Immune to the spectacle.
On the paper plate in front of me
Lies a juicy watermelon wedge.
My teeth sink sinfully into
The watermelon’s flesh.
I spit out the small black seeds
On a stranger’s blanket.
by Carlie Fasanella,
Princeton, NJ
Fractions
It’s three a.m.
I feel like a third of a person.
And the worst part of that is,
I thought quarter in my head.
As the words whizzed like wire signals
from brain to fingertip,
I felt the lie play out
in the tapping of five keys.
A fifth of a person.
Am I shrinking?
I guess the witch of the west
had a point about the whole melting thing
after all.
by Kira Carlee,
Orangeburg, NY
24
Photo by Kylie Meiser, Shepherdsville, KY
Top of the World
Keep me on the tips of my toes,
Never let me drop from this high,
This new peak of rocketing thrill.
Never let it valley into flat-footed
Walking along a flat mind set;
I’d rather balance myself on a ball,
This world is mine to run along.
Come dancing with me on your tips,
And see how the world spins endlessly,
Swirling colors and stars alike fill
Our eyes with ribbons and glitter;
Everything is ours for the taking,
Anything you could possibly imagine,
When you’re as high as I am here,
Hover just above the highest peak,
The stars are within my reach,
I spin galaxies on my fingertips.
Nothing feels as high as this moment,
Don’t let me down, promise me,
And I will show you the world,
The way the silver linings see it.
by Phillip Helget, Kensington, MD
Charm
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12 • POETRY
You took my hands
Though they were cold,
Redeemed my body
Young for old.
Returned my silver
Hair to gold
And said it was a dream.
You stole the shadow
From my eyes,
Replaced the dark
With starry skies.
Then softly laughed
At my surprise
And said inhale the theme.
You kissed a smile
From every frown,
Our bodies danced
In eiderdown.
We fell so deep
As if to drown
In passion’s racing stream.
by Carly Pierre, Stamford, CT
when they turn
their heads
we’ve been battered by the tide
of the second hand
for much too long
so we allow ourselves
to wash up
between the 2 and the 3
and then dive
into the dials and pendulums
for a cigarette break,
to sigh relief from the fascism
and bust a laugh or two
about time’s
horse-faced wife
by Andrea Wade,
Indianapolis, IN
Captured
The lights inside
Blind the men held hostage.
Each frantically tries to escape
The translucent wall
But it curves around in a circular fashion,
Leaving them dazed and jumbled.
Bouncing from side to side:
Mere attempts to find an escape hole,
But the vents in the ceiling are too narrow,
There is nowhere to flee.
The monotonous tone
Of the incessant pounding on the walls
Sounds like a dead man’s tune.
This midsummer’s night
Is dark and humid
And as the lights flicker inside,
The shadow outside the prison becomes visible.
Illuminated by the moonlight,
A giant eyeball peers inside,
The enemy inspecting his catch.
His joyful gaze is taunting,
With a slight hint of
Curiosity.
Pleading for their lives,
The enemy still remains adamant
With keeping his newly found collection.
Grasping the jar with both hands,
The young boy runs home,
Proudly,
To show off his new prize.
by Allison Daigle, Gilford, NH
You, Undefined
you, undefined
you are a signpost in the wilderness next
to broken asphalt and roots
while the wind whistles through old
sparse treetops.
and you’re a quiet cactus growing
unaffectedly between jersey barriers
while too much rain falls in not enough time.
also I know you to be the moon in the sky,
but only
while at least three and no more than
seven stars shine with you.
plus, you can be this sparrow that would not
look out of place on a farm fence, but
while sitting on the very top of my skyscraper
building whistles morning-merrily.
you are the top to my water bottle screwed
onto the diet coke,
the soft patter of raindrops on the ground,
not a roof
the underlying orangeness to a car’s
high beams:
do you understand why I’m confused?
this, you, are only a dark light-splotch on
my vision,
like the wind that’s not wind but only
me running:
you’re not real, but you pretend for me.
by Elizah Hallowell, Concord, MA
Sisters
Related by chance,
but we are best friends by choice,
and sisters for life.
by Alexis Denk, McDonough, GA
Floor Plan
I forgot to knock and just walked in
and saw your heart was on the floor
naked as could be
so I blushed and went to shut the door again
but you stopped it with your foot
and asked me
if we had met before,
and if it was me that you had seen
dancing in that hurricane last night
the one that shook the windows with
angry fists
and braided the telephone wire into the trees.
And I told you,
I said,
yes,
yes, that was me,
though I don’t recall if we have met
before.
You stooped and picked your heart up off
the floor,
dusted it on your shirt
and I saw that it was worn and heavy
but you didn’t seem to mind.
Shall I draw you a floor plan of my brain?
You pulled a notebook out of your
back pocket,
and there upon the page,
in felt-tipped purple pen
was a picture of none other
than myself.
We have met before,
haven’t we.
Sweet and sticky love like jam
crusted on the Formica
has always made my skin crawl;
I like people better
when they can disagree with me.
Will you hold this for me for a moment?
Your heart,
it wasn’t nearly as heavy
as it looked.
by Indigo Erlenborn,
Madison, WI
Tarts
Grandma
used to serve tea
Used to serve tea
in cracked teacups
In cracked teacups
with matching plates
Matching plates
for little tarts
Little tarts
she cooked herself
She cooked herself
with wrinkled hands
Wrinkled hands
that once held me
She once held me
Grandma
by Paige Esterly,
Palo Alto, CA

Corruption in
the Powerful
Men are folly in their actions,
Never are they satisfied
With the power placed in their hands
But instead the craving
Rules the ruling
And the thirst for more
Overrules
Lord of men, Agamemnon
Felt not to return Chryseis
The thirst for power
More power
When Agamemnon said to old Chryses
Now go, don’t tempt my wrath –
and you may depart alive
And so the irrationality
Erupted from his mouth
And the wrong could not be undone
What arrogance it is!
The very same that pools
In the heart of the corrupt
In the heart of the wealthy
In the heart of the powerful
Such was Nestor
To believe just because he had
A few years on Diomedes
He was the wiser, the better of the two
He was overpowered with arrogance
And the lion prided himself over the fox
Such was Agamemnon
To believe himself to be
Greater than you
And the greater man
The craving ruled the ruling
Such was Achilles
He did not fight
And believed those that did
Lacked their potential, because
His helmet was not among theirs
And the army would crumple so
Along with arrogance
In this potpourri of traits
Comes greed
The four-letter word
That led many to the Doors of Death
When the battle continues
Hector eager for more
One day he argues
With wise Polydamas
Polydamas does not pray
For the power that Hector yearns
He is not powerful
He is wise
And the turtle says to
Retreat to Troy
The turtle speaks the wise words
The same that Polydamas suggests
But no
Man-Killing Hector
In his thirst for glory
Tells no forgetting the watch
He says to keep each man wide awake
Everyone agreed
Unaware that
Man-Killing Hector
Was wrong
Athena had after all
Swept away their senses
And all gave applause to
Hector’s ruinous tactics
None to Polydamas
Who gave them the sound advice
When Hector
Leapt at Patroclus
Ablaze for glory
Patroclus was not enough, no
So Hector set off for Automedon
To cut him down
And that still was not sufficient, no
So on he went to charge Achilles
And death cut him short
This corruption is not nonexistent
In the powerful today
It still rules the ruling
And the thirst for more
Overrules all
Around came ol’ Hitler
During the Second World War
To fight a war, he would not
No, he deemed himself too good
To go out and slaughter a few men
Rather, it was the common soldier
That would die
Paying more tribute to his country
Than Adolf Hitler himself
In the Revolution
That the Texans were outnumbered in
The arrogant Santa Anna charged in
Having no doubt that he would win
Only to find that he had lost
Lord Charles Cornwallis first Marquis
The redcoat with the power
Hundreds of puppets
Under his fingers
Waiting to be used
He was advised, by the lesser as
he would say
To move north out of the peninsula
But in his rash, his greed, his arrogance
He stayed and moved back into the peninsula
And all his puppets cried as they were shot
And the show was bought over
Osama bin Laden
Chose to get more
And lived in luxury in his house
Sure that he was too smart to be found
But on the night of May 2
He was shot
His pride wounded
Through the pages of time
The same corruption does not vanish
It stays but in different forms
Much like water
A parasite of its container
And the sands of time
Do nothing but watch
by Abhishek Dasgupta,
Sugar Land, TX
It’s Me
Hope you’re watching as
I write poems for you, fingers
tapping syllables
by Sam Starkey,
Vancouver, BC, Canada
an old woman
thinks with rain
falling outside
there are withers and whispers:
the withered fingers (isn’t it strange,
she thinks,
how everything seems to drain out of you
as you age?)
the cloth is skin and her skin is thinner.
the whispers in a voice like roasting turkey,
crackly and rich.
they remind her of the sky in new york,
when she could hear the snow crunch,
and feel the cheap linoleum under
her fingers.
by Jessica Jiang, Bellevue, WA
Paper People
Little paper people
In this little paper town
The white world stays still
As I pause to look around
Paper people with paper dogs,
Paper children playing with paper balls
I wonder if they know
That I can see straight through them all
With one slight breeze
They could be gone with the wind
Leaving no mark on what was left behind
But me, I am different
My shoes leave footprints all over this
Perfect paper world
If you cut me, I will bleed
If you tease me, I might cry
And one day my heart’s beat
Will come to a stop
But before that day comes,
I will make a difference
Unlike these paper people
I am made of something stronger
I am made of bricks
Their paper words can’t hurt me,
Paper hammers won’t tear me down
So while these paper people are bothered
With their paper people things,
I will be home waiting
With my strong and human wings
Anticipating the day when I finally will fly
They better watch out for when I
break down
All these paper doors
by Sarah Marturano, Palatine, IL
Art by Tarnisha Haskins, Virginia Beach, VA
Loneliness
A west wind blows through the night
Kicking plastic bottles through the
empty street.
A thud here and there,
As a young child throws an old
hockey puck
Repeatedly
Against the wall.
Whispers of live and intertwined hands
As two lovers quarrel over a dirty
handkerchief.
The dusty paths I travel
Filled with crumpled notes and broken seals.
I envision a world without tumbleweeds
And sky-high walls.
A place where the wind blows free
And no one’s ever seen the loneliness
Of an unhinged door.
by Felicia Vowles, Plano, TX
Dog-Eared
You should not give your heart to
these hands;
they’re too small, too cold to hold it well.
I may trip,
stumble
and fumble with your soul.
I may return your love to you all
bruised, dog-eared, and coffee-stained,
like a good book that was far overdue.
by Danielle Colburn, Byron Center, MI
Polychrome Moan
Bold oil rainbow
In a sky of black asphalt
Strewn with pebble stars
by Susi Lopera, San Antonio, TX
English Teacher’s
Daughter
Her soft ginger hair
was always gently accented
by a white wool cap.
The kind that you wear
when you go skiing but
ironically she hated snow.
She still looked stunning
in that hat though.
She taught me to love
literature and life,
showing me that the two
weren’t all that different.
Now I see the world through
Bukowski and Cummings,
Salinger and Steinbeck.
And I can’t pick up a book
without thinking of her curled
up on the leather sofa
with me when it was too cold
or too rainy to be in the park,
lost in worlds created by strangers.
Worlds better than our own.
by Tyler Peschel, Newburgh, NY
POETRY • SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
25

fiction
26
Fair-Weather Friends by Anita Kempeneer, Jyoyo, Japan
Violet:
Frigid December is always
cold, no matter how many
years pass. It’s funny, therefore, that
we’re always surprised it’s so cold,
yet we always lament when it leaves
and summer comes, always want it to
come months in advance as time is
still patiently plodding on at its own
pace. Weather is predictable and seasonal,
coming and going, and nothing
surprising happens out of place or out
of its time frame. A blizzard doesn’t
come in June and a typhoon doesn’t
come in February. Weather is reliable,
but changeable – the only reliable
thing about it is that it
changes.
Maroon is my fairweather
friend.
Maroon is nothing
like me. She’s small,
bony, timid, underconfident,
and easily
upset. She gets lice in her hair and
dandruff on her shoulders and keeps
horrifying strands of split-end bangs
hanging in front of her uneven skin.
We’re best friends in one sense of
the word – she complains to me about
her friends, I listen patiently, and then
we both laugh our heads off at random
inside jokes. I find it sad, sometimes,
that Maroon will only see one
side of me – the one she wants to see
and that I show everyone else. Maroon
might think I’m showing her my
real self under my frigid exterior, but
human beings are much more complicated
than that. I am empty inside –
Art by Sahrash Chaudhary,
East Windsor, CT
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
Friends are
changeable,
like the weather
totally drained of emotion.
What is most distressing for me,
after all, is the fact that I might have
lost myself while I was concentrating
on making up faces for different occasions.
How could she know the real
me? I don’t even know me. We’re
barely more than strangers.
• • •
Maroon:
Violet is my fair-weather friend.
Violet is nothing like me. She’s tall,
thin, brash, crass, impulsive, overconfident,
and a lazy give-up-er. She
could be the prettiest girl in the class
if she tried harder, laughed a little
pitchier, kept her hair in
place, stopped randomiz-
ing the length of her skirt
from tea-length to mini,
and stopped staying up
’til midnight watching illegal
Taiwanese dramas
that give her huge bags
under her eyes. She’s so eccentric it’s
obvious that boys are scared to approach
her.
We’re best friends in one sense of
the word – she uses me as a fun pastime,
poking jokes at me along with
all my other fair-weather friends,
copying notes she missed while sleeping
in class, laughing raucously at my
embarrassing quirks. We’ve known
each other for so long – five years,
now. But that’s going to end soon;
graduation is next month.
Violet might think she knows me
better than anyone, that she is my one
true friend – I admit, I’m tempted to
think that sometimes too. But Violet
is not my real friend, just like all my
other friends aren’t real friends. How
could they know the real me? The real
me is little more than a closet serial
murderer, plotting the deaths of the
people I hate in my mind, over and
over. No one could imagine that I am
really like this – me, the girl with
slouching posture, the split ends and
dandruff, the girl who freezes up
every time she has to speak louder
than a whisper. But this is me, and I
hate myself. No, that’s a lie – I’m too
afraid to hate myself. To hate oneself
is a scary thing. I’m a coward.
I look at her walking beside me,
beaming and chattering like a hyper
chipmunk. I wonder sometimes what
she is thinking – she always has the
Loneliness by Amanda Barrows, Plaistow, NH
Loneliness lives in my bedroom. I invited her over once, expecting her to stay for just a
few hours or maybe a day. But when I got home from school, she had kicked off her
shoes, hung up her clothes in my closet, and made herself comfortable.
I knew then that Loneliness was planning to stay for a while.
She doesn’t follow me everywhere I go. No, she stays in my room most of the time, just
sleeping, relaxing, whatever. But I’m always thinking about her, as though she’s with me.
Loneliness is like the scar on my knee from that time I fell off my
scooter when I was nine. Even after the pain is gone, there’s still a
I can’t
seem to
kick her out
constant reminder of how swiftly good things can end. I can have the
most wonderful day with my friends, I can be surrounded by caring
people and feel loved inside and out, but I know that Loneliness will
still be waiting for me when I get home.
I try to stuff her in the closet, stifle her cries with a pillow, bury her
under a heavy pile of dusty dictionaries and school textbooks. But
nothing I do can silence her.
When my friend calls me on the phone and we have a friendly chat, Loneliness sits on my
floor, mocking our conversation. “She’ll be gone soon,” she hisses. “Just you wait! You’ll be
alone with me again before you know it.”
I wish Loneliness would pack her bags and get out of my life. I wish she’d move to Siberia
and turn into a block of ice in the frozen wilderness. I wish she’d go anywhere that I’m not.
I can’t seem to kick her out. Loneliness will have to depart of her own free will, if she ever
does. I’d like to hope she will leave eventually, but frankly, I am pretty sure she never will.
And to be honest, I think I’d be too lonely without her. ✦
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Photo by Lola Mireles, Wichita, KS
same mask on, always the same
smile, always the same spikes and
drops in tension. Everything is so
planned with her, so perfectly executed,
sometimes I wonder if she
doesn’t realize it herself – that this
isn’t the real her. I’ve seen both her
faces, and both those faces aren’t her.
She is something much more mesmerizing
– something darker and magnetic.
“Ah!” I say suddenly, unable to
contain myself. “All my friends suck.
They’re not my real friends. I have no
real friends.”
Violet looks at me, totally calm,
smiley, and happy. “Yeah, I know
what you mean.”
• • •
Violet:
I try not to look shocked at what
Maroon just said. It’s not that I’m surprised
she said it, more that I’m surprised
she was brave enough to tread
on such delicate, untouched ground. I
was under the impression that we
would not discuss this, that we had a
mutual understanding that there was
no need to bring up something that
could break us apart. But she brought
it up – I’m just here to listen to her
complain about her friends, after all.
“I have, I don’t know, maybe only
two true friends. Seriously sucks,”
Maroon says.
I laugh and look away. I am fully
aware that she isn’t including me
among those friends. If she were, she
would have said so. But I don’t mind.
I’m not remotely hurt or sad; actually,
I’m just disappointed that I feel no
hurt or sadness. I dig around delicately
for a ball that I can toss back
that won’t hurt her feelings or have
too much of a deep connotation.
“Me, too. Just a few friends I chat
with on e-mail, you know?”
She groans and shakes herself
violently and humorously, like she is
trying to rid herself of some clingy
spirit. “Ah, this sucks! I ➤➤

hate everyone around me!”
I laugh with her while we wait by
the train tracks, staring at the cold,
cold sky. Maroon is not who she
thinks she shows people. True, she’s
gloomy and an introvert, but that’s
not all. There is something much
darker about her, something frightening
and powerful, like the villainous
character in a horror series. I can
imagine her making voodoo dolls,
then burning them and banging them
with mallets. I can imagine my own
doll at her home, beaten and battered.
So why am I still friends with this
girl? I don’t know.
• • •
Maroon:
I have no idea why I am still friends
with Violet. She has the kind of personality
I totally despise – fake, pathetic,
and a liar. I hate how she keeps
up this charade that we
are thick as thieves –
we both know very
well how real this
friendship is. But times
spent with her are
some of the best I can
remember. Unlike my
other friends, she is
always there. She
pushes me in directions I would definitely
never want to go and embarrasses
me, but for some reason I’m
certain she does it for my own good. I
don’t know why, but I could never
make a cursed doll for her.
“Yeah, well, but isn’t that just life?”
I turn to look at Violet; she’s still
smiling, trying to trick me into thinking
that she’s saying this is all a joke.
I know she’s not – her eyes freeze
when she’s dead serious, the twinkle
instantly vanishing. It’s her only
weakness as far as I know, and I think
she doesn’t even realize it.
“I mean, everyone in the world
can’t be all buddy-buddy, right?” she
continues. “That would create such a
crazy society. I mean, if you think it’s
only natural that people have superficial
friendships theeeeeen you can be
POSITIVE!”
With that, she jumps into the air,
trying to catch a phantom snowflake,
and I laugh at her, pushing and shoving
as I chastise her for her foolishness.
We part ways, and when I’m
sure I’m out of her line of vision, I
stop and close my eyes, feeling dampness
on my nose, cold seeping under
my thin scarf and up my skirt. I feel
so alone, so desperately hampered as
a human being.
I will not miss Violet on graduation
day. I will cry, but I will not miss her.
She is just my dearly beloved fairweather
friend.
• • •
Violet:
I stop in my tracks and look back
the way I came. What on earth is
wrong with me – what am I missing
as a human being? Compassion?
We both
understood the
terms of our
sham friendship
Feeling? Desperation? Love? I love
Maroon as a friend – a fair-weather
one, but I accept that about her. However,
I am not under the misconception
that I will ever have a real best
friend. I think I lack something essential
in the area that permits such a
thing. I do not expect more from her
than she is already giving. I do not expect
that she will come running to my
deathbed, that she will cry when I cry,
that she will meet up with me after
graduation ’til we’re old and wrinkled,
and that we’ll never sever these
bonds of friendship. I don’t expect
more of her than I am willing to give.
She is a good friend. Not loyal,
courageous, or fiercely dedicated, but
a friend – friends are changeable, like
the weather. If she betrayed me, I
wouldn’t be surprised. I wouldn’t
blame her. I would just smile, sigh,
and then move on.
I will not cry for Ma-
roon on graduation day. I
will not miss her at all
afterward. After all, she
is just a fair-weather
friend.
• • •
Today is graduation
day. Everyone is sniveling
like idiots, even the guys. I’m crying,
too, overwhelmed by collective
tides of emotion, feeling like it’s my
duty to cry or I could never live with
myself. She isn’t crying – she has her
normal, everyday face on, that horrid
mask we both choose to wear. There is
nothing wrong with the mask. It is
ours to wear and take off as we please.
It’s the consequences, on the other
hand, that we have to live with. The
day that we complain about the consequences
of our charade is the day we
don’t deserve to wear the mask anymore.
At that moment, we must put
down our armor and take off the
masks in surrender. I don’t think that
moment will ever come for me. Even
if it does, I wouldn’t know what to do
with myself – a trained killer let loose,
unarmed, among normal, harmless
sheep. It’s not that I’ve lost myself in
the mask, but it has become a part of
me. Not wearing a mask, in effect,
would be denying who I really am.
We’re standing together in the
courtyard; my tears are done and I
wipe them away with a broad grin,
laughing with her like always. We are
just another two friends on graduation
day, crying and laughing and pulling
our last desperate jokes. But there is
one difference: we do not make promises
to write or e-mail; we don’t
promise to meet in ten years or visit
each other.
It is at this moment that I realize for
certain that we both understood the
terms of our sham friendship. It gives
me a sense of closure, like a weight
lifted off my shoulders. The sham
continues, of course, but like a dying
sprint – an old-fashioned facade,
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
My Hero
doomed to go out of business soon,
running its last lap.
I know now that it was a friendship
without expectations, without promises
– it was shallow, brief, and mutually
beneficial in the cold sense of
those words. But it was fun. It was
enjoyable. With her I spent some of
my best times in school.
What do I have to complain
about?
I’m hitching a ride
home with my mom. I
give my fair-weather
friend one last good-bye
wave – no hugs – and
jump into the car, grinning.
I sigh in relief as we drive away,
slumping down in the seat, pulling my
knees up. Then I feel something
strange.
Ouch.
I touch my heart, blinking in
amazement, and then look toward the
school, as if I can see through metal
and distance and connect eyes with
We are just
another two
friends on
graduation day
by Samantha Starkey,
Vancouver, BC, Canada
You showed me the stance, and I watched your muscles
tighten, cobralike, in your thin legs. You did all the
demos, since you were the best one there. Everyone
whispered about you: MVP for seven years in a row, top libero
in the country for four, international champion for five.
My body yearned to emulate yours. You squinted in that way
those models in magazines do, but you weren’t trying to look
good; you were just focused. Your bun flopped at the back of
your head as you bounced on your feet. You moved in a blink,
legs fast, like lizards. Your body lengthened to reach the ball,
and you nudged it upward in a perfect trajectory to the setter.
You gave us instructions in your raspy voice, impetuous and
goofy. When you said “Nice pass,” I jumped and your laugh
sounded like a clear mountain brook.
I said I wished I could be like you. I meant to say “play,” but
the truth slipped out. You shook your head and your beautifulwithout-makeup
eyes stared straight into mine as you told me to
wish for something else.
That night I caught a movie with my friends. You were there.
You handed me my caramel popcorn, and I told you to keep the
change. ✦
Photo by Kelli Robson, Cross Plains, WI
the person causing this hurt.
Ouch.
I gasp and feel the tears falling uncontrollably
down my cheeks. I’m
shaking, my head is buzzing, and I’m
so confused I’m actually illiterate. My
mom laughs and pats me on the head,
smiling compassionately.
“There, there – I know
it’s hard. Don’t worry,
you’ll see each other
again.”
No, we won’t, I want
to tell her, curling up in
a ball to escape the tears.
We’re fair-weather
friends, Mom. We’ll
probably never see each other again.
Ouch.
Through the tears, I smile a little,
bitterly but happily, shaking my head
in exasperation. I will miss her. I will
really, really miss her.
My most important fair-weather
friend. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
27

art gallery
28
Photo by Alexandra Wollins, Denver, CO
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
Art by Breanna Welsh, Westland, MI
Photo by Elyssa Brezel, Linwood, NJ
Art by Kaley Hamilton, Allen, TX
Photo by Ciara Roberts, Ferrum, VA
Photo by Timothy Yoon, Torrance, CA
Art by Maria Sweeney, Whiting, NJ
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details

Here Where Time
Floats as Pollen
in Eddies
You say to me, time flies, it flies, but
these fishes which swim,
lucid bodies in these waters,
they open their pale mouths,
as if to say
fix those great silent eyes,
they try to tell me, time swims, time swims
and I think this is true
when I see how the day here
filters through the ferns, how
it glows upon the sedge grass and drifts
upon the waters.
And oh God God God
just listen, just listen
and hear. It murmurs
and sings.
I think to myself time drifts, time drifts, and
so would you, if you too could see
the way it floats down amidst the light
of these winding glades. Here in this fen,
time drifts as pollen borne on eddies,
lazily rows a
pale elven boat along these banks,
where insects hum and warble
and ancient mosses yawn.
The steady swish of a single rotting oar,
and the boat passes on to the shade.
And the shallows murmur in its wake, in a
forgotten tongue they murmur in its wake,
a tongue ancient as the sighing trees,
the groaning roots. Its cadence hums,
it thrum thrum
thrums its way to my stomach
as familiar voice heard through
muted walls. Yet still the fishes, they
mouth at me:
Listen and hear. It murmurs
and sings. And even as I try to think,
I slip through slumbering centuries
and I am the only one who sees. Listen,
it tells you, quietly it sings. And even as I
try to speak, only you you you
my breath can seek. My breath will
seek. My breath will speak, say
Listen, and hear. The swamp grass sings.
It murmurs and
sings of waking dreams.
by Hannah Knowles,
San Jose, CA
If I had a dollar …
If I had a dollar for every mile that
separates us I’d have 244.
If I had a dollar for every cubic centimeter
of my heart that you occupy I’d have 610.
If I had a dollar for every night I dreamt
about you I’d have 1095.
If I had a dollar for every time I wished for
you on my birthday I’d have three.
We met three years ago.
If I had a dollar for every second of my
life that I’m willing to devote to you,
I’d buy a plane ticket and tell you all of
this in person.
by Justin Hong,
Congers, NY
Sun-Kissed
The hot summer sun sizzles on my skin.
Sand wedges itself between my toes.
My newly bronzed body
lies on the scorching Florida beach.
Hiding from the heat of July
under an umbrella,
Kayla relaxes in her lounge chair,
while Abbey and I tan on our towels.
Digging through her bag,
Abbey finds her coral camera,
and we make funny faces
behind our bright neon sunglasses.
Sweat drips down our faces
as we’re tempted
by the splashing
of the ocean’s waves.
When we peel ourselves
from the hot sand
Burns
the bottoms of our feet
We float on the top of the water,
watching the fish swim beneath us,
Feeling our backs burning,
but refusing to go back for sunscreen
When the sun begins setting
over the horizon,
we slide our wet, waterlogged feet
into our sand-covered flip-flops.
and we laugh at each other
discovering the sunburnt outline
where our sunglasses
had once rested
We left
with our skin kissed
by the red lipstick
of the sun.
by Christina Gerst, St. Peters, MO
Last Day of the Year
Someone spoke of a New Year’s kiss
I turned despite myself to see
The exchange of candy
And hear my classmates laugh
(Milton Hershey makes us all comedic
geniuses.)
I laughed anyway, forcing small talk
“Oh, I thought y’all meant something else”
The girl with the almond eyes shakes her
head and says
She got neither one, and she doesn’t care
I laugh and roll my eyes
Confessing that I did
But thinking the candy would have been
more real
I keep to myself
by Kaiti White, Jackson, MS
To Ignore
Painted on the skin of his soul,
Innate yet resting at bay,
Laughter drowned the images down,
Longing for breaking light rays,
Acting impulse, one of the folks,
Rightly, art faded away.
by Abigail Hanna, Topsfield, MA
Rise Over Run
Come in, take a seat
Shut up and let me teach
Spit out the gum, roll up your sleeves
Pay careful attention and listen to me
What I am about to say is key
You will use it for a lifetime, wait and see
Forget about equations or solving for x
Forget about cosine and whatever’s next
Listen here, girls and boys, daughters
and sons
The only thing that matters now is rise
over run
Rise over run, Rise over run, Rise over run
The only thing that matters now is
rise over run
No talking, no singing along
Whatever your answer is, it’s wrong
Be quiet, kid, shut up
Don’t you dare try and interrupt
What I am about to say is key
You will use it for a lifetime, wait and see
Forget about equations or solving for x
Forget about cosine and whatever’s next
Listen here, girls and boys, daughters
and sons
The only thing that matters now is rise
over run
Rise over run, Rise over run, Rise over run
The only thing that matters now is rise
over run
You see, child, this information is essential
Store it away in your mind, make it official
Tell your friends, grown-ups too
Tell everyone what to do
Tell them to forget about equations or
solving for x
Tell them to forget about cosine and
whatever’s next
Say listen here, girls and boys, daughters
and sons
The only thing that matters now is
rise over run
Rise over run, Rise over run, Rise over run
The only thing that matters now is
rise over run
by Taylor Raborn,
Carlisle, AR
Photo by Ellen Kim, Ridgefield Park, NJ
REM Sleep
You can dream more.
The earth balances precariously, but in your
soft moments of slumber,
the world is yours.
Explore.
fine poppy seeds fall
slowly down
the curtain of your eyelids,
collecting in the corners.
A bug flies in to say hello.
And you keep
running. in this dream
it’s barefoot, the rocks of the earth slicing
into your toes and yet
It feels so good.
The dream switches and now you feel
fake grass and
suddenly you are in
a stadium with
the lights shining directly on you.
The crowd chants, the light grows brighter,
the pressure is exploding your esophagus
blocking your nostrils with harsh fumes
lungs fighting for breath turning blue
gasping gasping gasping –
and my bed is covered in sweat. and my
eyes cast open,
and I’m wearing shoes.
by Lily Greenberg,
Carlsbad, CA
Lunch
Bouts of retching laughter, he shouldn’t
have gone there
Why eat? My appetite is forfeit
Warning: “Pasco, leave, save your
poor innocence”
An annoyed reply: “It’s already been
sacrificed”
Satisfied by a response,
I don’t want to face the frown of my
disappointed Better Judgment, and
Hoping to have my stomach churned
once more,
I turn back into the twisted world of
teenage humor
He’s using his hands now,
The image is tattooed on my frontal lobe.
Why we chose lunch, I will never know
Weaving profanity like Arachne on the loom
“Did you hear what he just said?”
Before long we too might grow the fangs,
Stories to spiders turned against us,
Yet unheard by the public,
It was worth it.
Lunch goes untouched
But some are made of stronger stuff
This is our time, not to be wasted
Newcomers be warned, you seem a
little confused
“I thought we were friends, why can’t
I sit here?”
You’re not ready for Lunch
You might go hungry.
by Eric Schultz,
Clarkston, MI
POETRY • SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
29

fiction
30
The Success of the Dying by Roma Patel, Sugarland, TX
The sound of the gunshot echoes
in the still desert, and everything
becomes silent. Lewis
hears agonizing cries and Adrien
shouting his name.
“Lewis, Lewis! Man, you can’t fall
on me now!” Adrien shouts, his voice
traveling across a vast expanse of
desert. Lewis wants to tell him that
he’s fine, it’s just a bullet, this is a
war and these things happen. But he
falls over, unable to tell the difference
between the ground and the sky. The
bullet has punctured the
right side of his abdomen.
The world becomes
blurred, obscure,
incomprehensible. He
can’t shout; the words
are stuck in his parched
throat. Numbness overwhelms
his chest, the pain spreading
through his right leg and branching to
his left side. His head lies on the
ground, parallel to the cerulean sky,
an endless expanse of nothingness.
The immeasurable blue creates an
ache in his brain. Lewis jerks his head
to the side to face the gray gravel,
causing a searing pain to shoot
through his body.
Photo by Laura Stanton, Dexter, MI
He slips in and out of consciousness.
The world becomes blurred,
then lucid, then blurred again. The
ringing of gunshots and the roughvoiced
commands of the lieutenant
are unfamiliar, as if he’s a stranger
hearing them. He clasps his hand over
the wound, trying to alleviate the
soreness. He immediately feels
warmth, drowning in a thick sea of
red. It smells like death, a stench he is
all too familiar with. It’s as hot as the
blazing Afghani sun, and it’s sticky,
clinging to his scarred skin then
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
Some went to
college; Lewis
went to war
dribbling to the ground.
Lewis turns on his side, his face
now even with the dust. The gravel
blows with small gusts of wind, stinging
his eyes. Afghanistan. He has
come to know the desolate villages
filled with hostile, sun-soaked people
as a part of his daily life. Men geared
with M-107 sniper rifles are a usual
sight, and the blast of a hand grenade
has become as familiar as the melodic
tune of his doorbell was back home.
He’s twenty, and he doesn’t know
much else. He hasn’t had
the opportunity to ex-
plore the world. Some
went to college; Lewis
went to war. He knows
the isolated gravel roads
and the folds in the land
just as he knows the lines
and creases of his palm. He can recite
instructions for assembling and disassembling
any weapon in his sleep,
just as college students recite textbook
facts. Pity starts to grow in the
pit of his stomach, subdued by the
piercing pain of his wound.
A man comes toward him, and
Lewis makes him out to be the enemy.
The stranger wears white cotton,
stained with the orange-brown soil of
this land. A black cloth covers his
mouth and nose, and the head of a
slender rifle rests on his neck. He
seems confused and anxious, almost
nervous. He scans the landscape before
making eye contact. The black
cloth covering his mouth comes
closer and closer, masking the gray
gravel. Lewis sees his eyes, dark
chestnut that glimmer in the oppressive
rays of the sun. The stranger
keeps approaching, and Lewis continues
to fight the force of his subconscious
that threatens to pull him
under. Lewis hears the crunching
sound of his jaw breaking as the
man’s foot against his face knocks the
breath from him. He tastes the iron of
his blood. Then, there’s blackness.
• • •
He didn’t have a life ahead of him.
At least, that’s what his father would
yell before slamming the door in
Lewis’s face and continuing to drink
in the small haven of his bedroom.
Lewis had gone through four years of
high school, and he had nothing to
show for it. He was a consistent student
– consistently failing. Teachers
would attempt to give him the incentives
of success and prosperity; those
two, they claimed, would lead to happiness.
The only drawback was that
success wasn’t palpable. It wasn’t the
path he was heading down, and he accepted
that because he believed there
was no true path to success.
Success was a commodity that
took years to create and just a few
unfortunate events to tear down.
There wasn’t any point in working so
diligently toward such a fallible grand
prize. His father was a prime example.
He had been a meticulous student,
was accepted into a prestigious
liberal arts college in upstate New
York, and was well on his way to a
great career in writing; all it took was
the death of Lewis’s mother and a
couple of drinks to turn his life from a
promise to a train-wreck.
Pathetic. That was all Lewis
thought as his father slouched on the
sofa in front of him, with red-rimmed
eyes and the bitter stench of alcohol
on his breath. His father waited, tapping
his fingers on the mahogany
table in front of him.
“You should join the Army,” he
said. The thought hit Lewis as unexpectedly
as a bullet. He grasped for
words inside the jumbled confusion
his mind had become.
“The Army?” he asked cautiously,
yearning for his father to reveal that
he was mindlessly rambling in his
drunken state.
“At least you’ll be getting somewhere,
not just sitting on the couch
like a lazy son-of-a-b**ch.” He left
before Lewis had the chance to argue,
leaving behind a wrinkled pamphlet
that read, “Find a clear path to leadership
and success. Join the Army.”
Success. It was an enigma with no
obvious meaning. There was mass
confusion in war, and the only clarity
was a soldier firing a weapon. The
only clarity was an enemy. There was
no blatant sign of courage. The pamphlet
was a lie. The only apparent
truth was a war between two entangled
complexities, and in those complexities
there were people who led
simple lives. They had commands and
orders. They had a mission, a purpose,
and in the mass chaos of
Lewis’s life, he craved simplicity. He
needed someone in addi-
tion to his father to tell
him that he had a goal,
where the stakes were
real and tangible.
Happiness was foreign;
there was no such
thing, at least not after
his mother died. Success itself was
false because it made empty promises
of such illusory emotions as satisfaction.
Sure, temporary moments of gaiety
existed, but none withstood the
test of time. War was an environment
that acknowledged the cruel fact that
society failed to accept: people die.
Lewis needed insensitivity and truth.
He needed men who had been
through hell just as he had – an emotional
hell. Lewis wasn’t pessimistic,
he was realistic – and he needed to be
around people who felt the same. He
He didn’t
have a life
ahead of him
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
picked up the pamphlet, and before he
could convince himself otherwise, he
found the contact information.
• • •
Lewis awakens in a sea of numbness.
A man is swabbing the wound in
his side in an effort to stop the blood.
Lewis can barely see the man’s face;
it’s one large oval. There are no features.
“Lewis, Lewis,” the man says, his
hands wiping Lewis’s face. His voice
is gruff but gentle.
“It’s me, man. It’s Adrien. Damn,
did you get hit twice?” Adrien continues
to mop the blood. Lewis tries to
imagine muddy brown eyes on the
faceless person in front of him, eyes
as deep and cloudy as the sh*t-filled
river he’d crossed this morning.
Adrien’s nose is a ridge as steep as
the Hindu Kush, and his eyebrows are
as bushy as the shrubs that bring life
to the otherwise bare ground.
Adrien is Lewis’s friend; he is a
soldier; he is Lewis’s success. He’s
probably going to be the last person
Lewis sees, his last reminder that he
did succeed. Adrien will outlive him,
and that’s fine with Lewis, because he
knows that if he hadn’t saved Adrien,
Adrien wouldn’t be the man swabbing
his wounds now.
Adrien lifts his body, and Lewis
feels as if he’s floating on nothingness,
on blackness. He sees scenery
whizzing past, and he closes his eyes,
unable to grasp his surroundings. It’s
all too confusing: he’s going to die.
The last person he will see is Adrien.
He succeeded. Thinking causes his
head to spin. He can’t keep his eyes
open, and his brain starts to ache. He
catches a glimpse of the sky before he
is subdued by utter blackness again.
• • •
Adrien needed time to think. He
had received a letter from the mailbag
in one of the helicopters that had
come to replenish the ra-
tions. It was from his girlfriend
in the States, or at
least that’s what the
rumor was. He exited
camp, walking with no
apparent destination. The
sun was setting, and there
was no sign of civilization, not even a
sorry-looking village. After a while,
once you walked far enough, everything
started looking like everything
else. You couldn’t find your way.
There was just sand.
Adrien had left at seventeen hundred
hours, and it was approaching
twenty-two hundred hours. Lewis
suggested that they search for him.
They were a platoon, and if one went
missing it was their responsibility to
look for him. The other platoon members
said Adrien would be fine; ➤➤

Liberation by Hannah Collins, Prince George, VA
Clutch the wheel in your hand and spin, spin.
Propel us off the shore and far, far away –
anywhere but here. I want to see the blue
moon rise over the sea, to hear the waves churning
in perfect melody. I want to see the great white sail
unfurling to spread across the sky, filling its lungs
with the salty air, pushing us on.
Do not fail us, Eru. We wish to return.
We cannot stay here much longer.
The smell of brine is heavy in the
air. I inhale deeply, sick of the scent
that flows through me but relishing the
cold air and thrashing wind.
The boat is our biggest secret,
forged in the shelter of the steep cliffs
along one nook of the island. It is small but can
hold five grown men and me. We spent months
inconspicuously gathering wood and fashioning
awls to pull together old clothes. Our sail is a dirty
rag and our boat is a piece of driftwood on the
sapphire sea.
Photo by Sabrina Sampson, New Canaan, CT
they told Lewis not to worry. Adrien
was a big boy. He could take care of
himself.
However, Lewis knew in Afghanistan,
Adrien couldn’t. The wind was beginning
to pick up, and the desert could not
be navigated easily. Dust stung Lewis’s
eyes and burned his
throat, leaving him
gasping for air. Adrien
wouldn’t be able to find
his way back. He would
die out there.
The fate of a soldier
largely depends on luck
and the belief that
amidst hell, there is one
thing a man can truly
rely on: his fellow soldiers. It could
have been craziness that led Lewis into
the desert storm, but it was largely faith,
that small string of hope that gives a
soldier the will to live and fight. It was
that small thread of conviction that
eventually led Lewis to Adrien.
It was that
small thread
of conviction
that led Lewis
to Adrien
Our boat
is a piece of
driftwood on
the sapphire sea
Lewis wanted to believe that Adrien
would have starved without him. Adrien
would have wandered aimlessly through
a maze with no end or beginning. He
would have been stuck in limbo, caught
in a brown monotony. Lewis liked to believe
that Adrien would have died without
him; he would have
become a part of the landscape,
his corpse buried
deep in the debris. If Lewis
imagined this, he knew that
the remorse of being a witness
to death in war was
compensated by the fact that
he saved a life. He had succeeded
as a soldier.
• • •
Lewis hears the buzzing of a helicopter
as he is placed onto a bed. He tries to
cock his head to one side, straining to
glimpse Afghanistan one last time. He’s
twenty years old, and he’s about to die.
He thinks about success. He thinks
about the way the large sun recedes
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
If the king’s men knew, we would be dead, struck
down like so many before us. We are meant to carry
on as slaves, not as free men. We were abducted
long before I came into the world, screaming as we
were forced from our blessed isle onto another.
The moon smiles down at us, large and tinged
with ethereal blue and silver, the same
kind Hari would have wanted to see.
As he spoke such words to me on the
night of his death, my face had been
streaked with tears saltier than the sea.
The ones flowing now are joyful – in
memory of Hari and the people of this
island who have been trapped under
rule. They are shed for the ones who
were born and died here, who will never return to
our blessed isle.
I take the wheel and spin, spin. We fly off the
shore, drifting away. I look back over my shoulder
for half a moment, catching a view of the pale
white sheen of faded white crosses spiked in the
sand. I bow my head and look to the moon, the sign
of promise for the future, tears spilling brilliantly
down my face, ruining the cold, commanding demeanor
I had perfected in order to be captain of this
journey home.
Yes, Hari. We’re going home. We will be free.
I want to see the blue moon rise over the sea, to
hear the waves churning in perfect melody.
Here they are, Hari.
We cannot stay here for much longer.
From behind us come shouts of recognition. The
king’s men are on their feet, grabbing their
weapons.
The boat whisks us away into the night, and soon
the angry torches are just twinkling lights in the
distance. We do not celebrate yet, for it is far from
over. We are far from home, and we may not survive
the sea. But it is all right, for we are free.
Propel us off the shore and far, far away – anywhere
but here.
These tears are for your liberation. ✦
behind the clouds at dusk. He thinks
about Adrien and his pointy nose and
bushy eyebrows.
Success is tangible in the most difficult
way to comprehend. Lewis
saved a man whose corpse would
have been lost in a sea of sand.
Now he is the man with a bullet
through his side, and he knows
there is no hope. Yet he is content.
“You don’t have a life ahead of
you.” That’s what his father used
to say, but little did he know that
Lewis’s life would help save another.
He can still picture the
pamphlet very clearly with “success”
written in bold yellow letters.
Success’s full value lies in
the risk. It lies in the foreboding
thought that it may not last, although
the memory is eternal. It
lies in the fact that Adrien will die
some day despite Lewis saving
him. Now he will die an old man.
Success is the swelling of his
The Forum
by Taylor Han, Temecula, CA
Islide into my usual spot at the table,
and it’s pretty crowded. I’m sitting
next to Shyness, who doesn’t make
eye contact and continues eating. Then I
see her.
“You should go talk to her,” Confidence
says.
I nod. He’s absolutely right.
“Are you sure about that? You’ll be
humiliated!” cries Fear.
I pick at my food. He has a good point.
“If you don’t try,
“You
should
go talk
to her”
you’ll never know,”
Curiosity whispers.
Wise words indeed.
Reality stands up and
pours his half-full milk
carton on my head.
I need some new
friends.
Will all of you just shut up!
“Hey, Anger, long time no see!” somebody
yells.
Sanity gets up and leaves the table.
“You should really think about this,”
Doubt mutters.
Seriously! I want you all to leave!
I get my wish. I look down at the end
of the table and see two guys still sitting
there.
“Why are you still here?” I ask.
“I started all of this, and I’m not leaving
until it’s finished,” Love replies.
“And you didn’t really want me gone,”
Hope adds.
I smile. I take a deep breath, stand up,
and walk over to her table.
“Hi.” ✦
chest in pride when every other part of
him is bleeding or broken; it’s the silent
contentment in the final moment when
blackness fades into oblivion. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
Art by Olivia FitzGerald Harewood, Santa Monica, CA
31

How to Fix
the World
They tell me that life is short
So I should set out for all my dreams
And grab any chances that are given
To me.
They tell me to reach for the stars,
To never give up,
And to keep on going even when it seems
Impossible.
They tell me that I am part of the
new generation.
They throw expectations in my face
And tell me I’m supposed to
Fix the world.
And sometimes my dreams seem unrealistic,
And sometimes it does look like
it’s impossible,
And sometimes I’d like to tell them to
Go fix the world themselves,
Since they were the ones who broke it.
They could clean the scab up, and then put
a band-aid around it
Until it heals.
But I look at my hands and realize
I can do much more
Than a band-aid and some rubbing alcohol.
by Adeline Shin,
San Diego, CA
varicella blues
softly April came
into raw meadows and
white, empty
beds
buttercup bundles in glass on the sill
yellow lacquered green
in gray, redbuds and vines, and
bathroom dots foil shine
rotting fruit
basil, Exhale
ex
hail after the storm
ruined zinnias
I could do no wrong
pink-cheeked forgotten on the first day
of blue-sky heat
spinning amusement
park
air
cool light fool
(I have my books to protect me)
two weeks of steam, a sad long-lost scheme.
I plotted
(was she even there?)
a break in adventure
back to pool popsicles
glory forever
O Yes, reply
In dreams
ever overshadowed by lapsing July
by Mavis Davis,
Westwood, KS
32
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12 • POETRY
Alive on 495
As the rain smacks nose-first into
my window,
I’m thinking of that man –
mustache, red baseball cap,
stone-faced with puckered lips
and one hand on the steering wheel.
He sits next to a woman
with the same lips,
and eyes and head-banded hair that
pucker too,
and her arms and chest and eyebrows
and legs follow suit.
She looks sternly out the window,
yet her head is bowed.
I wonder if she’s thinking of the
juxtaposition of the Yankee Candle
air freshener
dangling daintily from the rearview mirror
of his hauling black Ford pick-up.
I wonder how she managed to convince him
to hang it
(she offered to shut up?)
and if she’s taken into account that it hasn’t
been taken out of its plastic wrapping.
It can’t be covering up the
socks, sweat, cologne, blood, jeans,
lip gloss, rust, mildew, French fry
salt, perfume.
Maybe
she finds it blackly humorous,
will use it for fuel the next time she’s
convincing him of his ineptitude
when the rejection for another job arrives,
and he blows a breath through his
nonexistent bangs
and curtly accuses her “What are you
sighing about?”
Or they sit on plastic seat coverings
obstructed from my view,
and their couch at home is onioned in them,
each peel for a different occasion,
and bubble wrap taped to the cat.
It seems necessary to keep the air freshener
padded from experiencing, too.
Or she’s been praying to Jesus again,
since all the last times she asked him to
send a sign of whether she should leave,
there was a blue jay outside her window.
This time,
it’s when he doesn’t take the wrapping
off that she’ll pack up.
Tomorrow, certainly, then, he’ll chuckle
and reach out to rip it off
then kiss her full on the lips.
Tomorrow, certainly, tomorrow
Color will flood her cheeks, then,
flood her life, then.
Or maybe she’s resenting her mother-inlaw’s
choice of cinnamon.
She would’ve gone for vanilla.
Or maybe she should have gone for the
old man in the Mini Cooper,
grinning with his window down,
hauling 65,
tapping the wheel with his palms to
the oldies station,
letting the rain drip from his chin down
the collar of his shirt.
by Hannah Joseph, Bolton, MA
Chess
Check.
You messaged me and I didn’t respond.
Check.
I called you and it went straight
to voicemail.
Check.
I texted you and you responded right away.
Check.
I reached for your hand.
Check.
You leaned in for a kiss.
Mate.
by Daniel Kort, Encino, CA
Ars Poetica
Tuesday afternoon, I may
sit with Mary Oliver at the ivy-laced
table where the garden
descends into wilderness.
She would explain the far-slung
call of geese, or faint spider-web
paths through the forest or,
perhaps, where in the tree
she hides her pencils – by root,
under limb? And occasionally we may fall
into a dewdrop silence,
where the only words spoken are
whispers from the woods.
Or, Friday night, at some singledigit
hour, when light clings to
the silhouette of a broken bartender
and skates along the lined glasses,
I may discover Billy Collins
in the shadowed corner, retelling a story –
sweet hints of humor, but laden
with the tragedy of an unoccupied barstool,
the discarded newspaper, or
when night is softest,
sometime between Wednesday and Thursday,
on some forgotten field listening to Rilke:
his voice lifted, the surreal
rustlings of German like
the touch of poison ivy to skin,
words blooming and crystallizing
in the emptiness between the stars,
an umbrella over the occasional plane
wandering into the zodiac. And so many others
to carry by embrace, to understand
that a poet is not a creator,
but a listener, one
who watches and waits
like October’s feigned slumber; one who,
rarely, may hold a shadow of the world
in a sentence’s confines.
by Kunal Sangani, Fayetteville, NY
Curiosity
I wonder –
What truths lay behind those
quivering hands,
The Smoothness of your palms
And the ridges of your fingers.
I have yet to know your
imprint whole
by Naomi Mahdere,
Calgary, AB, Canada
Reflections
The babbling brook burned a hole through
the dock
And the teacher burst the children’s chalk
like the
Fourth of July with the fireworks
going off all over the
sky, the pastor looks at me and says,
“Son, your mother was born to die.”
Smiling, soaring, sinning; But men must lie
in an ashen cocoon,
Words were fed to me
Like a soup ate from a fool with no spoon.
Hurdling horses
Cursing crooks,
Weeping trees, the
Widow leaves the
Harlots and the heavens and the
Sunsets and seas,
And the mermaids crowned with wreaths
Sing their chant from the trench of
the deep,
Sing their song, drenched in the deep
blue seas, never-ending sea.
by Clay Dubberly, Stafford, VA
Antithesis
Show me your mirror and I’ll cast a
shadow unforeseen
Keep me awake forever and I’ll forecast
an unholy dream
Push me under water and I’ll always find
a way to breathe
Hold me silent and I’ll hear; Blind me
and I’ll find a way to see
That I’m the one who will not die
Not the one to slip under the tension
Growing younger as I age
A face in the crowd and still on center stage
It’s not good-bye if you want to see
them again
These memories will kill you every now
and then
Give me a trick to perform one way 100 times
And I’ll recreate your life 100 ways
without a lie
Pen and paper as my sword and shield
Always want to fall away and always
want to heal
That I’m the one who will not die
Not the one to slip under the tension
Growing younger as I age
A face in the crowd and still on center stage
It’s not good-bye if you want to see
them again
These memories will kill you every now
and then
When I am born anew into a new life
I breathe
Behind the curtains I am the magician with
every trick up his sleeve
by Brandon Woodhouse,
New London, CT
Photo by Amandine Riche, Paris, France

Funerals
I. I was two and a half.
I remember black clothes and tall people,
family people, shoveling dirt down a
deep, deep hole, and my mother
standing in the back of the crowd,
holding my hand just-too-tight
and letting her tears for her mother
drip down
onto my bewildered face.
II. I saw Felicia
the Fish turn into a
magical orange spiral,
glinting in the whirlpool.
My five-year-old head craned
for a better look.
III. When our urban friends buried
their beloved
guinea pig, Fifi, in a shallow grave in our
frozen backyard, I was seven
and studying.
IV. At ten,
I watched my mother
and aunt and uncle
symbolically rend pieces of black cloth
they had pinned to their clothes.
I wished that I had
something to rip, too.
That time I also sent a
shovel of dirt
down the deep, deep hole
to where my grandfather lay,
in the Jewish tradition, and, a year later,
placed a
cold, icy pebble
on his gravestone.
by Sarah Rubock, Pelham, NY
The Social Network
A generation where conversations are rarely
held by word of mouth
But what do you expect?
Computers block the path from one person
to the next
Distance is no match for these machines
Each of us has been infected by the disease
Friend requests over friendships
Gaining followers is all that matters
Hey, hi, how are you
Ignorance is bliss
“K” is not a word
“Love you!” but do I?
Meaning hides behind the print on
the screen
No feeling, no expression
Our intentions are all masked
Post after post, no one can stop reading
Queen of the world, the Internet reigns
Respect of privacy? Of others?
Social networking has no mercy
Thoughts unleashed, consequences forgotten
Under 140 characters is all it takes
Vultures claw at the keyboard, preying
on those who are different
Words are the ultimate wound
X-rays don’t show sign of this kind of damage
You might not realize the effects of your
next status
Zero characters remaining; maybe you
should rephrase that
by Angeli Rodriguez, Davie, FL
Art by Micayla Mead, Vestavia Hills, AL
amber
oh, and you don’t tie my tongue –
you freeze it
you frame it in a box, like amber
I imagine a wide-eyed child at my exhibit:
“Mommy, can I touch?”
“No, dear. You’ll damage it.”
but can’t you hear my blood?
I breathe, I promise you I live
I am not amber, I
am blood am flesh am guts am bone
marvel, I speak!
oh, when my tongue melts,
I tell you – how very earthly.
I tell you, I’m no steel or stone,
no tyger I, no jewel upon a pedestal.
mime and mute, I struggle
against a wind I cannot see
let me out of this box!
I tap fruitless on the pane,
you just laugh and feed me peanuts.
“Oh it again!”
you mistake my wails and wauls
for smiles, waves, cat calls
when will you learn
you cannot hold me here.
oh, you might have me for now, darling,
but feed me one more time,
come closer
come see what big teeth I have.
I am blood am guts am flesh –
and I’ll see yours excised.
yes, try, keep that cage locked tight
come see my show tonight,
let’s dance in amber light
be still, my tongue and teeth!
oh, captive artist, I draw my bars
but are you so certain of the traps I’ve laid?
oh, come see me pout and purr
come closer
toss me tidbits from the snack machine
I’ll wait for you, oh yes
come laugh at
my obvious trap
I’m waiting for that fatal
snap.
by Elena Milin, New York, NY
Sweet Sleep
Dreams and phantasms
behind your closed eyes at night.
Secure your psyche.
by Marissa Squires, Athens, MI
Fireflies
We are huddled beneath the forsythia
Fireflies in a jar
Bustling around like plastic wind-up toys
Stuck under a cage of branches
The sky is small droplets of blue
Golden strands of flowers above
Like Mother’s pearl necklace
Squishing up leaves like papers on the
last day of school
We make only the finest dishes
On rocks of china
Milkweed for garnish
A cardinal creeps in the branches
With mocking eyes
Like a thief to our innocence
It plucks a twig from our sacred home
Adds it to his own
We hollow out the bush
Our own cave
Small backs against the brick
Our haven grows
And the bush becomes a frail crust over us
Droplets of sky
Turn to lakes
The golden strands are swallowed
As we grow
The old forsythia is strange now
Hollowed from the inside
And spindly like morning hair on top
It hovers over a few rocks
And some plastic Easter eggs
That fell through the small dome of youth
We are fireflies that flew from that cage
Into the endless ocean of blue
by Anonymous, Bloomington, IN
My Grandpa
My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor talks about the past
as if life came and gone away,
and fled him all too fast.
Instead he tells us anecdotes
from bouts of yesteryear,
applies them to our future woes
and morrow becomes clear.
My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor makes his life his lead,
nor yearns for golden reservoirs
to mollify a greed.
Instead he finds affinity
quelling all from anguish,
anger, ailment, and affliction;
To meliorate, his wish.
My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor unsheathes fists in wrath,
labors o’er no altercation,
nor judges in dispatch.
Instead he boldly molds and holds,
repairing ailing hearts.
He uses hands to reconstruct;
his fingers conjoin parts.
My grandpa smells not of cigar
but of ambrosia, sweet.
With gentle mouth and yellow eye,
his touch endures, replete.
by Zac Krause, Madison, WI
Step Whatever
And a kiss is step one of seduction, she says.
I think she’s wrong, I think she had me
with the glow of her skin with the
window open,
and the way her black hair caught the light
like the feathers of a starling, bottle green
and purple,
or the curve of her forearm against a
half-written essay,
gathering smudges like a skin of ink,
telling stories to me and herself,
cap between her teeth.
I think she had me when the side of her hand
nudged mine on the sidewalk, not slipping
in but a test,
and when she lounged on my floor with
all the popcorn,
and the sun from the open window made
the whole room
glow orange peach, and her most of all,
or the way she looked when she dropped
her eyes from me,
and then flicked them back up, teeth in her
lower lip,
pretending to be shy because I really was.
Or that first step out into the rain,
when the sky was the color of the word
Scheherazade,
and her eyes dropped to my mouth,
but we didn’t kiss,
because that’s step one or two hundred,
and we were on
step fifty – friends, people who sing
together and carry
each other’s voices in our throats, not only
for a grade
but because we love the smooth honey glide
of it in our ears.
And when we did reach step one or
two hundred,
it was sizzling and electric and made us silly
and half-drunk,
but it was a continuation, of step fifty and
step seventeen,
and step one, the glow of skin in an open
window,
because the first step is always just noticing
everything that’s worth noticing about a person,
and things just follow on from there.
by Beatrice Waterhouse,
Santa Rosa, CA
Dress
Two pins and it’s all fixed.
Zip up the back, stick some
Toilet paper in.
Don’t rub, pat
The nuclear waste
Across your face
For a healthy glow
That
Is what we’re here for
That
Is what we’ve come to do
Wasting minutes by the mirror.
Dress to impress you.
A pill a day
Keeps the worries away
So you don’t have to worry
like we do.
by Jocelyn Manns, Murray Hill, NJ
POETRY • SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
33

fiction
34
Inside the Pink Room by Olivia Stein, Stockbridge, MA
Every school has “the pretty
committee.” These girls get all
the guys, all the girls, and a
manual of how to live life stored in
their push-up bras. There’s nothing
worse than being the new kid in their
path.
It wasn’t even first period, and I
could already feel everyone sizing me
up, trying to predict which social category
I would fall into. I stared at the
tile floor.
I heard a decrescendo of chatter,
and looked toward the
door. Four girls strutted
in and headed toward the
empty cluster of chairs in
the middle of the room
that practically had their
crowns floating above
them.
I knew immediately who they were.
They demanded respect and radiated
charisma, even as they made it
their goal in life to stomp everyone
else to the ground.
“Oh my god, guys, guess what happened.
So I was in Bermuda and this
girl walked by wearing the ugliest
bikini. It was so gross!” one girl
gushed, as if this was the greatest
catastrophe.
Art by Zahra Fardin, Dearborn Heights, MI
As I listened, my stomach
clenched. I prayed they wouldn’t talk
about me.
As if they had heard my thoughts,
the girl with doe eyes turned toward
me. She examined me as if trying to
decide whether I was good enough to
talk to. “Hey,” she said in a singsong
voice, flashing me a brilliant smile.
“Are you new?”
I felt warm under her attention.
“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound confident.
I knew this was a test.
The other girls stopped comparing
manicures and stared.
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
I could already
feel everyone
sizing me up
“Where are you from?” asked a girl
with perfect red curls.
“New York City,” I said proudly,
knowing this would earn me brownie
points.
And sure enough … “Oh my god,
New York City is amazing!” “You’re
so lucky!” they squealed.
I smiled as my stomach un-knotted.
“So, do you see celebrities like, all
the time?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometimes.”
“So you must go shop-
ping like, every day,
right?”
I nodded, not regretting
this little white lie.
They sighed in envy.
“You’re so lucky. So what
are you doing here?”
My smile faltered as I struggled to
find the most impressive answer. “Oh,
my mom just got transferred,” I lied.
They all nodded politely and turned
back to their own conversations. Even
as they ignored me, I felt a glimpse of
hope that maybe I could fit in here.
• • •
I walked up the steps of my porch,
saving today’s good memories for
later comfort. Opening the door, I saw
my mother sitting cross-legged on the
floor, cigarette in hand, a sea of
ripped paper surrounding her. Her
eyes were closed, so I dropped my
backpack loudly on the floor.
She looked up with glassy eyes.
“Hi, baby,” she rasped.
“Hi, Mom. Everything okay?”
She looked disoriented, as if she
couldn’t remember how she got here.
I took the cigarette from her hand and
put it in the ashtray. I winced as I
swiped a lingering ember from my
finger, and knew it would burn.
Her tears dripped onto my shoulder
as I pulled her close – like I did every
time she had an episode. I shifted my
leg so it wouldn’t fall asleep.
“I can’t do this anymore!” she
wailed.
I sighed inwardly. We’d been reading
this script for years now, and I just
wanted the show to be over. “Mom,
we moved here so you could relax.
Everything is fine. There is nothing to
worry about,” I soothed.
As she shook, I looked around our
new house. It was dingy, the white
paint peeling to reveal pink flamingo
wallpaper. The floors creaked and the
shutters banged against the windows
at night, which meant that Mom
would crawl into bed with me most of
the time.
As her tears subsided, Mom wiped
her eyes, her hair frizzing around her
face. She slowly got to her feet and
headed to the kitchen to start “dinner.”
Most nights something would
burn and Mom would have another
meltdown, leaving me in charge of
making the mac-and-cheese.
A telephone ring brought me back
to the present, and I picked up the ancient
device attached to the wall.
“Hello?”
“Hey girl! What’s up?”
A smile stretched across my face as
I realized it was Alexa, the doe-eyed
girl from school.
I leaned against the wall and
twisted the phone cord around my finger.
“Oh, nothing much,” I said
vaguely, wishing the phrase sounded
cooler.
There was cold moment of silence.
“Cool. Oh my gosh, so after school I
went to the mall and got this
adoooorable dress. David is totally
going to notice me tomorrow ….”
I was suddenly aware that smoke
was billowing from the kitchen.
“What do you think?” Alexa was
asking.
“Uh … that sounds great!” I managed,
praying that was sufficient.
“Okay, good,” she said, and I
sighed with relief.
“Soooo, who do you like?”
The smoke was increasing, so I
rushed into the kitchen. Mom stood
against the wall, hyperventilating. I
had about one minute ’til meltdown.
“Um, no one right now,” I said as I
turned off the stove and flapped at the
smoke with a dishtowel. I was grateful
the cord was long as I ran around
opening windows so the smoke alarm
wouldn’t go off.
Alexa laughed.
Beeeeep! Beeeep! Beeeep!
I cursed under my breath as Mom
sunk to the floor, covering her ears.
“Naomi? Everything okay?” Alexa
asked.
I stood on the table
and unplugged the fire
alarm. “Um, yes, but I
have to go. See you tomorrow!”
I hung up.
Mom was full-out
wailing now, eerie and
high-pitched like a wild
animal. No matter how
many times I heard that sound, it
haunted me. I was glad Alexa
couldn’t hear it.
I rushed over to the curled-up ball
on the floor I knew was holding its
breath. “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy,” I
hummed – when she got like this, I
couldn’t bear to call her Mom.
I uncurled her, forcing her to sit up.
I took hold of her chin and made her
look at me. “Breathe,” I commanded,
and Mom’s face slowly gained its
color. “You’re on a white beach with
palm trees,” I told her, using a trick
I’d read online.
Mom choked back tears and
For once, I had
a feeling I
wasn’t going
to get burned
finally relaxed.
“You’re okay,” I said, as I had
many times before. But what Mom
didn’t know was that every time I said
it, I was talking to myself too. “I’m
okay,” I said again.
• • •
“Naomi!” Alexa screeched as I entered
the chaos of the cafeteria. She
waved her manicured fingers.
I crossed to where the “golden”
table was, and I could feel all eyes on
me. I could practically read everybody’s
thoughts. The new girl is sitting
with them? Who does she think
she is?
But I had been invited, right? I
brushed the thought away as I sat next
to Alexa, slowly enough to give them
time to change their minds. But there
wasn’t even a break in the chatter.
Heated gossip thickened the space between
them. It was as if these girls
had their own ozone layer. The sun
was hot, but for once, I had a feeling I
wasn’t going to get burned.
“So, guess what? This weekend my
parents are going to some fancy event
and didn’t invite me, so I think we
should have, like, the best party
ever!” Leah exclaimed.
“Naomi, you should come,” Alexa
said, and gave me a smile that made
me feel like I was the most important
person in the world.
“Yeah, sure,” Leah said. Her smile
was not as genuine, but I was in.
• • •
The bass pounded as I stood at the
snack table, munching chips. The
lights were off in Leah’s huge living
room, but I could see the glow of cell
phones in pockets. Standing in the
corner, I had a good view of the dance
floor. A couple was shyly dancing.
Their movement seemed
new to them. I could tell
she was trying to be sexy
as she pulled his collar
closer and he inched his
fingers up her shirt. I
smiled when they leaned
in to kiss. Lips locked,
they went into the next
room and their spot on
the dance floor was quickly filled.
I leaned on the snack table and put
my hand on my hip in what I hoped
was a sexy pose. But I was going to
have to do something really impressive
to attract attention. I laughed inwardly
as I envisioned myself
shimmying on top of the table, or
puckering my lips at some hot guy,
and I knew I would never do either.
“Naomi!” I heard someone screech,
and a shape danced over to me.
“Hi, Alexa,” I said loudly over the
music, smiling with gratitude.
“Having fun?” Her makeup was
perfect, her lips outlined ➤➤
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM

lood red.
I nodded.
“So …” Alexa continued, smiling
slyly, “who have you been dancing
with?”
“Um, no one has asked me yet.”
Her mouth dropped. “Oh my god,
come on!” she exclaimed, pulling my
hand toward the dance floor. “I think
Tony is single.”
Surprising myself, I followed her,
weaving through the sweaty bodies as
my stomach protested every step. What
was I doing? Just as Alexa pushed me
toward Tony, I felt my pocket vibrate. I
ignored it as he flashed me a smile that
made my legs wobble.
He reached out to take
my hand, and our eyes
locked. Alexa, satisfied
with her handiwork, disappeared.
My phone vibrated
again, and it took every
muscle I had to reach into
my pocket to see who it
was. I wasn’t surprised. Smiling apologetically
at Tony, I raced up the stairs to
the pink room.
“Mom?” I said, Tony’s dark eyes still
fresh in my memory, his white teeth …
“Where are you?” she asked, slightly
frantic, as if she had just realized I was
gone. I walked to the window and could
see the sky was a deep black, the rain
falling in torrents. The trees crashed
against each other. A big branch
scratched the window, and I jumped
back. “I’m at Leah’s party.
I told you I would be home by 11,” I
said, knowing she did not remember.
“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed.
I sighed, sitting on the bed. I don’t
think either of us knew what to say.
I had never been to a party like this. I
had a few friends in the city, but they
were more like people I hung around because
it was better than being alone.
I had never had a best friend. And suddenly,
I realized with a pang of guilt, I
didn’t want to be suffocated by my
mother’s needs anymore.
“Will you be okay until I get back?
Did you close the windows?”
I heard a cough. “Obviously. Do you
think I’m dumb or something?”
“No, of course not. I’ll be home at 11,
okay?”
The line went dead before I got the
last word out. She always hung up first,
as if to prove she didn’t need me. Alexa
stepped into the room. “Oh, hey
Naomi!” she exclaimed. “What happened
to Tony?”
I shoved my phone in my pocket.
“Oh, it didn’t really work out,” I said
casually.
She raised one eyebrow, a trick I envied.
“Really,” she said slowly, clearly
skeptical. “So who were you talking
to?”
“My mom,” I admitted reluctantly.
“Oh?” She seemed genuinely concerned.
Maybe this was the reason I told
her the truth.
I didn’t want to
be suffocated
by my mother’s
needs anymore
“Um, my mom is kind of … needy.”
She nodded. “I know what you
mean.”
How? “Yeah,” I continued, “she has,
like, nervous breakdowns or something.”
I snapped my lips closed, angry I
had let my guard down so easily.
But I was surprised when Alexa said,
“Yeah, I hear ya.” She walked over to
the window, pulling the curtain aside to
reveal the raging storm. “My mom’s
pretty messed up too.” She bit her lip,
keeping her gaze trained on the tree outside.
“Really?” I had seen her mom dropping
her off at the party. She had looked
beautiful, charismatic. “But
your mom is so-”
“Perfect?” Alexa shook
her head. “Far from it. Let’s
just say my dad isn’t the
most peaceful man, okay?”
“Oh.”
She took a deep breath,
grabbing a lip gloss off the
dresser and swiping it
across her lips. “Like, he’s violent.
You’re not the only one with a dysfunctional
family,” she said bluntly, casually
stowing the gloss in her bra.
I could see she was also terrified to
have let her guard down. We stood there
a minute in silent understanding. The
mood quickly turned as she said, “I
swear to God, Naomi, if you tell
anyone …”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Like, not even Leah or Cecilia,
okay? Because I just don’t know that
they would even understand, and like-”
“I promise,” I said quickly.
She looked relieved as she snapped
back to the present. “Well, I promised
David I would dance with him …”
She left the sentence hanging as she
tossed her hair and left the room.
I stood on the pink rug for a few more
minutes, still surprised that someone so
perfect could have a secret so ugly. And
that made me wonder – does everyone
have something to hide?
• • •
When I returned to the dance floor,
the volume had lowered considerably. I
searched the mass of bodies for a familiar
face and saw Leah standing with a
boy in a doorway. He kept whispering
suggestively and trying to hook his
hands around her waist as she pushed
him away. He looked like trouble.
I felt strangely protective as he took
her face and pressed his lips to hers. The
contact was only broken when she delivered
a painful stomp on his foot with her
three-inch heel. She wiped her mouth
and was about to walk away when he
grabbed her angrily. As she struggled,
my eyes flickered to another body
quickly crossing the dance floor.
I crossed the room.
Alexa grabbed Leah and said calmly,
“Go to the kitchen,” then turned to
the boy with venom in her eyes.
“And you,” she growled, thrusting a
manicured finger at his chest, “get out
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
of here and stay away from Leah.”
The guy laughed. “What are you
going to do, b--ch? Beat me up?”
“I’m sorry, is there a problem over
here?” I asked in my most authoritative
voice, crossing my arms as an afterthought.
He answered for Alexa. “Yeah, this
one’s making trouble. I was having a
nice evening and she brings her white
ass over here-”
I turned to Alexa. “Do we need to call
the police?”
I knew that would be the magic word.
He laughed nervously. “You wouldn’t
do that, not when everyone is having
such a nice time.”
I whipped out my cell phone and
started to dial, though I had no intention
of calling anyone. A threat usually
calmed someone down in the middle
of a freak-out – I knew that from
lots of experience.
“Okay, okay. I’m outta here,” he
said. “This party sucks anyway.”
Alexa turned to me. “Thanks,”
she mumbled. “Men are jerks.”
When our eyes met, I could see
that this incident had struck a little
too close to home, and it would probably
take a while before her heart
stopped racing. We headed toward
the kitchen, where the girls were
comforting Leah.
“Naomi totally saved our asses,”
Alexa said with a sad smile. I could
tell she was putting on a brave face,
a face I was all too familiar with.
Just then, my phone buzzed angrily,
and my stomach dropped: it
was 10:59. I read the text from my
mom: “Where are you?” I wished I
could just be here.
As I turned to say good-bye, Leah exclaimed,
“But the party isn’t over yet!
How could you leave?”
I didn’t know myself. But I made an
excuse about a dumb curfew, glancing
over at Alexa, who was circling the rim
of a water glass with her finger. “Bye,” I
said, waving, before stepping out into
the street. Well, this is just my luck, I
thought as the rain poured
down on my newly straight-
ened hair.
• • •
On Monday morning I
smiled and waved when I
saw “my group” in front of
school. But they didn’t look
thrilled to see me. “Hi guys,” I said cautiously
as I turned to Alexa.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she asked,
giving me her I-can-do-no-wrong
expression.
I tried a different approach. “What did
everyone say about me after I left?”
She tucked a piece of hair behind her
ear. “Oh, you know, they just wanted to
know why you ditched.”
“And did you tell them?” I asked
nervously.
She didn’t miss a beat before saying,
“Naomi, I had to. They wouldn’t stop
“Is it true
your mom
is crazy?”
asking, and I couldn’t keep it
from them. They’re my best
friends.”
I gasped.
“Well,” she said, clearly
moving on to the next subject,
“I have to get to class. Mr.
Ruben has the patience of,
like, a flea, and I’m on his
good side now,” she joked.
Alexa walked off, leaving
behind a lingering cloud of
perfume and betrayal. I stood
in the courtyard, trying to
cough away both.
I managed to make it
through a blur of classes and
some restrained tears, but by
lunchtime, I was ready to selfdestruct.
I carefully sat at my
Photo by Emily Lamontagne, Springfield, VA
“usual” lunch table, but I felt as foreign
as I had on the first day.
After a few beats of silence someone
blurted in a high-pitched voice, “So is it
true your mom is crazy?” I whipped
around to glare at Alexa, but she was
suddenly intrigued by a hangnail. Does
she feel anything? I wondered.
I had never felt so alone and exposed.
If this was friendship, I was sure that I
wasn’t missing anything. Since
there was absolutely no chance
Alexa would come to my rescue,
I got up, threw out my uneaten
lunch, and headed for the
bathroom. Curled up in the
corner of a stall, I fell apart.
I would like to say that
Alexa rushed in and we cried together
about the hardships of our families. But
this was the real world, and I was left to
wipe my own tears.
It was clear I was one hundred percent
alone, and I would just have to do
my best. Alexa and the rest of the girls
weren’t perfect, but I had never felt like
I belonged more. Since Alexa wasn’t
brave enough to face her own secrets, it
was up to me to find a friend who was.
Somehow, in the insanity of what I had
just been through, I had learned how to
be a friend. And it was up to me now to
find one who deserved me. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
35

fiction
36
Symbiosis by Nina Wagner, Pound Ridge, NY
His feet pounded hard and without effort in
tattered sneakers, racing faster than his
thoughts. He watched and listened as his
breath appeared, frosty whispers in front of him – in
and out, in and out – following the rhythm of leftfoot-right-foot-left-foot-right.
The pounding of his
feet, his chest, drowned out the thoughts, and if
there were tears, they were from the wind whipping
its retaliation in his face.
He reached the corner and checked his watch,
knowing he needed to be back soon. They’d wonder
where he’d been, but the question pertained more to
the list of responsibilities he had failed to fulfill than
whether he was okay.
Okay was a strange word. It peeked
its head up in his SAT-ready vocabulary
with meek rarity. There was
plenty of space in the Gilmore
household – his mother preferred a
squared-away, minimalist look – but
there was no room for “okay.”
Craig did not pause long enough to
catch his breath for fear his thoughts
would catch up too. He made his way back, less
vigor in his pace now; the best part of his day was
over. Dinner would be served soon.
As he approached the house, his mind was alight
with lucidity. He had always endured the nightly
family dinner in numbness, stabbing at slabs of
chicken and answering his parents’ questions in a
voice that was not his. Today, however, he promised
himself a new awareness. His teachers had always
been his main source of wisdom, his firmest and
most encouraging beacons of light, so when his
English teacher assigned that they only be aware and
present as they went about their evening, he took on
Art by Callie Fink, Tustin, CA
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12 • POETRY
Whoever said
both organisms
must benefit
equally?
the task with a vengeance. He would examine his
family, his study habits, his every inhale- exhale as
he studied, ate, and spoke. Perhaps then he would
begin to understand why everything felt so wrong.
Craig turned the doorknob and was immediately
overwhelmed with the familiar Gilmore household.
Bright lights slashed like knives across clean white
surfaces, glaring at him as if this were his own personal
arena, in which through no choice of his own
he must perform, and perform well. He inhaled air
tinged with pine-scented air freshener – his mother’s
favorite – and listened closely as his every step, no
matter how gingerly made, disturbed the careful
quiet that permeated the house. As
usual, his mother was in the kitchen,
and as he approached she looked up
expectantly.
“Your books are all over the dining
room table,” she said in her quiet, expressionless
voice of authority. “Kindly
put them away and set the table. Dinner
will be served in ten minutes.”
As he walked away he wondered, as
he often did, whether most mothers were this immovable
cement foundation. There had to be some
emotion, hadn’t there? She had come from a broken
home, his father had told him in one of his more
candid moments of tipsy, and she wanted nothing
more than to maintain absolute perfection within her
house and all its inhabitants. So when she called one
SAT tutor after another and sent out scholarship applications
and pushed him into extracurricular activities
she deemed ideal, he could never be sure
whether it was him or his successes she loved.
Among the binders, notebooks, and textbooks
sprawled across the dining room table was his AP
Biology textbook, open to a chapter on symbiotic relationships.
It caught his eye, and he paused. Symbiosis
naturally occurred between members of
different species, and yet he felt there was nothing
more relevant to his interactions with his fellow
members of the human race. Craig was a scientist, a
philosopher, a psychoanalyst – in his own mind, at
least – and so he began to observe.
“When’s dinner?” a voice bel-
lowed from down the hall. “I’m
starved.”
My father, the parasite, Craig
thought. And aren’t we all his hosts?
When they were all seated around
the table, staring at the well-dressed
salad and the roasted chicken that
gleamed with his mother’s sauce,
Craig’s dad was the first to dig in.
“So!” His voice as usual was several
decibels louder than the situation called for, and
yet his words were so heavily slurred that he still
could not be easily understood. “How was everyone’s
day?”
“Great! My gymnastics meet was phenomenal!”
Piper chimed in, her eyes flashing brightly. A
spunky, spritely girl of twelve, she never let a silence
pass uninterrupted, especially one as uncomfortable
as a Gilmore silence.
“Win any medals?” her father asked between sips
of beer.
“Well, yes. Gold,” she said with reluctance, eyeing
the bottle in his hand with distaste. “But that’s
not the point. It was fun!”
If there were anyone with whom his relationship
could be described as mutualistic, in which both
Craig was
a scientist,
a philosopher,
a psychoanalyst –
in his own mind
parties benefited, it was Piper. While still in middle
school, she excelled in all her classes, and when it
came to gymnastics she was, to use her word, phenomenal.
Don’t try so hard in middle school, he
used to tell her. It doesn’t matter yet. But this was
where she differed from him.
Piper pushed herself because she wanted to, because
her endless ambition was an end in its own
right. Her cynical insights about the world Craig
was drowning in kept him afloat; her hopeful inquisitiveness
helped him believe that his senseless struggle
for brilliance ultimately had some purpose; her
humor made him calm when his stomach churned
with thoughts of the future and failure, words that
were almost synonymous in his mind.
He, in return, drove her to her friends’ houses.
After all, Craig reasoned, whoever said both organisms
must benefit equally?
Soon enough, the interrogator’s eyes were onto
him, and thoughts of Piper slipped away. He answered
his father’s inquiries with an awareness he
had never had before, and he made note, as if in a
lab report, of the way his heart raced when his father
asked about his math grades and the way his spine
stiffened when his father scoffed about his jog.
A football hero and champion boxer in high
school, his father had been the one who taught Craig
to push himself to his physical limits as well as his
mental ones. Yet he scoffed at running, dismissing it
as a pastime for cowards afraid to do battle with
anyone but themselves. In Craig’s mind, that was
the most valiant and futile battle of all.
His mother was the one who silenced Mr.
Gilmore. With a wave of her hand and a quiet
“That’s enough about Craig, Mike,” she restored the
orderly clinking of forks and scraping of knives that
the Gilmores found comforting. Craig looked at her,
puzzled over her lack of investment. To him, she
was a vast, expressionless whale, and the rest of
them barnacles that clung to her stable surface. Her
husband’s decline from high school sweetheart and
local hero to town drunk had affected her about as
much as the emotional breakdown of an ant on the
sidewalk. Her son’s successes garnered no reaction
beyond an obligatory pat on the back.
Some biologists claimed that commensalism
– symbiosis that benefitted one
party and left the other unaffected –
was possible only in theory, but Craig
believed he had an example right here.
After the nightly questions were
over, the dishes scraped clean, and the
chairs pushed in neatly, Craig retreated
to the upstairs bathroom, where he removed
his shirt and stared himself
down in the mirror. There was a hint of his father
when Craig looked closely; he found it in his dark
hair, his pale skin, and his hazel eyes that burned
with determination. But where his father seemed
chiseled out of stone, Craig’s jaw was pointed, his
cheeks gaunt and elongated, as if his visage took the
permanent shape of a close-lipped gasp. Where his
father’s muscles rippled, Craig’s clung apologetically
to calcium-supplemented bones, and where his
father was alabaster, Craig was putty. He searched
his face with the pain at the resemblance and relief
at the differences. He was a host, not a parasite; he
was no high school burnout. His flame had only just
begun to burn, he told himself as he stepped into the
shower, and it would not be extinguished anytime
soon. ✦

In the Place
That Kept Me
The fog hung heavy, high on the hill
In the place that kept me
I can see the pink of the roses, still
Just as they were as I watched from my
window’s sill –
Red berries move in ’round them,
come June.
The way was simpler there, and sweet
In the place that kept me
Time rolled over in the winding street
It waved and shook like the golden wheat –
The wheat grows thick on the countryside.
St. John’s wort curled against the wall
In the place that kept me
The black bird’s feathers would loosen
and fall
In the evening when he came to call his call –
He comes, still, though I am gone.
A yellow dog dozed beneath the sun
In the place that kept me
She came to understand that her races
were won
So she lay in the grass till day was done –
A gray cat comes, now, to sit in her place.
A leaf was pulled down the shallow stream
In the place that kept me
Its ripples faded in evening’s gleam
It played, like us, against the highest regime
And I will burn off, like so much
morning mist.
by Felix Hackett,
Arcata, CA
Through the Marsh
A mink floats through the sparkling water.
His slender body shines – brown fur slicked
back. His whiskers twitch into a smile.
I notice a huge mass of leaves clogging
up the river ahead of him. The current
is too strong for him to turn around now.
What’ll
happen when he runs into it? Will he
be sucked in?
Will he get tangled and drown?
I watch with bated breath as he arrives
to this death trap.
He dips under the water and pops
up on the other side, showing hardly
any effort.
I smile to myself. If only our lives
were that simple; if only we could duck
under our problems and leave them behind.
Instead, we have to fight our way through
the marsh
before we can go back to floating.
by Caroline Victor,
Rolla, MO
Behind Closed
Doors
Purple rain
Flooding the battlefield.
Slaughtered plums
Gushing wisdom,
The wisdom
Of the dead,
Sharing the honor
With the fallen ones.
Bleeding –
Fuchsia blood,
Mixing in with
The foggy amethyst,
Gunpowder still fresh
In their chest.
Dying for us –
An honorable death.
Purple hearts
Scatter the field
Twice over.
Some
Still hanging on,
Praying.
An argument,
Wine spilled
Among friends –
Turning into
A war,
Blood poured
Among enemies.
The exaggeration of it all,
What happens
Behind closed doors
Doesn’t always
Stay
Behind closed doors.
by Julia Fronterhouse, Fayetteville, AR
2:45 on the Train
Because once there
were the subway cars,
the plastic seats
whittled like wooden ships
in orange and drenched
in waves of fluorescence.
Here in the time between
waking and dreaming,
remembering and seeing
through the nostalgic
haze of dust in my
glasses.
The same plastic as the seats
covered in fingerprints,
shining like fallen stars.
Because once in this time
with the rumble-rumble
and squeaking of the subway
train in the city
when your head
lolled to the side in sleep
at 2:45 in the morning.
The angle of your neck
I will never forget.
Against the backdrop
of orange plastic subway
seats, sweaty and sticky
in the time right before morning.
by Audrey Metzger, Delaware, OH
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
An Invitation
to Silence
If silence was never invited
Then why does it follow, to capture a chance
To darken their will, be their trance
Like time, always moving, but yet frozen
Like a shadow, it creeps into every crevice
It is as empty as a black abyss
But this is something we can never foretell
For it doesn’t listen very well
I say man to all
Who cannot gather such knowledge
Shall be their fall
For a wise man will know what to do
When this silence is upon you
But a fool and only a fool
Will never know what to do
When it comes to this
An invitation to silence
by Angel Phan, Paris, TN
Summer Nights
Warm days and warmer nights,
Silent dreams of love and fear
Drifting by while stars begin to dance
along the cool, calm sky
Trees sway to the rhythm of the wind
while owls croak and crickets sing,
Both harmonizing with the soft, slow
melodies of this summer night’s wind
The world snores faintly against my ear.
Even the City that never sleeps is visited
by Hypnos and Morpheus, the gods
of dreams
The only sounds still around are those of
gossiping trees as they whisper secrets
back and forth,
And before I fade into the night, consumed
by sleep, the world blushes one final time
as the moon kisses the stars, and grins a
good-night.
by Eleazar Adjehoun, New York, NY
Lavish to Lavish
I never used to dress my wrists with watches
And my pockets never tocked,
Now time and its essence and each minute
A leap toward you and the bounds we know
we’ll make.
All the silent rooms
And deserted places
Need the sound of our conversation.
No more telling ourselves to withdraw
impulses,
Our imaginations have earned space
to breathe.
I will wait and you will wait
For our history to take its place behind us.
There are plenty of twos
And our one is all the more rare.
I have dreamt of the anonymity of a lover,
My head sinks to my heart
And the depth of it all identifies you
Behind the fueled skeptics.
I will keep coming back
And I will keep lunging at you and your
lofty chambered heart.
by Dominic Herta,
Ortonville, MI
My World
We are learning about our solar system
today, the teacher
Tracing spheres on the globe with a
mud-colored pen.
He draws.
Silky marbles around a translucent bulb,
(I see them)
Moving to the chime of the invisible
clock, that
Rhythmic excellence pounding day by day
under agile, conducting hands
Circles upon circles, spinning like
Some enchanted merry-go-round
And the moon, stubbornly, eternally,
Turning its back on the Earth.
by Anita Lend, Santa Cruz, CA
Art by Sarah Chappell, Simpsonville, SC
La Noche Que
Nos Rodea
neither of us understood the words,
of this alone I am certain,
but we drank them ice-cold with lime
(and the night around us, oh the night)
we swam like fishes through the darkness
with the foreign edificios rising
beside us, strange castles
filled with everything we cannot say
(and the night, around us, oh – the night)
in our tangoing tongues,
we trip through thousands of miles
of thin air, the distance never so insignificant
as ahora con usted
(and the night. around us, oh! the night)
you say la música! do you hear?
do you like?
and i hear only the bass beat of the engine,
the murmurs of the sleep-talking city
(and the night around us oh, the night – )
but I say me gusta as though this could
be explanation
enough. it will never explain enough,
not in this brilliant, blinding evening
no hay palabras in any language for this
evening bursting like un volcano through me
and we are the lava, flowing together
through the hillside
(oh and around us the night! the night!)
by Shira Hereld, Cheshire, CT
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
37

Catch
Ice cold water and our own little altar
We’d share an apple on the bench
I had my scope, clip tight, fully loaded
And you had your red-painted wrench
Waterproof boots were the best for us
Considering we didn’t know how to swim
Suits were dry, but wrinkled like hell
And our flasks were filled to the rim
Bubbles in our mind of the smallest ideas
Probably the worst thoughts of anything
You would keep me alive and healthy
And I’d keep away that self-conscious sting
I always enjoyed the feeling of spring
For some reason, you liked the fall
I’ll always regret how I said I loved you
Because I didn’t even say it at all
by Caitlyn Rassa,
New Freedom, PA
it’s hard to
remember pet
names at four
in the morning
I wake,
my jaw aching as if
I’ve been chewing gum
all night.
It’s a phantom pain,
transparent,
something he imprinted on me
over the years.
I feel the emptiness beside me,
hands mapping over
cool sheets
then smile briefly,
sardonically,
wondering why I would
have expected anything else.
I wonder how he is,
and entertain
the possibility that
he’s clenching his teeth
hundreds of miles away.
No, that would be too
magical for us.
I take two Advil in
a glass of lukewarm water
and go back to bed.
by Anonymous,
Richmond, VA
Just Some Lines
He asks me
To write some lines
Of love for him to read
For the pocket in his jacket
I smile
And grab paper
But when I hold the pen
I’m at a loss
by Celine Decker,
Oak Park, CA
38
Backyard Chickens
All it takes
is two balls of fluff
carried home on a whim.
So small I could cup in my hands
the bundle of yellow feathers
and hide them under my fingers:
The birth
of our backyard flock.
An old shed, a doghouse,
even a children’s plastic playhouse,
with green shutters,
blue roof,
and pink door,
was all we needed for a coop.
We lined the floor with straw,
and added a nesting box or two,
although the hens often picked their
own spots to lay
for an everyday Easter egg hunt.
Making sure to wake promptly,
we’d pull wide their door,
let the cacophony of hums and trills
and impatient clucks
usher in the day.
Standing aside, we’d watch them
parade past:
the careful set of their feet,
the bob of their head,
then the hurry to have their breakfast
of scratch and grain and bugs.
A rhythm of the scritch, scratch,
the peck,
the contented coos.
It’s impossible
to forget
their colorful characters:
our motley crew of Rhode Island Reds,
Barred Rocks, Silkie bantams,
Black Orpingtons, and golden
spangled Hamburgs,
easily spotted strutting about our yard.
A simple call,
“Here girls!”
and they’d all come running, eager for
a treat of bread or grapes or popcorn,
like stray dogs begging for scraps.
Though we had to let them go, adopted by
our neighbors down the street,
we’ll always readily recall
the hens with attitude,
the hens who had graceful feathered feet,
and the hens with the beautiful speckled
breasts and capes,
whose feathers we’d collect and keep,
like sea glass scattered on a beach.
by Claire Collison, Conestoga, PA
Sailing
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12 • POETRY
at six knots we fly,
across the sea. To islands
we have yet to greet.
by Anna Kressbach, Yarmouth, ME
A Moment with
a Yearbook
Memories in front of me,
memories in my hands.
Through the pages I turn,
looking at the past behind me.
Good times, bad times,
happy and sad,
all are just memories now.
A picture is worth a thousand words, they say,
and at times they can be worth much more.
Friends, family,
and those I would have forgotten
about otherwise.
Many days I remember.
Looking at the picture, I know what
was done,
what was said.
Very few I forget,
but seeing the smiling faces,
the happy memories come back again.
In time, this time will be behind me
And I will be looking at the pictures:
the memories of yesterday.
by Alyssa Kapelka,
Bloomville, OH
Photo by Zoe Jaspers, E. Wenatchee, WA
A Poet’s Weakness
But I wanted so desperately to tell you
that your eyes are like rainbow-tinted
throwing stones
and your laugh inspires a pleasant rattling
in my bones;
that the way you speak reminds me of
a lullaby
on summer nights where the moon is at
some lovely high;
how your structure appeals to me like
babble to a brook
and my patience looks eagerly for new
weakness and nooks;
and how
your drumming heart,
your bitten lips,
your rough skin,
give me feelings of
humming like a violin;
and yet I was so afraid.
A penny for your thoughts, my dear;
toss it to the fountain
that lies inside my eager ears.
by Madison McHugh,
Medford, NJ
I Want to
Kill Myself
I want to kill myself
In an unexpected way.
Murder all the badness
But let the nice things stay.
Assassinate the hate
That’s buried in my heart.
Rid myself of evil
To let the goodness start.
I’ll slaughter all the judgment
That’s darkening my mind.
Massacre revulsion
That makes my spirit blind.
Slay all of the pride
That’s commandeered my soul.
Open up my head
And let the love unroll.
I do not wish to die,
Please, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll just cast away the demons
To a Hell where they belong.
’Cause when burdened with the issue
Of whom I wish to be,
I want people to look back
With pleasant memories of me.
by Samantha Faulkner,
Romulus, MI
Dead Heart
The trees used to be tall
And
The trees used to be green
And gray
With brown
And yellow
Or red, orange, purple …
The trees used to be the retirement home
And the first-time home-buyer neighborhood
And the mid-life mansion
And the childhood neighborhood
To that wiry, old squirrel
To that woodpecker with the red hat
To the raccoons
The bees
In summer, Mrs. Sparrow and her kids
The popes and cardinals
And even that Johnson girl
(One spring her daddy built the tree house –
she didn’t come down for weeks, it seemed)
The trees used to be
Alive
To be
The trees used to be.
But then you came
Now the trees aren’t tall –
They’re long
And black
And they aren’t green where they should be
Their hair is gone
Dead
And the squirrels left
So did the birds
And the bees, raccoons, life
Dead.
Why did you come?
by Alyvia Perkins,
Strawberry Plains, TN

Writing
To write:
It is like pouring out thoughts through
fingertip or pen.
No one knows your meaning,
Different for every reader.
Once it is created, it changes often.
Never the same,
Always reflecting the current events
Like clear water on a magical lake.
Some things not expressible by words,
Draw instead.
Poetry is like writing a great hidden
message,
Without thorough words.
Feelings, thoughts, emotions, all combined
into small black squiggles on white paper.
Every day, life changes. Put it down
through some utensils.
Press the keys gently, softly, sadly,
angrily, or joyfully.
Let it all pour out
Like sweet lemonade from a pitcher.
Drink the sweet meaning.
by Johanna Gingerich Feil,
Lisbon, IA
Fortune Cookie
Dreams
Sometimes I take my life and mold it,
shape it like old, cracked Play-Doh,
trying to fit it into the clandestine reams
of paper
that hide in fortune cookies.
I am dying to make those sweet-talking
slips,
enticing with their idealism,
ring true,
if only so I know
that I am not falling through the fingertips
of fate,
unabashedly sifted aside like the grains
of sand
in life’s hourglass.
I just want to believe that
someone, somewhere out there
knows my story,
how my life is going to play out:
maybe like a horror movie or a soap opera
or with the urgency of an old black-andwhite
newsreel
on those little paper slips.
I want those faded, blue-inked words,
probably printed a million times before,
to tell me what I want to hear,
but also tell me in truth.
I want them to whisper their crumbling
fortunes only to me;
maybe it’s too much to ask,
but I need them for my own.
I want to believe that
the ones I love will never let me down,
that confidence will take me far,
and that good things will come my way.
But those precious, honeyed predictions,
left to be devoured when greasy take-out
food is finished,
leave me empty,
because they are vague, ambiguous,
and I do not always fit the words.
by Roshni Sethi, Plainview, NY
Photo by Katya Kantar, Westfield, IN
The Master
Once a garden in the valley,
Now upon a fiery hill
Holds the secrets of a woman,
A tragic, twisting tale.
Voices abide in every flower,
Tangled roses guard the frail
Body of their master,
Their dark-eyed master,
Beautiful pale-skinned master
With that cold, unseeing stare.
Moonlight only twists her hair,
And stardust hides her eyes.
And the unblinking figure
Is blinded by the light
That once held that master,
That dark-eyed master,
Beautiful pale-skinned master
With the cold unseeing stare.
Destiny had fated her,
A brutal, crimson end.
Full of hated, betrayal,
And the putrid sting of men.
Her very love had laughed,
As the dagger struck her breast.
And stopped her once-beating
Heart, a tattered, broken mess.
And that dark-eyed master,
That beautiful pale-skinned master
With the cold, unseeing stare,
Never once did love another man,
But welcomed death himself.
The flowers she once tended,
The roses she did hold
Wrapped around her body,
Forever would they stay.
Her hair wrapped in lilies,
With buds that erupted in gloom.
And the garden upon the hill,
The one with fire blazing in every stone.
Wept for its master,
For its dark-eyed master,
Its beautiful pale-skinned master
With that cold, unseeing stare.
Now once in a garden in a valley,
Sits upon a fiery hill.
And they say that if you wander there
On the darkest of the nights
Where the moonlight sits upon you,
And your voice is stolen by the wind,
A woman sits there humming,
Flowers woven into her hair.
And she’ll turn to you and smile,
With that cold, unseeing stare.
by Alexa Hill, Knoxville, TN
The Flower Carrier
Rays of sun beat down
The sweltering heat
Causes sweat to pour off my face like rain
dripping off a flower,
The flowers I pick, the flowers I carry.
I carry the flowers
These pink and lavender blooms the color
of evening clouds.
But I can’t help but shatter under the weight.
I can’t bear the load on my back.
The woven basket digs into my spine and
I know,
I know from yesterday,
Yesterday and the days before,
My skin will be raw and pink,
Pink like the flowers I carry.
by Jolie Goolish, Mountain View, CA
The Murmur
The letters are a puzzle
The numbers hold but words
Behind them is a muscle
That doesn’t yet work
A heartbeat not iambic
A thump that doesn’t fit
A sound that’s nonsyllabic
A rest that is adrift
A whisper in the corner
A rumor in the crowd
Spread by an informer
A man who speaks too loud
What he says means volumes
Every single word
But what he says I can’t assume
Speaks more than what is heard
The genes hold legs and a body
Run by a song without rhythm
They walk into hospital lobbies
Where I find euphemisms
The legs carry me out
The genes don’t matter
I have no doubts
My step doesn’t stagger
Gone are the couldn’ts, shouldn’ts
and shan’ts
A heart murmur can’t tell me I can’t
by Sofi Halpin, Niwot, CO
Aging Dancers
I placate Night’s ungainly stars by judging
Their lumbering waltzes, clumsy pas de chat
Mistakes in pivots, entrechat not springing
I stretch their aching legs before battement
Ten eons past, they showed off
pink-sheen tights
Their pointed toes first cracking fresh
peach leather
A bunch with coiled blonde hair that
bounced like kites
When bounding in glissade, a youthful valor
It’s hard to think that stars grow old and tire
That pirouettes are for the bright
and bushy-tailed
Immortal as I am, my wish is far too dire
To ask from changing stars who now
have failed
To grow in age what once was lost in youth
A passion for precision, a higher attitude
by Keely Hendricks, Nashville, TN
Bedtime Stories
Once upon a time,
irregular geometric shapes danced across
marble floor.
Majestic windows grazed the sky.
Velvet, silk and furs
trailed, scoffed and grazed the icy bottom.
Laced buttoned leather treaded lightly
over the tinted rays.
Satin reflected, velvet absorbed.
Once upon a time,
yellow swirls play over gleaming
varnished floor,
skipping across littered novels.
Stiff blue curtains frame square windows.
Pinpricks dot the sky,
a car squeals by.
A lone ray
shone upon a golden chair,
he sat under his golden crown.
Fine fabrics gave birth to layers,
pleats and seams.
All enveloped limbs.
Slender fingers warmed
precious metals and stones.
All wealth spoke quietly under his cape.
A small boy sits upon his bed,
fingers clutch thin typed pages.
Ink shadows extend clawed hands.
Minute sobs rip through his body,
radiating palpable fear.
He grabs at his blanket.
He mourns attention.
Its violet length rested on proud shoulders,
finest velvet known to man.
A hue true to position.
A purple reeked of bitter wine
sounded like a thick liquid crashing against
an empty goblet.
He sat before his subjects,
his body a mountain range,
his cape snow and his face a rising sun.
He feared not from the world.
Nothing stood in his way.
Soft fabric settles over slender shoulders,
the sound like an exhaled breath.
With the hue of sugary grape juice,
it clings to him like a fresh plum’s fluid;
he folds himself under thick cotton strands.
No light shines through.
by Olivia Rubbles, Lake Forest, IL
Take Me With You
The hard feeling
of death’s short breath
wraps around the page of apology
the shards of glass that break the apology
do not break the soul
but the breath does
as a faint whistle silence sparks
to revive the soul of pain and deceit
to walk this earth hand by hand
not to destroy but to rebuild
the future of this lone soul
reckons softly
without a reply
the sounds of the last whistle
shapes, the rock
but leaves the roll
by Mike Lewis, Bridgewater, NJ
POETRY • SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
39

fiction
40
The Strange Misadventures of Octavius Jones
by Alice Starr, Brooklyn, NY
Iknocked on the wrong door.
It wasn’t my fault – it was late
and dark, and the apartment building
was annoyingly built so that each
floor was a replica of the others. And
whoever heard of not counting the
ground floor as a level?
Anyway, it turned out that I’d
knocked on 3B instead of 4B, and no
one answered. I
wasn’t that worried. I
hadn’t told my aunt I
was coming, but it
was only like ten, so
she wouldn’t be
asleep yet. I’d wait
outside, I decided,
until she came home
from wherever she
was. I settled in the hallway, watching
the shadows from the flickering overhead
light play over the mustard wallpaper.
It was too quiet. I stood, craving the
noise and company of a New York
City night, and skittered down the
steep stairs and out the door, carrying
my duffel bag. I sat on the highest
sandstone step with relief, breathing
in the sticky June air and welcoming
the harsh streetlight pooling on the
sidewalk and the rainbows of Eighth
Avenue to my left.
Then a pile of shadows on the
lower step moved, and I realized it
was a guy, maybe twenty-five, in a
black sweatshirt.
“Oh, sorry,” I said lamely. “I didn’t
know anyone was out here.”
“It’s fine,” he said. His voice was
hoarse, and the first prickle of unease
hit before he turned to face me.
His skin still had a tinge of the
Photo by Kaila Lunceford, Fort Wayne, IN
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
It seemed to
be random,
who stayed dead,
who woke up
caramel it must have once had, but
now it was ashen, with a smudging of
gray around the eyes. Since the Outbreak
two years before, that deep
grayness had become a common
sight, but I still started slightly at the
sight of the zombie sitting four steps
below me.
That’s not politically correct. I
heard Janie’s prim voice
in my head, an echo of
our discussion a week
ago. The correct term is
Undead, or Viventes
Mortuae. Not zombies.
But the word that
popped into my head
when I saw him (it?)
was definitely zombie,
like in the kids’ books I’d read when
they were only characters. That was
how they were originally referred to
when the first cases were made public
on TV. I remember standing in the living
room with Mom and Janie, just
twelve then, mothers and daughters
united in shock. We stared at the
screen and tried to make sense of the
announcer’s words. “This is Jennifer
Hawkins, fifty-seven. Ms. Hawkins
died Tuesday morning from a stroke,
and today, here she is. Jennifer, any
comments?”
The zombie boy’s mouth twitched.
“Sorry if I scared you.” He watched
me with shadowed eyes.
“No, you didn’t – I mean, I’m not
scared … sorry,” I said, internally berating
myself for having this stupid
idea of coming outside. “It’s just, I
don’t see many-” I broke off, brushing
my boy cut out of my face.
“You can call me a zombie. I don’t
consider it derogatory.”
Honestly, he was pretty chill for a
dead guy. And he wouldn’t be here if
he was one of the dangerous ones, I
figured. They’re sent to a locked government
facility. They’d opened a ton
of those, to use as holding places for
the corpses that they collected right
after death. It seemed to be random
who stayed dead, who woke up
calmly, or who woke up with an insatiable
hunger for brains. The stilldead
bodies got returned to the
families with an apology, and the
brain-eaters were locked away, but the
others went about their normal nonlives,
I guess. They weren’t that uncommon
a sight, but they did stick
together, probably as a result of the
living usually trying to avoid them. I
know that they scared a lot of people,
and right after the Outbreak many terrified
apartment-dwellers called in
complaints that their downstairs dead
neighbor was going to eat them. So
the government had the idea of zombies
living together, if they wanted. In
New York alone there were a number
of Undead Housing Communes – or
Zombie Projects, as I called them in
an attempt to annoy Janie.
I realized with a start that he was
holding a book. I leaned forward and
recognized it. “I love Pete Hamill,” I
exclaimed, forgetting to be nervous.
“He’s pretty good.” He held up
Forever. “Have you read it?”
“Yeah, it’s great. What part are you
on?”
“I’ve actually read it before. I’m
…” his voice trailed off.
“What?”
He looked at me out of the corner
of his eye. “You know the plot? Guy
lives forever in New York?”
“Yeah.” Something clicked in my
brain. “Sounds familiar, I guess,”
“You have no idea.” He smiled – a
small, sardonic smile, but a smile
nonetheless. “Immortality isn’t all it’s
cracked up to be.”
I frowned and slid down a step. “I-”
“I know, right? A zombie having an
existential crisis. Kinda contradictory.”
There was a darkness in his
eyes that I didn’t think had anything
to do with being a zombie. It was the
same darkness that had been in
Mom’s eyes for weeks after Dad’s
accident.
“Nah,” I said. “It makes sense. I
wouldn’t really want to live forever.
Especially if my skin was, like,
falling off.” I looked at him hurriedly.
“Not that yours is. I mean, it will
eventually … I’ll shut up.” I turned
away.
He gave a laugh in that hoarse
voice. “What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” I said, and then, before
my brain could tell them not to, my
lips blurted, “How did
you die?”
He raised one dark
eyebrow, making me
instantly jealous. It really
wasn’t fair that a
corpse could do that
when I couldn’t. “Not
usually the question I
get in return,” he said mildly. “Usually
it goes ‘What’s your name?’
‘Chloe. What’s yours?’”
“Sorry.” I could feel my cheeks
heating. We were quiet for a minute.
“Octavius.”
“What?”
“Octavius. My name is Octavius
Jones.” I stared stupidly, and he blew
a rush of air through his nose – habit,
I guess, since the dead don’t have to
breathe. “I’m dead, not nameless.”
“But … Octavius?”
If he’d still had running blood, he
might have blushed. As it was, an embarrassed
expression crept over his
face. “My mom really liked weird
names, I think because our last name
is so boring.”
“I’ve never really
talked with a
zombie before”
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
I stopped myself from asking “You
have a mom?” just in time, but I think
he saw the surprise on my face. Luckily,
he didn’t seem offended. “More
people than you’d think are surprised
by that. If we’re not alive, we don’t
have a life and all that.”
“You don’t have a life,” I said. “Not
exactly.” I looked at him sideways to
gauge his reaction. I thought he
wouldn’t take offense after not minding
all the other stupid questions I’d
asked. Then again, if he was offended,
he might eat my brain.
But he didn’t lunge for my skull; he
shrugged. “I guess not.”
“I’m sorry about all the stupid
questions,” I said. “I’ve never really
talked with a zombie before.”
“Most people haven’t. They tend to
avoid us.” He said it mildly, but there
was an undercurrent I couldn’t place.
“You seem pretty calm about the
whole, um, dead thing.”
He clasped his hands behind his
dark curls and leaned back. “Yep. I
am one chill eternally dead guy, sitting
on a stoop in the middle of
Chelsea.”
“Yeah, um … why are you here?
No offense.”
“I could ask you the same question,”
he said mildly. He tilted his
head toward the apartment building.
“My mom lives there. I was visiting
for dinner. We don’t really need to
eat, but we decay faster without nutrients.”
I nodded, taken aback by the
matter-of-fact tone of his voice. “And
I decided to sit here for a while. I also
don’t need to sleep, but – I don’t
know – I didn’t feel like going home.”
“I know the feeling.” All of my remaining
awkwardness
and fear disappeared at
his last words. “I tried to
crash at my aunt’s
tonight instead of my
mom’s, because my
mom’ll rub it in my
face. But my aunt’s not
home yet.”
“She’ll rub what in your face?”
I sighed, tracing the stone grains of
the step with one finger. “I got kicked
out of my apartment. I was sharing
with a friend, but she moved to Bed
Stuy with her boyfriend and I
couldn’t pay the rent on my own. But
I didn’t want to borrow from my
mom. So now she’s going to go all
righteous and ‘I told you so.’” I took
a breath. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Pouring out all my problems. You
must think I’m an idiot.”
“Hey. I told you about my existential
crisis.” He gave a half-smile, and
I mirrored it. We sat in silence.
A gay couple, one wearing a rainbow
tie-dyed T-shirt and the ➤➤

Alphabet Soup
by Anita Chen, Newark, CA
Iam swimming in a sea of commas and semicolons,
trying to reach punctual shore, but these
raging asyndetons and clauses and appositives and
polysyndetons keep crashing, crashing, crashing at
my power of will, trying to push me below literal surface.
What is the meaning behind all of this?
But I don’t want to drown in its seemingly bottomless
sea. I wish to just stay on the surface, to make my
way to Euphoria as soon as possible, where I’ll finally
be free of the strict rule of Syntax. Just swallow
the words, I told myself. No need to digest – just keep
going.
There are now predicates
Just swallow
the words, I
told myself
other red skinny jeans, walked past
with clasped hands. I absentmindedly
watched them enter the bar. The street
wasn’t quiet, not with the throngs of
people on the nearby avenue, but it
was oddly still, the only others two
police officers chatting in front of the
precinct down the block.
“It was cancer,” Octavius Jones the
zombie said suddenly. “Leukemia.
Which is ironic, because I spent so
many years of my life worrying that I
wouldn’t have enough time, and now
I’m worrying that I’ll have too
much.”
What the hell could I say to that?
Two years before, no one had to
worry about living while all their
friends and family died, living until
the flesh rotted off their body and
even their teeth crumbled. No one had
to worry about waking up a ravenous
murderer, ready to devour friend or
foe. No one had to worry that their
dad would wake up after being hit by
a car and try to eat them, or not wake
up at all.
Which is worse?
“To be, or not to be?” I asked
on my tail. Looking for their
subjects, perhaps? But I
have none to spare, for I am
trying to survive; I have a
goal.
I swim faster to prevent
their action-verb teeth from chomping off my toes
and feet, but homophones are straining me, pulling
me in all directions but up. Who commanded all these
actions?
My body is tired. I have gained quite a distance between
the predicates and myself. I take one gulp of air
and decide to let go for a moment, to immerse myself
briefly, just once. Beneath the surface I see monsters
– metaphors, similes, symbols, allegories. Terrified
by their overwhelming complication, I resurface.
The shores of Euphoria are closer now. I see the
waves of words crashing and breaking into letters and
sinking into the sand to settle there as forgotten lore,
meaningless. I can feel the sea loosening its grip on
me, but due to my fatigue, I cannot swim much faster.
After a while, I am finally washed ashore, out of
breath. ✦
quietly. The combination of existentialism
and reading Pete Hamill told
me he’d probably understand what I
meant – that I was asking if he was
pondering the same question that
Hamlet does.
“What if you can’t choose?” he
asked, but he wasn’t looking at me.
He was staring out at the street.
“What then? You’re screwed?”
I shook my head. “I
don’t think so.”
“What do you think,
then?”
My mind flashed to the
story I’d told nine-year-old
Janie to help her sleep after
Dad’s accident. It was this
ongoing novel about a girl
who dies, wakes up, and lives forever.
This was still years before the Outbreak,
and I didn’t call her a zombie,
but it was similar enough. She gets to
see the world change but also has to
watch all her friends die. I called it
“The Strange Misadventures of Alexa
Denton-James.” It had failed at making
Janie feel better.
With Alexa in my head, I turned to
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
That Feeling by Julie Kate Brooks, Niceville, FL
you ever get that feeling?”
Luke glances up from his “Do
chemistry textbook.
“What? What feeling?”
“You know. That feeling.”
“Wh--oh.”
“No. Not that. Just … I don’t
know … never mind.”
Luke drops his book on the
wooden table separating us. He’s
finally focused on me, which is
all I have wanted since the moment
we met a year ago. I feel a burning
heat trickle down my neck, and I hate myself
for that. I feel exposed; when your own
skin reveals your true feelings, you can
never hide.
“No. Go on. What feeling?”
“Well …” I decide to ask him, “Do you
ever feel like you’re sitting in a crowded
room – I mean, not like claustrophobic
crowded but like crowded enough to feel a
little uncomfortable – and everyone is talking
and you scream. You scream so loud you
feel like the sound reverberations might
cause your throat to explode. You just keep
screaming, but no one even looks up. Do
you ever feel like that?”
“Are you asking if I ever feel invisible?”
He isn’t listening to me.
“No. Do you ever feel like that? Like
what I just described.” Luke’s eyes roll
around in their sockets. He says “no” firmly,
then picks up his chemistry textbook.
I say, “Oh, okay,” but before the second
syllable can even escape my mouth, Luke
cuts me off.
“You know, you’re really weird. And you
say ‘like’ a lot.” He gives me a look that I
“Immortality
isn’t all it’s
cracked up
to be”
“Are you
asking if
I ever feel
invisible?”
him. “I think that you need a lot of
friends,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment
with that one eyebrow raised. Then
his mouth quirked up, still slightly
sadly. But all he said was, “You
should tell your mom about the rent
thing. I don’t think she’ll gloat as
much as you think.”
A group of teenage girls passed, unknowing
or uncaring that
there was a zombie on the
stoop. “Hmm,” I said.
He stood, finally, fluidly.
He didn’t stretch – a
body that doesn’t cramp
doesn’t need un-stiffening.
He slipped Forever into
the black string bag at his
feet and slung it over one shoulder. “I
gotta go. It was nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
The zombie turned and walked
down the block. It was now or never
if I was going to ask; when was the
next time I’d get to hang out with a
zombie? I wavered for a moment.
“Octavius!” He turned.
“Can I ask you a kind of personal
interpret as: I knew you were weird, but
don’t be weird around me.
So I do something I’ve only dreamed
about doing, something I wish I’d always
had the courage to do.
“You know, I feel like that sometimes,”
I say. “I feel like I’m
screaming, and no one looks up.
But I think everyone feels like that.
Sometimes, you just gotta scream.”
He isn’t listening to me. His eyes
are glued to chemistry, and he
doesn’t even like chemistry. I’m tired of this
bullsh*t.
So I scream. And he looks up. ✦
Photo by Rachel Morey, Mobile, AL
question?”
He didn’t look surprised. “I don’t
remember what it was like to die,” he
said. “I remember closing my eyes,
when I was alive, and then I remember
waking up as a zombie.”
I blinked. “That-that wasn’t what I
was going to ask, but you don’t?”
Surprise did creep onto his ashy
face then. “No, I don’t. You weren’t
going to ask that? It’s what everyone
wants to know. It was one of the first
things even my family asked.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“No, I shouldn’t have assumed.
What’s your question?”
I studied his gray-gold face. “Are
you glad you came back?” I asked
quietly.
He looked at me, still standing
there, bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I’ll let
you know.”
I half-smiled. “You’re a pretty chill
zombie,” I said. “Thanks for not eating
me.”
He grinned, a flash of white in his
dusky gray skin, and disappeared into
the bar at the end of the block. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
41

Counting Streaks
Cozy on the cracked wooded patio
A peculiar place to cuddle up
In blankets and pillows of felt and cotton
The little sister
A near smaller version of the silhouette
To her left
Same wheat hair and glowing ocean eyes
Looks to the starry picture above their heads
Eyes widen to take in the vast image painted
Before them
Wishes already placed in the seams of
their consciousness
They wait
Wait
Wait
A streak of light
A gasp of awe
The one of more years smiles at
The memory they make
Counting the stars that zoom to a new horizon
A mouse of memories to keep stored
Let’s never forget this,
Little One
The aroma of warm August nights and
sights rarely seen
You’re much too young to worry about
things I do
Look here, another ball of light soaring
across the watery sky
Make your wish now, Little One
But wish for something that cannot be held
Because anything tangible can shatter
And be forgotten
But you’ll never disregard a memory
Or feeling
Simplicity is key
So wish for this tradition to continue
I would rather have a memory to keep
than something to forget.
by Grace Anderson, Clarkston, MI
Lady Day
I knew a woman once
Languid as the blues
Sharp as brass
Never overlooking a thing
Fighting a war between the ears
Private, on display
Nurturing, cold
She’d walk the floor
Like a father
Cacophonous tongue
Leaving untucked chairs
Head in a personal cloud of smoke
Never pausing
Never needing anyone
But she’d look at love
Like a mother
Scanning your heart’s scroll
Never missing an opportunity
Sealing shut at a letdown
Moving on in her foolishness
Tricking with a smile
Yes, I knew a woman once
She taught me well
In the end,
We’re all just sad, strong women
Hanging on for a word
by Ashley Foreman, Frankford, DE
42
Humble
The sunset strikes me
like a match.
My heart is on fire.
Dark abyss blankets the sky
and rain crashes upon my helm.
The blackened air is interrupted
as the lights break through
and the impending battle ensues.
My hunger rivals that of a Viking,
but a Nordic knight
likely doesn’t whisper Springsteen
as he describes what’s in the air tonight.
I fight for this feeling.
The feeling of fiery intensity
in frigid conditions.
Size is barely a perception.
One is only as big
as his finishing blow.
I fight for the idea
that fatalities form stars,
but heroes produce more than triumph.
I fight for shabooyas on the bus.
Michael Jordan rides the bus.
What a hero.
by Paul Mentele, Oshkosh, WI
To: From:
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12 • POETRY
From the late autumn
the wind draws closer
to the glass, whistling.
the leaves are in the air
all is at ends.
Ah, to get going, but the ghosts,
dear ghosts, why do you
not wait, why do you not come
to save
one who has not the faith
to follow through your ends
wherever they might lead
upon the dimming earth,
to have had death or half death
whichever is more seemly,
but stillness comes upon me
and sees no salvation in your affairs.
if only I too could rush into silence
and behold a soft recourse
of things that must have been
if we were so, that had pushed
the birds into the wind
across the waves and forms.
all is at ends ….
by Anonymous, Chicago, IL
Untitled Soul
scream soft
smile bright
blind yourself with loving light
bask and sway for one more day
to hold the scream in tight
blooming flowers
choking weeds
blind the world with loving deeds
be the sun once day’s begun
but hide the growing needs
blissful day
haunting night
try your best to win the fight
you think at dawn the hurt is gone
but still it waits to bite
by Micaela Pryor, Tehachapi, CA
Rocks, Colors
Smeared on
Rocks, colors smeared on,
Tell stories of their hunting.
Nature inspired
As time had passed, rock
Was broken instead, making
Art of Tomorrow
A picture became
A word, words form ideas,
Ideas made art
Reed presses into
Clay, writing has now begun.
Thanks, Sumerians
Art covers stonewall
For the dead, next to corpses
In the soft limestone
Hairs soaked with black paint,
Characters are painted now,
The East has now formed.
Phoenicians create
Phonetics, now sound marks word
Not the idea
Alpha and Beta
Become alphabet, Homer
Can now write of Troy
Middle East then is
Shaped, Hebrew and Arabic
Forge our religion
Romance becomes real,
Latin forks to Spanish,
French, and Italian
Paper then travels
Near and far, from China to
Spain into Europe
Fibers soak with ink,
Romeo and Juliet
Crafted by Shakespeare
Finally our works
Travel across sea, Explore
Beside Columbus
Washington fights for
The art of America,
Freedom expresses
Words mold our anthem
In eighteen-twelve, star and stripes
Sail o’er McHenry
Anne Frank made her art
She wrote in her diary
The horror was heard
Fingers meet plastic
As art is made on screens, now
Typing our fiction
Covers to velvet
Curtains, pages to the screen
Books become movies
by Miller Lashbrook, Harmony, FL
Don’t Forget
to Breathe
Don’t forget to breathe
If the strong fist of life knocks
The air out of you.
by Arman Haveric, Hinsdale, IL
Who Needs a Bed?
I’ve Got a Buick.
I am losing my house
(And my mind)
(Probably)
A violation of the law of mortgage
That clearly states:
“All transactions, please
In the form of your entity
(Your sanity, too)”
Indignation bestowed
graciously upon the Signer of my checks
(thank you for that, Universe)
Now, making shadows on my doorstep
Yes,
This is one for the scrapbooks.
I will never again know comfort,
Except in the form of strawberry poptarts,
And the sweet, familiar repentance
Leaking from my windshield
I am losing my house
But not all is lost, no
The soup kitchen is now
Only twelve paces from my parking spot
by Tori Sargent, Middlefield, OH
Photo by Gabrijela Radic, Brezovica, Croatia
Religious Atheist
The skyline, it eats the night sky
The sun rises from ashes
Ashes from burning out yesterday
I find its scientific beauty
comforting
As an atheist, I still hold my church
I hold the breadth of humanity in folded
hands like prayer
I share my faith with pages splattered with
beautiful minds
My mission trip is traced on highways
Factual highways, tangible outlines
Maps and hopes and theories
I am not some unenlightened piece of
spiritual meat to be pounded
I am honest, I am fresh from the ashes
of tradition
by Anonymous, Litchfield, IL

Metronome
Your head rested on my hipbone
where my T-shirt crept up,
as I stretched in the meadow
like a cat beside an open window,
my sleepy fingertips
lost in the roots of your hair.
I reached down to stroke your wrist,
and asked if I could read your palm.
You peeked at me through a mane of
brassy dreadlocks,
pulled your hand away,
and I laughed.
But you shook your head.
“I use my hands to hold people,
and make music.
A lesbian’s power is in her hands.”
I was quiet, held my own above my face
as though I was reaching for that
cotton-sheet sky,
tried to find power in those smooth
white fingers,
tiny as an eight-year-old’s.
You smirked, grabbed my wrist and
leaned forward
to kiss me.
“You’re such a kid.”
A year later, sitting in the grass with a
notebook on my knee,
fingers no longer smooth,
cuticles peeling like paint on old shutters,
a crescent of blood dried on my thumbnail,
knuckles braided with scars.
But the tendons in my wrist bulge
like the rope of a boat’s mast
while I grip the pen,
pulse fluttering in the purple vein beneath
my palm
as I make my own music,
the tiny thumps beneath my skin
a steady metronome.
by Renee Berndt, W. Palm Beach, FL
Dance of Myself
Ten toes pound the soil; two feet are the
receivers of every vibration of the earth.
Leap; welcome warmth, settle in my bones.
Put your hand on my back like you do the
birds and let me fly,
Even if just for a split second.
Kick; show the trees, your brothers, that they’re
not the only ones who can reach the sky.
Turn; and with your body, spin your head.
It’s too easy to look straight, and that’s what
everyone tells you to do,
But I’m always sure to peek at the
Four Corners.
Rock; feel the sea at your sole and drift.
Back and forth, up and down,
Until you’ve gone so far you can’t turn back,
And you’ve stopped hearing others tell you
to regress, as well,
And you’re happy.
Stamp; don’t tune out your Mother, but let
her inhabitants know you’re here.
Let firm rocks smile at you,
Sagacious owls nod,
And eroding rain humble at how much
more change you can bring.
Bow;
And gaze longingly at your eternal bed.
by Sawyer Rossi, Santa Fe, NM
To a friend, in
answer to his
existential crises
You ask me, I imagine,
over a strong cup
of Turkish coffee
in that way that is both abrupt
for the sake of it
and shocking for the sake of it
and vague in that way that makes me
grit my teeth like there’s a toothpick in
the middle and I just can’t,
no I can’t
let
go.
So you shock,
just to put shock to your name and
fold in a hundred thousand
potential answers and
you’re not looking at my face but
looking for me to say
that I hate, too,
the sugar packet
in my hand and
I’m thinking that maybe you hate me
for not taking
my coffee
black.
And meanwhile you’ve
smoked through your last
hand-rolled cigarette.
So when you ask me,
in that way you have through
thin eyes and
tight lips and
ears closed
against me through a fog of semi-organic
carcinogens,
I know
and you know
and the whole goddamn world knows
how wonderful that
unwashed
and unseen
and untold
corner of your mind is
that asks such kaleidoscopic questions.
by Ilana Feldman, Deerfield, IL
Art by Audrey White, Park City, UT
A Rose by Any
Other Name
You never needed words like I did.
You had your smile,
your laugh, eventually your fists. I gave
you carefully constructed sentences,
poems new and raw as the tulip I picked
for you in spring
and you took those poems and tore apart
the words, the meaning,
made them worthless.
I have no words left for you. I used the
last of them
to try and scream back at you, but you
were too far gone in your rage
to hear me. You didn’t need words
that night;
I learned enough from your fists.
Last fall we planted tulips. I read the
instructions on the package,
determined to follow each step correctly,
and we planted and
dug and pounded the dirt and I still
remember the way my hands came clean
in the water afterward and you had dirt
under your nails for days. The tulips died,
all but one, and I picked it for you in spring.
We should have read the directions
more carefully, I told you.
You never could follow rules, and you
tossed aside the package,
disregarding the instructions to producing
lavender blooms.
I clasped the directions with careful fingers
and read each step thoroughly, each
deliberate sentence, but
you had started digging anyway.
Words never meant much to you.
You took the words from me on a night in
December, and I fought just long enough
to give the police my written statement,
but then they were gone.
I didn’t know it was possible to lose words,
but then
I also didn’t know it was possible to stand
in the flat dirt of your front yard
and feel my heart beat fast for any reason
other than your touch.
There was dirt on my hands and on my
knees as I sat, bleary-eyed
in the station. It blended with my bruises
as I deliberated
each sentence, scared to finally incriminate
you and yet terrified
to write anything redeeming as the flowery
poems I once gave you. Relinquishing
my final statement to the officer, he read
and repeated it dryly.
He gave little notice to the dirt crusted
under my nails
as he read my words. My story became
information on his lips.
I hated the way the officer said your name
like it was his now;
It was.
by Anonymous,
Moraga, CA
Nice: A Definition
“Today was a nice day,” a dear friend said to me
I replied, “What is the meaning of ‘nice’?
Thousands of things it could be!”
He stared at me, a look of confusion
sweeping across his face
“My comrade,” I said, “When we have such
descriptive words, ‘nice’ is such a waste!
How was your day ‘nice’? Was the weather
sunny?
Did you ace your difficult math test?
Was a joke you heard very funny?
Did it have you rolling on your stomach,
and laughing while you cried?
Did it make your straight, white teeth sparkle
bright as you smiled a grin so wide?
The breakfast you ate was delicious, was it?
And school today wasn’t a bore?”
“I get your point,” he said. I replied,
“But ah! There is so much more!
Did you fall in love today? And was she
the one you were dreaming of?
Was she what you expected or was it an
unexpected love?
Did her eyes send chills down your spine?
Does her smile make your heart skip a beat?
Having her close sends a warm feeling
through you, doesn’t it? Straight from
your nose to feet?”
“Any more examples?” My friend’s pupils
rolled as he spoke sarcastically.
“Well, you’d have to be an idiot to think
I’d come up with only two or three!
Did you compose a melody, one that brings
tears to people’s eyes?
Did you discover something new and are
you now known among the wise?
Did you write a poem – one that everyone
in the world will someday know?
Or did you travel to Paris, or Rome? Did you
see all the places you’ve wanted to go?”
My friend replied, “I think I’ve learned
my lesson now. I now know all the
meanings of ‘nice’
And unless I wish to hear all this again,
before I use it next time, I’ll think twice!”
by Camelia Alikashani,
No. Vancouver, BC, Canada
Mourning
Sometimes I wonder
if God ever tires
of painting. Each day
I wake up early to watch Him revise
the intricate layers of sky. His concentrated
breath fogs up the celestial lens
as He dips the tip of His brush in sun-ink
and delicately traces the wispy
contours of spider-spun
clouds twining aimlessly like ghosts
above the surface of the earth.
He persistently whitewashes the stained
canvas of
heaven-scraping skies, reminding me that
He is trying to restore its protective glaze,
picked away like a festered scab
when you died. Each day,
I relentlessly scan His sky-sketched
handiwork,
looking for you in the bleeding hues of the
miscarried heavens.
by Eliana Lorch, New York, NY
POETRY • SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
43

fiction
44
Bus Journey by Alice Oseman, Rochester, England
Isometimes wonder whether all this
thinking that I do on the bus to
school is causing me serious psychological
harm.
I can’t say that I think about anything
especially meaningful. I mean,
everyone thinks when they haven’t
got anything else to do, don’t they?
It’s a bloody long trip as well. I’d do
homework, I guess, but then I’d look
like a loser. I’d read, but
then I’d look even more
antisocial than usual. I’d
play solitaire on my
phone, but who wants to
play solitaire for fortyfive
minutes straight?
I have my seat, of
course. My seat. Downstairs, on the
right, two rows from the back. An indefectible
balance of unobstructed
window view – perfect for both daydreaming
and resting my head in my
early-morning drowse – and enough
room by my feet to stuff my bag.
Some days there is someone sitting in
my seat. Some little kid, 12 or 13
maybe, with stupid curly hair and
serious behavioral issues. I mean,
why would you throw tiny bits of
scrunched-up paper at people for no
reason? I don’t find it funny. The
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
I relate to a
lot of people
I never talk to
Disgust by Corey Vernot, Hamilton, OH
Isee her before she sees me. She’s running,
well, jogging, well … trying to
get some exercise. As she plods along,
sweat drenches her massive body, making
her XXL T-shirt cling to every inch of
flabby skin as it stretches tight across her
heaving chest. Her face is agony.
My response is automatic, involuntary.
Disgust.
I can feel it weighing down
on me like a layer of slime.
Her round face turns my way,
and from two driveways away
she knows it’s there too, if not
by what I show but by who I
am. Who she is.
I am a seventeen-year-old
boy. She is a girl around my
age, without a slim waist, bouncing blond
curls, and a tasteful amount of cleavage.
There is an unwritten law that dictates two
options for how we treat each other. I generally
go with the nicer route and pretend
girls like her don’t exist. She knows the
game by now, so as the distance between
us disappears, she lowers her gaze, afraid
to see it glaring back at her from one more
person’s eyes. Disgust.
I can hear her breathing now, suffocating,
ragged, dying in her throat. She’s
killing herself, and for what? A better
I’m confirming
her view of
men and
the world
victim does not find it funny. No one
finds it funny apart from that stupid
little boy, and since when is anything
funny when it’s just you laughing?
He’s in my seat again today.
I can see him sitting there as I display
my mugshot of a bus pass to the
driver (who sneers as he compares the
grumpiness of my photo to the
grumpiness of my actual face). Today
the kid is wearing a
ridiculously oversized
beige coat. I don’t like
beige. It’s the color of
camels and old cars from
the 1980s, two things I do
not have an affinity for,
especially after my “incident”
on the second day of my vacation
in Egypt last year. Camel ride.
Poo. That’s all you need to know.
Luckily, however, Beige Kid isn’t
throwing paper today. Must have used
up what remained of his homework.
As I walk shiftily past him, toward
my back-up seat (situated behind my
primo seat), I observe him drawing
strange pictures of eyes in the condensation
on the window. There must
be about twenty of them, all with dilated
pupils and eyelashes that spring
outward in vertical spikes. They are
body? A different life? It is then that I realize
she understands my reaction even
better than I do. She feels it every time
she looks in a mirror. Disgust.
Suddenly I hate myself. I have a frantic
desire to take my filthy, fetid conscience
and scrub it raw. I’m one more guy, treating
her like just another unattractive girl.
Confirming her view of men and the
world. Confirming what she
feels about herself. Disgust.
It’s awful! Horrible! She is
a person, not a slug to be
stepped carefully around or
squished for fun. I have to do
something. Say something.
Give her a smile if nothing
else. Now is the moment, her
head is moving …
She looks up.
I look down.
She notices.
I don’t know what made me do that, but
she does. She’s seen it her whole life.
Disgust.
We both continue walking. I finally get
home and go straight to the bathroom,
flicking on the lights and staring into the
mirror. Brown hair, brown eyes, a bit
skinny with a fair complexion. I see a normal
kid. But that’s not how I feel. ✦
most definitely looking at me, and
Beige Kid has drawn one right next to
my back-up seat. I quickly rub it off
with my sleeve, with the silent excuse
that I want to see out the window.
God, this kid is a freak.
But whatever. Anyway, as always,
my morning bus routine begins.
1. Place bag so legs can be
arranged comfortably.
2. Replace bus pass in zip-up bag
pocket.
3. Remove iPod and mints from
zip-up bag pocket.
4. Take a mint, place in mouth, replace
mints in zip-up bag pocket.
5. Put iPod headphones in ears.
6. Select appropriate album depending
on mood.
This happens every day. Literally. I
sometimes wonder if I have slight
OCD.
Today’s album choice is Bryan
Adams “Waking Up the Neighbors.” I
love Bryan Adams. And I’m in a
peppy mood today. A peppy mood
calls for peppy ’90s anthems. Hence,
Bryan Adams.
I turn it up really loud so I can’t
hear the younger kids laughing with
their stupid cawing laughs. Full-volume
loud. Yes, I will be deaf by the
time I’m forty, but I
think if I have to listen
to these kids screeching
at each other for
forty-five minutes
every day, I won’t
make it to forty. I
won’t make it to eighteen.
My earphones are
broken, so one is
slightly louder than the other. I can
put up with that.
Lots of other kids listen to their
iPods on the way to school, silently
staring out the window, watching the
same sequence of scenes they’ve
watched every weekday for God
knows how long. I often wonder what
they’re thinking.
One boy who sits opposite my
primo seat always looks very sad.
He’s got long bangs that are not quite
The mist clears,
and I remember
I’m stuck on
Earth
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
fashionable and make him look a little
disheveled. He has one foot up on the
seat, and a scarf on. He never sits with
anyone or talks. Like me. I never sit
with anyone. Or talk. I relate to him
in that respect. I relate to a lot of people
I never talk to. It’s like we’re
leading parallel lives. I think we’re all
just waiting for the day when we
won’t have to ride the bus anymore,
when we won’t have to listen to the
screams of the hysterical middleschool
kids anymore, because we’re
out there in the real world, living.
Oh dear, I just thought too hard
again.
It’s misty today. Proper misty.
There wasn’t much point me wiping
away the condensation on the window.
Not only is the window so dirty
that my view is a blur, but now that
the bus has driven down a hill, the
mist is so thick that it feels like the
bus is flying through clouds, or
through a vision. Like an out-of-body
experience, where there isn’t anything
else in the world except you and the
bus, drifting silently together into
nothingness. I usually gaze to my
right out the side window, but sometimes
I like looking forward and trying
to take in the views of all six bus
windows at once. It
makes me feel like I’m
in a spaceship, hurtling
through the gaseous exterior
of a planet. I feel
invincible.
Then the mist clears,
and I remember I’m
stuck on Earth.
God, it smells so
bloody gross on this bus. Moldy deodorant
and Fanta. Does anyone even
clean this bus? My school shoes stick
a bit to the floor. And the middleschool
kids have started throwing
their lunches again. Why would you
waste your lunch? Lunch is the single
hour of peace in a school day. You can
sit with your friends and for those few
precious minutes you have no other
purpose in life but to fill your stomach
with flavors that your ➤➤
Photo by Natasha Deacon, Southampton, England

Sky Tears by Susan Lin, Walnut, CA
You look up and it’s like you see the world through a fish-eye lens because suddenly the sky is so
big and you’re so small. And your feet struggle to touch the ground, and when they do, your toes
touch the jagged edges of the bottom so you have to be gentle. You spread your arms like in the
movies except you don’t have a lover to hold them out and marvel at the sky with you. You feel weird
using an old-fashioned-sounding word like lover, but it’s romantic, so you use it. The sky is spread out
around you and suddenly you feel vulnerable, like something is coming to get you. You look up and it’s
so, so bright even though there’s no sun, and the sky begins to cry. And it’s coming down everywhere and
there’s something powerful about its tears that’s beautiful. The sky weeps even though you’re looking
straight up at it, and you wonder why there isn’t anyone to kiss if you lean your head back. At first it’s
okay when the tears come down soft and easy and gently roll down your face into the cold water; it would
be so easy to cry and for nobody to know. But then it starts coming down heavier and it’s starting to hurt
when they hit your pale, cold skin. The sky closes in on you, and it scares you so much that you stop
looking up. You hear thunder and scramble to get out of the water, your bare feet scraping against the
rocks. Two older girls are watching you and they whisper in a different language. As you get out, you feel
disappointed in them for not knowing what to look at. They were watching you when they could have
looked up and seen the whole world crying. ✦
mouth has been craving since you finished
your cereal six hours earlier.
You don’t have to think about homework,
coursework, how you’re going to
get four A’s on your exams, that club that
you hate going to and need to quit, how
you think you’re too quiet at school and
Art by Sarah Zolie, Mostaganem, Algeria
should try to make more friends, that
teacher you said you’d go and find last
week and haven’t yet, the e-mail account
you keep refusing to check because you
know you’ve got a scornful e-mail from
said teacher, what you’re going to do at
college, what you’re going to do after
college, how the hell you’re going to find
a husband before your eggs run out, how
you’re not going to waste your life, how
you’re going to lead a fulfilling retirement
….
Sandwiches are my favorite. No, wait,
just bread. I could happily live on bread
until I die.
What makes me the most sad about the
lunch-throwing is that for each of those
sandwiches, some poor mother or father
woke up early to make sure that their
precious child had sustenance for the
day. The sandwich has been neatly buttered,
the filling has been carefully
sliced, the sandwich flawlessly halved,
and wrapped up like a Christmas present
in plastic wrap or tin foil, with the
knowledge that for another day, their
child will have fuel for
the afternoon. That’s
what I think about when
I see a sandwich
squashed on the bus
floor.
The bus jolts unexpectedly,
the driver perhaps
underestimating the
strength of a speed
bump, causing my iPod
to shuffle – a particularly
annoying feature of
the latest Nano.
For a second, I properly
take in everything
around me. Some sixgraders
from the boys’
school that I see every
day in their jackets are
talking about which ginger
actresses are fit. The
middle-school kids at
the front are having a
war over who can insult
someone in the most
imaginative way. A few girls from my
school are obviously talking about boy
issues. I can tell from their faces. Beige
Kid is drawing a largely inaccurate rendition
of the male anatomy in Sharpie on
the seat. The hum of the engine beneath
my feet is like a vacuum, and I begin to
wish it would suck me in.
Then a new song starts – Michael
Jackson’s “Black or White” – and my insides
stop churning. I don’t go back to
Bryan Adams, because I like this song. I
think “Black or White” is the most ironic
song ever. I quite like irony. Just saying.
I wonder what Long Bangs Boy is
listening to.
We’re just driving past a graveyard.
I make it my goal each day to read a
different gravestone. I love reading them.
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
Weird, right? Whatever, I don’t care anymore.
Today’s marker is old, so I can
only just make it out. It says “In memory
of William Lucas, 1887-1954, Always
Remembered.” I don’t like that, “Always
Remembered.” It’s not true, is it? The
people who knew William Lucas will
die, and then no one will remember him.
You die and then you have a second
death when everyone who knew you dies
too and you are truly erased from the
world. On my gravestone I want something
like “Don’t look, I’m standing right
behind you,” something that’ll freak people
out. Something that’ll give me a good
chuckle when I’m stuck in hell. Make the
most out of a dire situation, I say.
Beige Kid has started throwing paper
at Long Bangs. Long Bangs sinks more
in his seat, doing nothing. He doesn’t
even look from the
window.
The bus drifts to
the side of the road,
as do other cars, as an
ambulance speeds by.
I love it when this
happens. It’s like the
parting of the Red
Sea. Not just that, though. It’s one of the
only times you ever see people who
don’t know each other actually working
together. Sure, you see random acts of
kindness in other countries when they
have earthquakes and floods and stuff,
and to not help would make you an incurable
bastard, but here in England,
everyone’s out for themselves. Except
when an ambulance or a fire engine
drives by. Even if you’re in a hurry, you
still slow down and let them through.
Everyone does. Even if you’re an incurable
bastard. You still do it.
I like that.
The bus pulls out again. A little too
fast.
I hear the car before I see it. Deep
engine. Growling like a puma.
I hear a screech of tires, and then I
don’t know what’s happening.
My mouth stays closed as every other
child lets out a variation of a petrified
Art by Antonio Hillarrio, London, England
We’re all just
waiting for when
we won’t have to
ride the bus anymore
scream. I don’t think I move. Long
Bangs is suddenly sitting next to me.
He’s not looking at me, though. I realize
everyone has crammed over to the right
side of the bus. And a bus window on the
left has a large crack in it.
The puma car has bumped into the
bus.
I remember the jolt now.
Everything is silent.
The bus driver peers around, “Everyone
all right?” I don’t like his accent. It
sounds more like “E’rywun awriiiight?” I
don’t think he really cares.
The middle-school girls start cackling
again. And squawking. The boys start
hitting each other, calling each other
sissies for screaming and being scared.
I suddenly have the urge to stand up,
take a book out of my bag and thump
myself over the head just
to see how everyone would
react. I don’t, of course.
The bus driver doesn’t
call for a replacement. He
doesn’t even check upstairs
to see if people there
are all right. He just drives
off.
Like nothing happened.
I suddenly realize Long Bangs is still
sitting next to me.
My eyes peer around, awkwardly, to
double-check this. Yes, there he is.
I reckon he does the same. You know,
look without moving his head. But
there’s no way to know for sure.
We don’t say anything.
The bus moves on. “Black or White” is
coming to an end. I don’t remember
hearing the beginning of the final chorus.
My eyes take in the view and I realize
where we are. My mind realigns itself
with the map of the route that is permanently
etched into my brain.
After a few more minutes, Long Bangs
goes back to his seat.
The bus rumbles on into the mist, unhindered
by its wound. I go back to
thinking about random crap. I don’t think
about Long Bangs anymore.
Tomorrow will probably be the same. ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
45

fiction
46
Presumed by Emily McConville, Louisville, KY
The day I became suspicious
was the day the cop pulled me
over.
I could see his frown as I rolled
down my tinted windows, and I allowed
myself an eye-roll before he
could see my face. I had been doing –
what, five miles an hour over the
speed limit? I was probably the most
lawful driver on the road. Cars were
passing me on both sides before I
heard the sirens – in
fact, I looked around
for several moments before
another bleep of
the siren made it clear
to me that yes, the cop
meant me.
It’s probably because
my windows are tinted,
I thought. They don’t
trust privacy. Come to think of it, they
don’t really trust carefulness either,
because they assume you’re trying to
cover up something sneaky by being
lawful. So privacy and carefulness together
… why was I surprised they
pulled me over?
The cop was studying his feet when
I put my window down, a big sign of
weakness in cop-world. When he finally
looked up, I met his eye. I expected
him to go into some tirade
about my crime, real or imaginary.
Maybe even tase me, if he felt like it.
But the emotion that registered was
surprise, then a big grin broke out on
his face.
“Oh,” he said, beginning to laugh.
“It’s you!”
Nonplussed, I replied, “What, officer?”
I had never seen the man before
in my life.
But the cop just said, “Oh, nothing.”
Then, still chuckling, he told me
my tail light was out and that he’d let
Art by Katherine Tran, Mission Viejo, CA
Teen Ink • SUMMER ’12
Though I did
nothing illegal,
guilt was
presumed
me off with a warning this time, just
because it was me.
“I really don’t know what you
mean, officer. How do you know
me?”
The same amiable “Oh, nothing.”
“But, officer –”
The smile slid off his face so
quickly I might have missed it if I
blinked. “Are you arguing with me,
citizen?” he asked menacingly.
“N-no …”
Then, just as suddenly,
the smile was back.
“Buh-bye, then.” And he
was gone.
I sat in my car on the
shoulder, completely
bamboozled by what had
just happened. The cop
had been gone for maybe
ten whole minutes before I realized I
should get moving before another cop
showed up and wrote me up for vehicular
loitering.
I decided to concentrate on my
driving the rest of the way home; the
scene was too weird to contemplate.
But as soon as I got home and gave
the doorman my mandatory DNA
sample and mugshot, I flopped onto
the couch and began to think.
I racked my brains for any memory
of the cop, but there was none. So he
could not have met me in person, let
alone gotten to like me because of
some good or interesting quality I
had. He must have seen me somewhere,
maybe on one of the cameras
hidden throughout town. I must have
done something unusual or he wouldn’t
have remembered me.
But why should he? Ever since the
Presumption Act I had gone to great
lengths to make myself invisible. I
had kept my hair just so, so I
wouldn’t seem the slightest bit out of
the ordinary. I always walked at a normal
pace with my head level and my
expression soft. I always smiled at
people and said hello, but never more
than was normal. I had no interest in
being noticed, because noticed people
are tracked. And though I did nothing
illegal, guilt was presumed. The prudent
citizen should avoid being presumed
at all costs.
Even at home, which is technically
private, I kept up my guard. I knew I
was being watched in every room except
my bedroom, which was
equipped with bug-disablers; the
things that make people presumed
tend to happen in private.
So what was that incident all
about? What could I have done?
It could have been something I
did before the Presumption Act, when
the cameras were there but still illegal.
I was a bit looser then, but still
law-abiding because I believed in law,
not because I was afraid of being
presumed. I wasn’t the kind of
person to do a stupid or wacky or
self-incriminating thing.
So what was going on?
The cop had looked at me like I
was the star of some viral video,
some Internet sensation that people
like to laugh at because they got
caught singing badly or sending
stupid messages or –
Or doing a stupid dance.
No. That had only been once, in
the only place in the world where I
was guaranteed privacy, where I
could let down my guard and dance
away my bad energy. My bug-disabling
equipment was state-of-theart;
I had paid an arm and a leg for
it on the black market, the only unlawful
thing I had done.
“How do I know this works?” I had
asked when I bought it.
“If the cops don’t come banging
down your door for illegal trading in
the morning,” the vendor had replied,
“you know it works.”
They hadn’t. And so I put my full
trust in the machines, which ran on
solar power and which I regularly
checked.
I jumped off the couch and began
tearing apart my bedroom, searching
for bugs. I got no sleep that night. I
spent every second scouring the walls,
in some cases tearing them apart,
searching for a camera or a microphone.
I had been taught and had
picked up bug-searching techniques.
By the time the sun rose and I had
to go to work, I had found nothing.
But they could have developed a bug
so small it was microscopic, or that
retreated into the foundations of a
building when searched for. My safe
place was no longer safe. The cop had
seen my dance; I was
sure of it. I no longer had
privacy. And if that was
true, then I was probably
already presumed, because
I had torn apart my
room, which was not a
normal thing to do.
I almost called in sick to work, but
that too would be considered out of
the ordinary.
Over the next several weeks my
fear of the cameras mounted. I tried to
calm myself with rational thoughts. I
had done some pretty out-of-the-ordinary
things in my room. If my room
was bugged, then they had seen them
all. So why wasn’t I presumed already?
Maybe, I thought with some degree
of relief, everybody does weird and
out-of-the-ordinary things when they
think they’re not watched.
One morning I swung into my
parking spot a little too widely, nearly
hitting the car next to me. I got out as
nonchalantly as possible, trying not to
The cop had
seen my dance;
I was sure of it
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Photo by Kaylee Pratt, Arvada, CO
look worried. Normal people didn’t
worry about being too close to other
cars as long as they didn’t hit them.
I went through my normal routine
that day, but I felt more watched than
normal. What if there were cameras in
my desk, watching me while I
crunched numbers for some wealthy
family’s superlow taxes? What if they
were in the filing cabinet? The fibers
of the carpet? What if every angle of
my body was being watched, analyzed,
picked over by people in a dark
room, because I was now presumed?
I realized that if they had seen my
dance, I probably was.
Stop it, I told myself. Paranoia is
out of the ordinary.
Still, I let myself shake a little bit as
I exited the building for my lunch
break. I jumped a little when I saw the
cop car parked along the curb, its
lights off but still spinning a little.
There was a figure inside. Move, I
told myself. Everything normal.
Everything exactly the same.
Then the figure exited
the vehicle. It was the
same cop who had pulled
me over. Without seeing
me and my dropped jaw,
he crossed the street and
went into a building.
“Gym,” the sign said, but
everyone knew it was a nudie bar.
And then, without even thinking,
without even considering how extraordinary
my actions were and how
unlawful and how I would be incarcerated
and presumed almost immediately,
I bounded across the street and
got into the cop car.
I had never been inside a cop car
before, but it was essentially the same
as in pre-Presumption movies. Caged
back seat, front seat with a scanner
and a small computer. Again without
thinking, I touched the screen.
It asked me for a password.
After a moment of thought, a chill
passed over me. “Oh, it’s you!” the
cop had said, and laughed as if it was
the luckiest thing in the world ➤➤

Three Twenty-Seven by Hannah Smith, Rockwall, TX
Price. Time of death: 3:27 a.m.
October 12th.”
“Blake
Time of death. The captain of the
hockey team. The guy who got straight C’s but
could compose a song in four minutes. The most
popular boy in school. My brother. Time of death:
3:27 a.m.
I was in the car when it happened. He was yelling
at a girl in the front seat. She had a nice face and
kind eyes. I remember because she
looked at me through the window
when my brother left her in the
rain. His headlight was out, and
somehow it was her fault. He was
drunk. I remember because he was
listening to rap. He hates rap. It
was dark and raining. I looked at
the clock. It was 2:38 a.m. I remember
because I saw it on
Blake’s phone when it lit up, showing that he had a
text message. He read it. I know this because I
watched him take his eyes off the road for two
whole seconds. Two seconds is all it takes for a car
to drift into oncoming traffic.
All of a sudden it was 3:27 a.m. I remember because
that’s when Dr. Brown said my brother died.
You’re fine, he told me. Not a scratch or a bruise. I
should have been grateful. I’m still not grateful.
I work as a speech therapist now. I sit at my desk
in my office and help people talk. People who need
that he had pulled me over.
I typed my name, and the computer
let me in.
The screen was formatted like your
standard touch-screen cell phone, with
square applications dotting the desktop.
Scanner, one said. News and weather,
said another. Basic surveillance. Street
cameras. Home cameras.
Extra surveillance. Police
manual. Chief statements.
Public relations assist.
Miranda warning.
Super surveillance. I
pressed that.
Immediately a menu
popped up, with basic things like Setup,
Most Recent, and Favorites. I felt another
chill and pressed Favorites rather
hesitantly. Sure enough, my name
popped up. I pressed it.
There were videos of my ordinary
haunts. My work. My ride home. The
interior of my car. My bedroom. But the
curious thing was that my face was not
in any of them. There were some shots
of my hands as I fast-forwarded through
the soundless videos, some of my feet
and of my elbow. There was even one of
my reflection in a mirror, but not my
face itself. How were they getting these
angles?
Had they somehow embedded cameras
in my hair? My skin? My very
being?
I saw another button that said Photos.
There were thousands of them, maybe
The most popular
boy in school. My
brother. Time of
death: 3:27 a.m.
The panic
became greater.
They knew.
hundreds of thousands, many of the
same places. It was as if the pictures
were taken every second or so. Then I
saw another button. Current. I clicked it.
And there was the inside of the cop
car, the computer screen. So the cameras
were on me. How had they gotten there?
The realization intrigued rather than
frightened me, and I blinked
in surprise.
The screen flashed, and a
new picture, though really
the same, popped up.
A knot formed in my
stomach.
I blinked again. Another
picture. Again. Another.
I looked at the back of the vehicle and
blinked. When I turned back there was a
picture of the back of the vehicle on the
computer screen.
“Ha,” I said out loud, my voice weak.
“They’ve embedded cameras into our
eyelids.”
And suddenly molten panic spread
over me.
This was how they knew. This was
how the cop knew me. Somewhere in
that database was a video of my hands
and feet moving to an unheard beat and
the sound of me humming along to the
music in my head, an action so funny
that some cop had saved it and sent it to
his friends. They were watching me,
watching me when they didn’t need to. I
was presumed, but not in the way I
thought. They watched everyone
LINK YOUR TEENINK.COM ACCOUNT TO FACEBOOK
help communicating. I sit in my office every day and
see people who come to me for help.
Right now, it’s 3:15 p.m. I know this because I’ve
waited patiently all day for this hour to come.
He walks in and sits in the green chair. His favorite
chair. I ask him how he is and how he’s liking
college. He tells me as best he can. My eyes trace
the scar on his bald head as he struggles to speak.
He has seven scars. I know this because I’ve
counted. Two on his eye. One on his
head. Three running down his right
arm and one running diagonal across
his mouth. My heart aches for this
young man. After he answers my
questions, I ask if he’s ready. He
nods and we walk to the convention
center together.
There are about 200 more people
than he expected. I know this because
his hands are at his sides, playing the imaginary
piano on his pant leg. He is nervous, but ready.
I sit next to my mom and dad, and watch as he
walks to the stage. I look around and see familiar
faces. Dr. Brown waves at me. I smile at him and
motion to my watch. He smiles. It is 3:27 p.m. Time
of death. The young man on stage clears his throat.
Heads turn.
“I have aphasia,” he begins. “A brain disorder that
limits my speaking ability.” He speaks like a deaf
man. Everyone smiles.
periodically, I realized. Everyone is presumed
all the time.
I lay my head on the passenger seat.
How had they gotten the cameras into
my eyelids, anyway? It had probably
happened during a routine doctor’s visit,
because, of course, the health community
was in on it. Anyone who was paid
by the government was in on it. They
helped those who watched. They were
watching me. Watching me …
Watching me now.
The panic became greater. They knew.
They knew I was in the car; they knew I
had figured it out. They had seen my
test with the back seat. All they hadn’t
seen was the look of shock on my face,
because I would bet Presumption that
cop cars had no cameras in them because
cops were privi-
leged.
But wait, I thought,
looking back at the
screen and trying not to
blink. Maybe they didn’t.
They didn’t – couldn’t –
watch everybody all the
time. Odds were nobody was watching
the treachery going on right now. If I
could just delete the evidence …
There was a garbage can on the bottom
left corner of the screen.
Quickly, blinking as little as possible,
I deleted every picture and video that
had been recorded since I walked out of
my building. As I did, I decided a couple
of things: I was no longer going to
“I am here today to share my story. My name is
Blake Price. Time of death: 3:27 a.m. Time of miracle:
3:29 a.m.” ✦
Photo by Donna Hartin, Barrie, ON, Canada
I blinked again.
Another picture.
Again. Another.
sit back and let them watch me. I would
not destroy myself obsessing over my
public or private actions. I would not be
their pawn or slave.
Finally, the last picture deleted and
my eyes closed, I rolled out of the car
and placed myself on the public bench
next to it. When the cop came back a
few minutes later I turned my head, pretending
to be on the phone. He never
gave me a glance as he got in his car and
drove away.
That night, I called the vendor of a
bug-disabler. “I want to go underground,”
I told him.
No questions, no asking why. “Okay.
We’ll send someone over as soon as
possible to do the kidnapping.”
Then: “What are you going to do for
our movement?”
“Send out a chain e-mail.”
“With what contents?”
“I’m thinking, ‘Attention:
Your government is drowning
in deceit …’”
“That’s punishable by
death, you know. Very dangerous.
No one’s done that in years.”
“I don’t really care. And also, the
cameras are in our eyelids.”
“I figured something to that effect. I’ll
send over a surgeon as well.”
The vendor hung up. I stood by the
phone for a while, contemplating my
new existence. Then, as I climbed the
stairs to my room, I whispered, “And to
whoever’s listening … screw you.” ✦
SUMMER ’12 • Teen Ink
fiction
47