Here is a small selection of the more than 120 pieces of teen writing, artwork and photography featured in the first Teen Ink book. Get a taste of what's inside by reading the openings of these selected pieces:
My mother always knew when my sister had
come home because her shoes were by the washing machine until that one night. I
was awoken by a knock on our front door. I lay in bed as I heard my mother answer
it. What could someone want at 3:47 a.m., I thought. Pretty soon I found out.
My older sister had been in a car accident. I quickly said a prayer and
put on jeans. I pulled my hair up in a ponytail and grabbed my shoes which were
by the washer. I looked at my younger sister's teddy bear lying on the couch. I
should bring it, I thought, so she can think of home. Nah, I thought, deciding
against it. Mom called me, and we left for the hospital.
When we arrived,
we were told to stay in the waiting room. The same officer who had come to our
house asked to see my parents alone. I remembered sitting and staring absently at
the TV. My thoughts began to whirl. What if she is in a coma? What if she has
broken legs and needs a wheelchair? I would gladly push her around. Maybe knock
her into some furniture while I'm at it.
I looked up as the officer came
back into the room and asked my younger sister and me to follow him. We came to a
room that had a small sign: Family Room.
We went in and the officer shut
the door. My mother looked at me with her tear-stained face and said two words I
will never forget, "Becky died."
I sat down. I was in shock. I
sat there for some time. Then I began to cry.
It took us months to find
out what had happened, and to this day we still don't really know. All we know is
that Becky had been worried about coming home late and didn't want to call for a
ride, afraid my parents would get mad. So she got a ride home with some friends.
All seven packed into a small car and my sister had to sit on someone's lap. The
driver was drunk and ran into a telephone pole. Becky died instantly.
To
this day, I'm still confused and sad. I ask God why. Didn't She know that she was
my best friend? Sometimes, I stare at the empty spot by the washer where my
sister once put her sneakers and sadly think that her shoes will never sit there
again.
My sister is now a part of a statistic that we all can control of.
People don't think they will kill someone while driving drunk. Believe me, it's
possible. So, I'm asking all of you - don't drive drunk.
Back to Top
I don't know you but there you lay in black and
white a paragraph of your sixteen years
they
forget about the time your gum got caught in your hair and you
cut off your only golden curls
or that time you flooded
the laundry room and missed your softball game cleaning up the
mess
but wait that was me and this is you
a tiny, printed section on my page next to an ad
for America Online "You can talk to anyone, anywhere" but
you can't I can't and that's what happened
had
you planned it out? like I had what happened to you? did
you crash your mommy's car? did you crack your porcelain smile?
did you get a C in science? did you try to talk? But were
silenced or worse ignored?
you could have been
like me or me like you
sisters in a cruel
situation fighters in that high school hypocrisy
but I blinked and never saw you in the
halls eyes never met paths never crossed life's little
joke on you no more than an ink stain on my paper
Back to Top
It was the beginning of gym class, and I set my
belongings down in the most secluded area of the boys' locker room. I felt my
simple, undeveloped body was inferior to the libido-loaded adolescents who ruled
the locker room, and I wanted to avoid confrontation with them if I could. My
worst fear had always been that someone was going to sneak up and pilfer my
undergarments, which would then force me to chase after this B.V.D. bandit in my
birthday suit.
I was stripping off my clothes in the process of changing
into my uniform, when the glisten of the incandescents off a single chest hair
caught my eye. I paused for a moment and looked down at God's gift. There it was:
dark, silky and beautiful, the only one of its kind. And I thought to myself,
after one, more are sure to follow.
I was at that age when boys suddenly
change from a boy to, well, not a man, but something in-between the two - a
demented, terrifying creature known as an adolescent. By the time I entered this
stage, most of my friends were well underway in their journey toward manhood. All
around me droned the chorus of squeaky, semi-low pitched male voices, and I, with
my soprano voice, came to the realization that I, too, would be dragged to the
same fate as the others. I was, however, what is considered a "late
bloomer" and, unlike my classmates, had not yet blossomed.
A few
months after my chest hair sighting, my voice began its gradual and cruel change.
Whenever I spoke, an embarrassing, indescribable chirp would escape from my
mouth. Usually, I could not even speak a full sentence without my voice jumping
an octave or two. But, I realized that "all us guys" go through this,
so I could deal with it.
The last drastic change from boy to adolescent
that I encountered was libido control. Because I was late in blooming, I had
witnessed the drastic effects libido had on other males. No longer were the boys
happy with each other's company, for now they were in search of something else,
the sexual unknown. The devil of puberty turns every young male into an
uncontrollable mass of hormones whose every waking moment is occupied by the
thought of the female gender.
I, too, succumbed to the natural fascination
in women, but in a different way. Once I developed an interest, I, like many
others, wanted a girlfriend of my own; but I was certainly unprepared for the
role of being a boyfriend. I remember the tumultuous experience of my first
girlfriend. At the end of English class, all corners of the room were filled with
the drone of students packing up to hurry to their next period. I was leaning
over my belongings in a state of confusion when I felt something grab at my
behind. To my surprise, my future girlfriend was standing behind me with a look
of a criminal who had just gotten away with murder. My face turned a deep tint of
scarlet as I searched the room for a witness to her crime. Luckily, nobody had
noticed. I attempted to say something, but all that came out of my mouth was a
stutter. Feeling embarrassed, I ran for the exit, books, papers and all jumbled
in my arms. My only thought was to escape from the room and find a secluded stall
in the Mens' bathroom to see if she had inflicted any superficial damage.
Whenever anyone touched me, I had the habit of checking for an out-of-place
ruffle in my clothes, but thankfully, I was unscathed.
Later that month, I
somehow got dragged into a relationship with that same girl. The night I went to
meet her mom and dad was another incident that I will never forget. I was in
their guest bathroom fixing my hair, for I was about to meet her parents, and I
wanted to look presentable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door creep
open and my girlfriend enter. "What are you ...," my voice jumped an
octave, "doing?"
"Oh, nothing," she replied, with the
same look on her face as had been there the day she accosted me in English class.
For weeks, she had hinted that she wanted to engage in the teenage ritual of
kissing, and I was completely terrified of her intentions. At that moment, I felt
like a lost mouse being stalked by a great owl. I had never been alone in a
bathroom with a girl before, and I had no idea how to go about kissing. I had
read many magazines on the subject, but they were no help. I was worried that my
inexperience would cause me to falter. I thought to myself, as she edged closer
and closer, when our lips come together, then what? My heart began to beat faster
and faster. I looked around for a way out, but she had me cornered. I let out the
loudest scream I could humanly produce and then jumped under her legs in an
attempt to escape. Crawling the length of the bathroom, I scrambled to the exit
as quickly as I could. My way was blocked by four knees, two covered with pants
and two bulging out from the top of red and green argyle knee socks. I looked up
to see her parents staring down at me.
"Hi!" again my voice
cracked. "I'm Rob," I said while offering them my trembling, sweaty
hand. They received it politely and asked if everything was okay. The door opened
behind me and my girlfriend exited. "Hi, Mom, Dad," she said as she
blithely walked around the corner and disappeared from view.
Looking back,
I learned that behind every cracking voice, sweaty palm and sexually accosted
boy, there is a mature, honest responsible man in the making. The memory of the
lone chest hair sighting that I so gleefully discovered in the locker room is a
savored memory tucked away with the squeeze on the behind and my first kiss.
Maybe adolescence was not so bad after all.
Back to Top
I sit on my bed, my arms wrapped around my knees
rocking back and forth. Tears are pouring down my face. This happened last night,
yet I can remember and feel every detail because that night has been repeated
many times. The feelings are so strong that I rock back and forth faster and
harder, maybe hoping that the rocking will make the tears go away.
I pick
up the phone, desperately needing to hear a friend's voice tell me I'll be okay.
I reach for the phone, trembling, and stop to think. There is no one to call. I
throw it across the room and look for something sharp to put into my skin, then
decide against it. It would hurt my mother too much.
I jump out of bed and
throw myself against the wall. But it doesn't help. I am still here. My feelings
are still here. It doesn't help. I throw myself onto the bed again desperately
clutching my pillow. I feel as if my body is going to burst because I am crying
so hard. Too hard to stop. I start to write but I can't see the page. I can't see
the words.
I look into the mirror and see someone. Is it me? Yes, I am
there. I recognize this face. It's been there too many times not to. I start to
think about running away, but I'm not sure how I would do it. So, I decide to ask
Tara in the morning since she will know, will understand. Slowly the tears die
down. I am too tired to hurt myself, too tired to sit up anymore.
I start
falling asleep. I do. Very easily as if nothing had happened. But it has. It was
real. I can feel the puffiness of my eyes. I can't breath through my nose and my
face is tight with dried tears. It was real. I fall into a sleep. A deep sleep
with too many dreams. I can't keep track of them all. In the morning, I wake up.
I wake up late, not wanting to get up. I do, and drag myself to volleyball
practice where I see tired, but happy people. How could this be? Slowly, I feel
parts of happiness come into me. It slowly rises and settles. It never completely
takes over. There's still that lump in my body left from last night, and the many
nights before.
Slowly the day continues, and I realize it would not stop
just for me. Only I could stop it for me. The day goes on and the feelings are
still with me. Sometimes I feel really great and - then boom - it hits me.
Sometimes so hard and strong. Days go by. Weeks. Months. I slowly feel life come
back into me. I feel my old self. All I can think is, I'm here! I'm back again!
It's me. My counselor thinks so, everybody thinks so. I begin each day and make
it through. Life isn't the best, but it's better.
Then slowly it again
slips from me. Maybe I wasn't holding on tightly enough or maybe I was just
fooling myself. I can sense the same feelings as before. They are back. I try so
hard to push them away. The answer to pushing them away are my tears. They are
back. I sit on my bed with my arms wrapped around my knees rocking back and
forth. I pick up the phone, but I already know the answer. The night is back. Back to Top
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Copyright 2008 by Teen Ink, The 21st Century and The Young Authors Foundation, Inc. All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced,
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