Here is a small selection of the more than 120 pieces of teen writing, artwork and photography featured in the Teen Ink: Friends and Family. Get a taste of what's inside by reading the openings of these selected pieces:
"Do you want to go on the seesaw? I bet you
haven't done that in years."
Fragments of light glistened through the
black abyss, the moon providing just enough to make everything glow. A bitter
wind swept through me. It was hard to believe gleeful children had occupied this
playground earlier that day. Everything seemed utterly lifeless.
Lifeless ... The word echoed through my mind.
Don't die, sweet
Torrie, not now.
What the heck, I thought, following Jay
across the school yard toward the seesaws. My feet sank deep into the pebbles.
There was something very nostalgic about the moment, as if I were six years old
again.
Jay held his end of the seesaw steady so I could get on. He
mounted the other end and situated himself so he almost looked distinguished, but
that only lasted a moment. Our weight difference caused me to fly upward, and Jay
landed on the ground with a thud.
"That was classic. Where's a camera
when you need one?" I joked.
Jay pushed off the ground and I gradually
floated back down. Unexpectedly I began drifting upward again. I looked at the
ground which should have been under my feet, but now there was just air. Jay's
legs were too long, or maybe mine were too short. Nothing about that moment
seemed real. I almost forgot why I was even there with Jay. He wanted to cheer me
up, to take my mind off the accident.
I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch
with you, Torrie. What happened? We swore we wouldn't drift apart. We never
should have had that fight ...
Jay could tell I was thinking about
her again. "Wanna go on the swings?" His voice cut through my silent wondering. I
woke up.
Wake up, Torrie. All you have to do is show a sign that
you're okay, I pleaded silently.
"I'd love to. When you were little,
did you ever have a contest to - "
"- see who could swing the highest?"
we spoke in unison. My laughter trailed off.
I wonder if you remember,
Torrie. I always used to win. Well, not always. And now you're lying in a
hospital not knowing if you'll ever walk again.
I forced myself to
smile and continue the conversation. The swing was higher off the ground than I
remembered.
"I bet I can go higher than you," he said. I shook my head.
Leave it to Jay to turn a childhood pastime into a challenge. I rhythmically
pumped my swing, and my hair blew around my face as I sailed through the air. I
looked over at Jay. Although he had the same sparkle in his eye and he threw me
the same half-smile he always did, there was something different about him. Or
maybe there was just something different about the way I saw him. The sparkle
fell from his face and into the wind.
"Oh, Liz, smile."
I really
wanted to, but it hurt to smile. I couldn't tell if the wind was burning my face
or if it was a tear that rolled down my cheek.
We hopped off the swings
and started to walk back toward his car.
"You know," he started, "you'll
do so much better if you keep your mind busy with something else."
God, Torrie, why did you have to be so stupid? Why did you have to get in the
car with someone who was drunk? You never even saw the curve in the road. The
last thing you saw was the tree ...
"I'm sorry. What did you
say?"
"Liz, let's talk. You want to know what ticks me off?"
"What?"
He almost didn't wait for my response.
"How the most
beautiful girls hurt themselves for no reason."
I finally broke down, my
blank stare welling up with tears.
"Come here."
I fell onto his
shoulder. We stood there while he held me and let me cry. I finally realized what
was so different about Jay: the sparkle in his eye was a tear I had never seen
before.
"I want to fix the world so you never have to cry again," he
said.
That night I cried for Torrie, and Jay cried for me.
I bought an ugly, cheap, worthless watch with a
fake name brand from an ugly, cheap, worthless vendor on a filthy New York City
street. I knew immediately it had some inexplicable authority over me.
And it took advantage. It tortured me, With every metal device of which
it was formed, Every link and hook and both hands turning. It gave me
eight minutes to practice as I waited for your arrival. Words were clear and
perfect in my mind, A speech prepared, with the most perfect words. As
the second hand returned to its starting point after eight laps around, you
appeared. And as I lifted my jeweled wrist to touch you, my words slithered
away. I lost the conflict, the will to speak. And IÕll never
escape the fear of that second hand, Or the effortless way you prevented my
words. My little clock still regrets, still remembers how long I waited to
tell you. How Mom felt when you tempted her. With a vision of color and
brilliance A vision of white, like a wedding dress, And when you
prevented something you saw so beautifully, She was swallowed by black and
digested. And she hasnÕt recovered yet. But youÕll never know this.
Or that I can never, ever give my hand to someone to hold for fear they
will Prevent my vision or tempt me with something greater than I can expect,
But I trust myself. So I am selfish, I suppose. And you were late.
And I never told you. This slinky circle of cold steel froze my words.
But the most valuable possession I ever owned was that time, A solid eight
minutes of power and purpose and pride. Back to Top
It was a typical Monday morning. I grabbed my
books, kissed my mother good-bye and walked out the front door. As I ventured
past a freshly painted, jet-black Caddy, I stopped to take a look at my
reflection. Staring back was a 14-year-old thug with a shaved head wearing filthy
cut-off jeans tattered around the bottom and paratrooper boots, white laces all
the way up. I smiled, removed a black bandanna from my belt and tied it around my
forehead. From there I walked to a friend's house two blocks down. I was nervous
because I knew later in the day I was going to have to fight three of my fellow
gang members. I had missed two meetings, and that was the rule.
I made my
way to Josh's place. It was small and dirty. The smell of dog waste lurked among
the garbage left behind by months of constant drinking and belligerent partying.
I walked around back, jumped through the bedroom window and ended Josh's slumber
by blowing a bong hit in his face.
In the midst of our morning session, a
neighbor came popping through the half-broken window. We said our hellos and
exchanged gang signs. Our words "White pride" and "Down white criminals" could be
heard in the next room by Josh's mother, but she remained a recluse, too
inebriated to face reality. She just lay in bed, half-crippled and eating
tranquilizers like candy. Periodically, she would threaten to call the
police.
Within 20 minutes we made it to the store and back: Two 12-packs
and a half ounce of weed between the three of us would be sufficient until
afternoon. We were merrily intoxicated and blowing the beer bong horns by 9 a.m.
It was time for morning entertainment.
We filled our beer bottles with
gasoline, threw them into a burning trash can and ran like hell into the small
back-yard shed. From there we had the best view of the flames bursting into the
air as a rich, black mushroom cloud ascended, infecting the calm blue of the sky.
As they usually did, the explosions woke a neighbor. He took advantage
of the noise and began firing his Tech-9 and .38 caliber handgun into the ground
on our side of the fence
We closed the morning hours with some weight
lifting and more beer drinking. It was the perfect remedy for the alcohol
poisoning I had accumulated over the weekend.
Noontime came, and we
decided to venture to a friend's house. A short walk over the dirt and crabgrass
and we were at Big Ed's front door. Ed was the 26-year-old president of a local
motorcycle gang. He weighed about 270 and stood six and a half feet. If his size
wasn't intimidating, his cold green eyes were powerful enough to pierce a man's
chest and rip the breath from his lungs. It was Ed's idea to start our gang.
We were greeted with the tastiest of marijuana and the finest of
liquors. We sat, took out the peace pipe and began discussing what the day would
bring. Ed was always calculating new schemes for us to make some cash. Stealing
from construction sites and homes, lifting car stereos and ripping off
registration tags were all quick and easy ways.
Ed had just begun
describing his new idea when Josh's brother, Bear, came storming in. His face red
and dripping with sweat, the enraged giant was too winded to speak a word. When
he was able, Bear explained that his aunt had been beaten by her boyfriend. Josh
sprang to the telephone to call other members.
I went to another room to
call my parents. I told my mother I had just returned from school and was going
to the park with friends. Instead of giving me permission, she told me to come
home immediately. My grandmother had returned from the hospital, and she needed
me to look after her.
The other "brothers" quickly arrived. Six,
including me, were chosen to go down and take care of the aunt's boy-friend. I
took Josh and Bear aside and explained that I would always be there for them, but
I had to take care of my grandmother. I splashed some cold water on my face in a
vain attempt to sober up. We exchanged gang signs, and I was off. The guys jumped
into the bed of the gray, beat-up Chevy and drove off in a frenzy of drunken
hatred; I was disappointed I couldn't go.
I left for my grandmother's
house and returned to mine the next day. The ride home lasted an hour that seemed
a lifetime. I was incredibly anxious to find out what had happened. As soon my
car pulled into the driveway, I charged into the house and phoned Josh, but no
one was there. I threw my clothes into the bedroom and ran down to the 'hood, but
the block was like a ghost town. I could sense something was not right.
As I left, I noticed Bear's girlfriend pulling up to her house. I dashed over to
learn any news, but before I got out a word, she said angrily, "Arrested!" A
single tear dripped down her cheek and fell to the sidewalk. I could see the
disgust on her face as she turned away. I was in shock.
Then the
realization set in. Eric, a friend who was involved, came rushing toward me.
Confirming my horror, he explained what had happened and how he managed to avoid
the police. He then warned me that the cops would most likely be back to search
the house for weapons and stolen items. Ed had instructed us to take everything
illegal from Josh's house and stash it. In one truckload, we transferred
everything to a nearby friend's house. With Josh's mother unaware, Eric and I
decided to spend the night in our recently incarcerated friend's shed. It was a
safe distance from the house, so we wouldn't be heard. A bottle of Jack Daniels
and some high-powered LSD would comfort us through the evening.
That
entire night my thoughts were consumed with questions. How did just having fun
turn into this? Why was I lucky enough to have escaped the fate of my friends?
Would I be so lucky next time?
That night I realized my life was being
wasted. The only things I put effort into were getting high and proving to people
how tough I was, how much intoxication I could withstand, and just how far I
would go to show it. I needed out.
I woke up the next morning to a series
of explosions. When I looked, there were no friends with bottles of gasoline. The
ATF [Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms] had thrown percussion grenades into
the neighboring houses. From that small, filth-encrusted window, I watched black
uniformed agents with submachine guns blaring swarm the surrounding backyards.
They began hurling the men, women and children to the cold, wet grass. More
blasts, followed by high-pitched screams, could only mean the raid had spread
farther down the street.
In the midst of insanity, my attention suddenly
turned to Ed kneeling in the mud, his hands restrained behind his back.
Everything else hushed. My focus was fixed on the man who, to us, had always
signified power, respect and courage. I watched his screams of anger turn to
tears of horror as he watched his wife and four-year-old son taken into custody.
His scowling face was like an open book. I could read his fear as the agents ran
in and out of the house, each time seizing guns, drug paraphernalia and stolen
goods. From the shed window, that life didn't seem so wonderful anymore.
Right then and there, I vowed that if I made it out of there, everything would be
different. I was ready for things to change. I had seen enough to know I didn't
want it anymore.
Afraid to use the bathroom or even open the door for
air, I hid on a mattress inside that hovel for five hours. Eric tried to escape,
but was caught as soon as he left the backyard.
The air had grown silent.
It seemed that the lunacy had ended. I gazed outside to see the path of
devastation that lingered behind the morning's chaos. The personal belongings of
the people I cared about were scattered like ashes on the floor of a burning
forest. I left the neighborhood and the cloud that had long been shadowing me
with a false perception of life and what was important. I didn't understand why I
had been so lucky, but I knew I was being handed the opportunity to regain the
life I had so quickly forgotten.
As I approached my house, I lowered the
black bandanna from my brow and grasped it in my fist. I walked to the backyard
and sat in front of a half-broken cinderblock where I laid the emblem I had worn
so proudly, the symbol that once represented a brotherhood of courage and pride.
My eyes closed, and a moment of serenity came over me. I felt the warmth of the
fire rise to my face as I inhaled the smoke of my seemingly impenetrable binds
and exhaled the breath of a new life. It was over. I had just begun.
Teen Ink PO Box 30 Newton, MA 02461 (617) 964-6800 editor@teenink.com
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