Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II (12 page)

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Authors: Jack Canfield,Mark Victor Hansen,Kimberly Kirberger

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II
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Page 15
A Cool Drink of Water
After brushing my teeth, I stooped to drink the cool water streaming from the faucet, drifting back to that unforgettable summer. It was the summer when life beganthe summer I turned sixteen. I had my own car, along with a brand-new soul. It was not the memory of a new privilege that rushed back to me, but that of him looming over me with a laughing grin painted across his lips as he watched me drink from the faucet. It was that memory that rushed back to me.
Our relationship was everything it should have been, almost as if our time together had been written for a novel. We came together through friends of ours, as do most typical high school relationships. We grew closer and closer during the school year, spending time together on weeknights rehearsing for the school's musical production and on the weekends with friends. Soon, with permission from the weather and sometimes despite it, we traveled to the beach with our friends and a cooler of colas. It was on the way home from the beach one Saturday that I realized I was falling for him. Every sign showed love. I could hardly sit still in class just

 

Page 16
anticipating the next time I would see him and the upcoming weekend we would spend together. Being in his arms were some of the happiest times I had ever experienced. I could look deep into his eyes and be enchanted forever.
Being with him changed my soul. I shared everything with him, even things I kept from my family and my best friend. I felt his love prying apart the hard shell of shyness that encircled me. His trust, his love and his support for me lifted me from the earth and gently sent me into the clouds. He cast off the chains I had given myself. Through him I learned a new insight about the world. It was as if a tall, dark mountain had stood in front of me and, out of nowhere, he provided the wings to fly over it.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Yes, even for my first love. I had matured a great deal during our time together, which possibly brought me to a clearer understanding of what true love is. Over time, the clouds floated away, replaced with a new sinking feeling that what I was doing was wrong. The eyes that had so lovingly enchanted me soon became those of a dear friend. Somehow, the spell was broken. I wished so dearly that I could return to the long summer nights we had spent together, embracing under the moonlight. But as I longed for those nights, I also longed for a new freedom. The adventure had somehow become a routine.
Sadly, we both acknowledged the separation. We held each other tighter than ever, both roughly accepting the reality that it would be best to say good-bye. He wiped away my tears and held me until it was time for him to leave. My heart was yearning to kiss him good-bye, but my mind and my lips told me no. He walked down the stairs to his black convertible and left. I watched through tear-stained eyes from the window as he pulled out of my

 

Page 17
driveway. As his headlights faded in the distance, I turned off the light to my first love.
Having satisfied my thirst, I stood up and dried my mouth and chin with the towel at my side. I smiled, once again remembering how he stood by me and protected me in more ways than one. It is impossible to sum up seven-and-one-half months of pure joy and apprenticeship, but if there is one way to do it, a cool drink of water from the faucet would be sufficient.
Camden Watts

 

Page 18
Unrequited Love
Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love.
Charlie Brown
from
Peanuts
by Charles Schulz
"Guess what?"
I look at Sarah, my best friend since halfway through second grade. We've been through this routine before, and both of us know what's coming. "What?" I ask. I really don't like guessing.
We're walking home together after school. We usually do. It's freezing.
"Guess," she prompts me.
I study her face and then think for a second. What could be making her so happy? "You got another A in biology?"
"Nope."
"Your sister dropped dead?" I suggest.
"I wish," she replies, but shakes her head. "Guess again!"
"Just
tell
me!" I whine.
Her smile grows even broader, and I can see all her

 

Page 19
braces-covered teeth. "Xander kissed me."
My jaw drops and I turn to her. "Get out!" I gasp. I hit her shoulder. "Don't tell me stuff like that!" But then curiosity gets the better of me, so I meekly ask, ''Lips?"
"Cheek."
I hit her shoulder again. "What's wrong with you?" she demands loudly.
I glare at her. I've liked Xander since halfway through eighth grade. Ever since he turned to me one day in class and said, "Alyson, right?" I'd given him my usual witty reply of "Yun-hun:" After that we spoke, like, once or twice.
Then this year, Sarah became friends with him and his group. I never used to hang out with Sarah during recess or lunchher friends were all straight-A students, and I was one of those has-real-potential-but-won't-apply-herself types, so I mostly got Cs. Usually I hung out with my other best friends, Darcy and Mara. But neither Darcy nor Mara had very many friends who were guys, and I wanted some. Sarah did, so I tried to spend lunch with them at least two times a week.
"Why are we still calling him 'Xander'?" she asks, her voice breaking into my thoughts. I look at her, surprised. I had almost forgotten she was there. "No one we know is around here so even if we said his real name, no one would know!"
I shrug. "It's fun."
Xander's name isn't really Xander. I came up with that as a code name for him. All my friends do that. That way they can talk about their crush in front of people and no one will know. I chose to call him "Xander" because I have a deep respect (most people call it an obsessionI can't imagine why) for the TV show
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. Xander is the name of one of the lead characters. Only three people know that my crush is referred to as "Xander": Sarah, Mara and Darcy. I call him Xander

 

Page 20
so much, sometimes I think that's his real name. When I talk about him I sometimes have to say "Xanderthe untelevised version" so my friends know I'm not talking about Xander from
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
.
"Are you coming with us to see the movie Saturday?" she asks.
I smile. "Is Xander coming?" She gives me a look but says nothing. "Then I'm there!" I say. The last time I went with them to see a movie, I ended up sitting next to Xander. For an hour and forty-three minutes, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Okay, maybe heaven is a bit much, but I did feel very, very happy.
But now I think of something and my smile disappears. Nervously I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Sar?"
I begin to crack my knuckles, which I do whenever I'm nervous. Aw, who am I kidding? I crack my knuckles all the time. I really need to stop because it's annoying and it'll give me arthritis when I'm older. "What does he think of me?" I ask.
I hear a click as Sarah turns off her Walkman. I know she'll tell me the truth. Sar isn't the kind of friend who, when you tell her you just messed up in public speaking, says, "I'm sure nobody noticed!" Instead, she'd just laugh. At you. Mockingly. Loudly. So I nervously wait for Sarah to answer.
"He . . .  he says you're kinda weird. Like, a depressed, poetry-writing nut. But, like, a nice one," she adds to make it sound better.
"Really?" I sigh, feeling as though fifty midgets have found a way into my chest and have decided to simultaneously perform cartwheels, jumping jacks and handstands on my heart.
"That's a bit harsh," she says. "Look, he likes youhe just thinks you're a bit morbid."
I try to look at the positive, "Nice is good!" I tell her. She

 

Page 21
nods her head and turns her music back on.
I begin to feel worse every time I think about what Xander had said. "Nice is good," I repeat dejectedly. I stare straight ahead for a moment and then squint because the sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. Nice but insane is probably what he meant.
I am not insane
, I tell myself,
I am depressed. There's a difference
. I kick at a bit of snow on the ground.
"You are not depressed," Mom always tells me. "Right," I reply, ''I am just deeply unhappy!" "There is a difference, Alyson," she tells me, then ships me off to therapy.
I pinch Sarah the way she taught me to, back in fifth grade. It's the best way to pinch 'cause it really, really hurts. She squeals and looks at me, annoyed. "What?"
"Am I depressing?"
"Yes, you're negative, morbid, cynical. . . ."
I sigh.
She puts her arm around my shoulders, "But that's why we love you."
I'm also known around school as being depressed.
That's not to say I actually
am
depressed. I'm not; I'm a complete and utter sucker for corny, happy endings (I practically live on films like
While You Were Sleeping
and
Addicted to Love
). A movie can be incredible, but if the ending is sad, I'll immediately despise it. But when people want to know about you, they usually ask certain questions, and my answers sometimes feed their "depressed poet" image of me.
Fave color?
Black.
Hobby?
Writing poetry and stories.
Oh, what kind of poetry? Sad?
Usually.
Of course, I don't exactly dissuade them from the tortured writer concept they have of me, because at least I'm known for something. Maybe it's negative, but it's better than nothing, right? So let them think me forlorn. I have my own friends and I don't really care what any of them think. Except
him
. . . .
But a long time ago, I really was depressed. I'd just been

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