Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Loni THE BULL leads the charge to State!”

The horns drawn on my head completed the insult.

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

“Who did this?”

“Who would be so mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why didn't someone shut them up?

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

I shrugged.

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

I shrugged again.

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loni Taylor
As told to Cynthia Hamond

Again

If when you wake up in the morning,
And the hurting is so great,
You don't want to get out of bed
And face a world of hate.

If everything in life goes wrong
And nothing you do seems right,
You just try a little harder
And soon you'll see the light.

For every person who has put you down
And filled your life with pain,
You must strive to achieve greatness
And show them you can win.

For every disappointment,
For the times you are let down,
There will be a better moment
And your life will turn around.

Because everyone feels heartache
And everyone feels pain,
But only those who have true courage
Can get up and try again.

Teal Henderson

Why I Have to Take U.S. History Again

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

Jim Morrison

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Lisa:

You may not know much about me
So I'm sending you this little plea
Today is Valentine's Day
And I have something to say

I have admired you from afar
I wish I had a car
So I could take you out on a date
To the movies or maybe to rollerskate

Because I think you are cool
The best in our dumb school
So please hear what I have to say
It's really important, okay?

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

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

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

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