Granted

Teen Ink: Our Voices, Our Visions
By Stephanie H. Meyer, John Meyer

"…She always smacked her Big Red gum hard
As she waltzed into class,
Her jaws working in vivacious determination
As she chewed with forced effort
Her spiked leather collar
Was dark black
Like the heavy eyeliner
that encircled her icy blue eyes
That were dubbed purple
Behind tinted contacts..."

This excerpt is from a poem called "Mystery Thawing," by Heather M. Walker, featured on page 19 of Teen Ink: Our Voices, Our Visions. It tells of a friend hardened by a senseless murder, her personality and faith in humanity left shattered on the floor alongside her bloodied loved ones. "Mystery Thawing" evokes powerful blunt imagery to explore the subjects of loss and friendship, of expressing and hiding behind pain, and of devising shields to prevent the infliction of torment beyond what one sane person can seemingly handle. "Mystery Thawing" also deals with the need to break through those protective shells, and confront the rage caused by life's unsubtle grenades.

These thoughts and more waft from "Mystery Thawing," which was written when Walker was a high school sophomore. After reading the poem once, then twice, developing a tear or two as we experience the character Mystery's pain through her wall of eyeliner, tattoos and avoidance, we are surprised to learn that the poem is fiction, although it is based on facts from Walker's life. Which facts? We don't know. And it doesn't matter. What matters is that this high school sophomore has left the reader feeling not only the depth of pain that life can bring, but also that for a teen, emotions are magnified tenfold, as the world's harsh realities combine with our need to learn who it is we really are.

"Mystery Thawing" is but one example of the immense talent of expression presented in Teen Ink: Our Voices, Our Visions. The book is inspired by TeenInk Magazine, a non-profit monthly publication read by 3.5 million teens in thousands of schools nationwide. The stories, poems, essays and artwork in Teen Ink were culled from over 300,000 submissions to TeenInk Magazine over the past eleven years.

Teen Ink, like its magazine predecessor, was compiled to illustrate the depth of teenage talent, emotion, and imagination. The stories within, written entirely by teens, deal with every aspect of the teen experience - loss, violence, hormones, confusion, sex, drugs, death, tests, and friendship and love both fleeting and everlasting. The stories are filled with emotion derived from real-life events and sensations - emotion not of the surface, but of the soul. The stories in Teen Ink are not the type that make you cry one moment and continue merrily washing dishes the next. These stories stick with you - they may leave you in tears, but they will also have you pondering their not-so-obvious conclusions, comparing them to your own life, and remembering times when you felt similar feelings and lived through experiences much like these.

You will find Teen Ink to be a forum for your deepest fears, apprehensions, hopes and dreams. You'll find that difficulties of life are not only universal, but conquerable, and that in a confusing world of seemingly never-ending obstacles, you're never as alone as you may think.

All royalties from the Teen Ink books will go to The Young Authors Foundation, Inc. (publisher of TeenInk Magazine) to expand reading, writing, and publishing opportunities for young adults nationwide.

Granted
by Andrew Hammer

"I wish she was dead," I said quietly to my cousin as we stood in his living room watching our mothers talk one late fall day freshmen year. My mom and Aunt Sharon spoke of nothing in particular, simply enjoying each other's company. My mother often embarrassed me, and that day was no exception. I was embarrassed by how she dressed, with her dorky Christmas socks and shirt tucked in all the time. Then there was the way she acted: always so joyful, not realizing what it was like being seen with her. The things she said (and firmly believed) also bothered me, such as "Parents don't expect enough of their children," and "The day I say boys will be boys, you may as well just shoot me."

This was not the first time I felt a strong dislike toward my mother, but it was one of the last. That evening I went home unaware of how much influence my mother had in my life. Nearly a week later, I found out. My parents were disappointed with me and my older brother, Peter. They felt we were making typical teen mistakes and didn't like our choice of hangouts, our clothing that didn't fit and, sometimes, our friends. Most of all they hated our music with its loud banging and screaming.

One night, I became so frustrated with my mother when she threw out my favorite CD that I punched a hole in my wall. I quickly rearranged the furniture so no one would notice. Pulling up to school the next morning, I went through the usual routine. I tried to sit low in the seat of our old beat-up station wagon so no one would recognize me as my mother dropped me off.

I tried to get out as quickly as possible. As I gathered my things my mother said, "Good-bye." I managed to utter, "Bye," as I slipped out of the car.

Not much stands out about that day in school. Just before it was over, however, I do remember glancing out the window at an ambulance speeding down Main Street. It reminded me of my first-grade teacher, a scary, old woman who always made us say a Hail Mary for the person the ambulance was rescuing.

Arriving home with my friend, I found my brother, Peter, watching TV with my little brother, Greg.

"Where's Meta?" I asked, noticing my sister's absence. "Out with all the rest of the big eighth-graders?"

"She and Mom went shopping," Peter replied. I made myself a float and sat down to watch TV.

An hour later we heard the distinct crackle of stones in the driveway. Although I knew it would be my mother, my instinct led me to look outside.

"Andy, who is it?" Peter asked.

"It's a cop. He's just turning around."

Then I realized the cop wasn't backing up. The car door opened.

"He's getting out!"

At first, I worried I was in trouble. Peter and I went to the door to meet the officer. I remained as still as possible and hoped politeness would keep away trouble.

Seeing how slowly he approached, I relaxed a bit. As he reached the door, he took off his hat.

"Is your father home?" he asked.

"No, he's still at work."

His questions came fast, and our responses were delayed as our minds worked hard to determine the reason for his presence.

We turned to each other to answer each simple question. We were too busy trying to put things together to be sure our answers were correct.

"Last name, Hammer?" his voice softened.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Your mother and sister were involved in a serious car accident. Your sister was taken to Children's Hospital. Your mother didn't make it. I'm sorry."

No one said anything for a second that seemed like hours. Even if words existed for all the emotions I felt, there would be too many to write.

Realizing it was my time for questions, I asked when it had happened.

"At about 3:20." I paused and asked where.

"On Main Street near Connection Drive."

A few more questions followed. We then went to the phone to call my aunt.

"Aunt Sharon, I have somebody here who wants to talk to you," I said, realizing I couldn't tell her and handed the officer the phone.

Her shrill cry of "No, not Laura!" was heard by all, and still resounds in my head.

The officer left. I often wonder why he left us, three kids, after telling us this news. We were alone. Greg was still watching TV in the living room. Peter took the job of informing him. I remember glancing in to see Peter kneeling in front of Greg's chair, Greg's face in his chest. Both were crying.

I never did cry that day, although I should have. As people flocked to the house, I was continuously told I must not cry. I needed to be strong. A man I barely knew drove to my father's workplace to tell him. No one in the family appreciated this.

The following days were bad: three wakes, the burial, the funeral. Each wore away at me. I was angry at the people who surrounded me during these events. They weren't thinking. They said and did what came to their minds, which left me to decipher many mixed messages and unbelievable theories. The worst included a woman who claimed she knew of my mother's death months before it happened; a Catholic priest who told me my mother was in heaven, as if he had forgotten Catholics believe in purgatory; and a conversation about how seriously injured my mother had been.

I was supposed to deal with all this and remain strong in the process. Mom's death was the worst experience of my life. It caused more family problems than any fight Mom and I ever could have had. It caused more pain than any embarrassing thing Mom ever could have done. It caused more frustration than any teenage mistake I could ever make. And, if I had known this ahead of time, I never would have wished for it.

© 2000 Health Communications, Inc.

About the Author

Stephanie Meyer, editor of TeenInk Magazine, holds masters' degrees in education and social work and has dedicated her life to the welfare of youth.

John Meyer, publisher of TeenInk Magazine, holds an MBA and has published two successful business magazines.