Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff Read Online Free Page A

story out of me. I told her everything—about Lisa, the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the attempts to accidentally bump into her, the staring contest and, finally, the evil locker slots and how they forced me to put that card with the poem inside.
    She just looked at me and smiled. She smiled. She didn’t laugh; she didn’t cry. She didn’t pat me on the head and tell me everything was going to be okay. She didn’t try to turn the whole experience into some kind of lesson. She didn’t scold me, and she didn’t compliment me. She just smiled.
    At first I thought maybe she was possessed, or maybe she had been cooking with wine again. But then she took my hand and asked me a question: “If you could go back and do it again, what would you have done differently?” I thought about it. I could have not stared at Lisa’s big, blonde head. I could have not tried to bump into her. I could have not put that card in her locker. Sure, I could have avoided the whole ugly mess, and people would still remember my first name.
    â€œAnd so then where would you be?” my mom asked. I’d be a happy, anonymous ninth grader. “Is that how you think of yourself?” she asked. How did I think of myself? Right then, I didn’t think much of myself. I felt like a big loser. She must have known.
    â€œYou aren’t a loser. How do you think any boy ever got to meet any girl? By hiding in the corner? By letting boys like Tyler decide who you can like and who you can’t? In my opinion, this is Lisa’s big loss. I think your poem is sweet.”
    She said all that because that’s what mothers are supposed to say. I knew that. And I still felt bad, but I started to see things from her point of view. How could I have not taken the chance? In that moment when I put the card in Lisa’s locker, I had felt brave and adventurous and strong. How dare they laugh at me? I had dared to take my shot.
    That moment didn’t last very long because the next day I got my report card, and it turned out I failed U.S. History. So now I have to go to summer school. But it’s okay, because there’s this new girl, Carolyn, who just transferred in and she has to go to summer school, too, and you should see the back of her head. . . .
    Tal Vigderson

Good-Bye My Angel Dear
    My days draw long and weary
When you’re no longer near.
Confidence is filled with questions
Strength replaced with fear.
    The assuredness that I awake with each day
Is nowhere to be found,
As though my dreams and aspirations
Were buried underground.
    I hear your voice being carried by wind
Like your fingers through my hair.
I close my eyes and remember your kiss
And wish that you were there.
    So with nothing left but one thing to say
To resolve my heartbreak here,
Good-bye my darling and my love
Good-bye my angel dear.
    Tyler Phillips

Applying Myself
    T hose who dream by day are cognizant of many things which those who dream only by night may miss.
    Edgar Allen Poe
    At thirteen years old, I was like any other kid my age. I liked computer and Nintendo games. I complained about too much homework, and I hated when my little brother ate the last Fruit Roll-Up in the box. I guess I looked like any other kid my age, too. I wore baggy pants and oversize T-shirts—you know, the typical middle-school prison garb. However, inside I harbored a secret that made me feel different and weird.
    You see, I was diagnosed with ADD. This is the hip term for attention deficit disorder. I couldn’t even get the cool-kid type where you’re hyper. I had to get the dreamier, “space-cadet” type. I can look straight into your eyes and not hear a word you’re saying. It’s sort of like in the Charlie Brown TV specials. All the adults’ voices in the cartoon sound like endless droning. “Mwop, mwop, mwop, mwop.” I appear to be listening while all the while my mind is somewhere miles away.
    After extensive