Free Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III by Jack Canfield Page A

leaned my head back against the headrest, watching Dan and Becca out of the corner of my eye. No contact yet, I noted. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and it seemed like they took on a life of their own as they repetitiously roamed from my knees to my thighs and eventually gripped the edge of my purse.
    I felt a nudge on my right arm. I looked over at Dan and watched as he mouthed the words, “Make a move.” He then grinned at me and raised his eyebrows in Josh’s direction.
    â€œNo!” I whispered emphatically.
    â€œWhy not?” he replied with a kind of urgency.
    I half-shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.” How could I explain to him the way my mind works? I could never “make a move” on anyone; I didn’t have the nerve. My fear of rejection was too intense. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Becca was leaning on Dan’s shoulder, and his hand was resting on her knee. I sank farther into my seat.
    On the way home from the movies, Becca asked Dan if he had a piece of paper. I knew immediately what she was doing and wanted to object, but couldn’t. When she handed me Josh’s number on a torn piece of paper, I ­didn’t even look at it. I just played with it between my fingers, bending the edges and running it along the folds of my jeans. Josh’s reaction to the piece of paper in his hand was similar.
    We pulled into my driveway, and I thought that I was finally safe at home as I said good-bye to everyone and sauntered up to my porch. But as I turned around to give a final wave good-bye, I found Josh standing on the lawn.
    â€œHey,” he said, in a way only older guys can. “When are you going to be home tomorrow?”
    â€œProbably all day,” I managed and immediately thought of how dumb I sounded.
    â€œOkay, then. I’ll, um, call you around one.”
    I flashed a slight smile. “Okay. Bye!” I stepped inside my house, allowing myself to breathe only when I had closed the door and was safe inside.
    I washed my face, wondering if he would think that I was “really hot” without makeup. As I curled up in bed, the phrase “If only I had . . .” crossed my mind so many times that I became exhausted. But then I remembered that experience, even if awkward and uncomfortable, or in the form of a guy named Josh, is always a teacher. With that, I gradually fell asleep, knowing tomorrow was a new day, and I could rest assured there would be more lessons to learn.
    Julia Travis

Why Rion Should Live
    B elieve that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.
    William James
    High school didn’t frighten me. Oh sure, the endless halls and hundreds of classrooms were overwhelming, but I took it in with all the pleasure of starting a new adventure. My freshman year was full of possibilities and new people. With a class of nearly two thousand newcomers, you just couldn’t go wrong. So I, still possessing the innocence of a child concealed in a touch of mascara and lipstick, set out to meet them all.
    Spanish One introduced me to Rion. By the student definition, he was a “freak:” the black jeans, the well-worn Metallica shirts, the wallet chains, the works. But his unique personality and family troubles drew me to him. Not a crush, more of a curiosity. He was fun to talk to, and where interrupted whispering sessions left off, hours of phone conversations picked up.
    During one of these evening conversations, “it,” as we like to address the incident, unfolded. We were ­discussing the spectacular height of Ms. Canaple’s over-styled bangs when I heard Rion’s dad yelling in the background. “Hold on,” Rion muttered before a question could be asked. I could tell that he was trying to muffle the receiver, but you could still hear the horror as if his room were a dungeon, maximizing the bellows. Then the line went dead.
    Shaking, I listened to the