Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III Read Free Page B

her off. The last time I had dropped Michelle off I had wanted to strangle her for obsessing over Tommy so much. Now all I wanted to do was hug her so tight so that she could never leave me again. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. As I pulled the car over to the curb, Michelle looked at me with her welcoming warm eyes and said the four words that brought my whole eight months of misery to an end, “I’ve really missed you!”
    Tears began to fall down my face but no words would come out. I looked into her eyes, leaned forward and gave my best friend a big hug.
    Lisa Rothbard

Healing with Love
    N obody’s family can hang out the sign, “Nothing the matter here.”
    Chinese proverb
    On a bitterly cold and cloudy winter’s day in upstate New York, I saw my brother again for the first time in a year. As my father and I pulled up to the reform school after four hours of driving, his attempts at cheerful commentary did nothing to ameliorate the dismal apprehension that I felt. I had little hope that my brother would be changed and, furthermore, I had convinced myself that any appearance of change would not necessarily be ­genuine.
    Being with my brother after so long was like getting to know him all over again. Over the next couple of days, I felt a kind of peace developing between us, and, for the first time, I wasn’t tense around him, nor was I scared of what he would do or say next. It seemed as though I would finally find a friend in my brother, and, more than that, I would find a true brother in my brother. While part of me rejoiced in his transformation, another part of me thought it was too good to be true, and so I remained skeptical of his seeming progress. Two days was surely not enough time to erase the hostility that had built up between us over the years. I showed this cynical front to my father and brother, while the hopeful voice remained hidden deep inside of my heart, afraid to appear, lest it should be trampled upon. My brother himself commented several times on my depressed disposition, but I knew he would never understand the complexity of my feelings, so I remained elusive.
    I wrapped myself in this same protective silence during, what was for me, the most emotionally trying part of the visit. Meals at the school were more than just meals. They were chaperoned with two teachers at each table, and provided a forum for judging the students’ progress and/or continued delinquency. My father had told me that these meals often lasted for an hour or two, as each student was treated separately and with the full attention of the table. As we sat down for lunch, I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it through the meal without crying.
    Several boys and girls were “brought up” in front of the table for transgressions they had committed, but a boy named Brian touched me the most. A fairly new arrival at the school, he hadn’t yet lost the initial anger and bitterness at having been brought there against his will. He was an attractive boy, about sixteen years old and was, my father whispered to me, an exceptional soccer player with a promising future in the sport. As the head teacher at our table conducted a heavy interrogation of him, Brian shifted his weight nervously every two seconds, and I saw in his eyes what I had become so good at reading in my brother’s. They darted anxiously about the room, resting upon everything except the man addressing him, and I knew that he was searching for someone or something to blame. He wasn’t yet aware that only when he stopped looking for excuses could he truly hear and learn from those trying to help him.
    Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a bearded man standing at the closed door and peering in apprehensively at our solemn gathering, which must have looked more like an AA meeting than a meal. The realization that it was Brian’s father trying to catch a glimpse of his son precipitated the