P.S. Don't Save Me | Teen Ink

P.S. Don't Save Me MAG

February 24, 2009
By Anna Leavenworth BRONZE, W. Des Moines, Iowa
Anna Leavenworth BRONZE, W. Des Moines, Iowa
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

A kid.

That’s all I am to him: Trapped in my ­under-developed body. I want to scream, but my mouth is dry.

***

His words drown together, lost somewhere between his mouth and my ear, until she nudges me.

“… However, Ms. Lock, we are concerned about her low attendance, failing grades, and frankly, her overall well-being.” He pauses to glance at the montage of papers spewed across his desk and scribble, presumably, nonsense. “Many of Rachel’s teachers and superiors have expressed great concern and brought it to my attention numerous times. Now I understand the circumstances, but Ms. Lock–”

“Don’t be silly; call me Kari,” she interrupts as she lends him a closed smile. She tucks her chemical blond hair behind her ear, which is visibly weighed down by her faux diamond earring. She scoots closer to him.

Words no longer retain form, accompanying the hum of the heater. My eyes are engrossed in the carpet’s pattern, following each zig and zag, until finally I end where I began.

He hands her an official Harper High pen and points to the line on which she is to provide a signature, as he summarizes five pages of legal information. He claims he’s found the perfect program for me. He says lots of other youth who have faced similar obstacles as me have been very responsive. He says he thinks that I will be too.

I silently wish him luck with that.

No, I am not going.

I’m a lot of things but not a charity project. Nope. Never. No, thank you. She can’t make me go. Can she? She makes me go, despite my pleas.

***

I step outside into the unwelcomingly brisk morning and begin to unwrap a granola bar. Kicking a small pebble, hands safely tucked in pockets, I watch my breath, like smoke, exiting my body, vaporizing into air. Maybe this is as close as I’ll ever get to proof of my existence.

I enter the building which he claims will save me. Taking my time to roam this unfamiliar territory in search of room 201, I find the hallway to be unusually narrow, almost as if its walls are closing in on me.

I take two deep breaths before entering the room. The door creaks open, and I get the uneasy sensation that I’m not only late but intruding on an exclusive moment. I am greeted by blank stares and a middle-aged woman sporting blond pigtails and a feigned smile, complete with a coral pink lipstick smudge across one tooth.

She leaps from a plastic chair and shrieks a welcoming serenade, assuring me that my tardiness is excusable because it is my first day, but to never let it happen again. She looks me straight in the eye and gives me the firmest handshake I’ve ever received.

I enter the circle of chairs. However, it seems to have taken the shape of a blob. I find myself in the middle of a mousy freshman dressed in head-to-toe purple and a boy who reeks of Indian food.

I look around from chair to chair, searching for a familiar face. Some look like they’ve been messed up. Most look completely normal, but they don’t fool me. No, I see past the pink eye shadow, the beat-up jeans paired with punk-band T-shirts, and the brand new team jerseys. If I were religious, I’d find myself right here, in this very room, praying to God that I’m not that easily read.

Pigtails hands each of us a journal. She tells us that anything is fair game, just as long as we write each day. She says it’s important to get our thoughts onto paper, even when they seem miniscule. Miniscule – I know what that feels like.

I am scared to open the journal. Words are dangerous, especially when we write them down. If I’m not careful, they might betray me.

The next morning, Pigtails asks if I will read my first journal entry aloud. I shake my head no. She doesn’t push me and quickly moves on, telling us that the visitors in the room are our new counselors, here to meet with us individually. I feel terrible for mine.

I am paired with a Mr. E. Tear, as he formally introduces himself, but says that I should call him Emmitt. In return, I tell him my name is Rachel, and that that was probably as much as he’d ever get to know about me. I make sure he knows it’s nothing personal.

“I agree, I’m not much for talking,” Emmitt replies with a wink. “If you keep it between you and me, I want to be here just about as much as you do. This counseling gig is only temporary.”

I nod in acknowledgment.

Once I arrive home, I smell the foreign scents of a home-cooked dinner. I make my way into the kitchen to find my mother in his lap.

“Rachel, honey, you remember Daniel, your principal, right?” she asks, almost as if she’s mocking me.

He shifts her from his knee onto a separate seat, standing as he brushes the wrinkles out of his suit. “Rachel, it’s wonderful to see you,” he states.

I laugh out of despair, pivoting in the direction of my room, leaving her to apologize for me.

***

Sometimes I play a game. I let my alarm clock sound, without shutting it off, as I lie in bed, counting the hours until someone, anyone, notices.

Emmitt looks surprised to see me, but he never asks me why I haven’t been showing up. I sit down and he hands me a photograph of a woman. She isn’t beautiful by society’s standards. However, the more I contemplate her crooked nose and the way her freckles mask her face, the more she begins to grow on me.

Emmitt tells me how sorry he is he never took his own passion for photography more seriously. He says it’s the only thing that makes him feel worthy of occupying a life, that in his mind, capturing beauty and humor on a five-by-seven sheet of paper, is the biggest miracle he’ll ever perform. That maybe his art could change anothers’. He says that for the most part he hates people. All they do is care about themselves.

“We’re just too single-minded!” he keeps exclaiming, as he grabs what little hair he has in frustration. At the end, I’ll ask that he bring another picture next time.

I fumble through my journal until I find a fresh sheet of paper. Sometime after learning of Emmitt’s fire for photography, I lost my fear of words. And suddenly, I’ve become addicted to them, to thinking that my words are important enough for paper. In some ways, I blame Emmitt.

Pigtails asks me to read a journal entry aloud again. I lower my head until my eyes reach the piercing white of the paper.



The Daisy

Has Faith departed
Love departed
Both stand in Blank’s shadow
She stands the same as yesterday
Peeling the Daisy’s petals
Each descends slowly
Kissing the grass beneath
Aging into ivy
“Blank made me do it!” she exclaims to
Boy
Boy stands the same as her
Only three states away
Daisy in hand
Feet covered in petals




I raise my head to the class.
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.”

***

Emmitt says he has what no one else has: A third eye. He believes the lens of his camera allows him to see things his own two eyes can’t. I map my finger around the fiery red curls of the girl in his photograph as I just listen, soaking in his truth.

***

I enter my house. The lights are dim and the atmosphere cold. The sound of rain pattering against the rooftop is accompanied by sniffles from the kitchen where she sits, cupping a cold coffee mug.

The telephone base flashes, indicating missed calls. Once she sees me, she lifts her hand to her mouth as tears stream down her face, hitting the blanket that lies upon her lap.

Once I sit down across from her, she slides what seems to be my journal across the table. I open it, scanning my words and my thoughts, confirming my assumption. I stand up, heartbeat increasing. My mind goes blank as I grab my journal, holding it as close to my chest as possible, as if somehow this can flood the words back into my heart and off these public pages.

“What are you doing with this?” I ask, and my words wobble and hands shake.

“Rachel, I just want you to let me in again. I want to know you like you used to let me.”

I am no longer in control. I cry. I cry so hard I start to heave. I cry about her and about me, but mostly out of humiliation.

“You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to say something to me,” she sighs, defeated, like a balloon whose air is slowly let out. “I liked your poems,” she tries again.

“You had no right to read them. These,” I point to my notebook, “these were private.”

“Oh, Rachel, don’t be a drama queen,” she chuckles.

“I hate you,” I spit.

“Damn it, you will not speak to your mother that way. I raised you better than that.”

“My mother? You haven’t been my mother in four years. Four years. You let man after man into your life, and put me second behind loser after loser.”

She rolls her eyes. “Rachel, don’t make it about that. This has nothing to do with that.”

“THAT? For that, I’ll always hate you – for ­bringing him into my life, for letting him touch me the way you let him. That has everything to do with this.”

I go to bed with complete intentions never to wake up, but when I do, I grab my journal and begin to write. I write about love, deception, hope, and mostly about myself.



Mirror

I reflect the woman
Who sighs as I let her down
The uncertain, the reserved woman
She is calm, a hesitance inside her
Squinting to see her soul

The more I stare
The more I see

I reflect the child
Who laughs and dances
The innocent, the carefree child
She is bright, a sparkle in her eye
Her soul clear as crystal

Intertwined these two beings
Like deep black coal that woman
Aged into a diamond this child


***

Once I enter room 201, I search for Emmitt. I think today I might show him what I’ve written.

“Rachel?” Pigtails gets my attention. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Price, your new counselor.” She places her hand upon the small of my back in an effort to guide me toward her, but I don’t move.

“New counselor? What?” I ask in confusion.

“Mrs. Price will be replacing Mr. Tear. I really think you’ll enjoy her,” she tries to convince me by wrinkling her nose and flashing a blindingly white smile.

Pigtails grabs the arm of a woman dressed in a men’s forest green pantsuit and points in my direction. The woman furrows her eyebrows before her hand reaches for mine. I shake it as she introduces herself. I am not impressed. She isn’t Emmitt.

I don’t last long under the instruction of Mrs. Price. I turn to walk away from room 201, most likely for the last time. My pace increases as I enter the hallway. I push the door open, and as the blistering breeze hits my face, I begin to run. I am running because I don’t know what else to do. I run for freedom, for security, but more for answers.

My eyes scout out a payphone along the sidewalk. I thumb through the battered, hanging telephone book. My eyes reach Tear and my finger finds Emmitt. I dial his number, and am greeted by a chorus of rings.

“You’ve reached Emmitt …” I smile. “And Lindsey!” a woman’s voice interrupts.

I hang up because I feel like I’ve just spied on him, like I’ve just imposed. Of course he has a life of his own. I knew I wasn’t the only part of him. In fact, who am I to say I was a part of him at all? Not once had I talked. He knew hardly anything about me. Frankly, he knew nothing about me. So why had I expected him to stay? I wasted his time. He lasted longer than he should have.

“Emmitt stopped by,” my mom calls from the living room. “He dropped off a letter. It’s on the kitchen table.”

I take it to my bedroom, where I stare at it for a long time. Placing it inside my weathered journal, I decide not to open it. I like to imagine what the letter says sometimes. Maybe he tells me he’ll be coming back, that Mrs. Price was only a substitute, and that it was just a big misunderstanding. Or possibly, he writes of how he wants to take a photograph of me, and the letter describes a time I was to meet him. Maybe, it wasn’t a letter at all, but a newspaper clipping he thought might make me smile.

***

Tonight I can’t sleep. The noise beyond my window­sill awakens me. I switch on my bedside lamp, and open the drawer where my journal lies. I click the pen and begin to write a note I know I will never send.



Emmitt,

I don’t think you know this about me, but I have learned to love writing. In a way, it has become my third eye, letting me see the world beyond the capacity of my own. I think you gave that to me. Thanks for letting me listen.

Rachel



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JOIN THE DISCUSSION

This article has 629 comments.


on Feb. 22 at 6:35 pm
EdwinBeck SILVER, Livonia, Michigan
5 articles 0 photos 8 comments

Favorite Quote:
The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much and forgetting that you are special too. - Ernest Hemingway

This is absolutely beautiful. The relatability and depth of the story are breathtaking. This definitely made me cry.

on Jul. 30 2021 at 9:49 am
Crazywolfiegirl2 PLATINUM, Kington, Other
26 articles 3 photos 284 comments

Favorite Quote:
There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter. —Rachel Carson

This is so beautiful, it is amazing. I loved it, as it was so emotional.

tpat7 BRONZE said...
on Jul. 30 2020 at 3:34 pm
tpat7 BRONZE, Edison, New Jersey
1 article 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"Dreams are only dreams until you wake up and make them real." - Ned Vizzini

I loved this! It is so well-written :)
I have a question as well.
When you submit a piece of work, how much time does it take for it to get approved or disapproved? I submitted a fictional piece around two weeks ago, and I still didn't get any response.
Thank you!

TRMunchkin said...
on Mar. 9 2020 at 2:25 pm
TRMunchkin, Frankfort, Kentucky
0 articles 0 photos 4 comments
Wow, that was amazing...

Lilac_Cal17 said...
on Dec. 18 2019 at 7:13 pm
Lilac_Cal17, Colorado Springs, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are so heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles." -C. JoyBell C.

I love the story, amazing use and correlation with the poems. I would love to know what happened to Emmitt, and what he wrote her.

Lilac_Cal17 said...
on Dec. 18 2019 at 7:12 pm
Lilac_Cal17, Colorado Springs, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are so heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles." -C. JoyBell C.

I love the story, amazing use and correlation with the poems. I would love to know what happened to Emmitt, and what he wrote her.

Lilac_Cal17 said...
on Dec. 18 2019 at 7:12 pm
Lilac_Cal17, Colorado Springs, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are so heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles." -C. JoyBell C.

I love the story, amazing use and correlation with the poems. I would love to know what happened to Emmitt, and what he wrote her.

on May. 5 2019 at 8:20 pm
kcornell13 GOLD, Hartland, Wisconsin
15 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Aim for the moon. If you miss, you might just hit a star."

Is it just me, or when you click on your own writing it doesn't let you open it? I submitted a couple of short stories and a novel, and when I try to open it the website said error 404. Anybody else?

on May. 2 2019 at 12:55 pm
kcornell13 GOLD, Hartland, Wisconsin
15 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Aim for the moon. If you miss, you might just hit a star."

This is beautiful :) don't ever stop writing.

ty2kbob BRONZE said...
on Dec. 17 2018 at 4:45 pm
ty2kbob BRONZE, Monmouth, Oregon
4 articles 1 photo 18 comments

Favorite Quote:
¨Words are our most powerful source of magic, capable of both causing pain and healing it.¨

I like it. That´s all i could say. Not in a bad way, but I like it. It´s so good i like it.

on Nov. 25 2018 at 10:04 pm
Chayaisdbest BRONZE, Brooklyn, New York
2 articles 0 photos 17 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Hard times don't create heroes. It is during those hard times when the 'hero' within us is revealed."<br /> -Bob Riley

This is probably the best piece I've read in a while. It captures her emotions so perfectly. It makes me feel for her, cry for her. You're a beautiful writer! Keep writing! I want to see more of your stuff.

Sania_Shah said...
on Nov. 25 2018 at 2:34 am
Sania_Shah, Cupertino, California
0 articles 0 photos 2 comments
This is a really good piece so glad I got the chance to read it

on Jun. 11 2017 at 10:15 am
HereSheIs BRONZE, Wellesley, Massachusetts
3 articles 0 photos 187 comments

Favorite Quote:
&quot;We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.&quot; -Plato

Amazingly, beautifully, heartbreakingly, professionally written. I am in awe

ShastaH GOLD said...
on May. 22 2016 at 11:48 pm
ShastaH GOLD, Olympia, Washington
17 articles 0 photos 3 comments
This writing is extremely moving. I was almost in tears at the end!

on Nov. 18 2015 at 9:15 pm
emmakate45 SILVER, Avon, Connecticut
6 articles 2 photos 7 comments

Favorite Quote:
&ldquo;You know you&#039;re in love when you can&#039;t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.&rdquo;― Dr. Seuss

This is amazing writing. So glad you were published in the magazine, you definitely deserve it.

zmo17 said...
on Sep. 13 2015 at 12:03 pm
zmo17, Aliso Viejo, California
0 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
&quot;Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.&rdquo; - Joshua 1:9

This was seriously so good!

Cam_is_Away said...
on Jun. 14 2015 at 12:51 am
Cam_is_Away, Non, California
0 articles 0 photos 116 comments
Oh, tears are so hard to control, now I have those annoying hiccups that come with a crying fit. I want to stop them, but at the same time I don't. I kind of just want your words to sink in, let them take their toll, to listen to what needs to be heard. But it hurts at the same time. Your story was fantastic, truly fantastic. I think that this is my favorite story on TeenInk! It's just so beautifully written. I am at a loss for words, maybe the tears took them... She learned to love writing, that made me smile, because I remember I hated to write. Picking up a pencil, being forced to write something for the hope of a good grade - It resented it. It was a nightmare putting my thoughts to words, but now it is a huge part of my life. I write more than I talk, so that now, I sound like I'm speech impaired in conversation, while I can let the words flow on paper. This story was so easy to relate to for me. You wrote it so well! Great job! I wish there was more, but I understand why you didn't continue. The poetry was so touching, the characters so dynamic, original, and so well put together! Fantastic!!

on May. 7 2015 at 5:48 pm
aberdia17 SILVER, Potomac, Maryland
5 articles 1 photo 7 comments

Favorite Quote:
&quot;You take what you can get&quot;

Great piece! please read my submission (there we were)

on Feb. 27 2015 at 11:01 pm
Ray--yo PLATINUM, Kathmandu, Other
43 articles 2 photos 581 comments

Favorite Quote:
God Makes No Mistakes. (Gaga?)<br /> &quot;I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.&quot; -Liesel Meminger via Markus Zusac, &quot;The Book Thief&quot;

The poem Daisy alone is beautiful enough, this + the story is just amazing. Beautiful job :)

houston SILVER said...
on Dec. 17 2014 at 11:47 am
houston SILVER, Joburg, Other
6 articles 0 photos 41 comments

Favorite Quote:
I don&#039;t know about life, there is too much to it...

i loved this! it was full me with anger and sorrow and i loved it for miles! keep writing!