Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II Read Online Free PDF Page B

(most people call it an obsessionI can't imagine why) for the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer . Xander is the name of one of the lead characters. Only three people know that my crush is referred to as "Xander": Sarah, Mara and Darcy. I call him Xander
     

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so much, sometimes I think that's his real name. When I talk about him I sometimes have to say "Xanderthe untelevised version" so my friends know I'm not talking about Xander from Buffy the Vampire Slayer .
"Are you coming with us to see the movie Saturday?" she asks.
I smile. "Is Xander coming?" She gives me a look but says nothing. "Then I'm there!" I say. The last time I went with them to see a movie, I ended up sitting next to Xander. For an hour and forty-three minutes, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Okay, maybe heaven is a bit much, but I did feel very, very happy.
But now I think of something and my smile disappears. Nervously I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Sar?"
I begin to crack my knuckles, which I do whenever I'm nervous. Aw, who am I kidding? I crack my knuckles all the time. I really need to stop because it's annoying and it'll give me arthritis when I'm older. "What does he think of me?" I ask.
I hear a click as Sarah turns off her Walkman. I know she'll tell me the truth. Sar isn't the kind of friend who, when you tell her you just messed up in public speaking, says, "I'm sure nobody noticed!" Instead, she'd just laugh. At you. Mockingly. Loudly. So I nervously wait for Sarah to answer.
"He . . .  he says you're kinda weird. Like, a depressed, poetry-writing nut. But, like, a nice one," she adds to make it sound better.
"Really?" I sigh, feeling as though fifty midgets have found a way into my chest and have decided to simultaneously perform cartwheels, jumping jacks and handstands on my heart.
"That's a bit harsh," she says. "Look, he likes youhe just thinks you're a bit morbid."
I try to look at the positive, "Nice is good!" I tell her. She
     

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nods her head and turns her music back on.
I begin to feel worse every time I think about what Xander had said. "Nice is good," I repeat dejectedly. I stare straight ahead for a moment and then squint because the sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. Nice but insane is probably what he meant. I am not insane , I tell myself, I am depressed. There's a difference . I kick at a bit of snow on the ground.
"You are not depressed," Mom always tells me. "Right," I reply, ''I am just deeply unhappy!" "There is a difference, Alyson," she tells me, then ships me off to therapy.
I pinch Sarah the way she taught me to, back in fifth grade. It's the best way to pinch 'cause it really, really hurts. She squeals and looks at me, annoyed. "What?"
"Am I depressing?"
"Yes, you're negative, morbid, cynical. . . ."
I sigh.
She puts her arm around my shoulders, "But that's why we love you."
I'm also known around school as being depressed.
That's not to say I actually am depressed. I'm not; I'm a complete and utter sucker for corny, happy endings (I practically live on films like While You Were Sleeping and Addicted to Love ). A movie can be incredible, but if the ending is sad, I'll immediately despise it. But when people want to know about you, they usually ask certain questions, and my answers sometimes feed their "depressed poet" image of me. Fave color? Black. Hobby? Writing poetry and stories. Oh, what kind of poetry? Sad? Usually.
Of course, I don't exactly dissuade them from the tortured writer concept they have of me, because at least I'm known for something. Maybe it's negative, but it's better than nothing, right? So let them think me forlorn. I have my own friends and I don't really care what any of them think. Except him . . . .
But a long time ago, I really was depressed. I'd just been
     

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dumped by my first boyfriend and felt really crappy. I thought about death and suicide a lot. I know it was dumb, but I'd never been dumped before and it just . . .  hurt. That's the