Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul Page 12

  Don’t get me wrong. Jackie and I got along—with a few fights here and there. We’re two years apart, and I am one grade behind her. But sometimes it just really used to bug me to be called “Jackie’s little sister” all the time.

  Then a few years ago, Jackie and I were in a very bad car accident. She came out with a few bumps and bruises, but she was basically okay. I, on the other hand, had a broken arm and, worse, about 100 stitches in my face. Needless to say, I didn’t feel like the belle of the ball when I looked into the mirror.

  About a month after the accident, I returned to school. The stitches were gone, but a very large scar remained. Jackie reassured me that I looked great and I shouldn’t worry about the scar. (If you have a big sister, you know that this means a lot coming from her.) My friends did their best not to say anything and not to stare, but the scar was very noticeable.

  One day, we were riding home from school on the bus. This guy named Jordan, who rode the bus with us, started teasing me about my scar. He is in the same grade as Jackie and older than me. She was sitting pretty far from where I was sitting and didn’t hear him. When we got off the bus, I didn’t say anything to her about what he had done. Almost every day, he would do it again, and I would get off the bus crying. This went on for about a month, until I finally broke down and told Jackie. She was furious.

  The day after I told her what had been happening, when Jordan made fun of me the next time, Jackie stood up, walked to where he was sitting and said something into his ear. I don’t know exactly what she said, but he never said one word to me again.

  So, even though getting all of the hand-me-downs may not be the best, I am very grateful to have a big sister like Jackie looking out for me. I know that if I were ever in trouble, she would come running.

  Ever since that day, when anyone asks, I tell them, “Yep, I’m ‘Jackie’s little sister.’” And I am proud of it.

  Lauren Alyson Schara, 16

  Big Sister

  You have to have confidence in your ability, and then be tough enough to follow through.

  Rosalynn Carter

  Susan wasn’t just my big sister, she was my idol, the one person in the world I wanted to be like. I felt so little by comparison. I felt like I didn’t quite have the self-confidence to try to follow a big sister act like Susan’s.

  Not that Susan was big by physical standards—she was much smaller in stature than I was. But bigness isn’t always measured by size. In my mind she was my big sister; someone I looked up to—a person who could do anything and do it well. That is, until one night. . . .

  We were at a school dance when Susan began acting silly, almost as if she were drunk. At first I couldn’t believe it, then I started asking around. It didn’t take me too long to find out that someone with a bottle had dared Susan to prove she could handle a drink. Susan was so sure of herself that she took the dare. It was her first taste of alcohol.

  I was devastated. I had never faced that kind of situation where my big sister was concerned.

  The next morning, Susan acted as if nothing had happened. Maybe it hadn’t, I told myself. Maybe I had only been suspicious. Maybe the kids had lied to me about Susan.

  But the following weekend it happened again at the school dance. I watched Susan when she thought I wasn’t looking. She tried to play it cool by avoiding the bottle when it was passed around. But the kids kept pressing her until she had to either admit she was afraid of the liquor or take a drink. So she took a drink. Just one. It was enough to make her drunk.

  After that, getting Susan drunk became a game her group of friends played. They competed with each other to get Susan to prove she could handle liquor. And Susan tried; she wasn’t the kind of girl to take defeat easily. I was sick about Susan’s losing battle with alcohol. Her friends were laughing at her—not with her. They liked seeing someone as sure of herself as Susan stumble and fall. It made their weaknesses seem less glaring if Susan— the ideal all-American girl—could be brought down to their level.

  By then I was more than sick. I was angry. Big sister or not, Susan needed help. Who else but me could I depend on?

  The next weekend, Susan went to the school dance ahead of me, leaving early with a group of her new friends. When I got to the dance hall, Susan had apparently already been drinking. I tried to find her, but everyone was vague about my big sister’s whereabouts. Susan must be hiding from me, I thought. Now what do I do?

  The more I thought, the angrier I got. I had to do something. Obviously, the first thing to do was to find Susan. Her drinking buddies must have warned her that I was looking for her. She was probably hiding somewhere, keeping out of sight while I was around.

  I thought of checking the girls’ lounge again. The room was crowded, and I looked around slowly. All the girls hanging around seemed suddenly very busy—too busy. I noticed that I was being watched out of the corners of their eyes. I double-checked the toilet stalls. Susan wasn’t there. Still, the feeling persisted that everyone was sort of waiting for “the little sister” to leave. Then I noticed a group of girls huddled around one of the vanities by a large waste paper basket. I moved closer. The huddle moved closer, too.

  Then I saw a wisp of curly hair sticking up from behind the wastebasket. Susan! I pushed my way through the girls and looked down, right into the eyes of my big sister, who was tucked behind the paper-filled container. I didn’t hesitate. “Come on, Susan, we’re going home!” I ordered.

  Susan rose slowly to her feet. For once, she didn’t look big or sure of herself—she looked little, defenseless. “Don’t talk to me that way! I’m your big sister!” she exclaimed.

  I didn’t argue. For once, my size was an advantage. I pushed the basket out of the way, threw Susan over my shoulder, and carried her out of the lounge and across the crowded dance floor.

  “Put me down! I’m your big sister!” Susan cried, kicking and pounding my back with clenched fists.

  I kept right on going.

  The music stopped. Couples parted to let us get through. By the time I got to the other side, a round of applause cheered me on.

  An older friend of mine offered to drive us home. Susan collapsed in a heap of tears in the back seat. I was on the verge of tears myself—I couldn’t believe what I had just done.

  That was the last time Susan got drunk. Maybe the humiliation of being carried home by her little sister in front of everyone had been too much for her. At any rate, I didn’t feel like a “little” sister any more. I felt just like a sister, an ordinary sister. That is a pretty big role to play. Bigness isn’t always measured by size, you know.

  Olga Cossi

  If Only

  There are two ways of meeting difficulties. You alter the difficulties or you alter yourself to meet them.

  Phyllis Bottome

  I stepped up into the school bus and looked for a back seat that was quiet and empty. My sister, Debbie, got onto the bus shortly after I did and looked for a seat close to the back too, chattering as she walked with her best friend, Shelli. They kept peeking over their shoulders, and I glanced behind them to see what could be so interesting.

  Two boys cruised down the aisle just behind my sister. I sighed. All Debbie did was giggle at boys. I was a year older than she was, and usually I had no interest in guys at all.

  But today was different. Jack was a boy Debbie had been chasing for some time already, and I had to admit that he was pretty cool.

  Debbie and Shelli chose the seat directly in front of me and plopped their books down on the floor. The boys, Wes and Jack, sat in the seat across from me. I was sure I caught a glimmer of a smile from Jack. No, it can’t be, I thought. Boys never paid any attention to me.

  When the bus stopped at our white farmhouse, I hoped I could get away from the uncomfortable feelings I was beginning to have. I noticed Jack and his pal looking straight at me when I got out of my seat. Wes nudged Jack in the side, and they both laughed.

  I walked down our long driveway as Debbie i
nformed me of her latest plans. “Shelli wants me to go to her house tomorrow to spend the night,” she said. “Jack will be coming over to do some work on cars or something with Wes. It’ll be so fun!”

  I shook my head. “Does he even know you exist?”

  “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a boyfriend,” Debbie said. Usually I ignored her teasing, but this time it bothered me.

  I walked to the house and tried my best to ignore her. I opened the front door and went straight to my upstairs bedroom. “I’m going to get my homework done now,” I told my mom when I passed her in the hallway. I climbed the steps two at a time and slammed my door loudly. Then I plopped my books and myself down onto my bed and sighed.

  It couldn’t have been more than a half hour before the phone rang. I knew it wouldn’t be for me, so I continued to read my history book.

  “Rita, you’re wanted on the phone,” my mom called. Maybe it was my best friend, Lyndie. I went downstairs and took the phone from my mom.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” came a masculine voice from the other end.

  “Uh, who is this?” I asked, although I recognized the voice as belonging to Jack.

  “It’s Jack, you know, from the bus.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you like to go out with me?” he asked right out. I panicked. My heart began to thump wildly in my chest, and I felt sort of dizzy. He was the guy my sister was interested in. If I valued my life, I should have hung the phone up right then. But I thought I should get the situation straight.

  “But my sister Debbie likes you!” I blurted into the receiver.

  “Yeah, but you’re the one I like,” Jack answered.

  “Is this a joke?” I asked.

  “It’s no joke, Rita.”

  I suddenly felt my mind go blank. I thought for a moment, and then I answered, “Okay.”

  I guess that’s all he wanted to hear, because we quickly said good-bye and the whole thing was done. Just like that, I was going out with Jack. I couldn’t believe it. I turned to tell my mom about the conversation without any thought to Debbie whatsoever. But Debbie had been standing nearby and heard every word of the phone conversation. She immediately stormed out of the room. Somehow, I didn’t feel too bad for her. I figured that she had plenty more boys to choose from at school.

  Later that night, I began to feel a little sorry about the whole thing. Debbie was hurt. I went to her room to try and talk to her. “Go away” was all she said in reply. So I did. I went to my room to study and think, but mainly to dream about my new boyfriend.

  I was baffled the next day when I saw Jack and his pals in the school hallway. They walked right past me, and Jack never even said hi. The way he ignored me on the school bus later that day was worse. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid to make a fool out of myself. Maybe it had been all a big joke after all.

  After Jack ignored me for nearly a week, he called.

  “Do you want me to sit with you on the bus and hold your hand?” he asked. I couldn’t believe he asked. I didn’t understand boys at all.

  “I don’t care,” was my response. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. But it was too late.

  “You don’t care?” Jack asked.

  “Uh, yeah. You can if you want.”

  “I can what?”

  “Hold my hand,” I said. This weird relationship didn’t seem to be working out too well.

  It turned out that the relationship never did take off. Jack continued to ignore me when we saw each other, and he never did sit with me or hold my hand. Debbie told me later that Jack had a new girlfriend—her friend Hope. I hated the satisfied grin on my sister’s face, but I knew that I deserved it. It was my sister that I would be in a relationship with forever. Selfishly, I had ignored her feelings just so I could say that I had a boyfriend, who turned out to not really be my boyfriend at all.

  Rita M. Tubbs

  The Wild Hair

  It was evening and time for my little sister and me to take our showers and get ready for bed. As I passed the mirror in the bathroom, there it was—a wild hair right in the middle of my forehead, threatening to be the beginning of a third eyebrow. I went into the shower trying to think of a solution, and then I spotted the razor. I took it and started trying to shave off the savage hair.

  Usually I would trust my mom’s advice about what to do in this sort of situation, but this was just too complicated for her—or so I thought. Well, while I was shaving that hair off, the razor slipped, and I ended up shaving off half my eyebrow! Then I did what any girl would do in this situation—I tried to even them out. When I was finished, I looked in the mirror. It was a disaster! I tried to figure out if there was any way to fix this mess. Thankfully, I found a way to hide my mistake. I put my bangs over my eyebrows. It worked perfectly!

  Just then my parents called me to come and say good night. Nobody noticed my eyebrows, but they did notice my little sister’s eyebrows! It turns out that while I was fighting the stray hair, she had found another razor in the drawer and began copying me. Now her eyebrows were COMPLETELY missing! My parents were very confused until they finally noticed that half my eyebrows were gone as well. After a lot of questioning, I broke down and confessed to what had happened.

  I thought that my parents would be mad at me forever until my mom took me aside to tell me that when she was a preteen, she had done a similar thing. In her case, it was her underarms. While away at camp on a swimming day, she was extremely embarrassed because she had some long hairs in her armpits. My grandma, her mom, had told her she was too young to shave yet. But she went against her mom’s wishes and borrowed her friend’s razor and shaved her armpits. Then she wrote her mom a confession letter telling her that she had done a terrible thing and that she was very sorry. At the very end of this long two-page letter, she finally told her mom what she had done. As my grandma read through the letter, she was so worried about this terrible thing that her daughter had done that by the end of the letter she laughed, because she was just so relieved to find out about what had actually happened. My grandmother totally understood how my mom had felt, just like my mom now understood me.

  This ended up bringing my mom and me even closer together. I still wouldn’t ever recommend trying to shave your eyebrows. I suggest that you find a different way to get closer to your mom!

  As for my little sister, it took a long time for her eyebrows to grow back in. From then on, I’ve learned to be a better example to her because she still copies EVERYTHING I do!

  Ariel G. Subrahmanyam, 12

  The Gift of Faith

  The desire to be and have a sister is a primitive and profound one that may have everything and nothing to do with the family a woman is born to.

  Elizabeth Fishel

  It was the February when I was in the fourth grade. I had just come home from school when I saw my mother rushing in and out of my room putting new toys and stuffed bears on the bed. “Mom, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “Two people from Social Services are bringing your new baby sister right now!” my mom said. I was so happy! We had been trying to adopt a little girl, and I was finally getting a sister! I had three brothers, and sometimes it got really boring and a little bit annoying having just boys for siblings. I had no idea that I was going to get a sister this soon.

  My brother Nick and I looked out of the upstairs window waiting for her to arrive. We saw a white jeep pull up in front of the house and a woman get out of the car. She opened up the car door and pulled out a small, chubby, pale, very pretty little girl and carried her to the front door. I straightened myself up and came downstairs.

  She was sitting on the floor with my little brother, Darius, playing with a toy. Her name was Faith. She had just turned three years old. She had big blue eyes and reddish brown hair. I sat down to talk to her, but she was very, very quiet. I am sure that she must have been scared. We talked to the social worker for a while and tried
to learn more about Faith. We found out that this would be her eleventh home.

  Once the social worker left, we went out to McDonald’s. We had so much fun, and Faith enjoyed all of the attention. I thought she was the cutest little girl I had ever seen. She played with her toys that she got from her Happy Meal and started calling me “sister.” I was very happy. She seemed happy too. We were sisters.

  When we got home, Faith and I went to play in the room that we would now share. Then when my mom said it was time for everyone to go to bed, Faith had a fit! Because she had lived in ten other homes, I understood why she didn’t listen too well. I couldn’t imagine being in ten different homes by the age of three. She probably thought that she would have to move again in the morning. I realized how lucky I had been to have a secure home. When she was told to go to sleep, she burst out crying. I was so shocked at how long she could cry! After about fifteen minutes of crying, my mom brought her downstairs so that she could recover.

  It wasn’t as fun—or as easy—as I thought it would be at first. Faith had horrible asthma attacks, and she cried every night—all night long. She even cried when she just had to tell me that she had to go to the bathroom. Faith was always getting in trouble too. She was very sneaky and rarely told the truth. My new little sister would break my toys, color on my homework, and use all of my nail polish and perfume. She was always in someone else’s conversation and doing things just to get people to notice her. She wanted attention, and it was not cute at all. She had a hard time getting used to the rules that she had to learn. I guess she thought that it just didn’t matter, because she would be moved to a different home soon.

  After a very long time, Faith finally learned how to stay out of trouble, and I learned how to share. I also learned how to put my things away so that she would not get into them. We both had to learn. She still forgets sometimes. So do I.