Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul Page 2

  A special thanks to our “cover girls” Jenny Aguilar, Elizabeth Geocaris and Gabby Romanello and their mothers for an awesome photo shoot. Also thanks to our photographer, Al Nomura.

  To Catherine Lee, Mary Rose Toribio and Sarah Verney at Discovery Girls and Molly Barker and Anissa Freeman of Girls on the Run International—we are so thrilled to partner with other like-minded women. Thanks for expanding our ability to make a positive impact in the lives of girls.

  Most of all, our gratitude goes out to everyone who submitted heartfelt stories, poems, quotes and cartoons for possible inclusion in this book. We especially thank the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for always sending such well-written and age-appropriate material for us to consider.

  Finally, thanks to all the preteens who take time to write to us just to say how much you love Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul, Preteen Soul and Preteen Soul 2. Your letters fuel our passion to help you through your preteen years by sharing true life stories with you. It means the world to us to hear how our books have changed your lives for the better.

  Because of the size of this project, we may have left out the names of some people who contributed along the way. If so, we are sorry, but please know that we really do appreciate you very much.

  We are truly grateful, and we love you all!

  Introduction

  Who would ever think that so much went on in the soul of a young girl?

  Anne Frank

  What exactly is a soul? Is it as light as air, as beautiful as an angel? Is your soul what keeps you alive? Are you your soul? I think if we just keep feeding our souls with stories of encouragement, we’ll find out what a soul really is.

  Vivian Ling, 11

  For a girl growing up, life is an experience rich in swirling emotions and adjustments. You’re sorting out who you are and who you want to become; what role family, friends and that special crush play in your life— and all of this happens during a few short years that include more changes than any other time of life.

  When you were younger, you spent your time playing with Barbie dolls—but now, you and your girlfriends find yourselves trying on makeup and looking at bras in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. But life for a preteen girl is far more than exchanging Barbies for bras. One minute you’re edgy with excitement, the next, you are immobilized by your fears—only to be overcome with hysterical laughter, and then betrayed by your tears. Chicken Soup fan twelve-year-old Lindsey Appleton has this to say:

  Hormones, well, that is something everybody deals with. Like crying for no apparent reason and being happy—just because.

  And preteen reader Paige Rasmussen puts it this way:

  Right now is a time in our lives when we are dealing with peer pressure, boys and puberty. And it is really nice to know that in a rough time like this in our lives, there is actually someone else in the world who is going through the same things! Most of us have our mothers and sisters, but sometimes that is not enough.

  The preteen years, between nine and thirteen, carry with them so much to sort out. We want to share examples with you that can guide you and to let you know that you aren’t alone in what you are going through. We want you to see that these years can be a roller-coaster ride where sometimes you have to hang on for dear life—but you will come through it. Each of you will have your own unique experiences at your own timing. At the end, you will be ready for the next chapter in your life—your teen years.

  This book was created to be your companion to help you move through the maze of your sometimes confusing and challenging experiences as a preteen girl. Each contributing author, whether a preteen or an adult, gives you a glimpse of her life and that pivotal experience that helped shape the person she is. The stories shared in Chicken Soup for the Girl’s Soul are meant to be empowering to a growing preteen girl—and they are as incredibly diverse as are the changes and emotions you are feeling.

  Another one of our readers, Devoreaux Walton, explains:

  Going through the preteen years can be really tough. Your parents pressure you about your grades, and your teachers are really starting to pile on the homework.High school seems so far away, like it’s hard to visualize. Deep down inside, you know you’re not ready for high school yet. At night, you wonder when you’ll be ready or if you ever will be.

  Your preteen years just might be the most important years of your life. You are taking shape in every imaginable way—body, mind and soul. As you navigate through, remember that this time is unique and very significant. You are becoming a woman, so be in the moment. Embrace every day as you journey through the unknown in the company of millions of other girls like you, who are also making their way through this time of life. It’s your life—love it and live it. Grab on to the adventure! Dream and plan. Take the good with the bad. Most of all, stay true to yourself and be good to others along the way. And while you do, hold close the words of Karen Ravn:

  Only as high as I reach can I grow, only as far as I seek can I go, only as deep as I look can I see, only as much as I dream can I be.

  We love you, and we hope you will love this book. As you grow into the woman you are meant to be, we hope you are blessed with joy, love, fulfillment, peace and wisdom. We want you to celebrate just how fantastic it is to be the gender that has so much complexity—and, without a doubt, so much power!

  Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap

  1

  STRAIGHT UP

  GIRL STUFF

  When we stand together

  We all hold the key

  Once we open the door,

  Everyone will see

  Pride is what we have

  And pride is what we’ll keep

  Being girls forever . . .

  You and me.

  Courtney Bullock, 11

  A Perfect Fit

  Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.

  Katherine Mansfield

  When I was twelve, my summer consisted of getting into trouble on my family’s farm. I spent hours on end swimming in a make-do livestock tank and climbing oak trees, getting my knees and elbows all skinned up. Thoughts of clothes, makeup or boys were far from my mind. I was a tomboy.

  I grew up in a rural Texas town. The only movie theater was forty miles away, and my parents didn’t travel unless it was to go to the grocery store and back. I was fortunate to have the daily company of two sisters close to my age, which meant I could easily go an entire summer off from school without getting lonely and needing to see any of my girlfriends. So, I was basically out of touch with anyone but my family for two entire months. That is howthe first day of sixth grade almost turned into the worst day of my preteen life.

  Two weeks before school started, my mother took me shopping for the usual school clothes, just like she did every year. As usual, I had to be dragged to the bright, fluorescent-lit department store in the next county, and then practically forced to try on clothes. I never once glanced at the dresses on the circular silver racks or showed the slightest interest in any shoes other than those that could be tied with laces. I quickly learned to regret my lack of attention and enthusiasm for this particular back-to-school shopping trip.

  The first day of school began like any other school year. I left the house dressed in my new clothes, carrying my purple notebook under one arm, eager to see my friends after two months apart. I couldn’t wait to tell them about the new baby calf we were bottle-feeding or that I had nearly broken my arm in July climbing the tallest tree I’d ever conquered.

  But from the moment I walked up those concrete steps to the junior high school, I knew something was horribly wrong . . . with ME.

  My friends were huddled together in a circle, and the first thing I noticed was that most of them were carrying purses—some white, some hot pink, some brown leather. I didn’t even own a purse. Four of them were wearing sandals with heels—we’re talking lime g
reen—with the tips of their pink-painted toenails peeking out! I immediately looked down at my plain white sneakers and felt out of place.

  A boy we’d all known since kindergarten walked up and tapped my friend Morgan on the shoulder. She tossed her blond hair to the side just as he grabbed the back of her thin, frilly blouse. Then he popped the elastic on the back strap of her bra and ran away laughing. Morgan pretended to be mad, but I could tell she was somehow pleased. The other girls started laughing and teasing Morgan by saying that he liked her.

  Somehow, without my even knowing it, over the summer our whole class had graduated from grade school to junior high—complete with new wardrobes, crushes on boys and bra-popping. I no longer knew what planet I was on.

  I hadn’t given the idea of needing a bra a single thought. I looked down at the front of my shirt. It looked no different than it had this time the previous year. There was nothing there that needed support, for sure. I think the phrase “flat as a pancake” was one my mother had used to describe me.

  The bell for first period rang before I could ponder this further. But already I was feeling like my whole world had changed overnight, and no one had bothered to clue me in.

  My first class was PE, but not the PE of my previous years. The gym of the junior high included locker rooms and showers, and we were issued polyester shorts and T-shirts to wear. The teacher informed us that from here on out, we’d be wearing these during gym class. In absolute horror, I clutched the uniform tightly to my body and numbly made my way to the locker rooms to change. I looked around me as all of my friends took off their shirts, gabbing about stuff the whole time like, “How cute is Devin this year?!” and “Did you know that he’s going out with Chelsey?” All I could do was stare at the forty or so bras glaring at me from every angle. I was obviously the only girl in the entire sixth grade, perhaps the Entire World of Sixth Graders, who hadn’t gotten the memo: Sixth grade meant girls wore bras.

  I huddled next to a locker, hoping to get my shirt off and the uniform on without drawing attention to the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. It didn’t work, of course.

  Morgan saw it first. “Where on earth is your bra?”

  I swallowed and looked up as a group of six girls gathered around me.

  “I . . . I . . .” was all I could muster.

  Whispers rushed around the room and echoed off the tall ceilings, and I could feel my heart beating so hard against my chest I was sure everyone could see it, right there where my bra should have been.

  “I forgot it,” I said. Yep, I could really think on my feet.

  “How could you forget a bra?” one of the girls asked, snickering over her shoulder at the others.

  I didn’t know the answer. All I knew is that I was now blushing in places I never thought possible.

  As the day wore on, so did the rumors about what I didn’t have on. Boys ran up to me and brushed their hands across my back in the hall between classes, shouting to each other that it was true. Nothing there to snap.

  My so-called circle of friends closed their circle, and I was quickly on the outside looking in. I hung my head and hunched my shoulders as best I could to make viewing my chest as difficult as possible. And I secretly vowed to get even with my mother for not knowing about all this and for not preparing me like the other girls’ mothers obviously had done. I had never felt this alone—or this foolish. I had missed the boat that carried the rest of my class to the shores of sixth grade, leaving me behind; me and my braless, boobless, purseless, high-heeled-sandal-less self.

  Last period could not have come soon enough. I took a seat in the back and prayed the math teacher would not call on me for anything or draw attention to me in any way. I made marks on my spiral notebook, indicating to myself the number of people who had actually spoken to me since PE—and behind my back certainly didn’t count. I was up to three, and one of those was the janitor.

  That’s when a redheaded girl named Maureen picked up a pencil that had rolled off my desk and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks without looking up or even really moving. In fact, I was beginning to master the ability of breathing without even the slightest rise and fall of my upper body.

  “Listen, I heard what happened this morning.”

  So even Maureen had heard. She was the least popular girl in the whole class. She was taller than everyone else, weighed more than most eighth graders and had probably been wearing a bra since she was a toddler for all I knew. Her face was already covered in zits, something most of us girls hadn’t begun to deal with yet. Most of the kids were either afraid of her or ignored her. I had always tried to be nice to her, but not in an overly friendly way that would get me cast out of the in crowd. A lot of good that had done me. One underwear mistake, and I was now on my own.

  I allowed myself to slightly turn toward her. “I just forgot it, that’s all.” I was sticking to my story—it was all I had.

  Maureen smiled at me. “Some people can be really mean.” She probably knew that better than anyone.

  “Yeah,” I said, fully realizing that by now, some of the other girls had noticed I was carrying on a conversation with Maureen.

  “I’ve got an extra one in my gym bag if you need it,” she said.

  I thought it was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in years.

  Then we exchanged glances, each of us looking at our own chests, then at the other’s. Let’s just say Maureen’s C cup wouldn’t have been the best fit for me. My body wasn’t even in training bra mode yet.

  We began to laugh. In fact, we couldn’t stop. Classmates around me rolled their eyes. The teacher gave us the look that said, “Quiet down or else,” but we couldn’t stop.

  Sitting there, I realized I loved the way Maureen’s laugh sounded, full and real. I liked her smile and the way she was far beyond caring about what others thought of her. I liked that nothing about her was fancy and that she carried a backpack. I liked that she wore jeans and sneakers like mine, and that her T-shirt was just like the ones I’d seen at Wal-Mart on the clearance rack. Her bra might not have been the right size for me, but everything else about her suddenly seemed like a perfect fit.

  By the end of last period, I finally let the stress of the day fade away. I no longer cared what everyone else thought I should be wearing. I didn’t really need a bra, so why should I be forced to put one on everyday until I was ready?

  After class, Maureen and I walked down those junior high concrete steps, and I stood with her as she waited for the bus, our chests out and heads high.

  And frankly, I didn’t care who noticed—anything.

  Kathy Lynn Harris

  NO RODEO ®

  NO RODEO. © Robert Berardi. Used by permission.

  Not Just for Girls Anymore!

  Learn to laugh at your troubles and you’ll never run out of things to laugh at.

  Lyn Karol

  “Mom, I’m sick again!” I shouted from the bathroom. My mother appeared in the doorway.

  “Did you start this morning, Sweetie?” she asked sympathetically. “Your periods sure are awful for you.” She wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t just the cramps, although those were bad enough. My stomach got so upset that I would throw up for the whole first day, every month. It was completely miserable.

  “Why don’t you crawl back into bed? It’s obvious that you can’t go to school today,” Mom said. “I’ll bring you some Sprite and a piece of toast for your stomach.”

  I did as she suggested. When she came to my room a few minutes later, she looked distracted. “Honey, the radio just announced that the school district called a fog delay. Tim’s bus is going to be coming two hours late, and I have to be at work soon. Can you help him catch the bus?” Tim is my brother, who was six at the time.

  “Sure, Mom, I’ll make sure he gets to school. Thanks for the toast.”

  My mother left thirty minutes later. I was responsible for making sure that Tim got on the bus for school. No problem, I thought, until my stomach decided
it didn’t want the toast I’d eaten. I was resting on the bathroom floor when Tim walked by and asked me why I wasn’t at school. He was still wearing his pajamas. “I had to stay home today,” I explained. “My stomach is really sick because I have my period.” Tim nodded, although he clearly didn’t understand.

  “It was foggy this morning, so your bus is going to be late. Mom asked me to make sure you get to school. Your bus should be here soon.” It was then that we heard the distinct sounds of a school bus horn. Had two whole hours gone by already? I’d been so sick that I’d forgotten to wake Tim up and get him ready for school! My mom was going to kill me!

  I racked my brain and decided to call a neighbor and beg her to drive Tim to school. She agreed, and the situation was resolved. I was able to relax with my heating pad for the remainder of the day.

  The following week, Tim ate too much sugar and ended up with a stomachache. He was holding his belly when my mom saw him and asked him what was wrong.

  “Oh, Mom, my stomach is killing me,” he moaned. “I feel awful! I think I have my period!”

  Growing up is tough, and sometimes, you have to laugh to keep from crying. The next time you’re doubled over with cramps, just think of little Timmy holding his belly, complaining about having his period!