Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II Read online

  My secret buddy was a girl named Rochelle, a girl who came from a poor family. She and her siblings were targets at school for those who felt they were better just because their parents had money. Yet through all the teasing and harassment, Rochelle never had a bad word to say back to anyone. She just took the horrible treatment silently.

  I was sick to my stomach as my cruel words ran through my mind. She had heard every single thing that had been said. And, once again, she silently took it in. How could I have been so mean?

  It took me a few days, but I finally found the courage to face up to Rochelle and apologize. She told me that she had felt bad all week about not being able to leave any cool gifts for me. Her family could not afford it. So finally, her mother had given up the one thing that was a luxury to her so that Rochelle would have something to give. Her mother had assured her that the nice girl Rochelle had talked about would like the powder. Rochelle couldn’t wait to get to school that morning and put it on my desk.

  And I had ruined everything for her.

  What could I say to Rochelle? How could she ever forgive me for making fun of her? Along with my apologies, I told her the truth. I admitted that I had only said those things to be cool, to try to fit in. I didn’t know where I belonged, I explained.

  Rochelle looked me in the eyes and said that she understood. She had been trying to fit in, too. “We aren’t that different from each other, are we?” she smiled. Her simple words, spoken from her heart, found their way straight into mine.

  Up until then, like everyone else, I had avoided the “Rochelles” of the world. But after that day, I gained respect and admiration for people like Rochelle—people who give from the heart.

  Cheryl Kremer

  The Cool Girls

  I sat in my living room staring out of the bay window. I didn’t want to wait outside for the school bus—no, that would seem too anxious. I had decided that I would wait until I could see it coming down the street, and then casually walk out the front door. After all, I was cool now. I was entering the fifth grade.

  Much to my dismay, the sight of the bright yellow bus coming toward my house sent me into a knee-jerk reaction, and I found myself running into the driveway—running and tripping. My backpack went flying and I landed on my hands and knees. Luckily, there were no major scrapes and I was able to return to a standing position almost immediately. The only thing I felt was the intense rush of heat to my red cheeks.

  As I climbed the bus steps, the driver asked if I was okay. “Uh . . . yeah,” I quietly replied. “It’s nothing.” I quickly examined all the kids’ faces for any type of reaction. Most seemed to be staring out the window. Maybe no one had seen my spill.

  I slowly moved toward the back of the bus to find two girls staring at me. As I sat down in front of them, I heard one of them burst out into a full-blown laugh, while the other quietly chuckled. They were whispering—about me, I was sure. I crossed my hands on my lap and pretended not to care.

  I felt them watching me, even though my back was to them. They were definitely older—maybe seventh-graders—I wasn’t sure. I sat frozen in my seat, feeling like the dorkiest kid in the world, as tears formed in my eyes. This was not the impression I had been hoping to make, especially to the older kids. Then, much to my surprise, one of them tapped me on my shoulder and introduced herself.

  “Hi, I’m Jessica!” she exclaimed. “Are you going into sixth?” In my mind, I quickly went from dork to super cool. Maybe they thought I was older. Wow! I shyly replied, “No, fifth,” as I turned around and smiled. “Oh,” the other girl giggled, “Fifth grade!”

  I suddenly felt accepted. They knew how old I was, they had seen me fall—and yet they still wanted to talk to me. I had already made two friends and hadn’t even arrived at school yet! I was already seeing in my mind how cool it would be, to be walking through the halls and saying hi to my new seventh-grade buddies.

  As it turned out, I rarely saw them in school, but I was happy enough to just be bus pals. I sat in the same seat every day on the bus, just in front of them, and waited for them to talk to me. One day, they asked to see my lunch box. “Wow, it’s really cool,” they both commented as they took my pink-and-white-checkered box from my hands. I couldn’t believe how much they liked me. They returned my lunch box and thanked me for letting them see it. “Oh, no problem,” I giggled, filled with smiles both inside and out.

  When I opened my box at lunch that afternoon, my lunch was gone. The empty box resembled my heart, as it sank to the pit of my stomach. I never even paused to think of another possibility. In one single moment, everything made such painful sense. They were never interested in me, they were not my friends, and this whole time I was some kind of joke to them. I felt like a fool— right back to the moment I tripped in my driveway. That was how they saw me; that’s who I really was. Some little dorky fifth-grader thinking she was actually fitting in with the older kids.

  I never cried. I never said a word. I didn’t tell my teacher because I didn’t want to get them in trouble. They already thought I was a dork. I didn’t want to add “tattletale” to the list. I simply closed the box and sat in silence for the rest of the lunch period. I had no appetite anyway from the thought of having to face them on the bus that afternoon.

  When I stepped onto the bus, I only saw Jessica sitting quietly alone in the back seat. I slipped into a seat in the front without making any eye contact with her. There was no sign of Jessica’s partner in crime. I held my empty lunch box tightly against my legs and quickly got off the bus as it reached my house. When I got to my room, I finally burst into tears.

  The next morning I vowed not to even look to the back seat, which of course I did anyway. It was only Jessica alone once again, not looking quite as cool and confident without her friend. As I sat once again in the front seat, I suddenly felt a presence behind me. “Hey,” Jessica quietly muttered as she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and managed a slight smile. “Look,” she proceeded, “I’m really sorry about the lunch thing.” I wanted to just say it was okay, but I couldn’t manage to speak. She went on to tell me that Cory had been getting in a lot of trouble lately and had gotten kicked out of school. Her parents were sending her to boarding school and she wouldn’t be on the bus anymore. With that, Jessica handed me a brown paper bag filled with a freshly made lunch, as well as some cookies her mom had made. “I hope this makes up for it,” she told me, and returned to her seat. So, Cory had been the troublemaker, because when she wasn’t around, Jessica was really pretty nice.

  Jessica and I sat in silence for the rest of the ride. When we arrived at school, I waited for her as she stepped off the bus. “Thanks for the lunch,” I said. We smiled at each other, and then walked to our own classrooms.

  Eventually, Jessica and I became real friends. Sometimes we hung out at each other’s houses after school, and there was never a mention of Cory. We had a lot of fun together and the age difference seemed to disappear. I never even thought much about the lunch incident again. All I could think about was how Cory had gotten some free food but, in the process, lost two really nice people as friends.

  Mel Caro

  Being There

  If you make it plain you like people, it’s hard for them to resist liking you back.

  Lois McMaster Bujold

  I wish that everyone could see friendship the way that I see it.

  Friendship is not just based on the type of music that someone listens to. Friendship is not just based on the type of clothing that you wear. Friendship is not even based on the sports teams that you prefer. It’s not based on age, skin color, religious beliefs or gender.

  Due to problems before my birth, I was born with cerebral palsy. I have been in an electronic wheelchair since I started school. I’m now in the ninth grade and have made friends all over the area near where I live. I have friends from all different age groups, young and old alike. There are friendly people everywhere I turn and so I gather friends very easily.
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  One of the ways that I experience friendship is through my own family. My cousin Chaz is a good example. Since I have limited use of my hands, I can’t always do things myself. One time, while eating at McDonald’s, we decided to eat at a table away from the adults. A Quarter Pounder is too big for me to pick up, so Chaz just picked it up and fed it to me. He didn’t even think about doing it, he just picked it up and did it. That’s friendship.

  One time I went to a sleepover at my cousin Sky’s house and he had about eight other guys there, too. In the middle of the night, after his parents were asleep, as you can guess, we were still awake. We were all lying on the floor talking our heads off when we decided to get up and go outside. Because I can’t put myself in my wheelchair, all the boys grabbed my arms and legs and placed me in it. No adults were needed for the amazing feat. Sometimes, it’s handy to have a lot of friends.

  Then there’s my grandpa. He’s seventy-nine years old. Whenever I get time off from school, we take a day and go to the mall. First we go eat breakfast and he helps feed it to me. I play video games, and he helps to insert the coins. That’s what I would call a really friendly grandpa.

  I have another friend—a guy in his early thirties named Steve who went to summer camp with me for several years in a row. Without his help, I couldn’t have participated in a lot of the activities. He totally didn’t have to do that, but because he did, he showed me that that’s what friendship is all about.

  My church youth group plays basketball at the church gym a lot. Whenever I go to these events, they allow me to play on one of the teams. Have you ever played against a team with a kid in a one hundred-pound wheelchair? I’d say that’s friendship.

  Have you ever thought about where wheelchair ramps are located? They are sometimes in locations that are inconvenient to get to. Most people take the fastest route to the door, but when you’re in a wheelchair, it’s a little different. One of the coolest things that my friends do is walk the long way to the ramp with me. They could easily run up the stairs and leave me behind, but they don’t.

  If you’ve never really thought about the true meaning of friendship, I hope that reading this little piece of my life has given you something to think about. I have many friends who like the same sports teams that I do and even friends that wear the same style of clothes that I wear. I have friends who are part of my family and friends who are older and even younger than I am. My friends are as different as people can be from one another, but they all have something in common. Each of them recognizes that being a friend means being there for your friends. And, as you can see, they’ve all been there for me.

  Jared Garrett, fourteen

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: To find out more about cerebral palsy, log on to www.ucp.org.]

  An Unexpected Reaction

  Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.

  Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

  Martin Luther King Jr.

  I hated my parents’ divorce. Because of it, my mom could no longer afford to send me to private school and now everything was ruined. Instead of graduating from the eighth grade with all the friends that I’d had since I was six years old, this year I had to go to public school with strangers. I felt like life was against me, nothing was fair, and I was determined to hate the new school and everybody there.

  My vow dissolved on the first day of my new school when I met Ally. She was pretty and popular. Ally wore cool clothes while I, on the other hand, had to make do with much less. But the difference in our backgrounds never made a difference to our friendship. Ally and I had many common interests; we giggled and talked and even sang in the school choir together. We became so close, that in a way I felt like I had known her even longer than my old friends. Ally’s popularity helped open doors that might have remained firmly shut to me in the preteen world of cliques. Because of her, I felt as if I had always attended this junior high.

  One day, Ally announced that she was having a slumber birthday party. I was informed that I needed to bring my sleeping bag, a pillow and other stuff like make-up. My mom even let me buy a brand new pair of pajamas to wear at the party.

  Finally, the momentous Friday evening arrived. I chattered nonstop to my mom as she drove me over to Ally’s house. When we arrived, I bounced out of our old car and, clutching my sleeping bag to my chest, I scrambled up the long walkway to ring the bell. This is sure going to be one great party, I thought, as I waited impatiently for the door to open.

  Ally’s mom, who always radiated perfection, opened the door. As usual, her dress was flawless and every blonde hair was in place. At our school concert, when Ally had introduced me to her, her mom had smiled at me and even commented on my lovely voice. Tonight however, something was different. I was surprised by her lack of warmth and I saw that the smile on her lips did not quite reach her eyes. A sickening silence descended as her pinched smile faded and was replaced with a cold, questioning stare.

  Then, she told me to go home. She said that I could come over and visit Allison tomorrow, but not tonight. I couldn’t understand what she was talking about. Had I imagined Ally’s friendship and the invitation? I started to cry. A queasy stomach followed my unstoppable tears.

  “Mom, Mom, where are you?” Ally called from beyond the door. Before her mother could answer, Ally had rounded the corner and stood in the doorway. She had only to look at my tearful expression to see that there was a problem.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” she asked. Ally’s exasperated sigh and the gripping of her fists told me that this was not the first time that mother and daughter had had a run-in.

  “Carmen is here to visit,” Ally’s mother explained. “I told her to come back tomorrow because you’re having a party.”

  Ally’s face flooded with crimson as she nervously glanced at me. “I invited Carmen to my party, Mom. She’s my friend, and I want her here.” Mortified, I stood quietly as the discussion continued.

  “This is a sleepover,” replied her mother in hushed tones. “I can’t have a colored girl sleep in our home.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A colored girl! I had never heard of such a term (except maybe in old movies) and certainly not in reference to me. And why would the color of my skin matter anyway?

  In an act of ultimate defiance and unparalleled friendship, Ally firmly stood her ground. “Carmen is my friend. If she can’t stay, no one stays. I won’t have my party without her.”

  Was I hearing correctly? She was willing to cancel her birthday party on my behalf? A look of agitated confusion passed over her mother’s face, and then I saw her face harden. “All right. If that’s the way you want it, go tell the other girls they have to go home.”

  There are times when words are pointless. I was choking with gratitude at this display of friendship. Then, I became suddenly nervous that the blame for the catastrophic end to the party would fall on my fragile shoulders. One by one, the girls came out of the house and quietly assembled under the cold, moonless sky to wait for their parents to come and pick them up. As Ally and her mother argued inside their home, I sat alone, while the other girls spoke in whispers and glanced my way from time to time.

  On Monday, the canceled birthday party was the main topic of conversation at our school. Some of my new so-called “friends” looked right through me, ignored me and generally acted as if I didn’t exist—except for Ally.

  Even with her support, the intense hurt took a long time to heal. As junior high ended and we went on to high school, Ally and I remained close—despite her mother. Ally’s living example of true friendship exhibited a maturity far beyond her age and taught me, as probably nothing else ever could, the value of a friend.

  I hope that I have learned my lesson well, that I have returned her friendship in kind, and that I have been the same kind of true friend to others. After all, wasn’t it Emerson who said, “The only way to have a friend is to be one”?

  Carmen Leal

  2

  ON CRUSH
ES

  I’ve never felt this way before

  It’s all brand new to me

  My head is spinning, I can’t breathe

  You are all I see.

  I long for you to notice me

  I wish you’d ask me out

  So this is what first love is like,

  And what a crush is all about.

  Amanda Beatty, twelve

  Baldo. © 2003 Baldo Partnership. Dist. by UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  Tasting the Moment

  When I was twelve, I wanted to have a summer romance more than anything I had ever wanted before— more than being able to drive a car and more than having big boobs—I wanted to fall in love.

  I had no idea what falling in love meant though. I thought that a romance would make me feel different— older and experienced. My friends all had experience with boys. They knew how it felt to have someone else’s hand squeezing their hand or to have somebody smile at them for no apparent reason. I was starting to feel certain I never would. And then I met Erik.

  Every summer my parents and I would go on vacation to the same RV campground. The campground was a haven for potential summer romances. My friends and I would check out all the new campers, hoping there might be some new love interest. We would talk about romance and imagine what we would do when we did have a boyfriend.

  “I’d sit with him at the campfire,” Trish would say.

  “We’d go for walks, holding hands,” Kelly said.

  And I never said anything. I didn’t know what I would do if I met a boy I liked. I never had much to say to boys. I couldn’t remember the punch lines to jokes and didn’t know what kind of questions to ask to get a conversation started. Whenever I did meet a new boy, I’d stammer and mumble, tripping over my tongue as often as I tripped over my own feet.