And it was a big event: the Spring Fling Choir Concert. The whole class was dressed up and I had on a new dress that went on sale just in time for the event.
My name was on the cover of the program in bright yellow with a daisy chain drawn around it. “Cindy Hamond . . . Soloist.”
I couldn’t believe it when I saw my name. Not that it was my name, but that it wasn’t Renee Swanson’s.
Renee and I had been classmates since kindergarten. She was always wherever I was and she was always ahead of me.
Dance-class recital needs a big finish? Renee was picked.
Selling Girl Scout cookies? “Oh, I’m sorry,” the lady at the front door would say. “I just bought twenty boxes from Renee Swanson. Such a nice girl.” Yeah, whatever.
Softball? She played first base while I watched her from my position in the outfield.
And the school plays? Renee would have the leads while I was cast as her mother or sister or neighbor. I even played her dog once.
The only time I ever came in ahead of Renee was at roll call. Hamond comes before Swanson. Every time! Believe me, I count that as a victory!
The day of the choir concert tryouts was nerve wracking. We waited in the library while Ms. Jenkins called us one at a time into the choir room.
When Ms. Jenkins got to the H’s, my heart sped up each time she came to the door. By the time she actually called my name, my whole body was shaking.
When I came back to the library, Renee smiled at me. Ms. Jenkins called her name and Renee calmly followed her. She was still calm and smiling when her tryout was over.
When Ms. Jenkins made the announcement at the end of the week of who had made the special choral group, I wasn’t surprised when Renee’s name was on her list and mine wasn’t. “So,” I said under my breath, “what else is new?”
Sudden clapping brought me out of my sulking. Everyone was looking at me. I’ve missed something here, I thought.
Ms. Jenkins beamed down at me and said, “Cindy, you will have to start practicing with me during your study halls. The solos take extra preparation.”
Solo? I got the solo? I glanced over at Renee. She grinned and gave me the thumbs-up sign. Oh, that’s another thing. She is always so nice.
Now the day had come. We filed onto the stage and took our places. I was front and center. Ms. Jenkins raised her baton and we began to sing. I could see my mother leaning forward in her seat, her camera already flashing for pictures. My dad was smiling and winking at me.
My big moment was here. The spotlight flicked over me and then circled me in its bright light. Ms. Jenkins nodded and pointed her baton at me. That baton must have shot out a secret stun ray because I froze right there on the spot.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Most of all, I couldn’t sing. The note started up and then stuck right there in my throat. The choir kept singing softly behind me. Ms. Jenkins began to look a little frazzled.
“You can do it, Cindy,” Renee whispered from behind me. “I know you can.” I wasn’t as sure as she was.
My turn came again. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and sang out as loudly as I could. All that came out was a rusty-sounding squeak. But in that same moment, from behind me, came the pure tone of the right note. Renee gave me a gentle poke. My voice lifted and matched hers. When the next note came, it was all me.
The rest of the solo went well. And when the concert was over, the applause was thunderous. We even received a standing ovation. Well, okay, it was our parents and they are easily pleased, but a standing ovation is a standing ovation.
When we filed off the stage my family met me with praise and hugs.
Renee was next to hug me. It felt awkward.
“Thanks, Renee,” was all I could get myself to say.
Renee flashed me her usual sunny smile. “It was nothing. You’ve always been there for me. All these years and all the things we’ve done together!” Renee gave me another hug. “What are friends for?”
Friends? Did she say friends?
“You’re right,” I said slowly, beginning to like the feeling of being her friend. This time I hugged her. “That’s what friends are for.”
Cynthia Marie Hamond
Now You See It, Now You Don’t
One is taught by experience to put a premium on those few people who can appreciate you for what you are.
Gail Godwin
I could hardly wait to get to school and see my friends. What would their reactions be when they saw me? I didn’t know, but I was sure it wouldn’t be like it was the day when I had started school there three years before.
On that terrible day my stepfather, Buddy, had to take me to school early so that he wouldn’t be late for work. When he stopped in front of the school, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I looked out at the small group of students standing outside the building and suddenly felt sick, but it was too late to back out now. Swallowing hard and trying not to cry, I slowly opened the car door and pushed myself around to get out. I felt awkward and ugly. The body brace I wore held me so stiffly that I couldn’t move very easily, but at last I was out of the car. Buddy said good-bye, then drove off leaving me standing there alone.
I felt abandoned. I didn’t know anyone there. I wished I were still in my old school with all my friends. My old friends knew all about my brace. They had also known me before I got the brace, so they knew I wasn’t really this . . . this . . . monster that I felt like now.
Some of the kids had gathered near the front doors, which were still locked. I didn’t have to look at them to know they were staring at me. I could feel it. And who could blame them? I was sure I had to be the ugliest, strangest thing they had ever seen. So let them stare, I thought defiantly. I’ll just ignore them. I turned my back to them and sat down stiffly on the steps that led from the sidewalk up to the school. Hot, angry tears fell on my new dress, but I quickly wiped them away.
I looked down at my dress. It would be a pretty dress— on someone else. The brace ruined everything. I felt like a freak. I wanted to cry, to run and hide so no one could ever stare at me again. But I was trapped. Trapped inside this hideous contraption made of leather and steel. The leather wrapped around my middle and rested on my hips. Two narrow metal bars ran up my back. A wider bar came up the front to support the neckpiece, which held my head in place. The only way I could turn my head was by turning my whole body.
That morning though, I didn’t try to turn my head. I didn’t want to see the curious stares of strangers. I should have been used to it. People were always staring at me, or worse, asking me what was wrong with me. I hated being different. And the brace made it even worse. There was no way to hide the ugly thing. It just stuck out there, inviting everyone to gawk.
As I sat there on the steps, I didn’t think I could be more miserable. I was wrong. Even though it was September, the weather was still warm and as the sun rose higher, the shade disappeared. I could feel the sweat begin to trickle down my back and under my arms. Great! Now I would smell sweaty on top of looking weird. I wanted the earth to swallow me up right then and there.
But, of course, the earth didn’t oblige by swallowing me up. I managed to get through that day, and the next, and all the days for the following three years. In spite of the horrid brace, I managed to make friends, once everyone got used to seeing it. I still felt awkward and ugly most of the time though, and I could hardly wait to get the brace removed for good.
That day finally arrived, one rainy Thursday in spring. I remember being so thrilled when the doctor said I could leave the brace off that I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug. I told him I would always love rain from that day on. I was free at last!
At first I was going to call my best friend and tell her what happened, but then I decided just to surprise her at school the next day. I could hardly wait for the oohs and ahs that I expected to hear from everyone when they saw me without that dreadful brace. I danced up the stairs to the school building that morning. Just wait u
ntil they see me, I thought. Just wait!
And so I waited. In my first class, no one said a word. What was the matter with them? Couldn’t they see how much I had changed? Maybe they were just too surprised to say anything. Probably in the next class, they would notice. Again, I waited. Still nothing. I was beginning to feel awful. Maybe I was just as ugly without the brace! Or maybe my friends just didn’t care as much about me as I thought. Then on to the next class, where I waited again.
By the end of the day, I was feeling hurt and confused. Even Danielle, my very best friend, hadn’t said anything, and she knew how much I had hated wearing the brace. I didn’t know what to think. I at least had to know what Danielle thought. I was spending the night at her house, so I decided to bring it up if she didn’t say anything about it by then.
After a few hours at her house, she still hadn’t said a word. At that point, I chickened out and asked Danielle’s younger sister, Ann. “Ann, don’t you notice anything different about me?” I asked her cautiously.
“Did you do something to your hair?” she asked.
“No. Not my hair,” I said impatiently. “It’s the brace. The brace is gone!” I turned in a circle and nodded my head up and down to show her. “See? It’s gone!”
Ann just looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I kinda thought something was different, but I just didn’t know what it was!”
It wasn’t until later that I realized my friends had long since accepted me for who I was, and they simply didn’t notice the brace anymore. With or without the brace, what they saw when they looked at me was their friend.
Anne McCourtie
3
ON
FAMILY
When monsters lurked beneath my bed, And scary dreams ran through my head, When thunder growled those sounds I dread, There you were, my father.
When scuffed-up knees made me cry, Soft hankies wiped my sad eyes dry, Coaxing me each time I tried, There you were, my mother.
Who held my hand when I was scared, Ate candy that he should have shared, The things I did because you dared! There you were, my brother.
In times of trouble, times of need, I feel such strength surrounding me, Without whose love I can’t succeed, I love you all, my family.
Lisa-Dawn Bertolla
Hey, Remember When?
When I look back on my childhood I will always remember the bond and memories I have forged with my cousins. There are five of us, including my brother Jack, my cousins Marleigh, Weston and Michael, and myself that are particularly close. Every summer, since I was six or seven, I have spent time with them. Every summer, I bring home unforgettable memories that I know I will keep forever.
Each time I see my cousins, we play a game called, “Hey, remember when . . . ,” and we remember all the crazy things we’ve done in the past.
“Hey, remember when Jack ordered room service at the Disneyland Hotel right when we were about to leave? Aunt Pam got so mad that Jack had to pay for it, and we didn’t even get to eat the food!” Yeah, that was funny.
“Remember when Kyle lost at the game Spoons, and he had to sell plums on the street corner in a purple dress wearing a sign around his neck that said ‘Plum Boy’? Yeah, and the police helicopter and a patrol car showed up because some lady reported a suspicious guy hanging around on the corner soliciting for money?”
“Remember when Jack spent the entire weekend in Lake Tahoe trying to talk like Jim Carrey? No really, everything he said was straight out of a Jim Carrey movie.”
“Remember when we were at The Good Guys, and Weston decided to test the video camera that showed up on the big screens in the store by putting the camera down his pants? That totally got the attention of everyone in the store!”
“Remember when. . . ?” And it goes on like this for hours.
One summer the five of us were with our Aunt Kathi and Nana (our grandmother) in Palm Springs. During the day it was 115 degrees outside and the pool heated up to more than 100 degrees. So when it got really hot, we went to the coolest place around: the air-conditioned mall.
One day at the mall we went into a shop that sold home furnishings. One section of the store had two huge racks of pillows. Michael decided it would be fun if we buried him under all those beautiful new pillows. So, of course, we did. In less than two minutes, all of the pillows were off of the shelves and on top of Michael and he was no longer visible. We were all laughing and enjoying ourselves when we spotted an older lady who worked at the store coming our way. Immediately, the four of us quickly walked away, laughing to ourselves as the saleswoman started placing the pillows back on the shelves. Suddenly, Michael, thinking it was us, jumped out from under the pillows yelling really loudly, “Raaaahhhh!”
The saleswoman jumped about three feet into the air and screamed so loudly that everyone in the store stopped and looked at her. Michael, realizing his mistake, started running. Before I knew it, he was behind us yelling, “Go, go, go!” We were off to the races. The five of us ran out into the mall as the lady and Aunt Kathi, who had realized that we were in some sort of trouble, started towards us. We ran several stores down and ducked into Millers Outpost and pretended to be shopping.
When Aunt Kathi caught us, we all had to go back into the store, pick the pillows off the ground and place them back on the shelves. Most importantly, we had to apologize to the lady, who was not very pleased with us, nor our aunt and Nana, who were supposed to be in charge of us. The “pillow incident,” as we have come to call it, will always have its place in the “Hey, remember when?” game. I think we’ll be playing that game when we’re all old and sitting around in rocking chairs!
“Hey, remember when Michael had to go out in public in a one-piece woman’s bathing suit? . . . or how about the time that . . .?”
Kyle Brown, sixteen
Families That Care, Care About Families
We didn’t have much, but we sure had plenty.
Sherry Thomas
My tenth Christmas was one I was not looking forward to. Money was scarce. Dad was a preacher, and preachers for our church don’t make much. Mom said we were old enough now to be brave and not count on gifts. Just being together would be enough.
We weren’t the only family in our small community who would have a meager Christmas. But the knowledge that others were going through the same thing didn’t help much. One night, as my sister and I huddled together in our shared bed, we had a small pity party for each other.
“How can I even wear that same old dress one more time?” I complained.
“I know,” said my sister. “I think I might as well give up asking for a horse, too. I’ve asked for one forever but it just never happens.”
“Yeah, and even if we got one where would we keep it?” I said, destroying her last hope.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my sister’s long-held dream to own a horse and decided I was willing to give up every gift for ten Christmases if only her dream could come true.
The next day, Mom added salt to my wounds by telling us that she had been saving up and shopping around so that we could give the Walters family a Christmas basket.
“If anyone needs some cheer, it’s the Walters,” Mom reminded us.
“But the Walters, Mom. I wouldn’t be caught dead at their front door.”
Mom gave me a dirty look.
But I knew she would have to agree that the Walters were the strangest people we knew. Looking a lot like a family of hobos, they could have at least washed their hair once in a while. After all, water is free. I always felt embarrassed for them.
Mom was determined. And it was our duty to load up our little sled and pull the basket full of flour and sugar, a small turkey, potatoes, and bottled peaches over to the Walters, leave it on the doorstep and run.
On the way we noticed that Mom had tucked a small gift for each of the children in among the food. I was distraught. How could Mom be so generous with someone else’s kids when our own family didn’t have enough?
We delivered the package, knocked hard on the door and ran fast to hide behind a nearby bush. Safely hidden, I looked back the way we had come and realized my sister was standing in plain view. I was so mad. I didn’t want them to know our family had anything to do with this.
After the Walters gathered up their basket of goodies and had closed the door, I said in a loud whisper, “What are you doing? I know they saw you!”
“I wanted to see their faces when they saw the gifts,” my sister said innocently. “That’s the best part.”
“Whatever,” I said, relenting to the unchangeable. “Did they look happy?”
“Well, yeah, happy, but mostly they looked like, well, like they were thinking, Maybe we do belong.”
Christmas morning arrived just a couple of days later. To my surprise, I unwrapped a fabulous-looking dress. I smiled at my parents as if to say, “I can’t believe you actually got this for me.” Then I glanced at my sister’s face, which was full of anticipation. There was only one small package under the tree. She unwrapped it and found a currycomb. A currycomb? Had my parents totally lost it? My sister’s face was blank and I was thinking, Is this some kind of a mean joke?
We hadn’t realized that Dad had slipped outside. Just as I was about to speak, he rode up in front of the big picture window atop my sister’s new horse!
My sister was so excited that she jumped up and down, then stopped and put her head in her hands, shook her head back and forth in disbelief and screamed, “Oh, my gosh . . . oh, my gosh!” With tears rolling down her cheeks, she ran out to meet her new friend.
“Mom, how did you do all this?” I asked. “We were ready for a no-present Christmas.”
“Oh, everybody pitched in. Not necessarily trading but just helping each other. Mrs. Olsen at the dress shop let me bring your gift home now, even though I’ll be paying for a while. Dad did some marriage counseling for the Millets’s son. I hung up Mrs. Marshall’s tree lights since her arthritis is getting her down. We were thrilled that Mr. Jones had a horse that needed some TLC, and he was thrilled we had someone to love it. And then for a moment we thought all was lost because we couldn’t figure out where to house the horse. Then the Larsens, down the way, offered some of their pasture to keep the horse penned and well fed.”
101 Stories of Changes, Choices and Growing Up for Kids Ages 9-13 Page 7
