101 Stories of Changes, Choices and Growing Up for Kids Ages 9-13

by Jack Canfield

  Paul is seventeen. He shaves every day and kisses girls right in front of me like it was nothing. He works at Dr. Milk’s part time and summers.

  I am sitting on the back porch, waiting for Paul to come home and talking to the box next to me.

  “Don’t worry, Smoky,” I tell the kitten inside. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, I don’t care how sick you are. My big brother will take you to Dr. Milk’s and give you shots and medicine and stuff and you’ll get better, you’ll see. My big brother can fix anything.”

  The kitten is awfully quiet. I wish it would make even a pitiful noise.

  We sit in silence. I daydream that I am seventeen. I am big and strong like my brother and I can make Smoky better. I see myself driving to Dr. Milk’s out on Ridge Road, carrying the kitten in its box into the back room (which I have never seen, really, only heard my brothers tell stories about), giving it some medicine, reassuring it. . . .

  “Everything will be okay, Smoky, everything will be okay.”

  In the kitchen behind me I hear my brother and mother talking in low voices.

  Dr. Milk is not there when my brother pulls the car into the parking lot. It is after hours. My brother has a key. I am impressed by this.

  “Come on,” Paul says in his take-charge voice, “get that box now. Bring it on in here.”

  He flicks on the light in the waiting room. “You’re coming in back with me,” he commands. “I’ll need your help.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask. I am holding the box tight against my chest. I feel Smoky moving around inside.

  “What do you think?” he says. “You heard your mother. That kitten is sick, bad sick.”

  “She’s your mother, too.”

  “Well, she happens to be right,” Paul tells me. “With an animal that far gone, you don’t have a choice. It’s got to be put to sleep.”

  I think the tears I jam back into my body are going to kill me. I think if I don’t let them out they will kill me. But I won’t let them out. I won’t let Paul see.

  “You do have a choice” is all I say. I hug the box for dear life and move to the door. Paul moves faster.

  “Come on now,” he says, gently taking hold of my arm, “be a man.”

  “I’m not a man,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be.”

  “You’ve got to do what’s right. That kitten is half dead as it is.”

  “Then it’s half alive, too.”

  He shakes his head. “You always have to one-up me, don’t you?” he says.

  I don’t know what he means, but I do know that no matter what I say he is going to do what he wants to do.

  A few minutes later, we are in the back room. The box is empty. Smoky is inside a big old pretzel can with a hose attached, clawing at the can’s sides as my brother pumps in the gas. He is telling me it is good for me to watch this, it will toughen me up, help me be more of a man. Then he starts to lecture me about different methods of putting animals out of their misery, but all I can hear is the scratching. And then the silence.

  At the supper table that night, I don’t speak. I don’t look at my brother’s face or my father’s or my mother’s. I look at the tree branch outside the kitchen window where the deer once hung. My brother is saying something about taking me to the driving range tomorrow. He will teach me to hit a golf ball.

  I won’t go with him. I don’t want him teaching me anything anymore.

  In the fall he will go off to college. I will be eleven. I will be alone with my parents, alone without my brothers.

  I get up from the table and no one stops me.

  In the living room, which is dark, I sit for a long time thinking. I think about my kitten. I think about the pretzel can. I think about what it will be like not having any brothers around. I feel alone and small and frightened. And then all of a sudden I don’t feel any of those things. All of a sudden it’s as if Paul had already left and I am on my own and I know some things so clearly that I will never have to ask an older brother to help me figure them out.

  I will never work for Dr. Milk.

  I will not go hunting with my father.

  I will decide for myself what kind of boy I am, what kind of man I will become.

  James Howe

  A Silent Voice

  If there are people at once rich and content, be assured they are content because they know how to be so, not because they are rich.

  Charles Wagner

  The situation seemed hopeless.

  From the first day he entered my junior-high classroom, Willard P. Franklin existed in his own world, shutting out his classmates and me, his teacher. My attempts at establishing a friendly relationship with him were met with complete indifference. Even a “Good morning, Willard” received only an inaudible grunt. I could see that his classmates fared no better. Willard was strictly a loner who seemed to have no desire or need to break his barrier of silence.

  Shortly after the Thanksgiving holiday, we received word of the annual Christmas collection of money for the less fortunate people in our school district.

  “Christmas is a season of giving,” I told my students. “There are a few students in the school who might not have a happy holiday season. By contributing to our Christmas collection, you will help buy food, clothing and toys for these needy people. We start the collection tomorrow.”

  When I called for the contributions the next day, I discovered that almost everyone had forgotten. Except for Willard P. Franklin. The boy dug deep into his pants pockets as he strolled up to my desk. Carefully, he dropped two quarters into the small container.

  “I don’t need no milk for lunch,” he mumbled. For a moment, just a moment, he smiled. Then he turned and walked back to his desk.

  That night, after school, I took our meager contribution to the school principal. I couldn’t help sharing the incident that had taken place.

  “I may be wrong, but I believe Willard might be getting ready to become a part of the world around him,” I told the principal.

  “Yes, I believe it sounds hopeful,” he nodded. “And I have a hunch we might do well to have him share a bit of his world with us. I just received a list of the poor families in our school who most need help through the Christmas collection. Here, take a look at it.”

  As I gazed down to read, I discovered Willard P. Franklin and his family were the top names on the list.

  David R. Collins

  Walking with Grandpa

  The power of choosing good and evil is within the reach of all.

  Origen

  Grandfather was a wise and honorable man. His house was not far from ours, and I would visit him often going home after school.

  No matter how rotten I had been, I could tell Grandpa anything. My secrets were safe. He always understood. He loved me.

  I remember a time when a bunch of us were playing baseball in the field behind Mrs. Ferguson’s house. I hit one pitch just right and . . . slam! It was a home run that soared high and away, and ended up shattering Old Lady Ferguson’s kitchen window! We all ran!

  Walking home, my best friend, Tom, asked, “How will she ever know who did it? She’s blinder than a bat!” He had a point.

  I decided to stop by Grandpa’s. He must have known something was up by the expression on my face. I felt ashamed. I wanted to hide. I wanted to bang my head against a tree a thousand times and make the world just go away—as if punishing myself could undo things. I told him about it.

  He knew we had been warned many times about the dangers of playing where we shouldn’t. But he just listened.

  “I was wrong,” I told him, with my head down. “I hate myself for what I did. I really blew it. Is there a way out? Will she call the police?”

  “Well,” he said, “she has a problem, just like you. I’ll bet if she knew you cared, she would be sad to know that you’re afraid of her. I’ll bet she wishes you would give her a chance . . . a chance to be understanding. It’s your decision,” he said, shrugging his
shoulders. “Just so I don’t say the wrong thing, is the plan to pretend nothing happened? Just keep quiet and carry your little secret around . . . hide what you’re not proud of?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “Things might get worse. . . .”

  “Let’s think it through,” he said finally. “If you were Mrs. Ferguson, what would you do?”

  I had been afraid that Mrs. Ferguson would stay mad at me, so I ran. I didn’t know what she might do. On the way home I imagined that she was a mean witch chasing me, and the further away I ran, the more gigantic she grew . . . until finally she towered over the whole town, seeing my every move with an evil eye.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “One solution is to tell Mrs. Ferguson I’m sorry and offer to fix her window.”

  “If you call her,” asked Grandpa, “what’s the worst that can happen?” I had to think for a moment. I realized that even if she did not accept my apology, it could not be any worse than seeing the disappointment on Mom and Dad’s faces.

  Grandpa smiled when he knew I had figured it out.

  “Doing what’s right is not always easy,” he said, handing me the phone. “I’m proud of you.” Grandpa did not make me do it. It was always my choice. I knew I had found the best answer, just by thinking it through. That’s how Grandpa did things. As it turned out, things were not anywhere near as bad as I had first imagined.

  “Owning up to what you’re not proud of is the hardest thing of all,” said Grandpa. “Choosing to be honest, on your own—even when you don’t have to be—makes others trust you and respect you.”

  Besides, it made me feel really good about myself. No one can ever take that away. Thank you, Grandpa.

  Mrs. Ferguson and I eventually became really close friends. She was so kind and grew to take a real interest in me. I started doing all kinds of odd jobs around her house after school, which eventually helped me to save enough to buy my first car. She once told me, “Fear can make the smallest things look so much bigger than they really are.”

  Just before he passed away Grandpa asked me, “Who will you turn to when I’m gone?”

  Holding his hand I told him, “Honor is its own reward, Grandpa. And a good teacher lives on through his student. Thank you.”

  After Grandpa died, everyone was sad. So many people loved him and would miss him.

  I still talk to him, in my thoughts. I imagine how he would approach things, what questions he would ask . . . what advice he might give . . . whenever there is a problem. His soothing voice is clear and simple.

  Grandpa gave me the tools to fix many problems . . . and cut them down to size.

  And most of all he showed me I was brave.

  Uncle Greg

  9

  ON TOUGH

  STUFF

  What a child goes through is hard to explain

  We’ve been through stress, anger, hurt, and pain

  Adults know what a child goes through

  Because you see, they’ve been through it, too.

  What a child goes through is sometimes insane

  Sometimes people offer us drugs like cocaine

  And now and again on dark, scary nights

  We hear sirens and gunshots because of gang

  fights.

  Death takes family and friends

  Divorce takes them, too

  Oh, if you only knew

  What a child goes through.

  Shannon M. O’Bryant, eleven

  and Ashley O’Bryant, thirteen

  © Lynn Johnston Productions, Inc. Distributed by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  Kelsey

  My little sister, Kelsey, was two years younger than me. I can actually remember the day she was born. It was beautiful outside. The sun was out and there was a nice cool breeze. I went into the hospital to see my new sister, but I was too young to hold her.

  Four years later, my brother Dakota came along, and by then, I was big enough to hold my new little brother.

  Since Kelsey and I were so close in age, we did a lot together growing up. We were typical kids and we sometimes fought like cats and dogs. But there were also days that we were really nice to one another. We used to play games on Nintendo once in a while, but most of all, we loved to play outside.

  My sister was the most athletic person in our family. She was a lot faster than me. As we got older, we used to race all the time, but she would usually beat me. We especially loved to swim, so my dad got us a membership at the pool at our nearby church. We loved that pool, especially the lifeguards and the people who would often go there. We would race in the pool, too, and sometimes I would actually beat Kelsey.

  My family life was going pretty good but when I was about eleven, I started to notice that my parents argued a lot. My dad was a hard worker and provided well for us, but he drank too much and my mom had no tolerance for alcohol abuse. The madness never did stop, so eventually they divorced.

  I thought things would never be the same without my dad living with us and that it would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to go through. I realized that our lives would never be perfect due to the stress and strain that was created. But I tried to stay positive and remember the good times my father and I had. Mom and Dad seemed happier this way, and I knew we’d be okay.

  My family and my mom’s family have always been a close-knit bunch. My Nana and Pops were the best! Nana is a really sweet lady and cares for us a bunch, but Pops was my favorite person in the world. He was funny and silly, and he loved me and my brother and sister a lot.

  One day, my pops wanted me to come over to watch some John Wayne movies that were on TV. We made popcorn and root beer floats that night. We were up pretty late and had a great time together. I was spending the weekend with them, which I loved to do. The next morning, Pops and I were going to get up early and eat breakfast together. Pops usually woke up at around 6:30 A.M. My Nana was up but Pops still hadn’t gotten up, so Nana told me to go and wake him.

  I went to get him, but I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked in. My Pops had died in his sleep early that morning of a massive stroke. I was totally devastated. My whole family was numb and in shock. For months we were all in a sad fog. Still, I tried to stay positive. My Pops was in a better place and although I’d miss him my whole life, I knew I’d see him again.

  Things were going along all right, but we had our days when it was tough. We did our best to get through them. Then in November of that year, my mom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She ended up having a major operation on Christmas Eve. My mom spent her birthday, Christmas and New Year’s in the hospital. I was so worried about her. I didn’t know how I should deal with it. I guess I just dealt with it by trying to be as much help as I could around the house.

  My mom went through several extensive surgeries and a massive amount of chemotherapy. She went away to Omaha for a few weeks to undergo treatment. I was so worried about her through those times. I was lucky to have such strong and supportive friends and family through it all.

  Finally, Mom came home and was doing pretty well. We had several false alarms but nothing serious. By July, Mom was feeling good enough to get out with us and have a little fun.

  One afternoon, my mom, Nana, brother and family friend Tracy went out to play miniature golf and then we went out to eat. We had a really good day. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time.

  When we got home, there were tons of messages on the phone machine. My dad’s girlfriend left us an urgent message asking us to call her as soon as we got home. When we reached her, she gave us more horrible news. She told us that my dad had died earlier that day of a massive heart attack. My mind was going in all sorts of directions. I had no idea this could happen to my forty-five-year-old father. It was a total surprise to all of us. I did not know what to do or think.

  There was a huge visitation for my dad. Then, as a final good-bye, we spread his ashes in Lake Okobji in Iowa where he always used to say he wante
d to be put to rest.

  After we got things back on track again and going well, I started back at karate, something that I had always loved doing. Kelsey was excited about starting her first year of middle school and I was going to be in eighth grade. By this time, I’d been through more than most kids had, but nothing would prepare me for what happened next.

  On September 3, Kelsey and Dakota begged my mom to let them go to the pool. I didn’t go because I was mowing the backyard to earn some extra cash. My mom was not going to let them go, but finally they just broke her down. She was very sensitive to the sun from all of the chemotherapy, so she could not go with them. She said they could go for half an hour—just long enough to come back and get me so that I could go to karate.

  My mom had just walked through the door and started to change clothes when the phone rang. It was someone from the church. They said there had been an accident at the pool. Mom came running down the stairs to tell our family friend, Tracy, and me. Tracy left with my mom and I stayed at home. I tried to call my nana and ask her if she knew what was wrong. I needed someone to talk to but apparently Mom called her and asked her to come to the pool. So I waited at home patiently for a phone call or someone to come and get me.

  Finally, the phone rang and it was my nana saying she was on her way to pick me up. When she got to our house, she sat me down and told me what had happened.

  My sister, Kelsey, had been caught in the pool drain. The paramedics came, but they could not pull her out. She was underwater for approximately twenty-five minutes. Finally, they were able to get her out and they rushed her to the closest hospital immediately. When she arrived, they worked on her and found a faint pulse after about thirty minutes. From there, she was rushed to Children’s Mercy Hospital and that is where she stayed on life support. I went in to see her. She was not the same at all; she was not my athletic little sister anymore. She lived for two days, but she passed away on September 5, 1998.