Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  One Friday night, Claudia called and asked Donna to come spend the night at her house. My parents didn't want Donna to gonot just because they didn't like Claudia, but because they had become so protective of Donna. In the end, they knew they had to let her go, even though they probably spent the whole night worrying.

  Claudia had something special waiting for my sister. She knew how awful Donna felt about her hair, so Claudia had shaved off her own beautiful long brown hair. The next day, she took Donna wig shopping for identical blond and brown wigs. When they went to school

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  that Monday, Claudia was ready for the teasers. In a vocabulary not allowed inside school walls, she set them straight so that anyone ready to tease my sister knew they would have to mess with Claudia. It didn't take long for the message to get through.

  Donna and Claudia wore their wigs for over a year, until they felt their hair had grown out enough to take them off. Only when Donna was ready did they go to school without them. By then, she had developed a stronger self-confidence and acceptance.

  My sister graduated from high school. She is married and has two great kids. Twenty-eight years later, she is still friends with Claudia.

  Carol Gallivan

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  A Friend for Life

  I have had the privilege through my career to meet many amazing people, people who have been my idols, my crushes and my inspirations. But the greatest honor came last fall when I had the chance to meet a fourteen-year-old girl named Nicole.

  I had been contacted by the Children's Wish Foundation of Canada, an organization that tries to make the dreams of young people suffering from potentially terminal illnesses come true. Nicole had been battling cancer for over two years, and her request to the Foundation had been a simple one: She asked if she could meet me. The foundation granted her wish by flying her here to Los Angeles, and arranging for us to spend the day at Universal Studios.

  It was impossible not to like Nicole from the very first moment I met her. Her outgoing personality and incredible energy swept me up and immediately boosted my energy level. Her up-front attitude about dealing with her disease amazed me. When I mentioned during our initial meeting that I was very sorry that she should have to go through something so difficult, she thanked me, but

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  replied that she did not want me to feel badshe wasn't looking for anyone to feel sorry for her. A strength I had never known before shone in her eyes.

  As our day went on, I realized how true it was. She didn't want sympathy, she just wanted to hang out and do things that friends do together. We ate junk food and gossiped about guys. The more we giggled over silly things, the more our newfound friendship grew, and I began to realize that I was just as lucky as she was to have this opportunity because I had made this incredible frienda friend who was a brave, courageous and extraordinary person. I knew that my time with Nicole would affect me forever.

  I will never forget the day I spent with Nicole at Universal Studios. We continued to be good friends after Nicole returned home to Canada, and spoke frequently on the phone. About two months ago, I received word from Nicole's father that she had passed away.

  The devastation and sadness I feel about Nicole's death are soothed by my strong belief that Nicole is now my Guardian Angel. I know that no matter where she is, or where I go, she will be with me in spirit. And when I think about that first day we met, I can't help but see the irony in it. What began as one person's wish being fulfilled ended as an experience shared and loved by two people that words can never fully describe. Nicole will always remain in my life, as my inspiration, and as my friend.

  Jennifer Love Hewitt

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  Speechless

  True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils. Strive to have friends, for life without friends is like life on a desert island. . . . to find one real friend in a lifetime is good fortune; to keep him is a blessing.

  Baltasar Gracian

  I glance in my cousin Hope's direction as we sit on the hill.

  We sit outside on the same exact spot every day; it's become our tradition. She eats her turkey on white while I nibble at a Sun Chip. It's her senior year and all I can think is, Who am I going to find to sit out on the hill with me next year? I like it this way, not having to say anything. She hands me half her sandwich, knowing I'll want it.

  ''Did you call your mom yet?" she asks, cutting through the silence. "Do they know what it is?" She bites her lip, not looking at me. I don't know what to say. Her mom had just gone into the hospital where my mom is an R.N. My mom hears everything. The second the doctors know it, so does she, and in this case, so did I. Do I tell her the truth? Yes, they said that your mom has a malignant tumor. They said she's

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  dying. It echoes in my mind; my mouth feels numb.

  "Well," I find the courage to say, "they did find something. It's a tumor on her ovaries. They think its . . . malignant."

  "Oh," she mumbles, wiping the backs of her legs as she stands waiting for the bell. She pulls me to my feet and acts like what I've just said doesn't bother her. But she can't hide it. We both can feel it there like a shadow looming between us.

  "I called her before third hour," I offer. She glances around me, waiting for the bell. I can see her hand moving toward the lighter in her pocket.

  "Ovarian cancer, huh?" she says, looking at me. "That might not be too bad." She stares me straight in the eyes, waiting for my reassurance. But we both know what "ovarian cancer" means: It means death. We know the factsthat most women die as it spreads to vital organs. And yet she stands there, waiting for me to answer her, to tell her that it's not so bad.

  "I don't know. Just because it can spread, doesn't mean it will. She's strong; she'll make it through this." I can't look at her. The bell rings, sending us into a crowd of people, pulling in all directions.

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  We head toward Chicago and the hospital. Her mom went into surgery today to remove the tumor. They're going to tell us how bad it is.

  The car feels heavy. An invisible barrier pushes against our chests. No one says anything while the radio plays stupid, happy songs. "YMCA" comes on the oldies station and she savagely pushes the preset buttons on the radio. "Why can't they play anything good?"she mutters, as she leaves it on the jazz station. The car is still weighted as we pull into the parking lot.

  Aunt Catherine's room is nice, not drab like other

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  hospitals. The walls are a soft shade of light green, with cheerful wallpaper borders. The window reveals a full view of the parking lot and spring sky. My mother and her father stand at either sides of the bed, looking down at Aunt Catherine. My uncle holds one of her hands as she sleeps, his thumb moving in tiny circles along her smooth skin. They look up as we come in. My mother puts a finger to her lips, motioning for us to be quiet. Catherine opens her eyes and says Hope's name in greeting. Her voice sounds hoarse and deep. I look over at her new I.V. machine and read the label. Morphine.

  Moments later the doctor comes in and my mom and I go to down to the cafeteria. After getting our dinner, we find a clean white table off in the corner.

  "It's horrible," she says, looking at me. "They opened her up to see how much cancer there was and remove it. It was everywhere. Everywhere," she reiterates, as she loses most of her composure. Her clinical poker face is gone, and her eyes are filled with something I haven't seen before: uncertainty and anguish. "It spread so fast," she half whispers, "they had to remove everything. Her ovaries, womb, fallopian tubes, everything. The cancer is well beyond the second stage. They couldn't get it all out. Even with chemo, they can't. . . ." Her voice fades as she looks over at me, knowing that she's probably said too much. Her eyes tear and she dabs at them with a napkin. I am dazed. Why did you have to tell me? I wonder.

  The room is dark when we come back and the air is thick, hanging around us like a fog. "Let's go," Hop
e says, taking my arm and handing me my jacket. Her keys jiggle as she slips the key ring around her finger.

  My mom looks at her with concern. "Why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat? Here." She hands her a twenty.

  "I'm not hungry," Hope mumbles, pushing past me

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  through the door and pressing the twenty into my palm.

  "Shawna, I think I'm going to stay here tonight. Why don't you stay over at Hope's? Get her to eat something, will you?"

  "Sure, Mom. See you tomorrow," I reply, kissing her on the cheek.

  She drives mechanically, her eyes glued to the road. Silence hangs in the air. I flip the radio to the local rock station and put the volume on low. I see a McDonald's along the road. "Hey, why don't we get something to eat? You haven't had anything yet. You know, you just can't starve yourself. You need to eat."

  "What is your problem?" she says, her voice with an edge. "Why don't you just stop worrying about me and mind your own business? I'm fine, okay? I knew what to expect and I'm fine. Why can't you people just quit worrying and nagging all the time?!"

  "Look, Hope, I was just trying to get you to . . . " She reaches out and turns the radio up.

  "It's my favorite song," she yells over the music. She hates Prodigy.

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  Her hands don't seem to be working as she tries to slip the key into the door. I gently take them away from her and jiggle the lock. The door swings open. She goes to the bathroom while I fix her a turkey sandwich and orange slices in the kitchen. I hear the TV go on in the living room. She flips it to Comedy Central as I walk in.

  "Here," I say, pushing the plate across the coffee table toward her. She takes a bite and looks at me with her are-you-happy-now? look. I can't help but smile.

  The comic on TV is horrible and tells one bad joke after another. She laughs a little too hard at them. But by the time the second comic comes on, Hope is dozing.

  "C'mon," I say, pulling her to her feet. "Let's go to bed.

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  I'm tired, too." She hands me some pajamas and I take my spare toothbrush out of its little holder in the medicine cabinet. She beats me to the bathroom and by the time I'm done, she's already curled up under the covers. I roll out my sleeping bag on the floor underneath her. If I look up I can see her sleeping and the clock on the opposite dresser. I steal a pillow and try to sleep. I check the clock and see that Hope isn't sleeping. She's staring straight ahead, her eyes wide open.

  "Hope?" I say, trying to get comfortable.

  "What?"

  "Good night."

  "Night, Shawna, you moron," she says. "Now go to sleep and quit waking me up." She closes her eyes. Within a few minutes, she gets out of bed. Another bad joke is heard coming from the living room.

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  I buy Hope a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips for myself and start down the hill. She's waiting in our spot. I hand her the sandwich and sit down. The events of the last twenty-four hours play over in my mind. Aunt Catherine started chemotherapy a week after surgery. Yesterday afternoon she was readmitted as she went into remission. She was doing fine, except for the nausea that comes with chemo. She had even amassed a collection of wigs and could go from brunette to blonde in minutes.

  My mom told me this morning that the cancer missed the kidney but was growing now on her liver. Doctors can take out a kidney, but livers they can do nothing about. It took us all by surprise. I was still in aftershock. Hope tried her best to act like she knew it would happen and that it didn't bother her. But I could tell how much pain she was feeling by the way her eyes glazed and the fact that she couldn't remember her locker combination or count her

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  money while we waited in line for the sandwich.

  And yet she sits there, taking slow bites of her sandwich while I crunch away at my Sun Chips. The sun is brighter now, as the school year winds down. The beams seem to play with the shadows on her curved cheeks and catch, ever so slightly, on those chocolate pupils. She stares off into space, trying to look cold, but I can see that she is fighting back her fears. All I think is how it shouldn't have to be this way, no one saying anything. I find myself wishing that I could tell her how I feel, that I love her. Instead I move closer to her and sit right next to her. She doesn't even glance in my direction.

  "Hope?" I say looking at her.

  "What?"

  "I just . . . look, Hope, it's . . . " I look into her eyes and watch as a tear runs down her cheek.

  "So do you think she'll be all right?" she asks, cutting me off, her eyes pleading for reassurance. I can't think of a thing to say, and this time I don't have to. I hold her in my arms as she begins to sob, and Hope finally lets go.

  Shawna Singh

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  I Need You Now

  My friend, I need you now

  Please take me by the hand.

  Stand by me in my hour of need,

  Take time to understand.

  Take my hand, dear friend,

  And lead me from this place.

  Chase away my doubts and fears,

  Wipe the tears from off my face.

  Friend, I cannot stand alone.

  I need your hand to hold,

  The warmth of your gentle touch

  In my world that's grown so cold.

  Please be a friend to me

  And hold me day by day.

  Because with your loving hand in mine,

  I know we'll find the way.

  Becky Tucker

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  Choices

  Hold a friend's hand through times of trial,

  Let her find love through a hug and a smile;

  But also know when it is time to let go

  For each and every one of us must learn to grow.

  Sharon A. Heilbrunn

  When I first met Molly, she instantly became my best friend. We enjoyed the same things, laughed at the same jokes and even had the same love for sunflowers.

  It seemed like we had found each other at the right time. Both of us had been in different groups of friends that didn't get along or we didn't feel comfortable in. We were thrilled to find each other.

  Our friendship grew very strong. Our families became friends, and everyone knew that wherever you found Molly, you found me, and vice versa. In fifth grade, we were not in the same class, but at lunch we both sat in nearby assigned seats and turned around to talk to each other. The lunch ladies did not like this. We were always blocking the aisle, talking too loudly and not eating our lunches, but we didn't care. The teachers

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  knew we were best friends, but we were also a disturbance. Our big mouths got us into trouble, and we were warned that we would never be in the same classes again if we kept this up.

  That summer, Molly and her brother were at my house quite often. My mom took care of them while their mom worked. We went swimming, played outside and practiced playing our flutes. We bought best-friend charms and made sure to wear them as often as possible.

  Summer went by very quickly, and middle school began. As the teachers had warned us, we were not in the same classes. We still talked on the phone, went over to each other's houses, sang in choir and practiced our flutes together in band. Nothing could destroy this friendship.