Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “I’m only in fifth grade, and this is my eighth school! It’s not fair! I just finally made some friends!” I ran into my room, threw myself on the bed and cried.

  By mid-January I had started yet another school. It wasn’t quite so hard moving in the summer, but I hated moving during the school year. By then, everyone had made friends, and it always took a while to be included.

  My first day at Mitchell Elementary was hard. Even though Mrs. Allen introduced my classmates, nobody ate lunch with me or said hi at recess. I sat alone, watching everyone on the playground having fun. Boys were running around trying to catch each other; girls huddled together, whispering and giggling. I noticed that everybody was wearing nice clothes and shoes, far nicer than my hand-me-down dress and tennis shoes that were ripping near my toes. I told myself that everyone here was rich and snobby, so I didn’t care about being friends anyway. Yet I did want to make friends. I was already missing the girls at my old school.

  The next morning when my mother left for work, she reminded me not to be late for school. I decided to wear my best dress and shoes that day, the ones I usually wore to church or birthday parties. I figured that not only would the other girls notice me, they would want to be friends. I looked in the mirror and decided to add one last touch for good measure.

  I slipped into my mother’s bedroom, opened her jewelry box and took out an expensive, beautiful bracelet that she had promised to give me when I was older. It was made of sterling silver beads that were hand-carved into roses. I looked in the mirror again, smiled and felt confident enough to start a conversation with even the most popular girl in school.

  Walking into my classroom, I sensed many eyes on me. I held my head high, believing that everyone was thinking how pretty I looked. Instead of sitting by myself again on the steps during the morning recess, I marched right up to a group of girls from my class and said hello. I introduced myself, asked everyone their names again and played with my hair so they would notice the beautiful bracelet I had on—the one I wasn’t supposed to wear until I was older. “So, what are you guys talking about?” I asked.

  “Just about riding our horses last weekend,” Tammy replied.

  I was right! I thought to myself. They ARE rich!

  The girls kept talking about their horses, their riding lessons, the new saddle they wanted.

  “I have a horse, too,” I suddenly blurted out in a lie. There was silence. I couldn’t believe that I’d said such an outright fib, but it was too late now.

  “Well . . . I mean, I used to have a horse,” I continued, trying to undo the lie a little. “But we had to sell him when we moved here.”

  “What a shame! You must be so sad!” everyone chimed in together. “What was he like?”

  Instantly, I had everyone’s attention! I told them all about, Red, a stallion that actually belonged to a family friend. I became so caught up in describing “my” horse that I almost started believing the lie myself.

  When the bell rang, signaling the end of recess, we headed back to class. “Wanna join us for lunch?” Jan asked with a smile.

  “Sure, thanks!” I answered, thrilled that I’d found a way to fit in so quickly. I snuggled into my desk, glancing down to admire my beautiful bracelet that surely impressed those rich girls.

  “Oh, no!” I heard myself gasping aloud. The bracelet was gone!

  “Did you say something, Karen?” my concerned teacher asked. I burst out crying, and everyone turned to stare.

  I don’t know if I was more upset over losing that beloved bracelet or fearing my mother’s reaction after she learned what I had done. “I . . . I lost my silver bracelet,” I stammered. “It must have fallen off during recess.”

  I was so visibly shaken that Mrs. Allen took sympathy on me. She told me not to worry, quickly scribbled a note and told me to take it to the office. The instructions said, “Please read this on the PA system.” Within seconds, the secretary’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers: “Someone lost a very special bracelet this morning. Mrs. Allen has a Good Citizen Award for whoever finds it during the lunch recess.”

  I went back to my classroom, feeling relieved that my prized possession would certainly be found. At noon I joined the other girls in the cafeteria. We gobbled down lunch so that we could race outside and start hunting. Within twenty minutes, it seemed that all 300 kids in that school were helping me look, searching every inch of the girls’ restrooms, the hallways and the playground. I kept nervously glancing around, waiting for someone to yell, “I found it!” When the school bell rang, alerting everyone to return to the building, the bracelet was still missing.

  I sat down at my desk, fighting back the tears. My kind teacher asked the secretary to announce another search. I just couldn’t believe that it hadn’t been found with all those kids looking for it! I developed a horrible feeling that someone secretly picked it up and decided to keep it. After all, it was the most beautiful bracelet in the world and obviously worth much more than some Good Citizen Award.

  Again, during the afternoon recess, it seemed that everyone was looking for my bracelet instead of playing tag or standing around talking. Again, the bell rang, signaling that recess was over. Again, those silver beads were nowhere to be found.

  Trying not to cry, I put my hands over my face. Several girls all gathered around me in the yard, and they all promised to help me look again tomorrow. I couldn’t believe how caring and supportive they were!

  “Thanks, everyone. You are so nice,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s just that I shouldn’t have even worn that bracelet this morning. It belongs to my mother.” Then, without knowing why, I suddenly added, “And I’m sorry. I lied to you guys this morning. I’ve always wanted a horse, but we’ve never owned one. Red belongs to a friend of my mother’s. I guess I told you that so you’d like me. I even wore my best clothes today so I’d fit in better.”

  “That’s okay!” they all answered reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter whether you own a horse or what kind of clothes you have!” Rhonda gave me a hug, and two other girls offered to let me ride their horse sometime.

  It felt so good to tell the truth and to learn that I had misjudged those girls as being snobby! I really did feel like smiling then . . . even before I happened to glance at the ground and discover an almost-hidden, sand-covered bracelet, smack in the middle of my circle of new friends.

  Karen Waldman

  NO RODEO ®

  NO RODEO. © Robert Berardi. Used by permission.

  A Friend’s Secret

  Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it’s all over.

  Gloria Naylor

  When I was a kid, every Thursday night was my mom’s night out (usually she went to choir practice at church) and my dad’s night to take the kids to dinner. We’d go to Red Lobster (Dad loved seafood) and order popcorn shrimp and hush puppies.

  Suddenly, when I was in the seventh grade, my mom started going out almost every night of the week. After dinner, she’d kiss my sister, brother and me and say, “Good night. See you in the morning.”

  “But where are you going?” I asked, incensed that she would just leave us, even when my dad wasn’t home from work yet. My sister, Carla, was fourteen, but still . . . .

  “I’m going to see a friend,”Mom would respond vaguely. “Someone who needs my help.”

  But I could see the signs. She’d put on a skirt, touch up her mascara, add another misting of perfume to her neck, grab her purse and head out the door.

  Mom was having an affair. On top of that, my own mother had lied to me. A friend who needed her help—ha!

  I was furious.

  I didn’t tell anyone my suspicions, not Carla, who was too busy talking on the phone to her new boyfriend; and not Charlie, my eight-year-old brother, who barely looked up from the TV to tell Mom good-bye. Dad just ac
ted like there was absolutely nothing wrong with his wife leaving the house after dinner to go on a date.

  Apparently, everyone in my family had gone crazy.

  Then, one day after school, Mom came to my room.

  “Honey,” she said, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  I knew what she was going to tell me. There would be a divorce, then a custody battle, then for the rest of my life I’d be packing up a suitcase to go from Mom’s house to Dad’s for the weekend. My stomach dropped to my ankles.

  “What?” I demanded, surprising even myself by how hostile I sounded.

  “It’s about Christy.”

  Christy was one of my best friends. We didn’t go to the same school—I went to public school and she went to private. We’d met at church and our parents were friends and we had grown up together. We played tennis on the weekends and then made chocolate chip cookies together. We both knew the recipe by heart.

  The year before, Christy’s family had moved to a new house on a hillside with a spectacular view. It had a long flight of steps down the back that led to a swimming pool and hot tub. I was jealous when Christy got to live in such a luxurious house. I shouldn’t have worried, though, because I got to enjoy the new house too. Now after a hot game of tennis, we could go back to Christy’s house for a dip in the pool, followed by lazy sunbathing.

  “Well, what about her?” I finally asked.

  Mom took a deep breath. “I just want you to be really nice to her for a while.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m always nice to her. She’s my friend.”

  “I know, and you’re a good friend. But things might be hard for her for a while, and she’ll need your friendship more than ever.”

  “Mom, what are you talking about?”

  “Maybe I’d better just tell you, Bethany. Christy’s parents are getting a divorce.”

  It felt like the time during a soccer game that someone kicked the ball right into my stomach. I couldn’t breathe. Then the guilt set in.

  “You mean, when you said you were going out to help a friend . . . ?”

  “I was seeing Christy’s mom. She needed to talk through some things.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling guilty for my suspicions, feeling even guiltier for the relief that flooded through me once I knew it wasn’t my parents getting divorced.

  “But, Bethany, you have to promise me you won’t say anything to Christy. She doesn’t know yet.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “Her parents still have some things to work out. They’re not ready to tell Christy and Robbie yet.” Robbie was Christy’s little brother. “Promise me?”

  “Yes, Mom, I promise.”

  That was a hard promise to keep. For weeks, I made a special effort to hang out with Christy and do fun things with her. Mostly we did the same old things: played tennis, swam in the pool, made cookies, went to the mall or the movies. It was summer and school was out, so we spent lots of time together. Christy didn’t say anything about her parents, so I didn’t either.

  One day, Christy and I were lying on lounge chairs next to the pool at the beautiful house of which I had once been so jealous. While I read my book, Christy dozed. But she must not have been asleep, because suddenly she spoke. “Bethany?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “What?” I lifted my eyes over the edge of my book. Christy lay on the chair, her eyes still closed.

  “My mom and dad are getting a divorce.”

  Knowing this information for weeks should have prepared me to say something profound when this moment came. But it hadn’t. I couldn’t even figure out how to act surprised.

  “Christy, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” A tear rolled out from underneath one of Christy’s closed eyelids.

  “That really sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Christy turned her head in the other direction, so that she faced away from me.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  For a few minutes, silence floated between us like sunlight on the surface of the pool. “Christy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Want to stay over at my house tonight?” I held my breath. “Mom has choir practice, so Dad’s taking us out to eat.”

  Christy turned her head to face me again and smiled. “I’d like that,” she said.

  In that moment, I realized something. I couldn’t make things better for Christy. I couldn’t keep her parents from splitting up. I couldn’t make Christy’s pain go away. But if I kept being Christy’s friend, even when she had to move to a new house with her mom, a house without a pool or a spectacular view, even when she got angry and threw things across the room, even when she needed to cry but didn’t want to talk about it—if I could stick by her through all those things, then she would know that I loved her and cared about her.

  And maybe that would help . . . just a little.

  Bethany Rogers

  A Valentine to My Friends

  It’s the season of love

  (Like we could forget).

  Romance is in the air,

  And it’s making us sick.

  Couples are holding hands,

  And all through the day,

  We walk down the halls

  And have to witness PDA.

  Then those same girls

  Will go home at night

  And thank God above

  For the man in their life.

  But when it comes down to it

  We’ve got something they don’t—

  Friends who will be there

  When a boyfriend won’t.

  Friends who will be with you

  There through it all.

  When you’re feeling little

  They make you feel tall.

  Friends understand

  When you want to stay home.

  No, you’re not mad . . .

  You just need time alone.

  When you’re eating with friends,

  You can just dig right in.

  There’s no guys around . . .

  So who’s trying to stay thin?

  Now and then there’s an urge

  To someday meet a guy

  Who’ll put a smile on your face

  And a spark in your eye.

  And “someday” will happen,

  But until that time comes

  Take advantage of now

  And simply have fun.

  So while other girls pray

  For a love that is true,

  When I pray at night

  I thank God for you.

  Rachel Punches, 18

  4

  FAMILY

  MATTERS

  For the good times and bad

  Always there

  Mine

  Inspirational

  Link to the past

  Yours forever

  Mentors

  Amusement

  Tears

  Triumphs

  Eternal

  Relationships

  Spiritual

  Ashleigh E. Heiple, 16

  ©2005 Lahre Shiflet.

  The Day Our Dad Came Home

  Parents are friends that life gives us; friends are parents that the heart chooses.

  Comtesse Diane

  I remember so clearly the day I found my dad. It was a few days away from my fourteenth birthday, and Mom had sent me to the store to buy a few things. As I approached the front of the store, I saw this man sitting on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He had dark hair, and he was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. I thought he was so handsome. I decided that I wanted to take him home to meet my mother. She was divorced with six children, and I was determined they would meet, fall in love and get married.

  I walked up to him and said, “Hi, my name is Pam. What’s your name?”

  He smiled, and said, “Well, hello there, Pam! My name is Duke.
” I asked him if he was married, and he said, “No, but I think I’m a little too old for you.”

  I laughed and said, “Not for me silly! I want you to meet my mom.”

  He was so full of life. I thought he would be good for Mom—she needed some excitement in her life. She married my daddy when she was very young, and he was a truck driver who rarely came home. Daddy was an alcoholic so he spent all of his money at the bars, and everything was left up to my mom. She finally divorced him after he came home one day in a drunken rage.

  My mother was a conservative and modest woman. She was raised in a Baptist church in a small Southern town. I just knew that today would be her lucky day.

  I took Duke to my house, telling him how beautiful Mom was and how I just knew they would fall in love. He smiled at my excitement, but Mom stopped us in our tracks as we walked inside. I said, “Mom, this is Duke, and he is going to take you on a date!” He stood there, snapping his fingers and looking so cool!

  Mom quickly asked him to leave and walked to the door to show him the way out. He turned to look at me and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t give up.”

  After he left, Mom gave me a lecture for bringing a stranger to our home. “What were you thinking? He looks like some kind of crazy man. I bet he parties all the time.”