Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  There stood Jimmy, so sweet, with a nervous smile and a love-struck look. His red-freckled face seemed a little redder than usual. This wasn’t my Jimmy. Not my bigcrush Jimmy. Not Jimmy of my dreams and daytime fantasies. It was the other Jimmy in my class, who I liked as a friend but most definitely did not “like” like.

  I heard myself mutter a feeble, “I guess so,” when he asked me to go out with him. What else could I do? How could I turn him down after he had prescreened his proposal through Jodie?

  We didn’t hang around very long on the front porch. As soon as I could, I made some lame excuse about how I had to go back inside the house because my parents would wonder where I was.

  Once alone inside the house, I worried about what to do next. I certainly couldn’t tell anyone about the mix-up. I’d never live it down. I decided to hide behind the excuse of my broken leg and my life as a social recluse, until I could figure things out. And there was the solution! I would only have to see Jimmy in school, and only in the classroom where we couldn’t really talk, and most definitely could not kiss. How on earth could we go out under those circumstances?

  I waited what seemed to be an appropriate length of time (about three days), offered my excuse to my girlfriend, Jodie, and asked her to break up with Jimmy on my behalf. I figured that since she helped me get into this mess, she should help me get out of it. Jimmy confronted me, flushed with anger, to confirm the breakup after Jodie told him. Slouching down lower on my crutches, I said something like, “Sorry. I hope that’s okay with you.” Lame. Lame. Lame.

  Rumors floated around about me only agreeing to go out with Jimmy so I could say I had had a boyfriend . . . and about me breaking up with Jimmy because I was too afraid to kiss a boy. I suffered their laughter in silence and never told anyone about the case of mistaken Jimmy. My big crush remained my big secret, my first true love.

  Karen Lombard

  The Mummy Returns

  Let there be more joy and laughter in your living.

  Eileen Caddy

  Here we were, standing at the entrance of the ride, “The Mummy Returns,” at Universal Studios, in Hollywood. My mom, dad, brother, and best friend, Stephanie, were there with me. My heart started beating fast and as we walked in, I began thinking about what crazy things might happen in there.

  The shadows crept silently over us as we glanced at ancient Egyptian artifacts. A chill of excitement immediately ran up my spine. We walked deeper and deeper into the mazelike cave, entering a world of the unknown. The creepy walls started narrowing into a small hallway, where we were spinning and turning in circles. We timidly approached the aisle, dizzily grabbing the railing on either side of us.

  As we walked on and on, things started popping out at Stephanie and me. Scared to death of this place from the beginning, Stephanie started frantically running in the opposite direction, back the way we came in. Wanting to pull me along with her, and not realizing what she was doing, she grabbed some lady’s purse thinking that it was mine. When she realized that it wasn’t mine, she returned it to the person then ran to catch up with us.

  Looking at the spidery cobwebs and dead bodies all over the place, we were led to a vast bridge. Dangling from a rope was a man! (Fake, of course!) Stephanie got the living daylights scared out of her again, and literally threw my mom completely off the bridge because she was so scared.

  Worse things started to happen. As I was holding on to Stephanie frantically, in the rush of people on the bridge, my brother Gianni tried desperately to get my attention.

  “Turn around, turn around,” Gianni yelled repeatedly. Finally realizing what he was saying, I turned around. There, to my surprise, was a big mummy standing right there! He was covered in a white wrap from head to toe. He looked at me through those ancient eyes of his, staring at me and giving me a dirty look. As he went past me, he walked impatiently, sternly, strictly and seriously, like an army general. He must have been trying to get past me to get to Stephanie, but he couldn’t. I have a feeling that he radioed his other mummy friends to watch out for our group after that, because worse things started to happen, like scary things jumping out at us from the walls.

  Stephanie and I screamed, yelled, pushed, shoved, and dodged everyone and everything in our way, to get out of there. In the process of doing so, we created a domino effect—Stephanie pushed into me, I shoved into Gianni, and Gianni rammed into my dad—which was a big mistake! Losing his balance, my dad desperately flayed and waved his hands in the air, trying to grasp onto something—anything—in the pitch-black darkness. Yes, my dad did catch his fall, but with something very peculiar. His hand touched a gushy, blubbery thing, and he grabbed on to it for support. It turned out to be some lady’s left boob! The lady must have been too embarrassed to respond, because she didn’t even scream.

  Trying not to laugh too hard and make any other accidents happen, Stephanie and I calmly walked on. As we did, another mummy popped out at us. We couldn’t help but scream our brains out again. It happened to Gianni, too. “Aaaawww!” The mummy screamed at Gianni. Then Gianni screamed back. The confused mummy attempted to try to scare my brother one last time. He came at it a different way. “You need to brush your teeth,” the mummy commented. My brother quickly responded, “You need a shower!”

  Later on, mummies were falling out of the walls, and one just happened to bump into my mom. The ridiculously haunting mummy got my mom so freaked out, she screamed and peed her pants!

  We all piled out of the haunted house, out of breath, laughing hysterically and holding our stomachs tightly. We all had the same thought running through our minds: We had just experienced the funniest moments of our lives! A lot of crazy things can happen in one little haunted house.

  Chiara Cabiglio, thirteen

  Whose Room Is It, Anyway?

  Who could deny that privacy is a jewel?

  In each civilization, as it advanced, those who could afford it chose the luxury of a withdrawing-place.

  Phyllis McGinley

  I dreaded coming home from school and going into my room. Every day it was something different. The hours away at school were long enough to cause a drastic, terrible change to my peaceful haven. Today was no different.

  As I entered the house, Mom called out a cheerful, “Hello!” and greeted me with a smile. It seemed like nothing was wrong. She asked me how my day had been, if I had any homework. . . blah, blah, blah. I was still suspicious. Mom could be so unaware! Yesterday, I discovered a chocolate chip cookie smeared around the mouth of my favorite figurine, a porcelain angel with glittering gold wings and beautiful long blonde hair. She had the prettiest pink lips, which were now covered in chocolate. Obviously, Callie had enjoyed the cookie so much she wanted to share it with my angel. Not funny.

  I looked around for my little sister, Callie, who had just turned three. I didn’t see her, but I heard the TV blaring in the other room. She loved to sit and watch the afternoon cartoons, turning the volume up and then back down, up and down. As I scanned the family room, I noticed it was pretty messy. There were toys all over the floor, but none of them seemed to be mine. There were a few headless dolls, some blocks, a few juice-stained stuffed animals, the remains of a green grape crushed into the carpet and videos strewn all over the floor. My hopes were slowly rising. If Callie had focused on destroying only the family room, well, maybe . . .

  I peeked around the corner into the extra room, and there she was, sitting on the couch with her chubby legs stretched out in front of her, clutching the remote with sticky hands. Her long, thick blonde hair was all tangled, and it looked as though she had specks of sand or crumbs in it. Her pink and blue outfit was still remarkably clean— that was truly amazing. I figured that Callie must have gotten her clothes so dirty that Mom had recently put a clean outfit on her. That seemed much more reasonable than assuming that she had kept this outfit clean all day. No way. Not my sister, the destroyer. Not my sister, the three-year-old terror. Not my sister, the menace of my life.

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nbsp; She looked up from gazing at the TV and saw me. A huge grin broke out on her face, and she laughed in delight, clapping her hands. I was surprised that they didn’t stick together.

  “Sissy!!” She leaped off the couch and ran to me, squeezing my knees and almost tipping me over.

  “Hi, Callie,” I said, with the slightest hint of a smile. I ruffled her hair, and white crumbs drifted like dust to the floor. “Yucky, Callie,” I said, pointing to the crumbs that had settled onto the carpet. I turned around and started the dreaded climb to my room.

  Up the stairs I trudged. What was it going to be today? Grapes shoved into my CD player? My treasured collection of ceramic bear figurines colored with Magic Markers? Or maybe smashed into a million bits and shoved into the CD player? My door was still closed, which was a good sign. Maybe she hadn’t been in here today after all. Maybe Mom had been able to keep her out. I was so hopeful that I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I pushed open the door . . . .

  And saw destruction! Covering the floor was more of the same substance that I had just seen in Callie’s hair! It was everywhere—on my bed, on the floor, on my bookshelves and desk, and yes, even coming out of my CD player! I bent down and touched it, wondering what it was. Then I saw an empty can thrown in the corner. Parmesan cheese! She had poured Parmesan cheese all over my room! I ran downstairs as fast as I could, almost tripping a few times, and came face to face with my bewildered mother.

  “She did it again!” I screamed, my face red and hot with rage.

  “Oh no, now what?” My mother covered her face with her hands, as if dreading what I was going to say.

  “Parmesan cheese,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  “What? How . . .” And then Mom’s face registered understanding. “I made spaghetti for her lunch and I must have forgotten to put the cheese away,” Mom sighed. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll clean it up, and then we’ll get your dad to put a Callie-proof lock on your door tonight.”

  I felt better, now that I knew that soon my room would truly belong to me once again. But I was still angry at my little sister so I went into the family room to tell her how bad she had been.

  “Callie . . .” I started.

  “Sissy!” she cried, her big brown eyes lighting up with joy. “Hooray!” She leaped off the couch once again, and hugged my knees with such happiness that I could only look down at her and smile. After all, she was only three and experimenting with the world. It was sort of nice to feel so loved by someone younger than me and I guess that’s why she always chooses my room to explore and destroy—because she looks up to me, her big sister.

  Mom kept her promise and cleaned my room so that it was spotless. Dad put a lock on my door that very evening. And . . . they bought me a new CD player that was even better than the old one Callie had jammed with Parmesan cheese!

  Aidan Trenn, eight

  As told by Melinda Fausey

  Gabriella

  Life is 10 percent what you make it and 90 percent how you take it.

  Irving Berlin

  I was so excited when I found out that my mother was pregnant. The sonogram showed that she was going to have a little girl.

  I was five years old, and all I could think about was having a little sister who looked up to me. In my mind, I formed the image of what my perfect little sister was going to look like. She was going to have curly gold hair that cascaded down her perfect little shoulders like a waterfall and perfect heart-shaped, berry-stained lips that were always smiling. Her cheeks were going to be a rosy red color, she was going to have eyes that looked as if they came from the heavens because they were such a bright, beautiful shade of blue, and her skin was going to look like it was carved from porcelain because it was so pale and flawless. She would be quick-witted and always fun to be around. I couldn’t wait until she was born.

  My mama and daddy even let me choose her name. She was going to be called Gabriella. I thought that was the most beautiful name in the whole world. I went clothes shopping for Gabriella with my mama and I picked out the tiniest and most beautiful clothes I could find, all sorts of pink, fluffy dresses and outfits. I didn’t think that I could wait nine whole months until she was born! Nine months is an eternity to a five-year-old.

  Well, finally the day came. I rode to the hospital with my grandma. We were both so excited! I chattered nonstop about how Gabriella and I were going to be inseparable.

  When we got to the hospital, I wasn’t allowed to go into the labor room, so I sat outside and waited, forever . . . it seemed. Finally my grandma came out. She was smiling from ear to ear. She said, “Tiffany, come and meet your brother, Christopher.”

  BROTHER!?! What!! I didn’t want a brother—I was going to have a sister! They were just going to have to put him back because I didn’t want any smelly little brother. I followed my grandma into a little room, crying because I didn’t want to see him.

  She placed him in my arms, and I looked at him. He had scrunched-up little blue eyes that were sparkling with happiness. His nose was perfectly rounded. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tiny pink tongue, tasting the air. He was beautiful. Then I knew, right when I looked into his eyes from heaven, that I loved him just as much as I would have loved Gabriella.

  Thirteen years later, I still love Christopher with all my heart—even though he can be a pest sometimes. He has grown up to be tall and good-looking. At thirteen, he is becoming a young man. The best part? He looks up to me—just like I had wanted my little sister to.

  Tiffany Clifton

  The Big Slip

  I was getting ready to walk out the door after my usual morning routine when my mother yelled for me to get out to the car—as she often had to do just to get me moving. I grabbed my book bag, threw on some shoes, and walked through the door to the garage with no idea what was going to happen that day.

  The morning went off without a hitch: math class, English, social studies. Finally it was 11:30, time for lunch.

  I went to my locker, grabbed my lunch, and walked to our gym/cafeteria with the rest of my friends. The lunchroom was always a mess when it was our turn, because we were the last ones in the school to eat—after the kindergarten through fifth-grade kids were done. We had a very small school and it was used as both a cafeteria and a gym. Dust and dirt often collected on the floor from students’ shoes—not to mention spilled milk, drinks and dropped food.

  I sat down at a table with my friends, ate my lunch and sat back to talk with them for the remainder of the lunch period. We got up when it was finally time for recess. During recess there was never anyone eating in the gym, so we had the option of using it. We started playing a game of half-court basketball.

  The game was about halfway through, and my team had the lead. I was outside of the key, guarding an opponent, when he shot the ball over my head. I jumped to block but missed. Michael, a teammate, got the rebound and was immediately covered by Andrew. Seeing that I was open and that he had a clear passing lane, he threw the ball to the ground for a bounce pass. I remember the ball hitting the floor only to come back up and hit me in the chest. Then my memory just goes blank. Just like when you fall asleep. You never see it coming—it just happens and there is a gap of memory between that instant and when you wake up.

  It turns out that I caught the ball, slipped and bounced on my head. Maybe it was the wet floor or the shoes I was wearing. But either way, I was headed to the hospital.

  The next part of this story is a little sketchy because I don’t remember it at all. What you are reading now is what I’ve heard from various sources. I was lying on the ground with blood coming out of my nose, and Jarred asked me, “Are you all right?” There was no reply. The lunch aides ran to my side as I suddenly sat up and began hitting away or waving my arms at anyone who came close to me. I said that I had a really bad headache and the aides suggested that I lie down on the couch in the teachers’ lounge. Our principal came into the gym and started to ask me questions. When I hit her
with my fist, she realized I wasn’t myself and yelled for someone to call an ambulance.

  The paramedics arrived and took me to St. Luke’s. The doctors, noticing I was going to need an emergency CAT scan, called and told them to rush the person out to make it available for me. Such a call is uncommon. Usually they simply rush the patient up there, hoping it’s open. They rushed me to the CAT scan and took the pictures of my brain. The doctors found that I had ruptured a blood vessel inside my skull. I was bleeding inside my head, and the growing amount of blood was applying a lot of pressure to my brain.

  The doctors had to surgically relieve the pressure, so I was rushed to surgery where Dr. Shinko would operate. He told my mother that there was a 75 percent chance he could relieve the pressure. My father, who was away in Chicago on business, was frantically awaiting a flight home after hearing about what had happened to me. As I headed into surgery, I have a vague memory of saying to my mother, “Tell everyone that I love them.”

  Inside the operating room, I have another vague memory of about six people around me, very busy doing things. I remember yelling, “My head hurts like heck, my head hurts like heck!” Then a female nurse kindly said to me, “We’re doing everything we can.” That’s where the memory ceases.

  Dr. Shinko had to shave the side of my head to make a clean incision, which begins at the front side of my ear and ends about a centimeter away from my left eye. He cut through a lot of nerves, but he knew they would grow back. He was able to relieve the pressure and close the incision using staples instead of stitches. Then I was taken to a hospital room where the doctors and my parents awaited my awakening.