Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  A few more lines ended my e-mail. When his came back, he had some questions for me.

  That’s cool. What kind of music do you listen to? I like country. Do you like hunting?

  Turns out, country music is the only thing I will listen to! And hunting is one of my favorite pastimes. I had no idea we had so much in common. I thought, This is cool, we actually like the same stuff!

  Those e-mails were the start of a two-month correspondence that covered a wide variety of subjects. Having a lot in common made it easy to just chat. And to tell you the truth, I enjoyed getting his e-mails.

  Toward the end of June, I wrote him a reply to an e-mail I had received four days earlier from him. I felt bad about not getting back to him right away and my e-mail wasn’t much more than a note, but what I got back from him took my breath away.

  Patrick’s e-mail was short. He started off by telling me he was going to be on vacation for three weeks and other stuff like that. But the postscript is what got me. It read:

  P.S. I really wanted to say thank you for talking to me through e-mail. I’m usually really shy and am afraid to tell people what my likes are and all, plus I really have been bored since school let out. E-mailing you, at least I can talk to someone. You like everything I like so far, and as long as I have lived I have never met anyone so much like me. I’ve been used to a lot of people picking on me, and I’ve been pretty down the past few years.

  When I read that people picked on him, my thoughts were, Why in the world are kids so mean? Don’t they realize how they are making him feel? It broke my heart to hear him say that he had been down the past few years. I actually started crying when I read how the other kids treated him. It was then that I understood that Patrick was a kid who had needed a friend. My taking the time to e-mail him had made him feel important, like someone really cared enough to talk to him instead of just picking on him.

  I want to thank you again. You like just about everything I like—hunting, cars, country music, horses. To me you’re like an angel.

  Those last six words touched my heart. It made me feel so good I just can’t explain it! No one had ever said anything that nice to me before, and to be called an “angel” just made my day! When I e-mailed him back, I sincerely thanked him for what he said and told him to hang on.

  That day, I learned a lesson that would stay with me for the rest of my life. From now on, I will take the time to do the little things, like replying to an e-mail or card, even if it’s just a line or two. You never know how you might help someone and become his or her “angel.”

  Jena Pallone, sixteen

  Starring on the Six O’Clock News

  It is wise to disclose what cannot be concealed.

  Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

  “Erin,” my mom sighed, “why don’t you ever finish what you start?”

  I did have a restless nature, but the real truth was that I never quite felt that I fit in. My brother had graduated from high school the year before and was both athletically gifted and popular. He was a head taller than all the other guys and had a diamond smile. Everyone gravitated toward his down-to-earth quiet charm. His perfection was maddening. At fourteen, it was painfully obvious to me that I would never walk in his shoes, only his shadow.

  I was plump and moody, and I felt dreadfully average. And, despite the messages teenagers get about self-confidence and individuality, despite the fact that he no longer attended my school, I was insanely jealous of my brother. I knew it was up to me to make my own mark in high school.

  I worked hard at developing my own unique style. I built a collection of dark clothes and weird jean skirts made from old Levis I picked up from Goodwill. However, I knew that I could not complete my look unless I was properly pierced. I knew of no one of any status who didn’t have at least double-pierced ears. My single-pierced ears were far too conservative for the look I was going for.

  “Mom?” I asked one morning. “Could I get my ears double-pierced?”

  “Absolutely not. You have enough holes in your head already,” she said.

  Of course, I wasn’t at all surprised at her response. I was notorious for taking a mile when I got an inch, and she probably thought I would pierce every part of flesh exposed to daylight when she wasn’t looking. So rather than take no for an answer, I decided to take the task into my own hands. With a gigantic sewing needle from the closet, an unbaked potato and some ice cubes out of the freezer, I went into the bathroom and began the task of transforming myself from an ordinary person to an absolute rebel. I nearly passed out when the needle popped partway through my left ear. I waited for the dizzy spell to pass before finishing the job and popping it the rest of the way through. My old gold posts seemed to get stuck and had to be twisted awkwardly through my ear but I managed. I drizzled hydrogen peroxide across my wound. In the grand tradition of not finishing what I started I made a decision. No way was I piercing the other. One ear was cool enough.

  For the next six weeks I was grateful for the camouflage of my hair. I would leave home with the piercing carefully concealed beneath my curls and pull my hair up once I reached the bus stop. I was absolutely sure that everyone at school noticed my ears. It didn’t take too long though, before the whole world noticed.

  A week later, our football team won the state championship. We were a Class B school, little more than a bunch of farm kids who took time out from baling hay and milking cows to toss a football around, so it was a surprise to everyone that our underdog team had won. The school was on fire with anticipation! The local news channel got wind of our school’s recent victory and showed up with news vans, cameras and well-dressed reporters to do a story on our team. They spotted me with my bouncy ponytail and uniquely pierced ears and decided to interview me. I was going to be a star!

  I said stuff like, “Awesome!” “Powerful!” and “Really, really cool!” before the cameras left. My little brother Adam wanted to chat about the interview all the way home. Because I was now famous, I graciously answered his questions.

  When we arrived home, Andy was there for a visit. My parents quickly gathered around the TV when my little brother announced that I was going to be on the six o’clock news. Dad scrambled for a VCR tape, and then . . . there I was in living color. The first thing I noticed was my new gold post in my left ear. It was like the North Star glinting in the light of the news camera. My brother Andy spotted it too. He looked at me and grinned knowingly.

  “Um . . .” I said. “I have some homework to do.”

  “Wait,” my mom said. “Sit down. Adam honey, will you rewind that again so we can all watch it once more?” He did, and my earring was now the size of a baseball glinting in the sunlight. I got up and bolted for the stairs. I only made it halfway up before I felt hands grasp my ankles and pull. Before I could catch my footing I was flat on my back staring up into my mother’s face. I was busted.

  “I don’t believe it!” she said. “How long have you been hiding this?”

  “A month or so,” I admitted. Her eyes narrowed and I knew I was in for it. But then suddenly the corners of her mouth creased and she laughed.

  “You know I have to ground you for disobeying,” she said through giggles and snorts. “Let me see the other one,” she said.

  “I couldn’t finish it. The first one made me really dizzy,” I confessed. This was too much for her, and she burst into peals of laughter. Before long, I was laughing too.

  In that moment it didn’t matter what anyone else thought of me. It didn’t matter that I lost driving privileges for a week, or that I was being laughed at. What mattered was that deep down I knew that Mom understood and she liked me. She liked me despite my insecurities, my oddities and my restlessness and yes, even my rebelliousness. And somehow, getting that other ear pierced didn’t matter to me anymore.

  Erin K. Kilby

  Most Popular

  Nothing happens by itself . . . it all will come your way, once you understand that you have to make it come your way,
by your own exertions.

  Ben Stein

  When I entered the sixth grade, I went from being someone—to being no one. After being a popular kid for three years in elementary school, I had a tough time adjusting to this. The kids in middle school were cruel. I had been at the top of the world in elementary school, and now, no one wanted me.

  On the first day of school, a kid threw a rock at me and hit me in the back of the head. I couldn’t do anything about it because he was much bigger than I was, and he would definitely beat me up.

  As the days passed, I got teased more and more. I got angry and I tried to retaliate, but all that happened was that I got in trouble. Eventually, I got depressed. I couldn’t believe all the competition.

  Then one day, I decided that I had to motivate myself. No one else was going to do it for me. I had always been the smart guy since second grade, right? I thought.

  I began to push myself. I started out by taking an after-school class to help me get my grades up. I also signed up for piano lessons, and then I joined the chess club and the math team. I went to a math competition and took home first in the district and went on to the competition for the counties! I couldn’t believe it! After my victories, everyone adored me. At the end of the year, in our yearbook, they put me in as “Mister Smarty Pants”!

  My mom always said, “If you don’t protect yourself, no one will.” This is just the same thing. If you don’t push yourself, you’ll just be a lazy bum! If I can do it, you can do it—so get up and put yourself in front of the class!

  Nathan D. Phung, eleven

  Lost and Found

  The measure of a man’s real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out.

  Thomas B. Macaulay

  It was my twelfth birthday, and what I really wanted most was a new bicycle. A blue low-rider with fat tires. But I knew that my family couldn’t afford one. My parents said that I should be happy that I had a bicycle at all—if you can call that rickety old thing that I own a bike.

  A new bike was just a dream, so I settled for a nightstand. I figured that at least I would have a safe place to keep my private stuff away from the reach of my pesky younger brothers. So, I asked my parents for a nightstand with lockable drawers. And that’s what I got.

  We went to the secondhand furniture store and found an old dark brown nightstand. It didn’t look too cool, but at least it had drawers that I could keep locked. I decided that I would paint it and glue some stickers on it to make it look better.

  After we took it home, I was getting ready to paint it. When I pulled the drawers out, I felt something stuck to the back of the lowest drawer. I reached in all the way to the back, and guess what I found? A Ziploc bag with some papers in it.

  Cool! Maybe I’ve found somebody’s secret stuff, I thought. When I opened the bag, I realized that the papers were some kind of official-looking documents. And, wrapped in the papers were a bunch of ten and twenty dollar bills! Talk about finding a treasure! And on my birthday!

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I said aloud. Maybe my family was playing a trick on me. Maybe this was fake money. But it looked pretty real. Somebody had been stashing money in this bag and hiding it in the back of the locked drawer. I went ahead and read the papers, and it turned out to be a will. Some old lady was leaving her savings for her son and grandchildren.

  All this was too weird. My mind was going crazy. Was I the luckiest twelve-year-old ever? With this money I could buy the coolest bicycle. I could even buy bicycles for my brothers. Who knows? Maybe I even had enough here to get a car for my parents, so that they could trash that embarrassing old junker that we have for a car.

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” I started singing as I began counting the money. When I reached a thousand dollars, I had to stop. My mother was knocking on my bedroom door. I quickly closed the drawer with the money in it.

  “How is your painting job coming along? Do you want some help?”

  “No . . . thanks, Mom, I haven’t even started. I . . . I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  No, everything was not right. Actually, my stomach was growling.

  “I’m okay,” I fibbed. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

  When my mother left my room, I lay on my bed, and, staring at the ceiling, I started thinking about this past week. First, I didn’t make the basketball team. Then, I flunked the math test. Finally, my little brother destroyed my science project. (That’s why I needed a nightstand with locked drawers.) And now, I found this money on my birthday—the only good news in a long time. A solution to my problems. Yet, I don’t feel good about it. How come?

  I would have to make up lies to tell my family and friends. “Finders keepers . . .” the saying goes. But that money wasn’t really meant for me, was it? The lady had been saving it for her family. She must have died and nobody knew about the money hidden in the nightstand. Her family donated it to the secondhand store, and now it was in my hands.

  What a dilemma! I could keep it and get all kinds of stuff for me and my family. It wouldn’t be too bad for me to keep it, if I shared it . . . right? I bargained with myself. What about keeping some and returning the rest? After all, nobody knew how much money was there . . . and it was my birthday! Or I could give it all back. Tell the truth. No new bicycles. No car.

  “Somebody help me with this!” I pleaded. But I really didn’t need someone else to give me the answer. I already knew right from wrong. That’s why I flunked the math test even though I could have cheated. I decided not to flunk this test. It was a test of honor. My honor.

  I called my parents and my brothers into my bedroom and showed them what I had found. They were wide-eyed—speechless! When they asked, “What should we do about this?” I already had the answer.

  “Let’s take it back to the store and find her family.” As I said this, my stomach quieted down.

  The store owners could not believe it when we told them the story.

  “You mean to say you found over a thousand dollars in cash and you are here to return it?” they asked, almost at the same time.

  Looking through their donation records, they found the family’s telephone number. They phoned them right there and then, and within a few minutes, they all came over to the store: her son, his wife and their three children—a family pretty much like ours. The parents had tears in their eyes. The old lady’s twelve-year-old grandson just kept looking at me as people were telling the story over and over.

  You see, they were all still sad about her death. And the father had just lost his job. They had been praying for help, and it turned out that I brought in the answer to their prayers. My act of honesty not only helped them pay the rent, but strengthened their faith and gave them hope.

  I had never felt better. No new bicycle could have made me feel as good about myself as I felt that day. I may have flunked the math test, but I passed a more important one—a lost and found test of my own character.

  Antonio Angulo Jr., twelve

  As told by Marisol Muñoz-Kiehne

  10

  ON DEATH

  & DYING

  I cannot hear your laughter

  I cannot see your smile.

  I wish that we could talk again

  If only for awhile.

  I know you’re watching over me

  Seeing everything I do.

  And though you’ll always be with me

  I will always be missing you.

  You taught me that life is much too short

  And at any time could end.

  But know that no matter where you are

  You will always be my friend.

  And when it’s time for me to go

  You’ll be there to show me the way

  I wish that you could still be here

  But I’ll see you again someday.

  Rachel Punches, seventeen

  Don’t Forget to Wait for Me

>   I never got enough time with you, you left before I could.

  I saw you in the coffin, but I never understood.

  You entered my heart and never left; you’re always on my mind.

  Daddy, I can’t wait to see you again.

  But, God will choose the time.

  Brittany McCroy, twelve

  I remember my dad so well: the way he laughed, the way he smiled, the corny jokes he used to tell and that goofy look he put on his face to cheer me up. When I was growing up, my dad was in the Navy, first sailing, and then later working in the office. I remember how his office was covered in cards that I had made him.

  After my father retired from the Navy, I got to know him much better. We did more things together, we talked more often and he’d always, always listen to everything I had to say. I never guessed that those good times would come to such an abrupt end.

  On April 21, my dad sat down with me and told me something that changed my life forever. He had terminal lung cancer. When he told me, I felt hot and cold all over at the same time. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t make a sound. I just sat there, and we both began to cry.

  Months went by with regular hospital visits, chemotherapy and radiation. My father looked better, but then started to get worse with each passing day. I watched him, that strong, amazing, fearless man that I once knew, become weak, sick and tired. As the weeks went on, he could no longer eat, and he was worse than ever before. My mother had planned to bring him home to visit, but as December came, he became too sick to come home.