Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  It was cold outside and there was a lot of snow on the ground. They led me far away from where all the other kids were playing and then, before I knew it, they pushed me down and began hitting me. They said all kinds of mean things to me, like I was the teacher’s pet and that I thought I was better than them. Then they dug my head into the snow until I thought I was about to suffocate.

  “Stop it. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” I pleaded. That kind of scared them, and they finally got off me, pulled me up out of the slush and helped me into the nurse’s office.

  Scratched, bruised and cold, I listened to them tell the nurse, “We was just playin’ and all of a sudden she say she can’t breathe.” I couldn’t wait for those girls to get out of the nurse’s office, so that I could tell the truth.

  After that, my mother came up to the school and had meetings with everybody she could, but nothing changed. The girls continued to bully me every chance they got.

  As a fourth-grader growing up in a small town in Illinois, I didn’t have the best of everything, like designer clothes, but Mom made sure my clothes were clean. I was light skinned with long hair, and it could be that those girls thought that I was stuck up because of it. But I was just a kid who enjoyed doing my schoolwork and getting good grades. I always tried to make friends with everybody. As far as I knew, I never did anything wrong to any of those four girls.

  After that day on the playground, I was scared every single day. Being at school was a living nightmare. Even after school I was terrified that once I left the classroom to go to my grandmother’s car, the girls would jump me. So, I had to have a security officer escort me out every day. My mother had to take me to the doctor’s office all the time because there would be something wrong with my stomach, but they could never figure out what it was. Finally, in the fifth grade, I switched elementary schools. School is supposed to be where you learn and make friends—it shouldn’t be about having your grades suffer because you gotta watch your back instead of pay attention and do the work.

  For the next two years, my school life was wonderful. I made good grades and good friends. Then in seventh grade, I had to face the bully girls again. We hadn’t seen each other in several years, so I was thinking that maybe they had grown up some. You know, I actually almost befriended them because I was so scared that if I didn’t, they would mess with me again. But I asked myself, Do I change or stay myself and succeed? I chose to stay true to myself.

  As the year went on, the girls would get into fights all the time and mess with other girls. At one point, some friends of mine that I had grown up with got into it with them. It was one group of girls against the other group of girls. The bully girls were pressuring me to fight on their side. I figured that if I didn’t, I would probably become their target of abuse again.

  I knew it was about to be blood, sweat and tears in the hallway, and I felt trapped. Then, just as the fight was about to go down, I heard one of the girls say, “Don’t mess with her.” I was like, Thank you, ’cause I didn’t do anything. I strongly believe that this was God’s protection for me.

  I quickly ran into a nearby classroom, and I told the teacher what was about to happen. But before anyone could stop them, the fight began. Girls were screaming, punching, pulling hair and just going crazy. Thankfully, the teachers and principal stopped them before anyone got seriously hurt.

  From then on, I knew that God really was looking out for me. I was able to trust him with my life and move forward with less fear of the bully girls. Amazingly, they finally lost interest in me and picked on other girls instead. When high school came, we were zoned to go to different schools. Finally, I had the peace of knowing that I never had to deal with them again.

  As I matured and was able to look at those girls’ situations, I realized that most of them did not have the love and support of a stable family. I had both parents at home and a very close family. Plus, I was raised in church, and there is something different about people who really are committed to having a Christian life. I had a strong knowledge that I was unique and that the people who really mattered to me loved me. Those girls could never persuade me that being part of a gang could offer me more than that truth. But since they didn’t have a strong family or spiritual life, I guess being part of that girl gang gave them a sense of belonging and some security.

  My small town hasn’t changed much. Over the years, when I go home, I sometimes hear about what has become of the girls who bullied me. One was always back and forth into juvenile hall. I’m not sure what became of her in the long run. All I know is, I wouldn’t trade places with any of them.

  I’m just so thankful that I stayed on track with my studies and stayed true to expressing my talents and interests. It has taken me to the most amazing places: best-selling records, Grammys, a leading role on Broadway. . . .

  From here, my destiny is in God’s hands, just as it always has been.

  Michelle Williams

  Destiny’s Child

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: For more information about how to deal with bullies, log on to www.kidshealth.org. (key word search:“bullying”).]

  No, Really . . .

  Barney Ate My Report Card!

  It is easy to dodge our responsibilities, but we cannot dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities.

  Sir Josiah Stamp

  As a preteen, I felt hopelessly ordinary. When I had to go to a new school where I didn’t know anyone, I decided that I was going to make a lot of friends quickly and be really popular. I decided that the only way I could be popular was to make myself interesting, intriguing and therefore, worth knowing. So . . . I decided to tell fibs to get people to like me.

  Most of the fibs I told were what my grandmother called “white lies,” which are lies you tell people that “won’t hurt them.” I made up tall tales about celebrities I knew, how rich my family was and exotic places I had visited. I figured that since these lies didn’t hurt anyone, that made them only “white lies.”

  My strategy began to work, and I suddenly became very popular. All my new friends thought I was cool. Of course, none of the stuff I told them was true and eventually, I started to feel a little guilty about it. My newfound popularity was also causing my grades to suffer terribly because being very social was my main focus. I simply didn’t have time for homework.

  The day our third semester report cards came out, my heart dropped into my stomach. My grade point average went from a 92 percent to a 79 percent. And . . . I had actually flunked English! How crazy was that?

  I visualized what kind of torturous punishment my parents would have in store for me because of my bad grades. I figured it would be something like losing my phone privileges, or being grounded until the following semester.

  Before I went home that day, my new best friend invited me to her birthday sleepover party. Everyone who was anyone in the school was going to be there. There was no doubt in my mind that my parents wouldn’t allow me to go after they saw my report card. There was only one thing for me to do. I would hide my report card until after the party was over.

  Weeks went by and my parents asked me every day where my report card was. I kept telling them that I hadn’t gotten it yet. They had no reason not to believe me, as I had never lied to them before.

  The party came and went and I decided that I was ready to face the music about my report card. There was just one little problem. I forgot where I had put it!

  One morning at breakfast, Mom finally threatened to call the school. I panicked. I needed more time to try and find where I’d hidden it. If she called the school, she’d find out that I’d gotten the report card almost a month before. Somehow, I talked her out of it.

  When I came home from school that day, I glanced at my dog Barney, who was lying on the floor. I noticed a little piece of blue paper sticking out of her mouth and I froze in my tracks. There was my dog, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, chewing on my report card! My mind reeled. Then, I remembered. I had hidde
n it in the downstairs closet on the shelf below the dog food. I thought that no one would find it there. Okay—no one with two legs, anyway. With perfect timing, my mom walked into the room, and asked the million dollar question:

  “What’s Barney chewing on?”

  I felt like I was wearing cement shoes as my mother walked over to the dog and pulled the report card out of her mouth. Unfortunately for me, the paper apparently wasn’t too appetizing to a dog’s taste buds. All of my substandard grades were still as clear as day. So was the date on the top of the report card, which was dated four weeks before.

  Needless to say, for lying to them (more so than for the bad grades) my parents grounded me from the phone and from going anywhere with my friends until the end of the school year. That really screwed up my social life. Plus, I had bragged to my friends about how cool my parents were because they never grounded me.

  When my friends called, not only did they find out that the “no grounding” policy was not exactly accurate, but through conversations with my parents, they found out that I had been lying about almost everything else, as well.

  It took a long time for me to get my friends’ trust back, and even longer for me to regain my parents’ belief in me. But I learned the most valuable lesson in my life—there is no such thing as a white lie. Every lie, no matter how small it may seem, is still a lie. Eventually, it will end up biting you in the rear.

  Jenn Dlugos

  There Is Always

  Someone Less Fortunate

  Self-denial is painful for a moment, but very agreeable in the end.

  Jane Taylor

  It’s 8:00 A.M., and Mum just called me to get up. I’m lying in bed daydreaming about what I want to do today. I want to stay home and listen to my CDs. I want to work on my tan and then swim in the pool when I get hot. I want to play basketball with my friends and just hang out. I want to watch television and go on my PC and chat with my friends online.

  It’s 8:30 A.M. now, and Mum is shouting at me to get up. So, I get up, put my swimsuit on and take my CD Walkman outside and lie in the sun for a little bit.

  Then my mum comes out telling me that I need to get dressed into some nice clothes that are not going to be too hot for me to walk around in. I ask why do I need to do that—I’m staying home, working on my tan and just chilling for the day. But Mum wants me to go out with her. She tells me a lot about this place called Give Kids the World. It’s a special place for families to spend a vacation when a child has a life-threatening illness. She sometimes goes and meets families at the airport and escorts them to the village. There are several jobs she does there, including serving ice cream and gift giving. I expect this is a very boring job to do, but Mum says I will enjoy it.

  So, I get dressed in suitable clothes, get in the car and Mum drives to this place. I think it looks really childlike and silly. There is a warehouse at the back of the village that we go into to do our work. I have to put food into boxes. I don’t know why, but I do it anyway. Then I have to put some gifts on the back of a golf cart. Mum tells me we are going to deliver a toy to every child in the village. Mum and I then start off on the rounds. We go to the first villa but no one is home, so we leave the gifts for the children to find when they get back.

  We pull up to the next house, and I knock on the door and shout, “Gift giving,” and a woman answers the door. She tells me I can come in, so I go in. Sitting in the middle of the living room is a young boy in a wheelchair. I give him the gifts I have for him, and his face lights up with joy. I walk out and think to myself, That must be a real pain, not being able to jump around or play basketball.

  At another villa a bit later on, I knock on the door, again shouting “Gift giving,” and another person answers the door. I go in this villa, and lying on a chair is a little girl with tubes in her nose and one coming from her tummy. Her brother is feeding her through a tube. The food is a milky liquid and looks disgusting. I did the same as before—gave them their gifts and walked out. I suddenly thought that it must really be uncomfortable lying there not being able to feed yourself or to be able to eat anything you want, especially sweets and chocolate.

  I get to the third house, and I do the same process again. As I come in with the gifts, it seems a little strange that the child doesn’t notice me. Her mum says that she is deaf and only partially sighted, so I need to go and stand in front of her, so she can see the gift. When I do that, she gets very excited and makes a sign with her hands. Her mum tells me this is the sign for thank you. I ask her mum how you say good-bye in sign language. She shows me and I sign to the little girl, and she signs back as I leave the house.

  Once back in the cart, I ask my mum what is wrong with these kids. Mum tells me that they all have life-threatening illnesses and that they might not live to see tomorrow. That is shocking to me. Suddenly, I realize that I should be more thankful that I don’t have these illnesses—that I am not in the same position as these kids. I no longer want to be at home working on my tan, listening to my CDs, playing basketball or swimming in the pool. I would much rather be doing this, seeing things that not a lot of people really get to see, maybe making a difference in these kids’ lives.

  My first visit to Give Kids the World was over six months ago, and I now go on a regular basis. I have even taken one of my friends along as well. I do miss spending the time at home and hanging out with my friends, but I wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to make a difference to these kids who are much worse off than I am.

  Amy Mallinder-Morgan, twelve

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: For information about Give Kids the World, go to www.gktw.org.]

  Thirteen Candles

  When my thirteenth birthday came around, I didn’t announce the occasion to anyone and made no plans.

  “What do you want to do for your birthday?” my mother asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Do you want to invite any friends over?”

  “What friends?”

  My expectations for this birthday were set low. That way, whatever happened, I would be pleasantly surprised that anyone bothered to even take notice.

  At school, as predicted, nobody mentioned my birthday except for some old friends whom I’d known since kindergarten. The fact that they actually remembered my birthday didn’t earn them any points. I mean, what kind of creepy girls would want to be friends with me? And who would be dumb enough to remember my birthday? I had zits and braces and frizzy hair.

  At home, the evening went about the same as any other evening, except that there was cake for dessert and a few presents for me to open. My two younger sisters got me some dumb stuff—stationery sets and candy and hand-drawn cards. There was one big box from my mother. The card read “Love from Mom and Dad,” but I knew my dad had nothing to do with it. My dad never shopped. In fact, he was hardly ever home. Like most nights, he was still working at the hospital, doing some sort of surgery or something like that.

  I reached over for the big metallic-gold Nordstrom box, and when I shook it, I knew there were clothes inside. Thank you, God, I thought to myself. Maybe this birthday won’t be so bad, after all. Being in middle school had made me incredibly insecure about my wardrobe, so I hoped that this package would contain something magical to make me fit in. I opened the box and pulled out a pair of tangerine cropped pants and a matching cotton tangerine striped shirt. Tangerine! It was hideous. I’d never owned anything tangerine in my life and wasn’t about to start now. I smiled weakly.

  “Wow, Mom!” I faked a happy grin. “Thank you so much!”

  My mother was onto me right away. “You don’t like it,” she growled.

  “No, I do,” I lied. “I really like the outfit.”

  But I hated it. I’d never received a gift so ugly or so unflattering. Besides, my mother should have known that I couldn’t wear tangerine!

  She was getting angrier. “You don’t like it, I’ll take it back,” she fumed.

  Wallowing further into my low self-esteem b
lack hole, I replied, “Fine, take it back. I don’t deserve any presents anyway.”

  This made her even angrier. “You ungrateful child. Don’t you know how much I do for you? I shopped for this present. I cooked you dinner. I have tried to make this evening special, and this is the kind of thanks I get?”

  I stared at my mother silently, waiting for her full fury to hit me like a hurricane. My sisters knew the drill by heart now, so they got up from the table and quietly snuck up to their rooms to hide. She continued to yell— about how I ruined her day and how I never thank her for anything or appreciate what she does, and how I never help out around the house, and how bad traffic was this evening on the bridge, and how all I do is take, take, take.

  “So . . . take . . . the . . . present . . . back,” I said, now with tears streaming down my cheeks, barely getting the words out between my gurgling hiccups and sniffing wet snot back up into my head. My mother always knew exactly how to make me truly miserable.

  After she was done yelling, my mother cut half of the birthday cake, about five or six slices, put it on a plate and made her usual Alka-Seltzer evening cocktail. Then she announced to no one in particular, “I’m going to my room and I don’t want to be disturbed!”

  I carefully refolded the tangerine pants and top, wrapped them back up in tissue paper and placed them inside the metallic-gold Nordstrom box. “There,” I announced to nobody. “A perfectly ruined birthday. Just as I expected.”

  The next morning, the gold box with the tangerine clothes carefully wrapped inside was still sitting on the kitchen table. As I poured myself a bowl of cereal, it occurred to me how ridiculous the box looked, and how even more ridiculous I had acted the night before. I replayed the series of miserable events over in my head. The misery was all mine—I had set myself up for a disappointing birthday because I didn’t feel I deserved anything more than that. So, what did I get? Disappointment, duh!