Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II

  "Hey!" Jonathan said. "Not a bad idea."

  "Something like pretending there's a price tag on things grown-ups think we shouldn't do, then maybe deciding if we're ready to take the chance anyway," Laurel added.

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  Paul said, "The problem with that is, we can't know for sure what that price would be. Maybe nothing bad will happen even if we take the risk."

  "That's a point," I admitted. "Suppose instead of 'How much will it cost?' we asked ourselves, 'How much might it cost?' Then we'd at least look at the possible outcomes."

  "I'll buy that," Kent said.

  A week ago, these kids would have shrugged off such suggestions, but todaywell, today they weren't quite the same people they had been last week.

  Margaret Hill

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  Image Isn't Everything

  On the first day of school, after I got out of my mom's car and mumbled a good-bye, I stared in awe at the huge buildings that seemed to tower over my head. This high school was definitely bigger than the one I had previously attended. Over the summer I moved from Midland, Texas, to St. Louis, Missouri. I had lived in Midland all my life, until the move.

  This was my second year of high school, but my first year of school in St. Louis. I was really nervous about starting a new school and having people like me. I had decided the night before, while lying in my bed trying to fall asleep, that I would be much happier in a new school if I made friends that were so-called "popular." Getting in with the right group of people would make my life a whole lot better. I had to project the right image to the people at this school. I didn't care how much money it cost me, I was determined to buy an outfit everyone else would want to have. I bought a new outfit, new make-up, got a manicure and had my hair styled just so the first day would be perfect. I had the chance to start over in a new school, make new friends and build an image for myself. I wasn't going to waste this opportunity.

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  Scared, yet anxious to begin my new life, I walked up the stairs to the front door. The halls were packed with kids yelling and laughing and telling stories of their summer adventures. I found my way to the main office where I was to receive my schedule and fill out forms. I was on my way. My first class was geometry, but where was that?

  I was standing in the hall looking confused, when a short, blond girl wearing glasses came up and asked, "Are you new? You look lost. Do you want me to help you find your class? My name is Diane. What's yours?" Even though she seemed a bit strange, definitely not the kind of person I wanted to be associated with, I decided to answer her anyway. I was, after all, lost.

  After exchanging names, I followed her up the stairs and down a hallway on the right, making polite conversation the whole way.

  When we reached my room she said, "Well, here you are. It was nice meeting you. I hope I see you again. Welcome to JFK, and I hope your day goes all right."

  I said thanks and waved good-bye. Once inside the classroom, I saw one big group of people huddled around someone who seemed to be telling some sort of story. I walked over and got close enough to overhear. All eyes were glued to the guy in the middle of the circle who was wearing a letter jacket covered with patches. I decided that this guy was popular. He was talking about how he and some of his friends had gone up to someone's ranch outside of St. Louis and done some pretty wild and crazy things. A few minutes later the teacher told everyone to break it up and go find a seat. I managed to get one right next to the guy wearing the letter jacket. I said, "Hi, my name is April and I'm new here." He said, "Hi, I'm Johnny."

  That class dragged on and on. Finally the bell rang. I turned to him and asked, "I'm not sure where my next class is, could you help me find it?" He looked at me and

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  then said a quick no, turned back to his friends, and walked out of the classroom. As they were walking out I heard him say, "Did you guys see that new girl trying to get into our group? That outfit was way too weird." They all laughed and some of them turned around and stared at me. I slowly gathered my stuff, not believing what had just happened. I walked out of the classroom and found my next class, bewildered that I could have cared so much.

  The same type of thing happened all day in all of my classes. At lunch, I ended up sitting by myself because I had snubbed people who had been nice to me and I had been snubbed by people who I had tried to be nice to. I didn't realize it then, but I had been really shallow just wanting to be friends with popular people.

  Finally, sixth period came around and I was ready to go home and never come back. Before class started, someone came up behind me and said, "Hi, again. How was your first day?" It was that same girl who had showed me to my first class.

  I told her my day had not been so great. She said she was sorry and offered to walk me outside. At that moment I realized how wrong I was in wanting to only be friends with popular people. Those people weren't even going to consider being my friends, but there were some other people who I'd already met today and liked and they liked me. Maybe I shouldn't decide whether a person is worth being my friend or not by their reputation, but by who they are. I said, "Thanks, I'd like that. I'm sorry I was kind of rude this morning." She said it was okay, she was new at school once, too. Walking with Diane made me realize how nice it would be to have a friend like her. On the way to class she asked me if I wanted to go out after school to hang out with some of her friends and get to know them better. I did go out with Diane and had a lot of fun.

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  As time went on I made friends with lots of different people, some of them from "the popular crowd" and some not. My standards were different though. The people I sought out for friends were the nice onesperiod.

  Jamie Shockley

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  Hi There, Ugly!

  It wasn't easy to pay attention in French class. Our yearbooks had just been passed out, so while the teacher droned on, we were quietly signing books and passing them around the room.

  Mine was somewhere at the back of the class. I couldn't wait to get it back. What would my friends say of me? Would there be words of praise? Admiration? When class was over, I quickly found my yearbook and flipped through it with anticipation. And then it caught my eye: someone had written large words across the last page of my book: HI THERE, UGLY!

  I had never really considered whether or not I was 'good looking,' but now I knew. I was ugly. If someone at the back of that grade-seven class thought I was ugly, there were probably many others who agreed. I studied myself in the mirror: big nose, pimples, slightly overweight, not muscular. Yes, it must be true, I thought. I'm ugly. I told no one any of this. There seemed to be no need. It was a fact: I was ugly.

  Years went by. I married a woman who is a very beautiful personinside and out. I would tell her, ''You're the

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  most beautiful girl in the world!" and I meant it. She would reply, "And you're so handsome." I never looked her in the eyes when she said this. I felt it was one of those things wives "have to say" to their husbands. I would simply look down and remember that the true verdict on my looks was tucked away in my grade-seven yearbook.

  Finally one day my wife asked, "Why is it that you never look at me when I say that you're handsome?" I decided to tell her about the yearbook and my conclusions. "You can't believe that! It's wrong! Somebody who didn't even know you in grade seven can't be taken that seriously! I know you, I love you and I chose to marry you. I think you're handsome and I think I've proved that." So, was I going to believe my wife . . . or that old graffiti?

  I thought about that question for a long time and about how God doesn't make junk. Who was I going to believe? I chose to believe my wife and God.

  I still have a big nose. At age thirty-four, I even still get pimples! My hair has begun to recede and you could probably find people who would say that I am ugly. But I'm not one of them! As time goes on and I listen more and more to those who love me, I know that I am beautiful . . . or should I s
ay, handsome.

  Greg Barker

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  Imprints

  When I resolve into the essence

  That I most truly am,

  I feel a deep connection

  With every living thing.

  For that which most imbues me

  With my identity

  Is somehow in the other, too,

  So that when I look around

  I see myselfreflected.

  Hidden in this union

  Is the wonderful discovery

  That if indeed the angels

  Have wings

  Then so do I.

  And if the essence of a flower

  Drifts out on a gentle breeze

  Then so do I.

  And if the midnight sky

  Is radiant with light

  Then so am I.

  And if the silent mystery

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  Somehow becomes revealed

  In tiny dewdrops fair

  Then so will I.

  For every lovely thing

  Manifests the essence

  Of which I am a part,

  So beware, my soul, beware,

  And move with gentle heart

  Throughout this mystic veil.

  For if Love has left its imprint here

  Then so have I!

  Donna Miesbach

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  I Won't Be Left Behind

  I run my fastest

  But still get beat.

  I land on my head

  When I should be on my feet.

  I try to move forward,

  But I am stuck in rewind.

  Why do I keep at it?

  I won't be left behind.

  The harder I am thrown,

  The higher I bounce.

  I give it my all,

  And that's all that counts.

  In first place,

  Myself, I seldom find.

  So I push to the limit

  I won't be left behind.

  Some people tell me you can't,

  Some say don't.

  Some simply give up.

  I reply, I won't.

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  The power is here,

  locked away in my mind.

  My perseverance is my excellence,

  I won't be left behind.

  Make the best of each moment,

  The future is soon the past.

  The more I tell myself this,

  The less I come in last.

  Throughout my competitions,

  I've learned what winning is about.

  A plain and clear lesson

  Giving up is the easy way out.

  So every night before I go to bed,

  I hope in a small way I have shined.

  Tomorrow is a brand-new day,

  And I won't be left behind.

  Sara Nachtman

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  An Athlete's Prayer

  It was right before the big one and the football player said,

  "Excuse me guys for just a sec while I go bow my head."

  And in the quiet of that room

  The football player prayed,

  "Oh God if nothing hear me now

  I know that fate is made."

  "So help us Lord to win this game,

  It's the big one, man, you see,

  If we lose this game that's it for us,

  Please do this, Lord, for me."

  And as his body knelt in prayer,

  He looked up to the sky,

  "And while I'm here, and have some time,

  I need to ask you why?"

  "They say you never help teams win,

  Just do it once I pray,

  We will pay you back in kinder deeds

  Or in another way."

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  "The reason I can't help you win,"

  The Lord just then replied,

  "Is as you're asking me to win,

  So is the other side."

  "I'm everybody's father and

  I must not take one side,

  So games are played all on your own

  Or they would all be tied."

  "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't pray,"

  He answered him with care,

  "You can pray that players don't get hurt

  And that all the calls are fair."

  "And then I won't just watch the game,

  I'll bless it with my care,

  Because dear son you need to learn

  That life's not always fair."

  And while the player heard this voice,

  He bowed his head in prayer,

  "I pray for fairness," said the boy,

  "And for your tender care."

  "You shall be blessed," the Lord replied,

  "Your team and you the same,

  And now will you excuse me boy,

  I cannot miss this game."

  Sandy Dow Mapula

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  The Blank Page

  The pencil moved ever so slightly in my hand as I stared at the blank page that would become my completed homework assignment: a five-paragraph essay on the meaning of life for Mr. Neal's English class.

  I had no idea that a person's palms could sweat as much as mine were gripping that pencil. I almost needed sunglasses to shade the glare of the blank notebook paper. I had been sitting at my desk pondering the various aspects and meanings of life for nearly an hour. Thus far, I was clueless as to what to write. What does Mr. Neal expect? I wondered. I am only fourteen.

  I thought about everything that had happened previously in my life. I began high school this year, ran cross-country and played girls' soccer. However, I was sure that the meaning of life had nothing to do with any of these things.

  I stretched my arms above my head and looked around the room. My room was so me. The mark of Jenni was everywhere to be seen, from my posters and paintings of Europe to the many vibrantly colored CDs that littered my floor. My gaze then fell upon a photograph of me standing beside a girl. Our arms are raised above our heads in an imitation of cheerleaders and we both flash blindingly bright smiles. I froze. Immediately, tears began to

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  well in my eyes. The girl in the photograph and I had been best friends for nearly two years when a sudden disagreement planted a rift in our friendship that still had not been mended. It saddened me beyond measure that an argument could put so much distance between such close friends.

  The pencil now moved fluidly across the paper.

  When I again looked up, I happened to glance at the varsity A I had received for completing cross-country season. Memories now rolled through my mind and flooded my brain: remembrances of long, loud bus rides; water fights with our archrival; memorable trips to various fast-food eateries after the races; the stinging words of many arguments; the tinkling giggles of many laughs gone by.

  Again, the lead scraped the clean white paper.

  As I went to bed that night, my homework assignment still incomplete, I ran over in my mind what I had written so far. Fitful dreams revealed new stories and thoughts to be explored.

  In my dreams, I remembered when my family moved to the beachtearful good-byes rang in my ears. I reexperienced the velvety voice of my former crush during our first phone conversation, which was a major breakthrough, even though it only lasted five minutes. I remembered how excited I felt after that conversationI drifted on cloud nine. I relived how happy and proud I felt walking across the Albemarle High School stage to receive my varsity A. Even in my sleep, a lone tear's salty track burned my cheek: Albemarle, my life in the past and also now, beginning anew.

  I awoke early the next morning to finish my essay. When it was complete it read as follows:

  When you asked us to write about the meaning of life in a five-paragraph essay, Mr. Neal, I wondered how I would ever fill so much empty space. I sat thinking it over for nearly an hour before I even knew how to begin. When I began to write, however, the p
roblem became not how to fill the space, but how to make use of what little I had.