Butter pecan ice cream has never tasted sweeter.
Kellyrose Andrews, 15
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For more information about cutting, log on to www.kidshealth.org/teen/ (keyword search: “cutting”). ]
7
THE
PRESSURE’S
Weighing down upon me heavily,
I feel it surrounding me daily.
I try not to give in,
But it seems so hard to win.
If I can’t be perfect, I think I’m a nobody.
And must follow them to be somebody.
Then when I feel like I’ve finally succeeded
To do, and have, everything needed,
Once again the pressure surrounds me
But this time it won’t win and I will be free.
Lindsay Oberst, 14
So Which Will It Be? Us—or Her?
The only way not to break a friendship is not to drop it.
Julie Holz
Jodie was the most popular girl in seventh grade. She was petite and blond and wore black eyeliner and mascara. It seemed like Jodie had an endless clothing budget— she set the style for the rest of our junior high school with clothes that looked like they came straight from a magazine.
Jodie and her friends laughed easily with boys, openly flirted in and out of class, and passed notes back and forth detailing their current crush. All year I had hoped to be included in Jodie’s group—the popular crowd. When Jodie invited me to her birthday party, she let me know I should feel honored.
“We’ll see how you fit in,” she told me. “You’re nice, but do you fit?” I desperately hoped I could find a place in the group. After my mother dropped me off at Jodie’s party, I discovered that her parents weren’t even going to be home for the slumber party I had mistakenly assumed was for girls only. As the music blared, Jodie turned the lights down low, and couples began to dance close together and kiss.
I sat by myself on a couch. All I could think was, We’re only in seventh grade. Do we have to do all this now?
When a game of Truth or Dare got out of hand, I panicked and called my mom to pick me up early. I wasn’t ready to discuss things I’d only read about in books, yet Jodie and her friends already seemed to know about sex and drugs and alcohol. I was relieved to get home and spend the rest of the evening with my puppy. Yet part of me wanted to be like Jodie and her friends—cool and confident with boys, secure in their popular status, superior to the rest of the seventh-grade class.
I might have hung around more with Jodie and her group had she not given me an ultimatum. She asked me to dump someone who had been one of my best friends since fifth grade.
Marleigh and I had been friends from the day when she marched up to me on the playground and said, “You can call me M.”
Marleigh and I lived in the same neighborhood, both loved to read and were good students. We were soon in and out of each other’s houses on a daily basis. I didn’t care that she wore glasses and had kinky-curly short hair instead of long, straight hair like the popular girls. Marleigh and I understood each other, and she was a loyal friend.
Jodie’s ultimatum caught me off guard.
“Even though you left my party early, we voted to ask you to join our group,” she said, tossing her perky head. “There’s just one thing, though.”
My stomach flip-flopped up when I saw several of Jodie’s friends pass a knowing look between them. Jodie pointed to the edge of the playground where Marleigh stood.
“She’s a problem,” Tiffany, Jodie’s number-two-in-command, said.
“We don’t like her,” Jodie said. “She’s too weird. If you want to hang out with us, you need to dump her.”
I stood surrounded by the most popular girls in seventh grade. I looked at their perfect clothes and confident smiles. I wanted to be like them.
“So which will it be? Us? Or her?” Jodie put her hands on her tiny waist and cocked her head to the side. “We need to know if we can count on you.”
“What difference does it make who else I’m friends with?” I asked timidly.
“We look bad if you hang around with us and her. She’s a geek,” Jodie said.
I couldn’t tell if Marleigh was watching us, but I did see that she was standing there all alone. I wanted to be part of Jodie’s group so badly I could taste it. I looked at Marleigh—at Jodie—at Marleigh—at Jodie.
“Then I guess I’m a geek, too,” I said finally, “because Marleigh’s my friend.”
Jodie gasped as I turned away from her and “the group.” I felt their eyes on my back as I walked up to Marleigh, who seemed to have been expecting me. Her eyes shone from behind her thick glasses and her face became animated as she started telling me about a movie she’d seen on TV the night before. We stood and talked until the bell rang to tell us lunchtime was over.
In the hallway during passing period, I saw Jodie leaning against her locker, chatting with an eighth-grade boy. I was surprised when she smiled at me, just as I was surprised that the other girls in her group were friendlier to me than they had been before. I was nice to them in return, but the burning desire to be part of the “in group” was gone. A few years later, Jodie and her friends were also gone—they had dropped out of school or moved to other cities. Marleigh remained a good and faithful friend through high school, college and into adulthood. And me? I realized that popularity wasn’t worth changingwho I was or giving up a friend.
Anne Broyles
Danny’s Courage
Patterning your life around other’s opinions is nothing more than slavery.
Lawana Blackwell
I was in seventh grade when Danny transferred to my school and became my first real crush. He had the darkest of brown eyes and light blond hair with a dark complexion. I fell for Danny the first day he arrived, and many of the girls in my class felt the same way. That, however, soon changed.
Danny had been going to our school for about a week when his parents picked him up in an old beat-up car that spewed exhaust and made loud banging sounds. The girls who had previously adored him looked disgusted. It was obvious that Danny was poor and that was that. He was no longer boyfriend material.
I had a poor family as well; I just hid it from everyone. I was so ashamed of how we lived that I never had kids come over to my house. Even though I couldn’t do a thing about it, I felt like the kids in my class would judge me if they knew the truth. It was a lot of work keeping my secret, but I figured it was easier than it would be to not have any friends.
One day, our teacher, Mr. Sims, announced that the seventh-grade field trip would be to an amusement park. The classroom buzzed with excitement as the girls discussed what they would wear and what they should bring with them. I sat back and listened, knowing that my parents did not have the money to send me. It made me angry to feel so left out. But not Danny. He simply told everyone that he wouldn’t be going. When Mr. Sims asked him why, Danny stood up and stated, “It’s too much money right now. My dad hurt his back and has been out of work for a while. I’m not asking my parents for money.”
Sitting back down in his seat, Danny held his head up proudly, even though whispering had begun. I could only shrink in my seat, knowing those whispers could be about me when they found out I would not be going either.
“Dan, I’m very proud of you for understanding the situation that your parents are in. Not every student your age has that capability,” he replied.
Glaring at the students whispering in the back, Mr. Sims spoke again, only louder.
“This year, we’re going to do things differently. The trip is not until the end of the month, so we have plenty of time for fund-raising. Each student will be responsible for bringing in at least one idea for a fund-raising drive. Bring them in tomorrow. If a student does not want to contribute to the drive, then he or she will be spending the field trip day here at the school. Any questions?”
Of course, Shelly, the most popular girl in the class, spoke up.
“Well, Mr. Sims, my parents can afford it. Do I still have to help?”
“Shelly, this is not a matter of being able to afford it. Money is not just something that is handed to you when you get older. This will be a great learning experience for everyone, whether you have the money or not.”
While walking home from school that day, I noticed three of the boys from our class talking with Danny. I worried that they were giving him a hard time, but as I got closer, I realized they weren’t harassing him. They were all just debating about the best ideas for a fund-raiser.
Although not everyone accepted Danny after that day, he won over the respect of many of us. I was especially awed by how he didn’t cave under peer pressure. For so long, I could never admit to my friends that I could not afford to go somewhere. Instead, in order to continue to fit in, I lied about why I couldn’t do things and came up with excuse after excuse.
By standing up and admitting he was poor, Danny changed my life. His self-confidence made it easier for all of us to understand that what his parents had or didn’t have did not determine who he was. After that, I no longer felt I had to lie about my family’s situation. And the funny thing was, those who were truly my friends stuck by me when I finally let them get closer.
And Danny, more because of his courage and honesty than his great looks, is someone I will never forget.
Penny S. Harmon
You Are Never Too Young to Take a Stand
“There’s nothing wrong with it!” he exclaims to me, his tone convincing. “C’mon, take it!” In the very back of my mind I hear a small, persistent voice. And I listen to it. I listen because I know better. I listen and I shove the cigarette back. “You are not in my cool group!” he shouts in my face. It is then that I realize that I’m a loner . . .and proud of it.
Jennifer Lynn Clay, 12
When I was eleven, I looked older than I was; in fact, I looked like I was about fifteen or sixteen. I felt older than most of my classmates, and I just never fit in. I had always been tall for my age too, and that really didn’t help. Most of the kids I hung out with were at least two years ahead of me in school. One day I reached a turning point when I realized that it isn’t your age that makes you mature, it is a personal thing.
One of my best friends, Linda, asked me to go to the high school football game with her. Of course I went, not only because I loved hanging out with her but because I also had the biggest crush on her older brother. When we got to the game, I didn’t see too many people I knew from school, but Linda had a lot of friends there. I thought how it was so awesome to have as many friends as she did, and I wished I was more like her. She was fun, and she had a great personality.
The game was winding down, and our team was losing big time. A lot of people had already left the game because it was so obvious that we weren’t going to win. A large group of girls came by and saw Linda and asked her to come over and talk to them. She told me she would be right back and went and sat with them.
After a few minutes passed, she turned and yelled for me to come down and sit with them too. I did, never thinking it to be a big deal. After a while, they all started smoking, and they offered Linda a cigarette. These were girls from her neighborhood, and I guess she wanted them to think of her as being tough, so she accepted.
She asked, “What about my friend?” and they said, “Sure, would you like a cigarette?” At that moment, I felt so shocked, so embarrassed and so young. These girls are only thirteen, I thought, with a shock. Does two years make such a huge difference in our ages? Only two years but they were far beyond me, or so I thought to myself.
I was humiliated. I knew my parents trusted me to make right choices, or else they would have never let me go to the game. Of course, they trusted Linda too—she was older and supposedly looking out for me.
It seemed like hours passed in that short minute, with all the thoughts going through my head. Should I take a cigarette? Will they laugh at me and make fun of me if I don’t? Will they want to beat me up because they’ll think that I think I am too good to take what they have offered me? Finally, with all those thoughts racing through my brain, I just said, “No . . . thank you, but I don’t smoke.” Then I got up and went back to the seat where we were originally sitting and just sat there in the stands all by myself.
Linda finished her cigarette and came up to where I was sitting and sat down by me. After the game, we went on as if nothing had happened. That was fine with me—I just wanted to go home and cry. It may sound silly now, but that is how I felt.
Several months passed and things went on as usual. Then one Sunday at our church youth group, we had a special service, and a lot of people were giving testimonies—it was just such an inspirational service. After the servicewas over, Linda came over to where I was standing and cornered me. She told me that she needed to tell me something.
“I just wanted to tell you what an inspiration you were to me when you were offered a cigarette, and everyone around you was smoking—including me—and you said no . . . and you stood by what you knew was right for you. It meant a lot to me, and I will never forget it.”
I was so stunned. I never realized that when I had taken my stand and said no, the decision I had made would influence someone else—even someone older than I was.
Later in life, I realized that saying no to something as simple as a cigarette made me stronger and more able to stand up and say no to other things as time went by. I was offered so much more as I got older while hanging out with my peers.
At eleven, I learned that when you think you are all alone, sitting by yourself, others are watching what you are doing. Your actions may help other people take a stand for what they believe in when they are not strong enough to do it alone.
Maudie Conrad
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For facts and information about smoking, log on to www.cdc.gov/tobacco/sgr/sgr4kids/sgrmenu.htm. ]
Trying to Handle It
The weak are the most treacherous of us all. They come to the strong and drain them.
Bette Davis
“Becca ran away,” my instant message screen said, “and my sharp knives are missing.” It was my friend Becca’s screen name, but the message said, “This is Becca’s mom. Is she with you?”
Everything inside me lurched. “No,” I typed. “When did she leave?” The computer clock showed 10 A.M.; early for a Saturday.
“Early this morning,” the message said. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight.”
Becca and I had been best friends for about six months. She was the funniest person I knew. She was always smiling, and she made me smile, too. For instance, when she had to go to the bathroom, she danced around with her knees together and even if I was upset with her, I’d have to bust out laughing.
People who knew Becca warned me that she was bad news, but I thought they were being too hard on her. She was failing school, but her parents didn’t seem to care and neither did she. She’d laugh at herself and joke, “I’m going to Clowntown University.”
Pretty soon, it seemed like every time we got together, trouble followed. Becca was also wearing me out by wanting to be with me or talk to me every single minute. Every time I tried to get a little “me” space or spend time with someone else, Becca seemed to have another crisis. And I was there for her.
One day she came to school with a Band-Aid over one eye and bruises all over her arms. She said she’d pierced her own eyebrow, but when her mom saw it, she “flipped” and ripped it right out and beat Becca up. Sometimes, she talked about cutting herself or wanting to kill herself— especially when I’d get mad at her or want time to myself.
This situation, though, was the worst ever. I called for my mom, and she came running.
At first, Mom seemed as upset as I was, but when she looked at the messages, a new one popped up. “What should I do?”
“Why would she be asking you?” Mom wondered. It made me stop shaking and think for a moment.
“Oh my gosh! She’s ou
tside right now,” the screen flashed. “Should I go out and talk to her?”
Even I knew it was crazy for a mom to be sitting talking on the computer while her runaway daughter was out on the driveway. Her daughter was supposedly running away and trying to kill herself, and she was asking a middle school kid what to do?
Then I noticed all the misspellings. Funny how much they looked like Becca’s D-minus workmanship. “Come on, Becca,” I typed. “I know it’s you.”
She quickly went off-line, which made me suspect even more that it was her all along. Man, had she used me. I felt like such a fool! I was mad, but as Mom and I talked, I realized Becca really did have problems. She needed serious help—not just my holding her hand all the time. I wasn’t qualified to give her the kind of help she really needed. And trying to be her everything put way too much pressure on me.
We were already in the middle of another big “Becca mess” at the time, which Becca had dragged me into. My dad had just received a call from the manager at the local 7-Eleven. As soon as he hung up, he said, “You’re not allowed in the store anymore. She said she had proof from the security camera of Becca and you taking things.” But that couldn’t be true because I never stole anything!
I remembered those times at the mall, when store managers had kicked us out. At the time, it had made me mad. I thought they were just prejudiced against kids. But I began thinking about how many new things Becca always had, which she always said were on sale, and the expensive Christmas gift she gave her mother, which she had stuffed in her purse, because she said she “threw away the bag.” I realized that all those gifts Becca had given me, which I’d thought were so nice of her, were probably stolen, too.