Heather Hutson, nine
The Sandals That Saved My Life
Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.
Carl Bard
My junior high days were the darkest and the hardest time in my life. During that time, I didn’t feel like I had any friends, except for this one person. This “friend” used to tell me that we would always be “friends forever.” Friends are people who care for you and who are there for you whenever you need them. They nurture you when you’re down. I never felt that way about her.
We only had one class together, so I didn’t see her very often. She was all wrapped up in her own thing— her boyfriend, her social life, all her other friends. When I would walk the halls of junior high by myself, I would see her hand-in-hand with other people and she would just stare at me as I walked by. She never came over to talk to me except in that one class.
One rainy day, I got on the Internet and instant-messaged her. I thought it was the greatest thing in the world that we could talk on the Internet back and forth; it was so cool. We started chatting about school, boys, everything that two normal preteen girls would talk about. I brought up that I had gotten a new movie, and I wanted her to come over and watch it with me. I waited and waited for her reply, and when it came it was like daggers in my heart with unbearable pain.
She said, “Why would I want to come and watch it with you? Every time you get something new, you always have to brag about it to me and it makes me sick. You brag about everything all the time.” I apologized to her up and down, that that’s not what I meant, and I kept on apologizing.
Then she wrote back, “I am not going to sit here and fight with you about it, even though it is true,” and she signed off.
I sat in my chair for ten minutes in a daze, wondering how a person who said she was my friend could say something like that to me. I went into the living room and sat down next to my mom, then burst out crying. She comforted me and reassured me that whatever it was, everything would be okay.
When I went to bed that night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt so alone; like no one really loved me and like I was just some person that other people could just use whenever they felt like it. I felt almost invisible. I cried and cried until I finally fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke up around 8:00. My mom came into my room and said that she and my dad had doctor’s appointments and that they would be back in a couple of hours. After they left, I sat on my bed and wondered what would be a good way out of this. Then, something came to my mind.
I would kill myself and put everyone out of their misery. That way, they wouldn’t have to pretend that they like me, or that they are my friends. My social life wasn’t the only reason that I decided to do this. Other things, too, were really bothering me—my grades, for one.
I sat and thought about how I would do it. Should I shoot myself or take pills, or should I cut my wrists? I settled on pills. I put the pills on the table next to my bed while I sat and wrote my final words to my family and friends.
I was ready to pop the pills for my final minutes on Earth.
Then the phone rang.
It was my mom calling to see what my shoe size is because she had found the cutest pair of sandals at Old Navy. I said, “Oh . . . yeah, okay, I wear an eleven.”
Then she went on, “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”
I was like, “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.”
Then the words that I had longed to hear from anyone came out, “I LOVE YOU, and I’ll be home in an hour.” I hung up the phone. I sat in a daze, with the pills in my hand, thinking, How could I have forgotten that someone actually does love me?
When my mom came home, she hugged me and kissed me and said that she loved me a lot. I never told her what I had been thinking about doing.
The next day my “friend” called and said, “I was only kidding about the whole thing.” I never told her about it, either. I kept it to myself. To this day, I still haven’t told anyone about what I almost did. I have never actually blamed anyone but myself.
I am so blessed that my mom’s phone call got through to me. Not only did it make me realize that I really am loved and cared about, but that suicide is never the answer. Maybe I just needed to hear the words “I love you” more often. Maybe we all do. Even when I have problems at school, my family is always there for me and I needed to remember to value that support. I know that I have to be there for them, too.
According to my definition of friendship, my mom’s the best friend I’ll ever have. My mom doesn’t know how really special she is and how much of a hero she is. Thank you, Mom, for loving me so much—and saving me—without even knowing it. You’re my forever friend.
Mallorie Cuevas, sixteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: If you, or someone you know, is thinking about suicide, call 1-800-SUICIDE or log on to www.save.org.]
65 Roses
To accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe.
Anatole France
I have always wanted to be normal. Or at least to know what it is like.
I have cystic fibrosis—often nicknamed “65 roses,” because it is hard for some people to say. But I think that’s a pretty cover-up name for a horrible disease. It is a respiratory disease, which means that it affects the lungs and a person’s breathing.
When I was little, I didn’t care if I had it or not. I always took my medicine and never worried about it. That’s all changed since I learned something. My mom denies it, but according to my doctors, I might die from it.
This is the one thing I have kept from all my friends. My friends say they understand, or think they do—but they don’t. I was reading a story out loud to them, and I had to stop because the next words were about death from cystic fibrosis. I feel like I can’t let them know because I don’t want them to treat me differently and think I am fragile or something.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about death. I believe in God, but what if . . . ? Thinking that there is even a slight possibility that there isn’t a God, or a Heaven, gives me a horrible feeling. I finally told my mom about being afraid of dying, but I just couldn’t tell her about how I was questioning what happens after death.
I always used to ask God why he gave me this. Then I found the answer after reading a story in a book. I believe he gave it to me so I will keep my head up no matter what and to realize that others have diseases a lot worse than mine. Every time I start to feel sorry for myself, I either hang out with my friends, read books, or play with my pets—because they always love me.
I play hockey a lot with my friends. Sports are a little harder for me than for others. It is harder for me to breathe. Still, I have always dreamed of being an Olympian in hockey. I just want one medal no matter what color and I won’t stop until I get it. My friends and family help me, because they believe in me all the way.
So for today, I try as hard as I can because I really don’t know what my future will bring. But I believe, in my lifetime there could be a cure for cystic fibrosis. With God anything is possible.
Denise Marsh, eleven
[EDITORS’ NOTE: To find out more about cystic fibrosis, log on to www.cff.org.]
5
LIFE HAPPENS
Bad hair days and mixed up romance
Told that there’s gooey stuff stuck to your pants
Getting a sister when you wanted a brother
Finding that “Life Skills” is taught by your mother
Slipping and falling and ripping your jeans
Discovering your sister has ruined your things.
Sometimes life gives us days full of laughter
And then we have some that are filled with disaster
Some things that happen aren’t part of our plans
We have to roll with it and just throw up our hands
What life will bring next is predicted by none
Which ma
kes it exciting and often more fun.
Irene Dunlap and Patty Hansen
Klutz Dust and Puberty
Life is a roller coaster. Try to eat a light lunch.
David A. Schmaltz
Have you ever had one of those days that seem normal at first, but little by little, you realize that you’re out of sync with the world around you? On the way to the bus I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, making me drop my English report onto the road, just in time for it to be run over by the bus, then it hit me! (No, not the bus.) The realization that this was one of those days.
In math, I found my little brother’s homework folded neatly inside my book, instead of my own. Try explaining that to a teacher who already knows that math is not your best subject.
“Let’s not make this a habit,” Mr. Barner said, tapping his pencil on his grading book for emphasis. Like I could even think up this excuse for not doing my homework.
“Since you claim to have already done this assignment, you shouldn’t have any difficulty reproducing the answers for me during your lunch hour.” What? No trouble reproducing the answers? It took me one hour and all my dad’s patience to produce them the first time.
My English teacher accepted my crumpled and tire-treaded report, but not without delivering a lecture on the importance of the proper presentation of my work. “I do expect better from you in the future.” Future? What future?
I re-did my math homework and made it to the cafeteria with a few minutes to spare. A lot of good that did me. The only food choices left were liver and onions (like onions are supposed to be some big bonus) and spinach.
All through my geography speech on “The Greening of the Earth,” my best friend, Kara, kept showing me her teeth. I thought she meant for me to smile more, so I grinned bigger.
It wasn’t until I sat down after my presentation, in front of the whole class, that Kara told me I had spinach stuck in my teeth.
“I know,” I joked, trying to sound like I wasn’t humiliated, “it was a visual aid for extra credit.”
I got unstoppable hiccups in science, started out on the wrong note in choir . . . well, actually, it was the right note—but, for the wrong song, and I slammed my finger in my locker.
When the final school hour came, I thought for sure that I had it made. My mother was the trained volunteer presenter for the Life Skills unit that month. I knew at least she had to be kind to me.
Laughing and talking as we took our seats, my mother asked for our attention.
“Welcome class,” she smiled, “our subject during this unit is puberty.” She paused and looked around the table.
WHAT!!!!! No, no, no, no, NO! Not that! Not here! Not my mom talking about puberty and hormones in front of my friends! With diagrams! And boys in the room!!!!
She calmly stood there as though she was only discussing the weather. I guess in a way she was discussing the weather—whether or not I’d live through this.
What if I accidentally made eye contact with someone? What if it was a boy? I safely stared at the floor. The hands on the clock moved in slow motion. I tried to force time along by thinking of places that I would rather be.
Allergy shots. Detention. At home cleaning the bathroom. Tick. . . tock . . . Tick . . . tock. Does she have to tell us absolutely everything she knows? Does she know absolutely EVERYTHING?
My mother finally wrapped it up. “Are there any questions? Don’t be afraid to ask!”
Right! And don’t be afraid to walk through a tornado, or tease a hungry pit bull or jump out of an airplane with a hole in your parachute.
Silence.
“Go to my happy place. Go to my happy place,” I said under my breath, frantically trying to calm myself.
Tick . . . tock. Tick . . . tock. Tick . . . tock.
My mother just kept smiling, “Well, next week you will have a chance to write your questions on a piece of paper and we will go over them together.”
Next week! Maybe if I slept without covers and left my windows open all night I could be in the hospital with pneumonia by this time next week. Would it be wrong to pray for something to happen to prevent my mother from being here? Nothing bad or anything. How hard can a flat tire be for God?
It was only when the bell rang that I could breathe again. The class hurried out before I dared to look up. My mother was smiling down at me.
“Sweetheart, you handled yourself very well. I realized by your reaction that I should have made sure that you understood what our topic would be today.” We pushed the chairs back under the table. “I was so concerned about Kara’s mother this morning that I wasn’t as sensitive as I should have been.”
“Kara’smother? What’s wrong? Kara didn’t say anything.”
“Kara doesn’t know. She had already left for school when her mother was rushed by ambulance to the hospital with severe diabetic shock.”
My heart froze. “Diabetics can die from shock, can’t they?”
“Yes. It was very serious but she made it through.” My heart beat with relief.
We headed out the door into the golden light of late afternoon filtering through the autumn-colored trees that umbrella the sidewalk. My mother seemed to glow with the light around her.
“How was your day, Sweetie?”
“Well, Mom, it was a rough one,” I paused, “but now, after knowing that Kara almost lost her mother today, little things don’t seem to matter all that much.”
My mother put her arm around my shoulders and we headed off for the car. “Sweetie, there’s something that I have wanted to tell you since you came into class.”
“Yes,” I answered, feeling the near magic of our closeness.
“Sweetheart, you have a big wad of gum stuck to the seat of your pants.”
“I what?” I twisted and turned, but I couldn’t see behind me. I gave up.
What’s a little klutz dust in the grand scheme of things? Life is beautiful, after all.
Cynthia M. Hamond
Jimmy, Jimmy
Mistakes are the usual bridge between inexperience and wisdom.
Phyllis Therous
When I was in the seventh grade, I broke my leg skiing. The doctor described my injury as serious—a spiral fracture of the tibia that was fragmented in three places—and just barely spared me the surgery to put pins in my leg. The tradeoff was that I had to wear a cast from hip to toe for four months, the first of them in a wheelchair. The weather that winter alternated between snowy blizzards and mucus-freezing-in-your-nose cold, so Mom or Dad had to drive me anywhere I wanted to go. Since sledding, skating, going to the local McDonald’s and hanging out were my friends’ favorite pastimes, I didn’t get out much.
That left plenty of alone time for me to daydream and develop the biggest crush on a new boy in my class. His name was Jimmy, and he was gorgeous. He had thick brown hair, dreamy dark eyes, a perfect complexion and a great body. His slight Texas accent could charm anyone, and he was sooooo nice. If only he would notice me! But how could he? I hardly ever got to see him outside of the classroom, and he seemed to like one of my girlfriends, Kim. Besides, boys tended not to “like me” like me, because I was taller than all of them. I hoped Jimmy wouldn’t notice my height thing since I was sitting in a wheelchair or slouching over crutches all the time. I didn’t dare tell anyone about my crush, not even my best friend. I wanted to spare myself the misery of being teased. The crush on Jimmy was my big secret.
Then one Saturday evening, I got the phone call of my life. It was my best friend, Jodie, calling to say that someone in our class liked me and wanted to ask me out, but he wanted to know if I liked him first.
“Well, who is it?” I asked Jodie.
“Jimmy,” was the unbelievable reply.
I felt goose bumps crawl up the back of my neck to the top of my head. I nearly dropped the phone.
“Well, do you like him? Would you go out with him if he asked you?”
Then doubt quickly crept its way into my thoughts. Paranoia
set in. Perhaps this was some cruel trick by my friends to find out who I liked. After all, how could Jimmy like me? We’d never even spoken so much as a word to one another.
“I guess so,” I tentatively replied. My stomach was getting queasy. I waited for the teasing to begin.
“You guess so? Well, do you or don’t you like him? It’s got to be one or the other,” Jodie pressed.
“Yes, I like him,” I replied with a little more enthusiasm this time, my secret finally out.
“Great! Can we come over now? Jimmy wants to ask you out tonight!” gushed Jodie.
“Uh . . . sure. Come on over.”
When the doorbell rang about fifteen minutes later—an absolute eternity—I answered the door to find my friends on the front porch. The guys were around the corner, waiting to send Jimmy over. I stepped out on the porch with the aid of my crutches and closed the front door behind me. My friends were smiling at each other, celebrating their roles as matchmaker, so excited to be a part of getting me together with my first boyfriend.
The girls left me alone on the porch so that Jimmy could ask me to go out in private. I waited there for him. I was anxious, nervous and excited. My stomach uneasy, part of me still wondered if this could be some big joke. For the first time since I broke my leg, I was thankful to have crutches to support me.
I was as white as a ghost, more nervous than I had ever been. Jimmy rounded the corner and stepped up onto the front porch. Oh, no. I wanted to hobble back inside and shut the door behind me. What have I gotten myself into? How could I be so stupid? I was so caught up in Jimmy dreamland that I had neglected to ask Jodie, “Jimmy who?”