If I had been eight and not twelve, I would have been thrilled. The book bag was huge, with numerous pockets. The thing would easily hold all of my school supplies, and it was sturdy, too. It would last, so I couldn’t hope that it would soon fall apart, giving me the perfect excuse to be rid of it.
“Do you like it?” my mother asked.
“Yes,” I said in a halting voice. “Thank you.”
“Well, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it,” Mom said sadly.
“Oh no, Mom, I love it,” I lied, picking the bag up and rubbing the soft fabric against my face. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her feelings. “You used the same fabric from Flaming Star,” I said with a smile, letting her know that I understood the connection to my childhood stuffed animal. “Thanks,” I muttered again and hugged her.
After a while, I got up the nerve to load the new bag with notebooks, pens and other school supplies. It is kind of cute, I tried to convince myself.
The next day I was to start seventh grade at a new school, in a new state, in the middle of the school year. I was nervous and excited all rolled into one.
That first day at school I heard the whispers. “Have you seen the new girl? She’s from California. Did you see that big furry bag?” Then there were giggles.
Because I started school in the middle of the year, all of the lockers had been assigned to other kids. There was no storage available for me, so I was forced to haul all my stuff around in the oversized fuzzy bag, making me seem suspicious.
I soon became known as “the weird girl with the huge, fluffy horse bag.”
Wild stories flew back and forth about what I kept in the bag that never left my side. Drugs? some kids wondered. Clothes? Is she homeless?
There was nothing interesting in that bag, just my coat during cold weather, school books, papers and pens. Eventually, most students pretty much ignored me, but some of the kids teased me about the fuzzy horse bag. People grabbed at it, pretended to pat it like a dog and tried to toss their trash into it. My teachers didn’t seem to notice, probably because I didn’t ever complain or ask for help.
As the year progressed, I started to hate that bag. I blamed all my problems on it. I felt helpless and alone, miserable, and homesick for California and my old friends.
One day toward the end of the school year, my math teacher assigned each student a partner to work with on word problems. I was told to work with Debbie, a popular redheaded girl who was in several of my classes. She smiled and waved me over toward her desk, so I grabbed my notorious bag and quietly moved toward her. As I sat down, I realized that I had never spoken to her before.
“So, what’s in the bag?” Debbie asked loudly with a grin. The students working at the table next to us turned to hear my answer.
“Um, just books and stuff,” I stammered, caught totally off guard.
“Can I see?” she boldly asked.
Then she held out a hand for my bag. I was so shocked that I simply handed it over without a word.
By this time, numerous other kids were watching us.
“So, why do you have clothes in there sometimes?” Debbie asked.
“Just my coat or a sweater or whatever I wore to school.” I replied.
“But why?” Debbie tilted her head with the question. “And, why on earth do you cart around everything, for all of your classes? Do they do that in California?”
“No, in California I had a locker!” Then I explained. “They were all out of lockers when I got here this year.”
Then Debbie started to laugh—not at me, but at the situation. “You mean, you’ve just been carrying your stuff around all this time because the school didn’t have enough lockers?”
I nodded.
“This happens every year. The school doesn’t have enough lockers, so lots of us have to share.” She started giggling again. So did I. “There’s, what, a week left of school,” Debbie said through spurts of laughter. “But, you can share with me if you want. That bag is kind of funky— very chic when you think about it. One of a kind.”
Then Debbie stood up, still grinning. “Hey everyone. Guess what? Laura’s bag is just full of school stuff!” she exclaimed. “No locker,” she said with her hands up and shoulders scrunched, as if to say, “What was she supposed to do?”
“All right, Debbie, that’s enough,” the teacher said loudly. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now get back to math!”
Debbie rolled her eyes and handed me a piece of paper with her locker combination scrawled on it. “Wish I’d asked you about that bag months ago,” she whispered. Then she asked me something I never thought I’d hear. “Do you think your mom would make me one?” When I nodded, bewildered, she started laughing again. “I think we’re gonna be friends,” she declared, loudly enough for the whole class to hear.
And we still are.
Laura Andrade
A Friendship to Remember
For some, life lasts a short while, but the memories it holds last forever.
Laura Swenson
Her name was Emma. She was the new girl in school. I remember feeling very sorry for her because every student was staring, pointing and whispering about her. She was extremely small, very thin and, worst of all, she was a twelve-year-old girl who had no hair.
Emma ended up in my homeroom. She was introduced to everyone that first day and was then told to find an empty seat. Emma took a seat two rows away from me, one chair up. She lay her head down on her new desk, crossed her legs and put her hands over her face. She tried to conceal her embarrassment but everyone could sense it.
At lunch, Emma sat at a table alone. I think she was too frightened to approach anyone, while at the same time everyone was too frightened to approach her. About ten minutes into lunch, I decided to leave my table and walk over to her. I pulled out a chair and sat down. I said, “Hi, my name is Veneta. Do you mind if I sit with you?” Emma didn’t answer, but nodded, never picking her head up or raising her eyes to see me. Trying to make her feel more comfortable, I began talking just like I had known her forever. I told her stories about our teachers, the principal, and some of my friends. By the end of the twenty minutes that we sat together, she was actually looking at me right in the eyes, but there was still no expression on her face. She simply looked at me with a blank stare.
When the bell rang and it was time to go to our next class, I stood up, told her it was nice to get to talk to her and went on my way. I felt terrible walking away, as I had been unable to get her to talk or even smile. My heart was aching for this girl because her pain was so obvious to me.
It wasn’t until about three days later, when I was at my locker getting things ready for class that Emma finally said hi to me. “I just wanted to say thank you for talking to me the other day,” she said. “I appreciate you trying to be nice to me.” When she began to walk away, I gathered my things and chased her. From that day on, we were inseparable.
This girl just captured my heart. She was loving and caring, compassionate and honest, but most of all, she was lonely. We became best friends, and in doing so, I set my twelve-year-old self up for the most devastating thing I would ever experience. I found out that Emma had cancer and was not given a very good chance of beating her disease.
For five months, Emma and I were the best of friends. We were together at school every day and then together almost every night to study or just hang out—and, of course, every weekend. We talked, we laughed, we joked about boys and we fantasized about our futures. I wanted to be her friend forever but I knew that it was not to be the case. After five months of being best friends, Emma became very, very sick.
I spent all my free time with her. I would go to the hospital when she was there and sleep over at her house whenever she was home. I knew in my heart I had to make sure she understood that she had become my best friend in the whole world—the sister I never had.
I was at home one Sunday, sitting with my dad watching football. The phone rang and my
mom answered it. I could hear her mumbling and then she hung up. She walked into the room, her eyes red and tears streaming down her face. I knew instantly what had happened.
“Is Emma all right?” I asked. Mom’s inability to reply answered it all.
Emma had been rushed to the hospital. She had gotten a very high fever. The news was not good. Her cancer was not responding to any treatments—it was spreading. Emma was losing her battle to stay alive.
Three days later, Emma passed away at home, in bed. She was just twelve years old. I remember feeling numb, knowing that she had passed on, but not quite understanding the finality of it all. Over the next couple of weeks, I quickly learned the hardest lesson I have ever had to learn in life.
Not only did I have to learn to deal with death, mentally and emotionally, I had to learn to grieve. I hadn’t yet been able to do that. Then one day, her mom came over and handed me a box. She said she had found it in Emma’s things. There was a note on it, saying to give the box to me when she was no longer here. I took it up to my room, stared at it for an hour or more, and then finally got up the courage to open it.
Inside, I once again found my best friend.
Emma had put several pictures of her and me in the box, some of her favorite jewelry and, most important, a note to me. I began to sob but I managed to read it.
“I never thought I would ever know true friendship,” she began. “I was always treated like an outsider, a circus freak. If anyone talked to me, it was usually to ask what was wrong with me or, even worse, to ask me if I was going to die.
“You are my very best friend in the whole world and I will never forget you. If you are reading this, I am in heaven. Please don’t cry. I’m happy now, and I’m no longer sick or bald. I’m a beautiful, perfect angel.
“I’ll watch over you every day of your life. I will be there for you during your first heartbreak and I’ll watch with joy on your wedding day. You deserve the best, Veneta. Never change and never forget our friendship. I’m so grateful God allowed me to know you. I will be waiting to see you again. Love, Emma.”
Reading that letter changed my life. Although she was the one who was sick and losing her life, she had taken the time to make sure I would be okay. She wanted to make sure I could cope with losing her.
Her death was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to experience. But I believe that God put our lives and our hearts together for a reason. We needed each other. Emma needed a friend, and I needed her strength and courage. Even to this day I thank God for Emma. I also still talk to Emma every day. I know she hears me and I know she looks out for me. Our friendship will never fade or die away. People may come and go, lives may change in an instant, but love and friendship will last forever.
Veneta Leonard
Friends at First Sight
Remember, the greatest gift is not found in a store nor under a tree, but in the hearts of true friends.
Cindy Lew
Bam! The car door closed as I ran to the gate. There was Jesse, waiting for me. He was the only kid who was tall enough to reach the lever on the gate at our daycare sitter’s, Mrs. Rogers. He greeted me with a smile and we ran inside. After my mom signed me in, she called me back over to give me a kiss good-bye. I kissed her as usual and said, “See ya later, alligator!” She replied as usual, “After a while, crocodile!”
Jesse and I always wanted to play outside. I was about four or five when Jesse and I discovered how to dig perfect tunnels; we even planned to sneak away down the tunnel to my house and then to China.
One day, while starting one of our digs, we lifted up this old rock and found two scorpions. It was very frightening, so we ran straight inside screaming, “It’s Scorpion Invaders! They just arrived!” All the other kids followed us in, and until the “invaders” were gone, we played inside.
Just before lunchtime, Jesse jumped up and down on Mrs. Rogers’ couch—something that we were forbidden to do. He got in so much trouble! During his time out, I sat by him. I wasn’t supposed to but I did anyway. Then, at lunchtime, as usual, I pulled the sticker off my apple and gave it to Jesse. It was a tradition to give the sticker to your friend, so I always gave mine to Jesse and he always gave his to me.
After lunch, we finally got to go outside, since Mrs. Rogers’ husband killed the two scorpions. Jesse got on the swing and I pushed him back and forth until it was time for our naps.
After what seemed to be the longest naps ever, Jesse and I stayed inside and played a game that we had just made up. It was called Kitty Transporters. We were small enough to fit under an old chest-of-drawers where we pretended like we were in a time travel shuttle that was transporting us to our newest location. We were kitties following our instincts as to which way to go and when to get ready to fight. We played and played all through snack time and when everyone else left, Jesse and I went outside and played our game in the sandbox until my mom arrived to pick me up.
That was a typical day for us at Mrs. Rogers’. Somehow, Jesse and I always got along. We never got bored, because we used our imagination and we just loved playing together.
Flash forward: Jesse’s in the seventh grade at the same school where I’m now in sixth grade. We usually don’t get to see each other except in passing period or at lunch. I think I embarrass him a little by always saying hi and bye, but he never shows it.
As you can see, Jesse and I have always been friends. We went to the same baby-sitter every day since, well, forever. We know each other so well that I could tell you just about anything about him. For one thing, he’s smart. He can build a whole computer in one day, so whenever I’m stuck on the computer I always call him for help and advice. Jesse loves jokes and he always has a joke that will cheer me up whenever I’m down. He’s truly the most kind and generous friend anyone could ask for.
I thought it was really, really nice of him to show up at my twelfth birthday party this year. Except for Jesse, it was all girls, but he didn’t seem to mind. Ever since I was three or four, I’ve always invited him and he’s never missed one single birthday party of mine. He has always gotten me a Barbie every year. I love Barbies. I collect them still today, so he got me one this year. His face turned bright red when I opened his gift and said, “I got a Barbie!” After the party, I said, “Thank you. I can’t believe you came!” He replied, “Hey, that’s what friends are for.” Then he grinned, gave me a hug and said, “Happy birthday!”
I know that some friends just come and go—but not Jesse. Even though he’s a guy and I’m a girl and we’re definitely growing up, we are friends to the core. Our friendship was meant to be from the first time we met.
Because of Jesse, I truly believe in friends at first sight!
Stephanie Caffall, twelve
Tears in the Bathroom Stall
The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.
John Powell
As a sixth-grader, I began noticing how other kids were separating into cliques. There were the geeks, the jocks and the popular cool kids. I wasn’t sure where I belonged. And I think that was the problem.
Our teacher had assigned “secret buddies” for the coming week. The purpose of this assignment was to do nice things for your buddy without letting them know who was doing it. We could leave encouraging notes on their desk or mysteriously leave a card in their backpack or book. Our teacher wrote each kid’s name on a piece of paper and threw them into a bucket, then we each closed our eyes and drew the name of the classmate who we were to secretly befriend and support over the next five school days.
By the middle of the week, everyone, including me, had turned this assignment into a contest to see whose secret buddy could leave the best gift. Instead of encouraging notes, we left stationery sets on our buddy’s desk. Instead of giving compliments, we were giving bubble gum, lollipops and even money. It seemed that everyone was getting cool presents from their buddy. Everyone except me, that is.
My buddy followed our teacher’s directions without a fault.
I received handmade cards, notes with nice thoughts and countless smiley-face pictures proclaiming that I was one of the nicest girls in the class. My buddy seemed to think highly of me from the notes that were left, but the lack of gifts made me wonder what was up with whoever had pulled my name.
On the last morning of our assignment, I walked into my classroom and noticed that there was a package on my desk. At last, my buddy had grasped the idea that everyone else had! I ripped open the tissue paper and just stared down at my desk. There sat a canister of perfumed powder. The girls sitting near me giggled and went off about the “old lady” gift I had received. And to make matters worse, the powder had already been opened. I felt my face turn red as I shoved it into my desk.
I tried to forget about the embarrassing gift, but when I was in the bathroom before recess, the same girls who had seen me open the powder started talking trash about my secret buddy for giving it to me. I quickly joined in. “How lame,” I heard myself saying. “What could my buddy be thinking by giving me such a stupid gift? My grandmother wouldn’t even want it.”
The girls laughed at my remarks and filed out of the bathroom. I stayed to wash my hands and let the water run through my fingers as I thought about what I had just said. It wasn’t normally like me to say mean things like that about someone.
As I turned off the water, I heard a creak. I turned around to see one of the bathroom stall doors open. A girl from my class took two steps out of the stall and looked up at me. There were tears streaming down her face.
“I’m your secret buddy,” she whispered to me. “I’m sorry about the gift.” Then she ran out of the bathroom. Her sobs stayed with me long after the door had closed.