Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  Never do something if the risk is greater than the reward.

  Think carefully before you act.

  Dreaming and doing go hand in hand.

  Life moves fast, but not so fast that you can't slow down to enjoy it.

  Instead of waiting for life to get better, do something about it.

  You REALLY should do what needs to be done NOW, and not later. Procrastination is the easiest way, but not the most profitable.

  If your intuition is telling you not to do something, then don't. Your intuition is not stupid!

  Cereal is a vital staple food for all college students. Who cares how ridiculous you look eating it at 7:30 P.M.?

  If he doesn't respect you, then he's not worth any of your time.

  Learn to play an electric guitar: young women really dig it.

  Don't juggle knives unless you're really, really good at it.

  If at first you don't succeed, try again. Then give up. No sense being ridiculous about it.

  Sticking things up your nose isn't the smartest idea in the world.

  You can't light fireworks in the basement and not get caught.

  Hair is flammable. Very flammable.

  Never ever trust your friend with a pair of scissors against your hair.

  Dyeing hair strawberry blond that is already strawberry blond makes it turn strawberry pink.

  White dogs and black pants don't mix.

  God doesn't make junk!

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  Someday you will look back on this and it will all seem funny.

  You never know when you're making a memory.

  The heart does heal and you will love like this againexcept that when you do, you'll deny that you ever loved like this before.

  Nothing matters if you don't have loved ones to share it with. Your siblings are incredibly precious. If you don't know this now, you willtrust me!

  If you can laugh at yourself, you are going to be fine.

  If you allow others to laugh with you, you'll be great!

  Kissing is the most fun thing. Dancing is almost as fun.

  Meredith Rowe

  [EDITORS' NOTE: If you would like to contribute to this list for Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III you can send an e-mail to: stories@teenagechickensoup.com.]

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  My Most Embarrassing Moment

  [AUTHOR'S NOTE TO HER MOM AND DAD: I'm sorry you have to find out about this at the same time all of America does. I never told anyone.]

  Honor student, tennis team player, Spanish Club president. Sunday school teacher assistant, Swing Choir piano accompanist. Although these publicly recognized accomplishments of my teenage years went on to influence my life in many ways, there was one particular group activity I participated in that had an even greater impact on me: Mustard Gang Member.

  The fall of 1977 found me enrolled as a freshman in the school system I had attended since kindergarten. My student file over the last ten years could be summed up with positive comments such as ''consistently above average," "enjoys extracurricular activities" and "cooperates with teachers and fellow classmates." No suspensions. No detentions. Basically, a model student. However, within a total time period of approximately one hour, this trademark behavior would fly right out the window (at the speed of sound).

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  Three of my lifelong girlfriendswho would fall under a fairly close ditto description of that abovecaught up to me after school on a Friday afternoon. One of them had just received her driver's license and was going cruising in a nearby town to celebrate. She asked if I would like to come along. (Rhetorical question.) The final bell was sounding as we piled into an older model Dodge Charger on its last leg of life. Regardless of its condition, it had a full tank of gas and the ability to get us from Point A to Point B.

  Within minutes of leaving the school parking lot, we were on the open highway. As I look back now, that highway was pretty significant. It not only separated two towns, it separated those of us in the car from the people who knew us and the people who didn't. We became daring.

  When the novelty of just driving around wore off, someone suggested it might be fun to squirt mustard on parked cars as we drove past them. (Author's sensible reaction twenty years later: WHAT?!) A unanimous agreement must have followed, because all four of us stood beside each other in the checkout line where the bottle of mustard was ultimately purchased.

  Loading back into the car, each of our faces looked as though we couldn't believe what we were doing. We couldn't. Four kids, four clean records. Lost time was about to be made up for.

  We decided that the person sitting by the passenger's side window would be the Designated Squirter, while the others in the car would be responsible for choosing the target ahead. Since I was cowardly, trying to hide in a corner of the backseat, I thought this sounded swell. Feeling my guilt would be somewhat lessened if I didn't actually touch the mustard bottle, I thought. I was off the hook. A nervous sigh of relief was escaping me until the words

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  "and we'll pull over every other block and switch seats so it will be fair." Hook re-inserted.

  The "talk" in the car proved to be more productive than the "action" as the first and second girls took their turn in the passenger seat, both chickening out at the last second, squealing, ''I can't!" Before I knew it, the car had stalled and it was me who was climbing in beside the driver. Sliding my sweaty palms up and down the bottle's sides, the target was being pointed out to me, loudly and with demanding encouragement. The attack was to be launched on a little red Volkswagen up ahead, fast approaching. "Do it! Do it! Do it!" my friends chanted. . . . And I almost did. But, as was the case with the girls before, feathers grew from within me and we soon sped past the car, leaving it as solid red as it had been when first spotted.

  Since the driver couldn't take a respective turn as the shooter, we headed for home, the mischief supposedly ended. Just when we were nearing the highway, we passed two girls jogging, their hands moving up and down in front of them. Still looking for trouble, we interpreted their innocent actions. "Hey! They just gave us the finger!" And of course, if we had been needlessly insulted, they certainly would have to pay. Simple as that.

  Within seconds, they were jogging into a Kmart parking lot. . . . And we were right behind them. Jumping out of the car, we ran toward our unsuspecting prey yelling, "Get 'em!" We did. Well, I did. After all, there was only one bottle, and it was my turn. Silently, they just stood there.

  My hearing must have been the last of my senses to fail, for the car door did not slam shut behind me without the words from one of these mustard-covered strangers ringing in my ears: "That wasn't very funny, Rochelle." Clear words. Echoing words. Rochelle. Rochelle. Rochelle. Not only had I just left two people covered with mustard back in a parking lot, but at least one of them wasn't a stranger.

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  Although no one in the car physically recognized either victim, there was no doubt among any of us that the voice that just spoke was a familiar one. But whose? The longest minute of my life followed until I figured it out: Miss Greatens, MY TYPING TEACHER!

  Miss Greatens, fresh out of college, was committed to making a strong professional impression on the business class students she taught. Her hair was always gathered on top of her head, large glasses covered her eyes and crisp business suits were her chosen attire. And yet outside of her work environment, she suddenly changed. Drastically. Her hair looked as though it grew a foot or so (since just this afternoon), she shrank a solid two inches (heels removed), contact lenses replaced glasses and her business suit was traded in for a sweatsuit. She no longer looked like Miss Greatens; she looked more like . . . well, us!

  Situation assessment: WE HAD A PROBLEM. The Dodge Charger immediately went chasing back to the parking lot, but the joggers were nowhere in sight. Plan B was implemented. A telephone booth directory could provide her home address. Success. She lived righ
t across from Kmart in an apartment complex.

  Little did we know that Miss Greatens was doing some of her own phone referencing while we were trying to find her. First she called the school principal at home, then she called my parents. (My life, as I knew it, was about to end.) However, she hung up after the first two rings before anyone answered either call. She had decided to speak to us first.

  And here we were.

  Miss Greatens answered the door graciously, standing before us with mustard-stained clothes and tear-stained cheeks, wanting to hear what possible explanation warranted her pain. There was none. Absolutely none. What we had done was uncalled for. Our consciences made that perfectly clear as we poured out a flood of

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  genuine remorse and tears to equal her own.

  Then something extraordinary happened: She forgave us. Fully. Right there on the spot. She could have spoken to all of our parents about what happened, but didn't. She could have contacted school officials and sought stern reprimands for each of us, but didn't. And she could have held the incident over our heads for a very long time and reminded us of what we had done at will, but didn't.

  Will we ever do anything like that again? NO WAY. You see, that is the power of forgiveness.

  Rochelle M. Pennington

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  Call Me

  "I know it's here somewhere." Cheryl drops her book bag at her feet so she can dig through her coat pockets. When she dumps her purse out onto the table, everyone waiting in line behind her groans.

  Cheryl glances up at the lunch room clock. Only three minutes until the bell and this is the last day to order a yearbook, if you want your name imprinted in gold on the front. And Cheryl did, if only she could find her wallet. The line begins to move around her.

  "Come on, Cheryl." Darcy might as well stamp her foot, she sounds so impatient. "We'll be late for class."

  "Darcy, please!" Cheryl snaps back. Best friends or not, Darcy and Cheryl often frustrate each other. They are just so different. Today is a good example. Darcy had "budgeted" for her yearbook and ordered it the first day of school while Cheryl had almost forgotten . . . again.

  "Darcy, my wallet's gone." Cheryl throws her things back into her purse. "My yearbook money was in it." The bell interrupts her search.

  "Someone took it!" Darcy, as usual, is quick to point away from the bright side of things.

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  "Oh, I'm sure I just misplaced it," Cheryl hopes.

  They rush into class just before the second bell rings. Darcy takes center stage to Cheryl's problem and happily spreads the news about the theft.

  By gym the last hour, Cheryl is tired of being stopped and having to say over and over again, "I'm sure I just left it at home." Rushing into the locker room, she changes quickly and checks the list posted by the field door to see where her group is playing soccer, then hurries out to catch up with them.

  The game was a close one, and Cheryl's team is the last one back to the locker room.

  Darcy stands waiting for Cheryl by her locker. Cheryl brushes passed Juanita, the new girl. It's the shocked look on Darcy's face and the startled gasps of those around her that stop Cheryl.

  There, at her feet, is her wallet.

  "It fell out of her locker!" Darcy points at Juanita. "She stole it."

  Everyone speaks at once.

  "The new girl stole it."

  "Darcy caught her red-handed."

  "I knew there was something about her."

  "Report her."

  Cheryl turns and looks at Juanita. She's never really noticed her before, beyond her "new girl" label.

  Juanita picks up the wallet and holds it out to Cheryl. Her hands are trembling. "I found it in the parking lot. I was going to give it to you before gym, but you were late."

  Darcy's words spit anger. "I'm so sure!"

  "Really. It's true." Juanita's voice is high and pleading.

  Cheryl hesitates. Juanita's eyes begin to fill with tears.

  Cheryl reaches for her wallet.

  "I'm so glad you found it." Cheryl smiles. "Thanks, Juanita."

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  The tension around them breaks. "Good thing she found it." Everyone but Darcy agrees.

  Cheryl does another quick change and then bangs her locker closed. "Hurry, Darcy. There's just enough time to order a yearbook."

  "If there is any money left in your wallet."

  "Not now, Darcy!"

  "You are so naive!"

  It isn't until they are standing in line that Cheryl opens her wallet.

  "It's all here." Cheryl can't help feeling relieved. A small piece of paper flutters down from her wallet.

  "She just didn't have time to empty it yet." Darcy bends down to pick up the note. "I know her type. I had her pegged the first day she came." She hands the note to Cheryl.

  Cheryl reads it and then looks up at Darcy. "You had her pegged, all right. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe you spend too much time pegging people."

  Darcy grabs the note, reads it and throws it back at Cheryl. "Whatever!" she says and stomps off.

  Cheryl reads the note again.

  Cheryl,

  I found your wallet in the parking lot. Hope nothing is missing.

  Juanita

  P.S. My number is 555-3218. Maybe you could call me.

  And Cheryl did.

  Cindy Hamond

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  7

  MAKING A DIFFERENCE

  It's important to be involved and stand up for what you believe in.

  Ione Skye

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  For You, Dad

  "Here we go!" Dad would say, and I'd climb on his back. "There! Look! See London Bridge?"

  Lying on the floor with his arms outstretched, he was my Superman and together we were weaving our way around make-believe clouds. But like those clouds, my moments with Dad always vanished too quicklybecause there was something stronger than love in Daddy's life, something that was stealing him away. It was an enemy I would end up fighting when he no longer could. . . .

  "He's sick," my mother would say when Dad passed out. "It doesn't mean that he doesn't love you."

  I knew he did. He could make us laugh with his funny faces and cartoon drawings. I loved him, and I wanted to believe Mom still did, too. As my little brothers and I grew, she explained that Dad hadn't always been "this way." He was just a little wild when they'd met in high school. And with his wavy hair and wide smile, I could understand how he'd captured Mom's heart.

  But soon he must have been breaking it. Sometimes we didn't see him for weeks. One day, he called to say he

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  wasn't coming home again. "I'm not far. We'll see each other on weekends," he said after he'd moved out. "I'll swing by and get you Saturday."