Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  E is for Earning the strength that I have

  I go to sleep happy because I am me!

  Elizabeth Kay Kidd, 11

  The Shy Girl

  From a shy, timid girl I had become a woman of resolute character, who could no longer be frightened by the struggle with troubles.

  Anna Dostoevsky

  To say that I was shy when I was ten is an understatement— I was basically afraid of people. Kids, adults, pretty much everyone made me nervous. I was also what most teachers and parents would call a “good kid.” I followed the rules, got good grades in school and rarely questioned authority. But then one day, one single ride on a school bus changed all that.

  The school bus that day was crowded, hot, humid and smelly. The windows were all rolled up—bus driver’s orders—it was simply raining too hard to have them down. Only a few of my classmates were looking through the windows at the torrents of water filling the street, overflowing the curbs and drains; most of the other kids were engaged in animated conversations, arguments and games. I sat alone as usual, speaking to no one.

  I thought that the road outside looked like a flooded stream. I could make out tree limbs, bags, even an umbrella washing down the boulevard. People raced here and there, gripping umbrellas or covering their heads with bunched-up jackets and papers. Over and over, I carefully wiped a small circle through the cloud on my window so that I could see the rushing water outside.

  The bus stopped, waiting for an accident to clear. The driver was particularly tense that day and had snapped at several kids who had been messing around, standing up in their seats, yelling, making faces at drivers in passing cars and even one kid who had been licking the window.

  As I sat quietly, waiting and watching, I saw a kitty across the street on the other side of the road. Poor cat, I thought. He was all wet and didn’t seem to know where to go to get out of the rain. I wanted to go get the kitty, but I knew that the bus driver, Mrs. Foster, would never allow me off the bus. It was against the rules to even stand up, so I knew that I would get in big trouble for trying to rescue a cat across a busy, rainy street. I also thought that if I pointed out the miserable cat, the other kids would probably think that I was weird, even weirder than they already thought I was. I was sure that some of the kids would laugh at the soaked, dripping animal; they would see his misery as their entertainment. I couldn’t bear that; I didn’t want things to get any worse than they already were.

  My window was hazy again, and when I wiped the window clear, I could see that the kitty was now struggling in what seemed to be a surging, grimy river. He was up to his neck in cold water, grasping at the slippery metal bars covering the storm drain in the street. Twigs and other debris rushed past him and down into the black hole. His body had already been sucked into the dark opening of the storm drain, but his little front paws were clinging to the bars. I could see him shaking. He swallowed water and gasped for air as he fought the current with all of his strength. His movements revealed a level of fear that I had never witnessed before. I saw absolute terror in his dark, round eyes.

  My heart was racing. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. I felt like I was drowning along with the little kitty. I wanted to rush off the bus without asking permission, and pull the stray cat from the drain, and wrap it up in my warm jacket, safe in my arms. But I also pictured getting into trouble before the cat could be saved, the other kids staring and laughing, and my parents’ disappointment in my behavior.

  I sat motionless, unable to act. Helpless. The bus began to move forward, the accident traffic finally in motion.

  The cat’s eyes locked on to mine. He was begging for help. Although the bus was noisy with the clamor of active children, I was sure that I heard his terrified meow. I could see that he was panicking and needed help right away. I glanced around, but no one else seemed to have noticed.

  When Mrs. Foster yelled for me to sit down, I was startled. I hadn’t even realized that I was standing up. I immediately sat back down. I did not break rules. I cried as the bus lumbered into motion. I prayed that someone else would notice and rescue my courageous friend. As our bus slowly turned the corner away from the flailing cat, I saw a car drive by the storm drain causing a wave to rise up and over the kitty’s head. He appeared again coughing and sneezing but this time with some blood trickling from his mouth and nose. One ear was completely folded back, like it was flipped inside out. The weight of hopelessness blanketed down around me. None of the people on the street seemed to notice the tiny orange feline.

  Somehow I managed to stand up again, directly disobeying the bus driver.

  “Mrs. Foster!” I cried.

  Every single person on the bus stopped talking and looked at me. Waiting.

  “A cat. There’s a cat in the drain,” I stammered. “If we don’t help him, he’ll drown.” I held out a shaking hand and pointed.

  The bus driver, to my amazement, did not yell at me. Nor did the other kids laugh at me. Instead, Mrs. Foster pulled the bus to the side of the busy road.

  “Children,” she said sternly. “No one is to leave this bus.”

  Then the woman rushed out into the traffic and rain. She sloshed across the street to the drain as we all watched in silence. Even the boys looked concerned. No one was laughing. I noticed that I wasn’t the only one crying.

  With one quick movement, Mrs. Foster grabbed the cat and pulled him into the safety of her arms. She cradled the terrified, clawing creature, removed her own coat to wrap him in it, and then she raced back to the bus. We all cheered until she motioned for us to be quiet.

  “We’ll have to look for his owners to see if he has a family already,” Mrs. Foster said, as she handed me the sopping bundle.

  “I know,” I stammered.

  “I’ll help you,” the girl sitting in the front seat whispered to me.

  “Me too,” came another voice, then another and another.

  The other kids did help; we put flyers up all over town, one girl’s dad put an advertisement in the paper, and we contacted the local animal shelters, veterinarians and pet stores. That means I was forced to talk to a lot of people, both kids and adults. There was no room for shyness and fear. To my surprise, I slowly gained more confidence in myself and made friends with some of the kids who had helped me. We never did find anyone to claim that cat, so he became a cherished member of my family.

  Sure, I was still a pretty good kid after that day, but I learned to speak up, to overcome my shyness. I also learned to say a little prayer and then go for it when something really matters.

  Laura Andrade

  NO RODEO ®

  NO RODEO. © Robert Berardi. Used by permission.

  Never Cool Enough

  I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence, but it comes from within. It is there all the time.

  Anna Freud

  Why was it so easy for my blond-haired, blue-eyed twin sister, Allie, to make friends? She didn’t even try, but they gravitated to her. It was so hard for me to be noticed when she was around. I didn’t know why I wasn’t like that. Her charming outgoing personality was too much for me to compete with.

  I was the shy girl who sat in the corner. Why didn’t people stop to think that maybe the person who doesn’t talk the most might have the most to say? Why didn’t any of the kids think that maybe I was just like them, but too intimidated to say anything? I was just as fun to be around as Allie was . . . if you got to know me. Yet I struggled all through elementary school trying to find friendships. I spent years lacking one of the most meaningful relationships a child can have.

  Growing up is hard for everyone. For some it’s harder than for others. Especially the scramble we go through to find the right best friend—or just to find a friend at all.

  By the time I reached eighth grade, I was lost. I had tried everything to become “cool” to fit in. I changed how I dressed, talked and presented myself. I copied other people’s style, thinking that if I did, I would fit in with
them and their friends. I tried the sporty look, then the preppy look—then came any other look you could think of. For a while, all my shirts were black and my jeans hung on my hips three sizes too big. You name it, I tried it.

  I even changed the way I talked. I’d speak in a well-thought-out manner, very articulate. When people didn’t notice that, I would speak like I had trouble putting a sentence together. I would change the tone of my voice. High pitched, different accents or just silly tones: Nothing could get me noticed. I just knew that if someone paid attention to me, I could win them over.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the dreaded lunchroom where you can become very vulnerable to what others think and say about you. If you didn’t sit with anyone, you were automatically a loser. Once one person thought you were a loser then everyone thought you were a loser. No one gave me a chance. There was also the constant fear of getting things thrown at you or in your general direction. I was struck many times with flying food. It was not an enjoyable experience. I ate lunch with my sister in elementary school because she felt sorry for me, but once we got to middle school, I wasn’t cool enough to sit with her and her friends. I was forced to face what I thought was my destiny, sitting all alone at lunch over a tray of uneaten pizza.

  So I felt horrible about myself. I continued to reinvent myself constantly in hopes I would be liked by at least one person. Surely someone wanted to hang with me. Allie blended in perfectly with the popular kids. She projected confidence, and people really responded to that.

  Going through something like what I was going through was very difficult without Allie. Like perfect strangers, we didn’t talk at school. We talked at home though, which was awkward. It became a hassle to try to make it seem like we were fine when both of us knew we weren’t. We were twins. We have the same sense of humor. We talk the same, and most of the time, we think the same. We don’t dress or act alike, but that isn’t what matters. We went through everything together. I remember when I broke my arm, she went out of her way to make sure I had everything taken care of. I wouldn’t even have to ask her to do something because it was already done. And when we moved, she stuck by me when I was having a hard time. Through thick and thin, it had always been the two of us. Having our relationship on the rocks made going through eighth grade anything but easy.

  The only way I could cope with the ever-apparent reality of my situation was to act as though it didn’t bother me. I pretended I didn’t want to be popular. I acted like I hated everyone. I even became disruptive in class. I constantly made fun of the stupid things the popular kids did or said. I was all over it, mocking them in every way. Oddly enough, acting so rudely toward the popular kids attracted the attention of the self-declared rebels. Apparently being incredibly rude is a quality some people like. I decided it was easy to be rude, and it was finally going to be easy to make friends with these kids. All I had to say was that I hated “preps,” and I was in. Way in.

  I became a big part of that little group before I realized it was happening. The more mean and belligerent I became, the more these kids wanted to be around me. Inside, I was torn. I didn’t want to be mean, but I wanted friends. I decided to do what at the time I thought was right. I had to start rolling with that crowd. Looking back, I realize it was a big mistake.

  I bought into their whole punk thing. I started dressing in a way that sent a message that didn’t portray me, but portrayed what I had to be, to be in this group. Band T-shirts, leather wrist bands, studded belts—the whole nine. I took notes from my friends; I changed my way of thinking. Anything having to do with my family was no longer cool. The government was all wrong. Nothing was right.

  I was becoming a completely different person, all for these people who I thought would never like me for me. When my friends started getting into drugs and other illegal activities, I felt really alone. I had no idea I was going to have to deal with these things at the tender age of fourteen. I had no idea how these people, my friends, could do this. Over the course of about six months, my friends started drinking and smoking. At first, they’d drink or smoke once a month. Gradually, it escalated into a weekly, then a daily, occurrence. They were constantly coming to school under the influence. I was dumbstruck by this, especially because the teachers didn’t seem to notice or care. I prayed for the day when they would get caught. I thought then maybe they would shape up, and I would have my friends back. That day never came.

  So I stood by, while my friends got trashed in their basements while their parents were upstairs. I stood by while they ditched class to go outside and smoke. But I was firm in my belief that participating in those activities was simply unacceptable. Finally, these friends began to distance themselves from me. Apparently, I wasn’t cool enough for them because I didn’t want to get high or wasted. At least that’s what I thought. Maybe they just resentedme formy values and couldn’t stand the fact that they were weak enough to fall into that—and I wasn’t.

  I realized those kids weren’t my real friends. It was hard to deal with that. I thought I had found a group that I could stay friends with for a long time, but I wasn’t about to throw my morals out the window for a few people. It was extremely difficult to face the fact that I had to choose between my morals and going back to being called names and always being alone. No one to eat with. No one to talk to.

  At the beginning of ninth grade, I was flying solo again.

  Then something strange happened that year. I simply put my true self out there, which is what I should have done to begin with, but I had been too afraid. Finally, I was just being myself. I hadn’t ever done that before.

  Soon, I made friends with all kinds of kids— “preps,” “punks,” “nerds” and “losers.” I looked at them individually instead of as being part of a group, and they began to respect me for that. I also started to get to know people instead of saying I couldn’t be friends with them because they didn’t think the exact same things as me. It didn’t matter to me if they didn’t dress like I did.

  I became known as someone you could have fun with without doing anything illegal. I wasn’t out every Friday night, but it had nothing to do with my popularity and everything to do with my values.

  Finally, things at lunch are all good. I have yet to have a day this year when I have gotten pelted in the head with a grape or have nowhere to sit. People come and find me at lunch because they want to sit with me. They want to sit with me. I never thought that would be my reality. I was even voted Lady for the freshman class in the Homecoming Court!

  I would have never guessed in eighth grade that I would be living the life I’m living today. I never knew it, but not once did I need to change a single thing about me.

  I became cool by being myself.

  Natalie Ver Woert, 16

  Parting Ways

  You can stand tall without standing on someone. You can be a victor without having victims.

  Harriet Woods

  When I was in first grade, my parents decided we needed to move to a bigger house. So that summer, we packed up our things and moved across town. And you know what that means—changing schools.

  Lindsey’s first words to me were, “Did you play soccer at your old school?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” We both smiled. On the way to lunch, she said to me, “Do you want to sit with me at lunch?”

  Relieved and happy that I had made a new friend so fast, I smiled. “Sure.”

  We were immediate friends from then on. Best friends in fact. We spent every waking moment together. Sleepovers, parties, plays, dinners, everything you could imagine—we did it together. She was such a good friend. Always there for me, always understanding, and we always had a good time. Always. It was that way from third through fifth grade.

  Then came dreaded middle school.

  We were worried; terrified. “What if we aren’t in the same classes?”

  Then our schedules came and guess what—we weren’t.

 
“We’ll stay friends,” we promised. “We’ll invite each other over every day. And have sleepovers every weekend.”

  Oh, how wrong we were.

  When sixth grade started, Lindsey fell in with the “popular” crowd, and I did not. I wasn’t a nerd or unpopular or anything like that, but I just wasn’t in that particular crowd.

  Then the harassment started. Lindsey endlessly made fun of me and taunted me. “Rat face,” she’d say. “You’re so ugly. You have no friends. You’re such a loser. At least I’m not a freak like you.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt so bad. What had I done to turn such a wonderful friend against me? She eventually got all her friends to hate me too. They all trashed me and made fun of me to my face and behind my back.

  Now I’m almost out of eighth grade, and Lindsey doesn’t make fun of me anymore. At least not to my face. Maybe she still makes fun of me behind my back. But do you know what? I don’t care anymore. I have come to realize that there is nothing wrong with me. I didn’t do anything to her—she has her own issues, her own insecurities. It has nothing to do with me, and Lindsey is headed for a serious downfall. Throughout sixth, seventh and half of eighth grade, she made me feel bad. What a great way to spend her time. She also smokes, does drugs and skips classes. Where is that going to get her? Nowhere.

  And where will I be? Stronger for putting up with it, living through it and doing it all without stooping to her level. And I feel a lot better for it.

  Christina Shaw, 14

  Sweet Lies

  The naked truth is always better than the best-dressed lie.