Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II (28 page)

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Authors: Jack Canfield,Mark Victor Hansen,Kimberly Kirberger

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II
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Brightened someone's day and left a smile on their face. 
I sat back to ponder the story and came up with a thought

 

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If everyone tried to share some happiness and kindness sought,

Wouldn't our world be so much more pleasant than it is now
When a few more smiles and time for others we'd allow?
I baked a batch of cookies today, and I know a lady down the street
Who I'm sure would love a few moments' company and a home-baked treat,
And her lonely neighbor who always seems a bit sad and gray
I think a nice visit from someone would just make her day.
Well, it was starting to get late, so I decided to get some sleep
After I made a list of things to do the next day and appointments to keep.
When I got up in the morning I went to school with a goal in mind
I would try to cheer a few people up and find ways to be kind.
I bid "Good morning" and smiled at everybody I met.
A few returned the greeting, then our separate ways we went.
Someone dropped their books, so I helped gather them willingly,
And I noticed the more I helped others, the more they helped me!
After I went home I packaged some cookies to share,
Attaching a note that said, "Just because I care."
When they opened the doors, you should have seen their faces light with glee
And watched their smiles as they exclaimed, "You mean you came to visit lonely old me!"
Later in the evening, I sat down and wrote a few notes

 

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Wishing the recipient a great week, before sealing them in envelopes.

Then I took a few moments to think about my day
And realized I received even more joy than I had given away;
Because every time you smile or with a cheerful word part,
The warmth of that kindness penetrates into your own heart.
We're only given a short time to spread some cheer before we die,
So why not give random acts of kindness a try?

Melissa Broeckelman

 

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4
TOUGH STUFF
The human spirit is stronger than anything that happens to it.
C. C. Scott

 

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Losing Hope
Wherever you go, there you are.
Buckaroo Bonzai
"Hope is the hat rack upon which I hang my dreams . . ."? Oh, please! I crumple up the paper and fling it across my bedroom. I can't believe I kept my hopeless seventh-grade attempts at poetry. I thought I was a poet that year. Obviously I wasn't, and never will be.
"Here they are," I mutter, pulling a stack of yearbooks from the depths of the drawer. They go all the way back to elementary school.
Lauren will like these. Best friends since first grade, she's not talking to me now, but I'm sure she'll want these . . .  after
 . . . 
"You're hopeless, Carrie," she yelled at me over the phone Friday night. Because I don't see everything exactly her way, because I tell her things she doesn't want to hear. The way I think best friends should. Now I don't even have a best friend. And I can't stand losing her friendship.
I peer into the drawer, empty of yearbooks but still

 

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containing the debris of my life. Now what would Josh want from me? According to him, nothing. "There's no hope, Carrie," he told me that night two weekends ago. The night he broke up with me, practically pushing me away as I begged him for another chance. No, he shook his head at me. No, it's over. No hope for us. He hasn't spoken to me since. I can't stand losing him, either.
I slip my hand into the pocket of my robe and finger the little container of pills. My stepfather takes these for his back, and I've heard his repeated warnings to my little brothers never to touch them, how dangerous pills like these can be. He never warned me, knowing that I'm old enough, knowing that I understand about things like dangerous pills.
A knock on my door makes my hand fly from the pocket. Of course, my mother barges right in before I can respond.
"Carrie," she says in her exasperated tone, "we're all waiting for you out by the tree. You know we can't open the presents until we're all together." The faint melody of a Christmas carol and the scent of hot cocoa waft into my room through the open door.
"Honestly, Carrie, can't you dress up a little for Christmas Eve? Or at least get that hair out of your eyes," she continues. "Sometimes I think you're hopeless." She sighsloudly, dramatically, as if otherwise I wouldn't understand the depths of my hopelessness. "Well, hurry up."
With that, she closes the door and leaves me screaming silently after her:
Yes, Mom, I know I'm hopeless, like you always tell me. Every time I forget to empty the dishwasher, fold the laundry, get the hair out of my eyes, whatever.
So they're all waiting for me. Mom, my stepfather, Dave, and Aaron and Mark. Waiting for me to join in the singing of carols and unwrapping of gifts. Sure, I'll go. I'll

 

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unwrap a few presents. Not that they'll mean a thing to me. But it's Christmas. I'm supposed to be happy. I can pretend. After all, I took drama class last semester.
Ah, school. Another one of the victorious arenas of my life.
"I'm sorry, Carrie, but it's hopeless," Ms. Boggio told me the last day before winter break. "You'd have to get an A on every test for the rest of the year to raise that D to a C." Then she left me alone in the biology lab, staring at my latest test, the latest record of my failures.
I tossed the test away.
I won't even have to show Mom
, I thought.
I won't have to hear that lecture again. The one about how I'm ruining my chances for college. That there will be no hope for my future if I keep going on this way. In fact, I'll never have to hear another lecture again. The problem will be solved before school starts in January.
How about a note? Would they want one? I used to think I was some great writer. I'd spend hours filling notebook after notebook with my stories and poems, sometimes just my thoughts and ideas. That's when I felt most alivewriting and dreaming of being good at it, of having other people read my words. And having my words mean something to them. But that was before the hopelessness of being Carrie Brock swallowed me up.
"Just a lousy note," I remind myself. That's all I have to write now. Or ever. I've lost everything: my best friend and my boyfriend. Or I've messed it up: my grades, even my hair. I can't do anything right, and I can't stand facing the reminders of my failures anymore.
"Come on, Carrie," Aaron's voice cries through the door. "I want to open my presents."
Oh, all right. I'll do the note later
. I drag myself up and tighten the belt on my robe. As I walk down the hall, the pills make a satisfying clicking noise in my pocket.
I sink into the couch and watch as Mark, my youngest brother, tears open his gifts, flinging wrapping paper

 

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everywhere. Then it's Aaron's turn. That's the tradition in our family. Youngest to oldest. Everyone oohs and aahs over Aaron's gifts.
"Your turn, Carrie," Mark informs me.
"Can you bring them?" I ask. "I'm tired."
Mark carries over a rectangular box. Clothes, of course. From Mom. I mumble the appropriate thanks. My gifts are few this year. Nothing from Lauren or Josh, of course. Trinkets from Aaron and Mark.
"Okay, I'm done," I say.
"No, wait, here's another one," Mark says, handing me a small package.
"Who's it from?"
"Me." My stepfather speaks up. Dave, the man who resides in the background of my life. A good guy, he treats me well. I've never regretted my mom marrying him.
I tear off the paper, revealing a book. But opening it, I find there are no words inside.
"It's blank," I say, looking up at Dave.
"Well, not quite. There's an inscription up front. But it's a journal, Carrie. For your words."
I flip to the front and find Dave's handwriting in one corner. I read the inscription silently.
To Carrie:
Go for your dreams. I believe in you.
Dave
I look up at Dave again. He shrugs slightly, as if embarrassed. "Well, I know you want to be a writer, Carrie," he explains. "And I know you can do it."
His last words are almost lost in the noise my brothers are making, digging under the tree and coming up with my mother's presents. But Dave's words are not lost on me.
Somebody believes in me and in my dreams, even

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