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Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the bestselling co-creators of Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Deborah Reber, a former children's television executive, is a young adult author who specializes in collaborative work. She resides in Seattle, WA.
Chapter 1
What Is a Friend?
What does friendship mean to you? When it comes to defining friendship, words like loyalty and trust come to mind. So do honesty, reliability and respect . Friends are the people who stick with us through thick and thin. The ones who see us at our very worst and don't think about us any differently. They know how to make us laugh and what to do when we cry. This chapter takes a look at what makes these special relationships so important in our lives.
When I was about four years old, I got separated from my mom while grocery shopping. No doubt I wandered off to my favorite section—the Tasty Kakes aisle—and the next thing I knew, Mom was nowhere in sight. I became frantic. Eyes wide and heart racing, I starting rushing through the aisles in desperate search of my mom's capri pants, flowered blouse and signature horn-rimmed glasses.
The relief I felt when I finally spotted her was overwhelming. Life was good. Life would go on. Everything was as it should be. It's amazing how the very glimpse of someone familiar and loving can have such an incredible effect.
The First Day
T he long hallway stretches before my feet. Lockers of royal blue line the walls. Unfamiliar faces dart in and out of the open doors, ignoring me. I shift my bag on my shoulder and look straight ahead.
I think I see a familiar face at the far end of the long hall. Unfortunately, the image passes by, and I cannot see the face any longer. The clock on the side of the wall blares the first bell. I frantically look for some sign of help. None is there.
I tuck my blonde hair behind my ear and straighten my jacket, trying to gain some form of confidence. Shakily, I pull my class schedule from my pocket. Searching over the wrinkled paper, I find the locker number printed in big bold letters: 131. Taking a deep breath, I shuffle into the hallway. The immediate rush of hot air mixed with cologne fills my nose, making it burn.
I look at the locker next to me: number 300. My locker will be at the other end of the hall. Sighing, I continue onward. A group of tall boys wearing honor jackets zooms by, their hair slicked back. As they strut past me, I continue to saunter down the never-ending hallway, trying to ignore them. A pair of gangster wannabes hits me in the shoulder. The taller one turns toward me as they walk away. He begins to chuckle to himself because he knows who I am. I'm the freshman.
Shaking it off, I stride past a group of senior girls. They are dabbing on the final touches of makeup and lip-gloss. I find myself laughing at their ditzy ways, wondering what drives them to be so . . . pink?
I'm more confident now as I pass locker number 200. I've seen so many different cliques by now that I know a little more of what to expect. But as I walk toward my destination, I find that I am missing something that all these people seem to have in common. They have somebody with them. And I am standing in the center of the high school hallway alone.
I dash past another group of students. My locker is now in sight. Shoving the bag inside locker 131, I search for someone I know. I see two kids from my classes last year. I wave, and they return the gesture, but without much enthusiasm, and continue to walk past me. Frantically, I search the passing faces, pleading for some sign of recognition.
I glance down the hall the same way I had come. There at the end I see them, all spread out and looking lost. I smile to myself as I see their worried faces. I notice my best friend is not with them and wonder where she could be. Not seeing her, I continue to wait for my lost friends to find their way to me. I begin to laugh out loud as a group of seniors strides by.
Someone lightly taps my shoulder, and I turn to see who it is. My best friend stands there looking at me with amusement. I smile, relieved to see someone familiar. She laughs as I point to our lost friends, but she's not laughing at our friends; she's laughing at me. I ask her what's so funny, and she says simply, 'I guarantee it, pal, you look much worse than they do.'
I smile and have to agree. There are experiences in our lives that should be shared with other people, and the first day of school is one of them. I am grateful I have friends who can be with me through these adventures. That's what friends are for.
Clara Waddell, age 16
The theme song from Friends . The smell of chocolate-chip cookies baking in an oven on a winter day. The soft white fur on my dog's ears. A package of slightly stale pink bunny Peeps™. For me, all of these things bring me comfort and happiness, not unlike a good friend.
Of course, friends bring much more to us than a good laugh or warmth in our tummies, or even the ability to spur on a sugar-induced spaz attack. The author of the following poem thinks so, too. She's come up with the perfect recipe for a friend, and this is one recipe you won't find in The Joy of Cooking.
Friendship Soup
Like tomato soup, only
Better, more
Satisfying, and
Good for your soul.
All you need is a can of love,
Opened with a smile,
Poured into a bowl of good environment and similar interests,
Mixed with: a
Cup of compliments,
3 cups of talking,
5 cups of time together—
House visits,
Two teaspoons of helpfulness,
Three trials of dependability,
(At least two 'come-throughs'),
Shoulder cry-ons,
A gallon of hugs,
3 tons of encouragement,
Nix the envy,
And don't forget—a
Pinch of nuttiness.
Omenka Uchendu, age 14
©2005. Clara Waddell and Omenka Uchendu. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul : The Real Deal Friends by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Deborah Reber. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street , Deerfield Beach , FL 33442.
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