Taste of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III Read Online Free PDF

No one is sure what happened to her. We think that she may have transferred to a different school because of how cruelly the kids treated her. I still think about her sometimes and wonder what she’s doing. I guess all I can do is hope that she is being accepted and loved wherever she is.
    I realize now how insecure and weak I was during that sixth-grade year. I participated in the cruel, heartless Terri-bashing sessions because they seemed kind of funny in a distorted way. But they were only funny because they falsely boosted my own self-confidence; I felt bigger by making someone else feel smaller. I know now that true confidence is not proven by destroying another’s self-esteem, but rather, by having the strength to stand up for the Terri Jacksons of the world.
    Sydney Fox

A Name in the Sand
    T he influence of each human being on others in this life is a kind of immortality.
    John Quincy Adams
    I sit on the rocky edge of a boulder, letting my feet ­dangle in the stillness of the water, and gaze out at the rippling waves crawling into shore like an ancient sea ­turtle. A salty mist hangs above the water, and I can feel it gently kissing my face. I lick my lips and can taste the familiar presence of salt from the ocean water. Above my head seagulls circle, searching the shallow, clear water for food and calling out to one another. And in my hand rests. . . .
    The sound of a hospital bed being rolled down the hallway outside my mother’s hospital room brought me out of my daydreams. The ocean was gone and all that was left was a bare hospital room, its only decorations consisting of flowers, cards and seashells carefully arranged on a table next to my mother’s bed.
    My mother was diagnosed with cancer about a year ago, a year full of months spent in various hospitals, radia­tion therapy, doses of chemotherapy and other methods to try to kill the cancer eating away at her life. But the tumors keep growing and spreading, and all the treatments have done is weaken her already frail body. The disease is now in its final course and, although nobody has told me, I know my mother won’t be coming home this time.
    I tried to change my thoughts, and they once again returned to my daydreams. Everything seemed so clear and so real, the sound of the waves, the taste of salt, the seagulls, and the . . . what was in my hand? I glanced down at my hands and realized I was holding my mother’s favorite shell. I placed it against my ear, and the sound of the ocean sent cherished memories crashing into my mind.
    Every year, my mother, my father and I would spend our summer vacations in a little cabin down by the ocean. As a little girl, I would explore this stretch of sand with my parents. Walking hand-in-hand, they would swing me high into the air as we ran to meet the incoming surf. And it was there, in those gentle waves, where my parents first taught me how to swim. I would wear my favorite navy blue-and-white striped swimsuit, and my father’s strong arms would support me, while my mother’s gentle hands would guide me through the water. After many mouthfuls of swallowed salty ocean water I could swim by myself, while my parents stood close by, proudly and anxiously watching over me. And it was in those grains of sand, not on a piece of paper that could be saved and displayed on a refrigerator, that I first painstakingly wrote my name.
    My family’s fondest memories weren’t captured on film and put in a photo album, but were captured in the sand, wind and water of the ocean. Last summer was the final time my family would ever go to the ocean all together. This summer was nearly over and had been filled with memories of various hospitals, failed treatments, false hopes, despair, sorrow and tears.
    I glanced over at my mother lying in her hospital bed, peacefully asleep after the doctor had given her some medicine for her pain. I wanted to cry out to God, “Why, why my mother? How can I