Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II by Jack Canfield

Author:Jack Canfield [Canfield, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780757394683
Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
Published: 2004-05-31T12:00:00+00:00

Panic

What life means to us is determined, not so much by what life brings to us as by the attitude we bring to life; not so much by what happens to us as by our reaction to what happens.

Lewis L Dunnington

One October day, in eighth-grade English class, I sat taking notes while my teacher explained prepositional phrases for what felt like the eightieth time. Suddenly, my forehead and fingertips became numb, as if a crazed dentist had injected them with Novocain. I tried to concentrate on the teacher’s lecture, but his words sounded garbled, like he was speaking through a long cardboard tube. My heart raced, and I couldn’t breathe. I was either going to throw up or pass out.

It seemed like I was having a dream. Was I really sitting in English class? I turned my head to look at my classmates. They were moving slowly, like a film being viewed frame by frame. I touched the smooth Formica desk and squeezed my pen. I wasn’t dreaming. What was wrong with me?

My friend touched my arm. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re completely pale.”

I raised my hand; it felt detached from my body. “Can I go to the nurse?” I asked. The voice came from my throat, but I didn’t recognize its sound. Our teacher had told the last guy who asked for a pass to the nurse to wait until the bell. Before that could happen, he had hurled into his desk.

“Sure, go ahead,” the teacher told me.

I rushed out of the room. The hallway’s spotted floor seemed to slant under my feet. I rested my forehead against the cool turquoise tiles of the wall. What was happening?

The nurse had me lay down on her fake leather couch, and she popped a thermometer in my mouth. I prayed that I had a fever and could go home. After a few minutes, the nurse read my temperature. “No fever. Better go back to class,” she told me.

“No, I can’t,” I nearly shouted. “Please, send me home,” I begged.

The nurse frowned at my urgent tone. She paused a moment, then telephoned my mother.

Once I was home, I felt fine. I cuddled under my down comforter, read one of my favorite horror novels and then watched a soap opera on TV. My mother served me strawberry Jell-O and sliced bananas for dinner. I was an only child, and my mom spoiled me. She gave me a hug. “You’ll be up and around tomorrow,” she assured me. At home, I was safe.

The next day, I convinced my parents that I was too weak to return to school, but I was really just afraid. “Okay, just one more day of rest,” my mother told me, “but make sure you do the homework. You don’t want to ruin your A average.”

The following morning, my mother said, “Get up and get dressed, have a bit of breakfast and see how you feel.” I knew this trick. She’d been using it on me since I was a kid.

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