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Kids
Stories by Kids

Keep It Cool

By: Madison, Age 12, San Antonio, TX, Texas

I sit here in this stupid but relaxing rolling chair in the staff lounge while I type away. Mom keeps annoying me about how she wants a smoothie, when actually, the guy who OWNS the smoothie place is lifting weights over here. So I have to wait at least an hour before I can go head off to the Smoothie Central. No, it's not Smoothie Central. I just can't think straight right now. Protein Place, or something like that.

My weekend has been full of words, lyrics, and relaxation, with small pieces of darkness. My stupid ADHD problem annoys the heck out of my mom and my teacher, but I can't concentrate when you throw it all in my face!

Church lies awakened next to my bedsheets — though not forgotten — is thrown away by another church where there is NO HYMN and there are NO DISTRACTIONS; where I can praise God without watching another guy. Community Bible Church may not be all that great because I don't know ANYONE there, but I'll get used to it; I'll praise God with my eyes closed and my mouth open. And then I'll talk without any hesitation for Him.

But it's hard to try when you're open wide.

The "4 New Calls" light screams loudly at me, but it is not reserved for me. It is meant for the workers, though I watch it intently as if it is for me. EVERY. DAY. IT'S. 4. MISSED. CALLS. If it were 7 Missed Calls, then it'd be a miracle, and I'd be happy and joyful and tearing up in happiness and shouting my love for God to everyone.

But it's only 4 Missed Calls.

A wave of jealousy for the new worker used to crash into my system, but I got over him. Now he just stares idiotically at me like I did something terribly wrong that destroyed his entire life… But I don't care. Figures. Another shatter of pain and embarrassment bites hard on me when I think of things left uncompleted in Texas History.

The closet singer sits painfully alone in the gym, expecting the one and true person to come up to her and whisper nicely into her heart, but that person never comes.

And the poet's alter ego breathes silently on the curb in street clothes, waiting and hoping and praying for a dad to show up who never did.

Don't let me die here.