by Nancy Rue

"Race you to the door!” Chelsea said when the school bell rang.

She didn’t have to challenge Jenna twice. It was so cold, everybody’s noses looked like cherry Popsicles. And besides, being friends with Chelsea was something Jenna had been hoping for since September.

“I’ll beat you!” Jenna said, and she tore for the door. She was smiling so big that the frosty air hurt her teeth.

But when she could almost feel the warmth inside the school, somebody gave her a shove and Jenna found herself sprawled out on a frozen puddle. She gritted her teeth. “Brid-get!”

Above her, Bridget twisted her ponytail. “What?” she asked.

“You know what,” Jenna said. “You just knocked me down.”

“Did not,” Bridget said. “You fell.”

Then with a toss of her head, Bridget dashed toward the door.

Jenna closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. Don’t get mad, she told herself. You’re not supposed to get mad.

“Your sister is so rude,” another voice said.

Jenna looked up at Chelsea, her perfect blond hair scooped from under her knit cap.

“She’s just my foster sister,” Jenna said. She scrambled up and pushed her own stubborn curls off her forehead. “There’s a big difference.”

“Whatever,” Chelsea said. “I’m glad I don’t have a sister like that.”

Red With Anger

Jenna wished she could shrug it off. But as she followed Chelsea to their classroom, she thought about going up to Bridget and saying: “You are rude! You made me look stupid in front of Chelsea.”

She stopped her angry thoughts as she slipped into her seat because her neck felt hot and blotchy. It always got red when she’d done something she didn’t want anybody to know about, such as wishing she could harshly scold her foster sister.

The red blobs on her neck were a dead giveaway.

“What’s wrong?” Chelsea hissed from the seat next to her.

“Nothing,” she whispered back.

Then Jenna glanced across the room where Bridget was squirming at her desk—the one up front near Mrs. Isley.

“That little pain,” Chelsea said.

“I was so excited when I found out she’d be living with us,” Jenna said. “I always wished for a sister. Now I just wish—”

She stopped.

“You wish what?” Chelsea said.

“Never mind.” Her neck was getting hotter by the second.

“Say it!”

“No, it isn’t right,” Jenna said and pursed her lips.

“Ladies,” Mrs. Isley said, “I’ve given you this time to work on your valentines for tomorrow. Would you rather be doing your math assignment?”

Jenna shook her head and dug into her backpack for her paper doilies and stickers. Mrs. Isley’s voice rose sharply.

“Bridget, give Jamie his glue back,” she said.

Chelsea grunted. “I told you she was a pain.”

Jenna kept her face in her backpack. She only had two valentines left to make. And her mom had promised to help her with the one for Chelsea tonight, because it had to be really special—a total work of art.

Jenna sighed and pulled out a piece of pink paper. To Bridget. Happy Valentine’s Day, she printed in red marker. The writing looked as tight as her teeth.

On Her Own

Holding back the anger at home wasn’t so easy.

As soon as the table was cleared after supper, Jenna said to her mother, “I’ll go up and get my stuff, and we can work on my last valentine.”

Just then shrieking came from outside the back door. It was Bridget.

“What’s wrong?” Mom said as the door opened and Dad guided Bridget into the kitchen. Jenna’s eyes went directly to Bridget’s feet.

“What are you doing with my ice skates?” she said.

“She was trying to roller blade on the sidewalk,” Dad answered. “Up to your room, Bridget.”

“I don’t have to!” Bridget shouted. But she did go, ice skates and all. Mom and Dad started after her.

“Mom!” Jenna cried. “Can’t it wait till after we make Chelsea’s valentine?”

Dad’s eyebrows went up into surprised points. “Which do you think is more important: a valentine or your sister’s chances of ending up in a detention center someday?”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to answer that question.

“You know she’s never had real parents,” Dad said. “I told you we were going to have to give her a lot of attention at first.”

How long is ‘at first’ supposed to last? Jenna fumed to herself as she went to her room. And how am I supposed to not get mad when I do everything right and she gets all the attention?

Jenna pulled open her backpack, but there wasn’t a paper doily or a sticker in sight.

“Brid-get!” she screamed.

Give and Take

Jenna stomped down the hall and pounded on Bridget’s door. Dad pulled it open. “What’s going on?”

But Jenna didn’t answer. She dodged around him, pointed her eyes at Bridget and let loose.

“You took my valentine stuff!” Jenna yelled. “Just like you take everything else of mine, you little—”

“Jenna!” Mom said.

“Hey,” Dad said, reaching for Jenna’s arm. “Bridget doesn’t need this.”

Jenna shook him away. “Well, I need for her not to ruin my stuff, and I need for her not to mess things up with Chelsea, and I need for her not to get all your attention!”

“Jenna, that’s enough,” Dad said.

But Jenna didn’t stop. She glared at Bridget and said, “I wish you’d never come here!”

Dad whisked Jenna out of the room and into her own before Bridget could answer. As Dad closed Jenna’s door behind him, she threw herself on her bed and started to cry.

“I’m sorry, Dad!” she said through sobs. “I’m sorry I got so mad. I know it’s wrong.”

Dad sat on the bed next to her. “Don’t be sorry for getting mad. Your mother and I get angry, too.” He gave Jenna a crooked smile.

“But the Sunday school teacher said God doesn’t like us to get mad,” Jenna said.

“I think you misunderstood. He doesn’t like us to hurt people when we’re mad,” Dad answered. “Everyone gets angry sometimes. That’s our signal something’s wrong. If we stuff our anger and never do anything about it, then we explode like you just did.”

Jenna sat up and sniffed. “Then I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Bridget is mean, and she’s ruining everything for me!”

“I’m hearing you talk about how you feel,” Dad said. “You know, getting mad causes trouble when you only think about yourself. Maybe if you thought about how Bridget feels, you wouldn’t be so angry.”

When he left, Jenna smeared the tears off of her cheeks with the back of her hand. I know how Bridget feels, she thought. She feels like she can do anything she wants!

Jenna started to grit her teeth again and began to make Chelsea a valentine out of pink paper and a red marker.

Thanks to Bridget, Chelsea’s never going to be best friends with me, she thought. So why do I care how she feels?

Jenna fell asleep that night with a blotchy neck.

Getting It Right

The next day when the time came to deliver valentines, Jenna gave her card for Chelsea a final inspection. It wasn’t the work of art she’d wished it could be, but she’d stayed up late with her flashlight drawing two girls drinking sodas and laughing. She hoped Chelsea would recognize it as the two of them and read the message she’d printed so carefully—I wish we could be friends.

After the valentines were handed out, Jenna pawed through hers to find one with Chelsea’s handwriting on it. She felt a small stab when it was a tiny envelope, but she tore into it eagerly.

Her heart sank.

Happy Valentine’s Day, it said. Chelsea S.

Jenna looked over at Chelsea, who tore into an envelope, glanced at the greeting and tossed it aside. She reached for Jenna’s card—a lump formed in Jenna’s throat. Then as Jenna watched in shock, Chelsea opened it, glanced at drawing, shrugged and tossed it aside.

Jenna wanted to cry. She wanted to grab Chelsea and say: “Didn’t you even read it? Don’t you even care?”

Neck burning, Jenna looked at Bridget. She was leaning across her desk, where there were only three valentines, trying to grab Mrs. Isley’s stack.

“She needs to quit,” Chelsea said, staring at Bridget. “She’s just mad because she doesn’t have friends.”

All of a sudden, Jenna couldn’t see Bridget. Her eyes filled with tears.

She’s not mad, Jenna thought. She just feels like a loser—like I feel right now!

“What’s wrong with you?” Chelsea said.

“Nothing,” Jenna said as she dug into her backpack and pulled out her last piece of pink paper and a red marker.

Dear Bridget, she wrote. I’m sorry I said I wished you had never come here. What I really wish is that I could take that back. I think I know how you feel.

Jenna crossed the room to hand the new valentine to her foster sister, and there wasn’t a blotchy neck in sight.

	Q: What is the best way to groom a pet rodent? A: Mouse-wash. Brennan P., 10, Florida Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe