Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (25 page)

And then you’ll leave that popular jerk standing alone on the dance floor.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll hide in the bathroom the rest of the night, wondering if you’d just committed social suicide (you hadn’t).

Trust me when I tell you: This moment is one instance where that mouth of yours got it exactly right.

Even though it might have been easier, socially, to keep your mouth shut, you stood by a person that you really valued. You spoke the truth.

So try to be a little kinder when you’re criticizing your sister’s clothing, hair, and hygiene—but when it comes to standing up for the so-called losers of the world? Let your mouth do its thing.

Just—keep it away from Bill Underhill’s tongue? A valiant mouth like yours doesn’t need that kind of trauma.

P.S. Not getting along with Bill and Ray frees you up later to date an amazing boy…who kisses very well!

^*
All the names have been changed, because no one deserves to have his kissing technique trashed so publicly. Even if it was horrific.

Katherine Longshore

Dear Teen Me,

You know that they’re lying to you.

You sit in a crowded auditorium, breathing the reek of stale French fries and dirty shoes. Assaulted by the clang and angst of a hundred other voices. And pitying the anonymous, faceless administrator calling for attention, announcing the title of the film you’re about to see:
The Best Days of Your Life
.

Images of football games and track meets, homecoming queens and student government meetings crowd the screen, showering everyone with relentless cheer.

You stare into the screen onstage, with images of prom and chemistry flickering across it. And you imagine what’s behind that screen: The worn boards, the black wing curtains, the jumble of leftover props from dozens of plays.

And that’s what you want. Not the jerseys and pom-poms, but the props and rigging.

In your first role on that high school stage you’ll play a catatonic mental patient. You’ll sit in a heap for two hours. Not moving. Not speaking. Your only “line” will be a glass-shattering scream.

But then you’ll go on to play an exiled Russian duchess, a head in a box (which eventually gets its cheerleader body back), a variety show MC, and a dead woman (the play is in flashback, and your part is actually the lead).

You’ll nurture a deep love for theater—and it’s not just because it gives you the chance to be the object of appreciation and applause. You’ll fall in love with the character of Ariel at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (and eventually you’ll even have the chance to play the part in a circus tent in England). Sam Shepard will become your literary crush, and you’ll never lose your desire to ride a streetcar as Blanche DuBois.

On that stage, you’ll discover your place in this madhouse. Within this building—this architectural monstrosity that looks more like a prison than a place of education—you’ll meet and bond and fall in love with people who will remain your friends throughout your entire life.

You may think they are lying to you at freshman orientation. Your memories won’t include homecomings or basketball or dances filled with balloons and an endless loop of Duran Duran, Pat Benatar, and Huey Lewis. Nonetheless, your memories will root you to this place. To this moment. To this stage. To these people.

These days will not be the best of your life. (They can’t rival the day you first set foot in Africa, or the day you married your best friend, or the moment when you first met your children, or got the call saying your novel was actually going to be published.) But they won’t be the worst days either; they don’t compare to the day you get battered on a deserted African road, or the day when you learn about your dad’s cancer.

The truth is that your memories of these days will inspire you. They will perpetuate your love of literature—Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, and Tennessee Williams. They’ll remind you how to try your hardest, even when facing failure. They’ll give you a taste for the unusual, and for diving into things just because they’re new.

These days may not be the best days of your life, but like it or not, these days will define you. Live them.

Ken Lowery

Dear Teen Me,

It’s me—that is, it’s you, about thirteen years into the future. You have a great job that you love, you’re happily married, and Bean is still the same cat that she was thirteen years ago. A black guy is president, and you voted for him. Craziest of all, you’re internet famous—at least among a certain subset of professional word-fanciers and grammar pedants.

Now that I’ve blown your mind, let’s get down to brass tacks: You’re on your way to a major, depression-fueled meltdown. Some of that will be driven by simple, treatable biology; the rest, I’m sorry to say, has to do with some unhealthy notions you’ve got about what it means to be an adult.

The good news is that with a whole lot of therapy and some supernaturally wonderful friends and family, you will make it through to the other side. The bad news is that your unhealthy notions about adulthood still cast a shadow over everything you say and do.

Here’s the source of your problems, in a nutshell: You believe that if you make it through high school, get into a good college (doesn’t matter which one), and get your degree (likewise doesn’t matter), you will then “grow up”—which to you means simply going through a kind of ceremony (after which—
presto
, you’re mature), instead of actually evolving. Then, once you’re among the ranks of the Mature Adults, you imagine that you’ll know, more or less, exactly what to do for the rest of your time on earth.