Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (27 page)

I know, I know. It’s not very nice to wish such misfortune on a former classmate. Especially one who might be off digging wells right now, so that thirsty children somewhere can have clean water to drink.

But I can’t help it. I look back at the way he treated you in junior high and it still makes me furious.

Back then, not too many people talked about bullying. And even fewer did anything about it. If anything, parents had this crazy idea that whatever didn’t kill you would make you stronger.

What total BS!

As if it wasn’t hard enough for you to make the transition from a small private school to a huge public one. To leave your friends behind and get swallowed up in a sea of strangers. The only thing that made you feel at all safe was your art. The only place where no one could hurt you was a hand-drawn world of your own creation.

But did Alex A. understand this? Did he allow you to quietly escape your troubled reality for a rich hideaway of your own imagination? Nope. He crashed in, uninvited, invading your private world and publicly ridiculing you and your art. He exposed you and humiliated you in front of classmates you already had difficulty relating to. And when he had finished, you were so embarrassed you ripped up those once-precious drawings and threw them away in tears. You never picked up a pencil again.

You let Alex A. take something important from you. Something that mattered. Something that gave you comfort and hope. Today I can’t draw to save my life. Alex stole that from me. From you. From us.

I don’t know why Alex A. targeted you back then. Maybe he was feeling bad about himself and needed to rip into someone else to save his own self-esteem. Or maybe he sensed a sweet, sensitive soul who would take his cruelty to heart, giving him power for the first time in his life. But in the end, it doesn’t matter why. He hurt you, and the experience didn’t make you any stronger. It didn’t make you a better person. Anyone who says bullying builds character can suck it.

But don’t worry. In the end, you grow up to write a novel about bullying. You dig deep into your own psyche and fictionalize the pain you once experienced for real. And the best part? You give your heroine a happy ending. The kind you didn’t get in real life. She rises above her haters. She doesn’t let them rob her of her passion for art.

And the book winds up inspiring tons of teenage girls! Girls currently in junior high (and who are facing their own Alexes on a daily basis) take the time to write you e-mails telling you how your character’s courage has helped them find some courage of their own.

So now that I think of it, maybe you did get your happy ending after all. While that little bully, Alex A., is busy trying to outwit (or outrun) a thousand-pound lizard.

Gretchen McNeil

Dear Teen Me,

You always needed the spotlight.

Not wanted. Not coveted.
Needed
.

Positive or negative, you needed the attention. You were the loudest kid at the party—the one most likely to accept a dare, or do something ridiculous to get a laugh. It’s possible you hold the world record for the number of times you had to write “I will raise my hand before speaking” in the course of sixth grade. And the same thing goes for the number of trips to the principal’s office (because you could never resist making that last witty comeback). Did you even consider how your mother would feel after the umpteenth time she was called in to discuss your behavior?

Your mom blames herself, but you both know it’s not her fault. Your need for attention is so deeply rooted in your personality, so tangled up in your complicated emotional relationship with your absentee father, that there’s no getting beyond it. At this point, you’ve spent so many years jumping through hoops to get him to notice you, that the behavior has become ingrained.

You got straight A’s in school. Did that make him call? You were the star of the soccer team. Did that help him remember your birthday? You sang at graduation. Did that force him to show up? No, no, no.

I’ve got some bad news for you: He’s never going to notice, acknowledge, remember, or even just show up. Never. But that doesn’t stop you from trying.

But here’s the good news: Extroverted attention-seekers have a perfect outlet on the stage.

Sure, you’ve been performing since you were a kid, but not in such a serious role, and never in a musical—with a curtain call all your own. Backstage, you’re lined up, ready to take your solo bow in the spotlight. As you run out onstage, you’re terrified, convinced that you’re about to run into a mass of stares, and a few polite claps. But then it happens—and you’ll remember that first curtain call for the rest of your life.

Is it just your imagination, or does the applause crescendo ever so slightly as you dip into a curtsy that would put Maria Callas to shame? You aren’t the star of
Into the Woods
, but you had that audience in the palm of your hand. How? Why? Doesn’t matter. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you feel a powerful surge of adrenaline like you’ve never felt before.

You’re hooked.

Later that night you’ll remember that you invited your dad to come to opening night. You’d left messages on his home and work voicemails, messages that—as usual—would never be returned. It’s the first time, perhaps, that you don’t care. It’s the beginning of the end—you won’t jump through hoops for him anymore. The applause still echoes in your ears, the heat of the spotlight still burns on your cheeks. This flush of triumph is your new drug. From now on, you perform for yourself only.

The spotlight is yours.