Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (34 page)

Let me ask you, how’s it all working out? Not very well, am I right? By spending so much time trying to
find
yourself, you’re slowly
losing
yourself. We don’t all have one single rock-star talent, and honestly, I think those of us who don’t are the lucky ones. Life isn’t about finding the one thing you’re good at and never doing anything else; it’s about exploring yourself and finding out who you really are on your own terms and in your own way. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to do that.

Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps about it. You’ll eventually find something you’re good at, I promise. It’s a long, winding road to get there, but you’ll find it. Being able to spend all day doing what you love (or one of the things that you love) is the most amazing feeling in the world. And no, I won’t tell you what it is, so don’t even ask me. Just remember to always be yourself, because there’s nobody else who can do it for you. I think E. E. Cummings put it best when he said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

Looks like the bell is about to ring so I’ll leave you to your book. What are you reading, anyway? Oh,
The Last Battle
by C. S. Lewis. I should have guessed. You should give those Harry Potter books a try. I saw you roll your eyes! I know they seem like just another fad, but trust me, they’re better than you think. They’ve got a real future!

Mitali Perkins

Dear Teen Me,

I know you’ve liked him—adored him, really—for full-on two years now. But somehow, nobody knows about it, not even friends who share their crushes in intimate detail. You pour the truth only into journals stashed deep in desk drawers.

He’s a basketball star with strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes. You? The only dark-skinned girl in school—a straight-A nerd, trying to obey traditional Hindu parents and squandering babysitting money on trendy jeans.

But you both play tennis. And he needs help in English class. So you’re friends.

Now it’s junior year. You’re losing hope. You think there’s no way he’s going to like you. Not in that way, not a chance. When you’re standing in a group of white girls, the guys look right past you.

But wait. Be patient. Let me show you something….

“Want to go to the amusement park with a bunch of us this Saturday?” he asks, passing your table on the way to eat lunch with his basketball buddies.

You’re with your regulars, but he’s looking at you. Right at you. Only at you.

“Sure,” you say, managing to keep your voice as easy and relaxed as his.

The regulars are quiet, but only for a bit. You see them shrug and shake it off. A blip, for sure. Guys ask
them
out in front of you, not vice versa, right? You’re the confidante they trust around that boyfriend with a wandering eye: You’re not quite invisible but you are safely neutered. Loveless but beloved.

Saturday dawns, a breezy, summery Santa Cruz–perfect day. You chat with the others on the drive, but once you get into the park and ride the carousel twice, everybody else disappears.

I promise this will happen. Don’t give up.

Your head buzzes with the nearness of him as you twist and turn on the roller coaster. You almost taste the sweetness of his smile as he wins a stuffed bear and hands it to you. But you’ve become an expert at hiding your passion. The buddy banter continues and you avoid his eyes.

On the ride home, tired and squashed in the back with the others, you won’t talk. But he rests an arm along the back of the seat, his T-shirt soft against your neck. Your ponytail brushes his skin. Will he feel how fast your heart is beating? You pretend to watch the scenery. He closes his eyes after the sunset.

One by one, the others get dropped off. Now it’s just the two of you in the backseat, but he won’t slide to the other window. No, he stays close, denim leg against yours, his free-throwing arm still stretched out behind you. You make yourself not lean into him in the darkness.

As the car stops in front of your house, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror. You open the door and swing a leg out. “Thanks so much,” you say.

In one quick move, as smooth and agile as when he scores a layup at the buzzer, he leans over and kisses your cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

The car pulls away.

You won’t remember how long you stand outside the house.

You’ll forget if the night was starry or if the plums on the tree were ripe.

But you’ll never forget that kiss, soft on your cheek. Those words, spoken low in your ear. And the dizzy, overwhelming sweetness of being seen, known, and wanted—all for the first time.

Cheryl Rainfield

Dear Teen Me,

I know you dream of escape, of being rescued, of never being hurt again. I know you think your pain will never end, and sometimes you don’t know how to go on. And I know you think about killing yourself. You’re good with blades, and you know that you could do it. But something stops you. And that something is good: It’s hope. Hope, tenacity, and your fighting spirit.

I know that when your pain feels unbearable, when every second seems like torture, you cut yourself in secret, then carefully hide the evidence beneath long sleeves. But you wish someone would see the truth and ask “why?” You wish someone could see past your parents’ facades, their “protectiveness,” and their tight smiles, and see how cruel they really are.