So after your dad died you stayed in America, but like Mrs. Newman, you worried that you had just killed your dancing career—because dancers start young, and they also stop young. Most dancing careers end by the time the dancers reach their mid-thirties.
Your stepmother moved your family to La Mesa, where you went to Grossmont, and that’s where you are when this picture is taken. You’ve found a great studio, where you take every class you can, starting with the baby class and ending at nine at night. You come home from hours of practice so exhausted that you step into the shower in your leotard and tights, lean against the tile, and fall asleep. You stretch your legs over your head and hook your toes under the lip of your headboard and lie like that for hours.
And you keep listening, endlessly, to “Lady Jane,” choreographing it in your head. And one day, your stepmother sees tears streaming down your face, and asks you why you’re crying.
“It’s the music. It’s so beautiful,” you say.
She gives you a classic what the hell? stare. What you have said is not computing in her mind.
“If it makes you cry,” she asks, “why do you listen to it?”
She’s genuinely bewildered, and you wonder if it’s weird to cry when listening to beautiful music. You try to remember if anyone in ballet school in Germany cried like that. But in Germany, you guys were completely focused on your training, and afterward, those crazy kids spoke to each other in a language that was not English. You, being a Californian, opted for Spanish as your World Language (that is, before you dropped out of school). So as far as you know, no one in your Balletthochschule ever sobbed along to Brian Jones’s dulcimer track.
In this time of uncertainty, your stepmother adds that dancers never make any money and they get injured all the time. She says that when the injuries are bad enough they end up teaching classes at the YMCA.
And so, in this picture of you at the gym, you are, frankly, falling apart. You’re worried about getting injured and winding up at the YMCA (where you already have a job for the summer). You’re stressing that you and your dancers won’t be able to dance the Jaggerverse into reality, and you’re worried that worrying about it means you’re psycho. Because that is weird, right?
Then the coolest thing happens: a big, tall, muscular guy starts taking classes at your studio. He’s a dance major in college and even though he’s a modern dancer (not a ballet dancer, which you think is clearly superior), you two hook up. Yeah, he’s a little older. But he gives you books to read and music to listen to and your stepmother is about to lose her mind because he’s the closest thing around to Mick Jagger. That is to say, he’s got a real edge. He tells you about this “project” he did where he danced around for a while wearing a raincoat, then climbed into a barrel while another dancer poured gallons of milk over his head and then added several boxes of cornflakes. You think this is a little bit random (okay, a lot), but the fact that he could even come up with something like this and, moreover, get the school to let him do it sends you soaring.
Plus, he partners you in classical ballet at the studio. You’ve never gotten to dance with a guy before, and it turns out that you totally light up the room when you leap into his arms and do a fish dive (sorry, that’s the technical term) and then, after class, you two drive to Balboa Park and make out in the Organ Pavilion. (The unfortunate double entendre doesn’t register at the time.) And your ballet teacher (Russian, strict, and, apparently, very romantic) tells you that you should marry this boy.
Which would be another way of dropping out of high school; but your man-dancer is not asking and, in fact, he leaves after a while because he’s transferring to a new college.
So now you’re losing the Cornflake King of the dance world, the only person you’ve ever told about your attempt to conjure the Jaggerverse into reality with smokin’ choreography. And your heart aches when he makes his dramatic exit like someone in The Black Swan. You’ve always known in the back of your mind that he’s older and that because you’re so angsty and conflicted, you feel like you can’t hold your own against a mature dancer like him. (Even if he is just a modern dancer.)
So here you are in the picture, your blood practically curdling with anxiety, and whatever I say to you right now will probably sound like a lecture. Except this: dance your dang fool heart out, girl. Because as of this writing, Mick Jagger is still alive, and so are you. Beautiful music makes you cry, and you know some great people who totally get that. And between this picture’s now and the now of the future, you’re going to conjure a lot of cool universes.
And, just for the record, I listened to “Lady Jane” thirty-two times in a row while writing you this letter. And it was amazing.
Nancy Holder is a multiple Bram Stoker Award–winning, New York Times best-selling author. The Wicked saga, one of her young adult dark fantasy series, was optioned by DreamWorks, and she has two other YA series: Crusade, and The Wolf Springs Chronicles. Vanquished and Hot Blooded will both be released in fall of 2012. She has also written lots of tie-in material for Smallville, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and many other “universes.” She received a Best Novel award from the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers for Saving Grace: Tough Love (2010), based on the TV show starring Holly Hunter.
LOIS LOWRY AND THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM VS. BOYS
K. A. Holt
Dear Teen Me,
Hi! It’s your thirty-six-year-old self. What?! I know! (Good news: You finally have boobs. Bad news: That’s not what I want to talk to you about.)
I want to tear your attention away from whatever poem you’re writing, or world crisis you’re trying to solve, and I want to address something more…personal.
I’m going to show you a list and see if you can figure out what the common ingredient is:
Writing. Books. Drinking coffee. Sleeping all day on Saturdays. Studying art. Trying to create a rip in the space-time continuum by figuring out the meaning of life. Listening to loud music. Going to plays. Making lists.
See what they have in common?
Yes.
That’s right.
Those are all things you enjoy more than dating.
I just wanted to send you this note (although the technology that I used is a secret, trust me: It won’t do any harm to the space-time continuum) to let you know that this is 100 percent completely okay. Just because you’re a teenager doesn’t mean you have to be boy-crazy. Your best friend might have a different boyfriend every two weeks and spend every spare second making out in the halls at school, but this doesn’t mean you have to do the same thing. And I know it seems like every movie you see has a girl pining for a boy, but that doesn’t mean you have to, too. I promise.
Boys can be great. You know that. They’re funny and smart and nice to talk to. You like how their hands look, and sometimes you wonder what it would be like to sniff the backs of their necks. HOWEVER, this doesn’t mean you need to say yes to any guy who asks to be your boyfriend. It doesn’t mean you have to let boys put their hands all over you because “that’s what teenagers do.”
You don’t have to date if you don’t want to. Hang out with your friends, go to parties, but don’t feel bad about those nights you want to lock yourself in your room with Anastasia Krupnik. (And even though I know that you think you’re too old to be reading Lois Lowry, you’re not—in fact, you still love Lois Lowry.)
Another thing—remember, I know your all your secrets—it’s also absolutely okay if, when you’re ready, you want to mix it up and date some girls, too. Just remember, the same rules apply. When you think no, say no. When you’re not ready, say, “I’m not ready.” And if you’d rather put on your headphones and read about Anastasia or Harriet the Spy or Scarlett O’Hara, you don’t have to apologize.
There will be plenty of time for you to date. You have years to find your soul mate. Right now, though, I want you to concentrate on learning how to stand up for yourself. Do what you want, not what you think you should want. You’ll figure i
t out. I promise.
Try to ignore all the pressure you feel to be a boy-crazy teen. Enjoy your quiet moments. Take time to listen to yourself. Then go for it.
Cool? Cool.
P.S. Boobs! OMG, I KNOW! FINALLY!
K. A. Holt is a mama, a terrible cook, and the author of Mike Stellar: Nerves of Steel (2009) and Brains for Lunch: A Zombie Novel in Haiku?! (2010). When she’s not busy imagining how she would travel to Mars or survive a zombie apocalypse, she’s busy imagining how she will survive the day. Brains for Lunch recently received a starred review in Publishers Weekly and was highlighted on the Texas Library Association’s Annotated Lone Star Reading List for 2011. K. A. lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and three children. None of them have been to Mars or are zombies. Yet.
SEEPING THROUGH THE CRACKS
P. J. Hoover
Dear Teen Me,
Isn’t it cute how people call you “Trish the Dish?” Yes, it’s totally flattering, and I’m glad you own it. If you’re going to have a nickname, one that makes you out to be an attractive female is choice. I mean, it’s way better than “phat.” No matter how much explanation is given, that one never sounds good.
In case you don’t know, I think you’re fantastic. In lots of ways, I wish I were more like you. From your confidence to your intelligence (hello, math superstar!), and especially the way you plan for the future yet live for the moment, you’re amazing. But here’s the thing. You’re letting something sneak in. Something you aren’t even aware of. It’s slipping in through the cracks, but it’s like venom, and it’s poisoning your mind. Here, from the future, it’s so obvious, but you just don’t see it. You never have. I wish I could make it stop, because, despite all the awesome things you accomplish in your life, this is the single thing that’s caused you the most unhappiness and distress.
It starts small. Your dance instructor mentions you’ve gained ten pounds in the last year (puberty anyone?). A male classmate mentions some other girl has a nicer figure than you (obviously not a choice male specimen). Your pants fit a bit snug, and a “friend” feels inclined to mention this to you (le sigh. Why must people feel so inclined?). These little bits and pieces wedge their way into your psyche.
The first time you go on a true diet, you see success. You see how the less you put in your mouth, the more weight you lose. It’s simple mathematics, and you’ve always been great at math. Remember, it’s one of the things I love about you. So you start experimenting with eating, binging and purging and starving and compulsively exercising, and from there it’s all downhill.
I wish I could give you better news. But the sad fact of the matter is that you plunge into a dark realm of anorexic and bulimic habits that stays in full swing for the better part of seven years. You try everything. First, you don’t eat. Like anything. And yes, the weight comes off. But you almost pass out when you stand up, and you don’t have the energy to walk up the stairs. This isn’t sustainable, and you crumple. The forty pounds you just lost comes back, along with an extra ten.
The bulimia starts. And it stays. I’ll be frank with you. You smell like vomit. Your face is puffy and swollen, and you’re still overweight. And even though you think you are all sly and clever, everyone knows. You’re not even fooling yourself. The years take their toll. Your confidence is crushed, and now you have a future filled with eating disorder baggage.
If you’re looking for a solution, I don’t have it. Even now, twenty-one years later, diets still make you uneasy. I wish I could tell you to get your head out of the toilet and listen to me, but you’re too stubborn. Be strong. Find something to immerse yourself in. Maybe kung fu. Or Dungeons & Dragons. Look for a place where you don’t constantly compare yourself to everyone else around you. Remember who you are. And remember why you are awesome. Someday the baggage will fade into the background.
P. J. (Tricia) Hoover writes fantasy and science fiction for kids and teens. A former electrical engineer, P. J. enjoys Star Trek, Rubik’s Cubes, and kung fu. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband, two kids, a Yorkie, and a couple of tortoises. P. J. is the author of Solstice (2013), a YA dystopian-mythology story set in a global warming future.
FINDING YOUR VOICE
Ellen Hopkins
Dear Teen Me,
Your life was unusual from the start. You were adopted at birth. Your mother was forty-two when you were born, the “May” to your father’s “December.” He was seventy-two, and to put that into perspective, he was born in 1883. The son of German immigrants and the definition of a “self-made man,” your dad parlayed a sixth-grade education into a couple of thriving businesses. He made his million dollars not long before he brought nine-day-old you home to a beautiful Spanish-style house in Palm Springs, California. Comedian Bob Hope lived next door and, having adopted a slew of kids himself, he sent his nanny over to help out for a few days. You were, of course, much too young to appreciate this. But let’s just say that few enough people are given such an auspicious beginning.
The truth is, you were a child of privilege. Not so much because of money (though you never went without), but because of a very large measure of love infusing your childhood. You were doted on, and while your parents’ age denied activities some families shared—skiing or mountain biking, for instance—your mom and dad rewarded you with things many children never have. You took piano and voice lessons. Studied dance—ballet, tap, jazz, even hula. You had dogs, cats, canaries, a lizard or two. You owned horses and rode fearlessly—barefoot, bare-headed, and bareback—across the desert and into the hills.
Your mother read to you every day, taught you to read on your own before you even started kindergarten. From her, you developed an ear for language and a passion for classic literature and poetry. Your father was no Puritan, but he wanted you to have faith, and made sure you went to church every Sunday. From him, you learned the value of honesty and hard work. A favorite saying of his stuck with you: Anything worth doing is worth doing right.
You went to a great private school, where creative teachers encouraged your talents. You excelled at academics, especially anything English or writing-related. You published a poem when you were just nine. Won trophies for your equestrian skills, ribbons at track meets. You aced piano recitals and dance competitions. By anyone’s measure, these were successes. Yet, somehow, you grew up feeling…not good enough.
This probably took root in the knowledge that you were given away as a baby. Your parents were friends with the doctor who arranged the adoption. Curious about where you came from, when you were five you eavesdropped on one of their conversations and heard the doctor say, “Ellen isn’t nearly as pretty as [her half-sister].” Later, you understood your birth mother was only sixteen, unmarried, and unequipped to parent. But as a small child, the message seemed clear: Not pretty enough equaled unworthy. Your birth mother kept her other daughter. She rejected you. You stashed that away, in a cabinet deep inside you, and there it will stay into adulthood.
Elementary school was your “chubby” phase. The kids would chant “Elsie the Cow,” followed by a rousing chorus of moos. And though you shed those few extra pounds before seventh grade, the mirror will always reflect a fat girl. Not thin enough meant unlikeable. In a way, you denied yourself. The Guernsey goes into the internal cupboard, too.
So now you’re a teen. Moving to a small town the summer before your eighth grade year means starting high school as the quintessential new kid. Just about everyone else here has been friends since kindergarten, but you don’t know anyone. That puts you on the perimeter of some tightly closed circles, trying to push your way inside. Outsiders rarely reach “in crowd” status, and no matter how nice you are to the cheerleaders, you are no exception. Instead, you find acceptance among the intelligentsia, artistes, and anti-establishmentarians. In other words, the stoners.
And then, when you’re sixteen, your father dies. Suddenly, you have to grow up very quickly, to help your mother deal with a funeral, probate, death taxes. You do
everything you can to ease the process, but she falls into a deep depression, closes herself off from everyone, including you. You try your best to understand why, and on some level, you do. But it’s yet another rebuff, and this time, from the person you’re closest to.
So maybe it isn’t surprising that you look to boys for approval. Not that you’re easy. Your Lutheran upbringing has given you a solid moral compass. You’re not interested in casual sex. What you want is someone who loves you. Someone who makes you feel like you are the most special girl in the world. You definitely connect with a few guys, but high school romances tend to be short-lived. With each breakup, you leak a little more self-esteem.
To sum it up, teen Ellen, this is how you see yourself:
Smart. Pretty much geek-smart, and who wants to hang out with a geek?
Plain. You’ll never be pretty, so why bother with makeup? It can’t hide the big bump in your nose. And forget about top-rung boyfriends. They’re looking for glitzier girls.
Fat. The best part about that is not having to worry about cute clothes. Jeans and baggy T-shirts will do.
Decent at dance, choir, drama. To a degree. You don’t get solos or leads. And you didn’t make the cheer squad.
Different. You’ll never fit into mainstream cliques. Plus, you have this annoying habit of making friends with other kids who are different, too. Which pushes you even closer toward freak distinction.
Probable yearbook description: Most Likely to Be Rejected.
Chin up. You won’t know this for a very long time (when you reconnect with your old classmates through something called Facebook), but this is how other people see you:
Smart. Reliable. You’re the one cheaters want to sit behind on test day. You’ll ace your SATs and get into the college of your choice.
Pretty. You have a natural beauty that doesn’t rely on makeup. Don’t worry about your nose. No one notices it. They’re looking at your smile.
Dear Teen Me Page 7