Laughing at Dorothy Parker’s quips at the Algonquin…
Those might not be possible. Try again.
Studying literature at a centuries-old university…
Writing in longhand at a French café…
Watching the Tuscan countryside roll by, with your backpack at your side and your journal in your lap…
Grab hold of those dreams.
Put aside your need to do the practical thing. Research far-flung colleges. Find a guidance counselor. Dream more, dream bigger, dream wilder.
Ask: “What do I want? What do I want? What do I want?”
Read. (Wait—you already do that.) Read more. Keep reading.
Seek advice. Think. Listen.
Understand that what works for someone else might not work for you. (Example: those red Coca-Cola pants and top your mother thought would look great on you.)
Understand that not everyone sees the world as you do. (Example: Not everyone hears beauty and mystery and magic when Bob Dylan sings.)
Understand that there are other paths. (Example: Studying physics at a college an hour from your house is just one choice.)
Be patient, but act. Sometimes the worst decision is no decision.
Make mistakes. Change your mind. It’ll be okay.
Remember: Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness is your greatest strength. Things will make more sense if you can come to terms with that.
Your dreams? Remember those? Are you still holding on?
So…ignore that English teacher who loves only the popular kids. You have a future she won’t be a part of. Ignore those girls who are laughing at you now. You have more important things to think about. Instead, listen to the voice inside of you, the one saying, I want to be part of the conversation.
Keep writing in private. You’re getting better.
Keep doing math. You love it.
Keep singing in the church choir. You may be tone-deaf, but God hears you perfectly.
Consider the following: You can be in a Montparnasse café or at the Algonquin Hotel on a 1920s evening, and you can talk to anyone you want about anything you want….
If that’s what you really want, find a way.
Jenny Moss is an author of historical fiction and fantasy. Her titles include Winnie’s War (2009), Shadow (2010), and Taking Off (2011). As a teen, she dreamed of moving to Europe and writing in small cafés. Instead, she became an engineer and trained astronauts. She now lives in Austin, Texas, and makes up stories for a living.
DANCING WITH THE DEAD
Sarah Ockler
Dear Teen Me,
Prom is the most important night of your life.
That’s what everyone keeps telling you, anyway. A night to remember, they say. Something you’ll reflect on with fondness and joy and maybe a bit of longing, too, when you can no longer stuff that thirty-something ass into your teen-something poofy-sleeved dream dress.
Hey, you only live once, right?
Screw that.
Thing is, you don’t have a boyfriend. And yeah, you could invite one of your guy friends from another school, or go stag. But…stag. Do you really want to spend another weekend bobbing around the dance floor in an awkward, gyrating clump with your few remaining girlfriends, arms entwined, belting out those heartbreaking Bon Jovi ballads? You’re practically a college woman, for the love of hair spray. Who needs prom?
Um…pretty much everyone you know, apparently.
And though you don’t solicit their to-go-or-not-to-go advice, your classmates are happy to dish it out. You’ll regret it, they warn! You’ll miss out on the most magical, momentous night of your life!
Honestly, you feel kinda sad that some people believe the most magical, momentous night of their entire lives could possibly be over and done with before their eighteenth birthday. I mean, you haven’t even experienced a proper orgasm yet, let alone Indian food or marrying your best friend or a road trip to the Grand Canyon or climbing the highest mountain in Colorado or writing a book (all coming in due time). But this won’t stop the rite of passage do-gooders from trying to convince you otherwise, what with their vivid depictions of your promless future and all. Stopping them would take an act of God. Or maybe…
The Grateful Dead.
The Dead are coming to town on prom weekend, you gleefully discover! Soon the entire county will be overrun by patchouli-scented, pot-smokin’, peace-lovin’ Deadheads, and if magical moments are what you’re after, you can’t think of a better crowd to inspire a few.
The decision is easy now. You’re ditching prom to hang out with the Dead. And your best friend, Melissa, is coming with you. Neither of you has enough cash to buy tickets, but that’s okay. You’ll show up anyway, hang out on the grounds, and catch a few riffs from the open-air arena.
When the big night arrives, you pack Melissa’s old Civic with blankets and snacks and all your raging, naked excitement and head to the stadium, high on rebellion and big-eyed dreams. The grounds are alive with cars and buses, tents, girls in long skirts, and boys kicking hacky sacks and blowing bubbles into the sky. Campfires and hot dogs and earthy sage spice the air, and you close your eyes and take it all in, memorizing every detail.
Melissa pulls the gold Civic into a disorganized tangle of cars that stretches into the next county. There’s a faded red and white NO PARKING sign, but you come to the only logical conclusion: It’s a concert. They can’t possibly tow everyone.
You leave the car beneath the sign and meld into the crush of barefooted, hairy-legged Deadheads meandering toward the stadium. People sell beer out of giant ice chests; others sell weed out of Whitman’s Sampler boxes. You pass by these industrious, homegrown vendors until a better offer catches your attention.
“Free hugs,” a twenty-something guy calls out. He’s cute; seems like a fair deal. You take him up on the offer. He’s a good hugger, too, and you get your money’s worth. Perfect, since you’ve only got fifteen bucks to your name.
You find a good spot on the grass outside the stadium and stretch out on a blanket the color of the sky. You and Melissa watch the sunset, sipping two sugary wine coolers that her brother snagged for you. Music floats on the air, drifting on pale purple smoke into the night. All around you, baby Deadheads toddle naked through the grass while women braid their hair and men sway in trippy, rhythmic circles. You fantasize about them. About dropping out and falling in with a new family, traveling the country, following the music. You’re a writer, after all, and there’s a story in that kind of life. You’re a hippie, too, deep down where it counts. You want to grow vegetables and braid your hair and walk around smelling like the earth. You want to learn the words to all the songs, to understand the stuff that Jerry Garcia sings about.
To unravel the mystery of why good music always makes you cry.
But that’s for the future, maybe. Tonight, you’re just happy to be there.
Sometime after the first set, the stadium doors open, and security calls you forth, ushering in the poor, ticketless masses for a chance to see the stage. The Dead, it turns out, welcome all. You’re entranced. When you reach the top of the stairs and step out into the stands, your heart flutters. Jerry’s leading the band in this crazy jam, part jazz riff, part folksy drum trip. There are no words, just rich music, and everyone in the packed stadium sways and spins, hands floating up like little birds. Colored lights illuminate the stage, and though you’re way up high, the energy reaches you and fills you with an inexplicable human connectedness the likes of which you’ll never again feel. Soon, your hands float up like the rest, and you dance.
At the end of the show, you drift on the current of the crowd, flowing outside like water. You don’t speak, but you look at your best friend and smile, eyes shining. It’s that kind of night, and you drop your last fifteen bucks on a T-shirt to commemorate it. “Toke up, Doc,” it says under a red-eyed Bugs Bunny doing just that.
(FYI, the shirt isn’t exactly a crowd-pleaser with school officials that Monday,
or with your parents, but that’s a story for another letter.)
You and Melissa are so enraptured that you don’t immediately notice the cop looking out across the field, standing in the empty spot where Melissa’s car ought to be. The illegally parked vehicles have been impounded, he announces. You can reclaim them at the station for a fee of one hundred and eighty-five dollars.
You look at the shirt in your hands.
That’s all, folks.
You’re stranded.
You could take your chances at Camp Deadhead, you think. Put that fantasy in motion, find a nice dreadlocked family and share their wool blankets until it’s time to shove off at dawn….
No. Look around. Take a deep breath of tea-scented air and assess the situation. There’s trash everywhere, cans and bottles overflowing from barrels, dotting the grass like aluminum flowers.
Five-cent-deposit-earning aluminum flowers.
Free Hugs Guy, still standing where you’d left him earlier in all his dreadlocked, tie-dyed, hugs-for-all glory, overhears your predicament and offers to help. He doesn’t have any money, either, since he didn’t make a profit that night, but he’s not as reluctant to approach random strangers for help. He’s also fluent in Stoner. With his guidance, you scrounge up a quarter for the pay phone and call Melissa’s mom, who’s accustomed to your stranger-than-fiction antics and who, critical to the plan taking shape in your mind, owns a minivan.
I’m not gonna lie. Free Hugs Guy and his utter selflessness are long gone by the time the minivan rolls up. It’s three hours of backbreaking labor to collect enough glass and metal, using your sky-blue blanket as a net and heaving it, one trip at a time, into the cavernous minivan. By the time you cash in at the grocery store, you’re bleary-eyed and delirious, but you earn nearly two hundred bucks—four thousand cans’ and bottles’ worth.
Enough to free the car and snag a box of doughnuts for the ride home, way too many hours past curfew.
That show was one for the archives.
You witnessed history that night. Two years later, Jerry Garcia will be dead. The prom show will end up being the band’s last appearance in town.
And you were there.
In some ways, your classmates are right. You will look back on prom night with fondness and joy. And for the rest of your life, people will swear that prom was the most magical, momentous night of their lives, and they’ll wonder, as they did then, whether you regret ditching the dance. But I promise you something: You’ll never regret it. Not once.
Because you got to dance with the Dead.
And twenty years later, in the quiet that follows your most magical, momentous nights, sometimes you’ll catch yourself singing an old song with your eyes closed, and you’ll remember those crazy riffs and the sky-blue blanket full of bottles and you’ll smile, your heart full and content.
Sarah Ockler is the best-selling author of Fixing Delilah (2010) and the critically acclaimed Twenty Boy Summer (2009), a YALSA Teens’ Top Ten nominee and IndieNext pick. When she’s not writing or reading at home in Colorado, Sarah enjoys taking pictures, eating cupcakes, hugging trees, and road-tripping through the country with her husband, Alex. Check out her latest young adult novel, Bittersweet (2012), and visit her at SarahOckler.com.
BEST FRIENDS FOREVER (FOR REAL)
Lauren Oliver and Elizabeth Miles
Dear Teen Elizabeth (from Lauren Oliver),
First off, let me say: You really got me through high school. Without your support and friendship, I’m not sure I would have made it out. So, thank you. I’m very happy to tell you that you will grow into a beautiful, accomplished, and beloved young woman, and I’m even happier to tell you that you and I will remain best friends.
There are a few other pieces of information I’d like to send along your way, so bear with me.
1. First off, your hair looks super cute when it’s really short. Go ahead and lop it off! You’ll look like a beneficent pixie.
2. Secondly, DON’T SMOKE. Seriously. Put down the cigarettes NOW. If you don’t, you and I will struggle with quitting throughout our twenties. It totally isn’t worth it.
3. Remember all those boys who broke our hearts over the years? There was Brett (you), Dan Waitman (me), Steve (me again), Brett again (you); there were Jons and Adams and Matts and countless others. Sometimes we suffered for days or weeks. Sometimes we cried, sometimes we starved, and sometimes we couldn’t stop eating—but we always leaned on each other (and on an occasional dose of Pride and Prejudice and a certain Mr. Colin Firth) to get us through. I won’t say now that those experiences weren’t worth it, but you should know that they were just like the math problems we had to do in calc—their greatest worth was that they taught us process. In the case of calc, we learned how to think; in the case of the Toms, Jons, and Adams, we learned how to how to feel and to love. It wasn’t about the particulars, but the generals: All that heartbreak helped us learn how to heal, and it helped us become better and better at relationships.
4. Your parents are great in some ways and crazy in others. So are mine. They won’t necessarily understand us any better as we get older. But we can understand them better, and understand that they have their own issues and limitations that are absolutely not reflections of us. Your parents love you and they’re doing the best they can.
5. Don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it. You’re going to go through some dark times. I’ll be there for you. So will Laura and Jackie. So will Dafna, who will become your best friend in college, and so will various other people who love you. Lean on us.
6. Go to therapy!
7. You’re going to be tempted to move to DC and go to grad school some day. Skip that whole section of your life; go straight to Portland, Maine. You’ll love it there.
8. You may not know this, but I was really jealous of you in high school. Boys always seemed to fall in love with you, and rightly so. And I felt they always just used me because of my somewhat…questionable morals and attitudes. Anyway, I just want to say: That was my problem, not yours, and I’m sorry. You deserve to be loved. So do I, for that matter!
9. Don’t let me get so drunk at your house in Otis after prom!! Ugh. I thought I was going to die.
10. You’ll be okay. You’ll be more than okay. You’ll be great.
Love,
Dear Teen Lauren (from Elizabeth Miles),
I can’t believe we ever hated each other. Remember that? How you thought I was always either laughing hysterically or sobbing (true), and how I thought you were a snob (also true)? Thank God for Alanis Morissette and eggs with ketchup and Pride and Prejudice and the Beatles and the rest of the random and wonderful things we eventually bonded over. If not for them, I may have missed out on a truly rewarding friendship with an impressive, generous, beautiful woman. I’ve read your letter, and in response—and in order to thank you for being my best friend, then and now—I’ve compiled some of my own advice tidbits:
1. My hair looks good short? Yours looks good—striking, really—when it’s combed.
2. DON’T SMOKE! It’s the worst. It’s an expensive habit that will give us wrinkles! Who wants wrinkles?!
3. You are one sexy chica and you can work it. You know it, I know it, boys know it, and girls know it. It’s a complicated thing, being a woman who is both seductive and smart—and that balancing act doesn’t get any easier as you get older. Rest assured, your charms go far beyond your pretty face, hot body, and racy sense of adventure. Don’t exploit yourself. Trust in the fact that you’re loved now, and that you’ll continue to be loved in the future, for much more than your sex appeal.
4. We had a list in the back of our shared journal: “Hook-Up Deal-Breakers and Makers.” That list may not be as relevant these days (not least because of that ring on your finger), but its underlying philosophy is right on: We deserve the best. It’s okay to say what we want and to identify what we don’t.
5. You’re going to experience some terrible losses—too much, too early. D
o what you can in these teenage years to make yourself resilient, to understand that bad things happen to good people, to cultivate sources of support both internal and external that you can rely on when your worst-case scenarios become reality.
6. Totally, go to therapy.
7. Even though we were best friends, we never really talked about “popularity” per se. That’s probably a good thing—we were too busy trying to remember our harmonies for Quaker Notes. But despite having a sizeable group of friends and being involved in several inclusive school activities, I know I was still worried that so-and-so doesn’t like me, and secretly thrilled to have been invited to that party, etc. First of all, teenage Lauren, let’s be open with each other about these concerns. And second of all, if you have them too, just know that we’ll realize SOON after high school which friendships matter and which ones don’t—in fact, the closeness that you, I, Laura, and Jackie share is an anomaly, not the norm. Now, eleven years after high school, I talk to precisely four people who I knew back then.
8. Just like I should skip my hemp-necklace-wearing phase, you should pass over the faux-bling-wearing phase (wait until you can afford the real stuff)—hippie chic and gaudy baubles don’t really suit us.
9. Maybe pressure me to hand in at least one of my AP European History assignments on time? How do you do it? (“It,” in this case, means having a relatively normal teenage life and getting straight A’s—God, I was so envious!)
10. You may not know it now, but babes, you’re gonna blow everyone away.
Love,
Lauren Oliver is the New York Times best-selling author of Before I Fall (2011) and the Delirium trilogy. She is also the author of Liesl and Po (2011), a book for younger readers, which received two starred reviews. Kirkus had this to say about it: “With nods to Dahl, Dickens, the Grimms and even Burnett, the author has made something truly original.” Lauren thinks you’ll like it too! She is also a cofounder of the literary development company Paper Lantern Lit (PaperLanternLit.com). Find out more at LaurenOliverBooks.com.
Dear Teen Me Page 13