You rush down the hallway. Shake your mom awake. Hand her the phone. You step back and wait. Wait. And wait. It’ll only be a few seconds, but it’ll seem like forever.
Just when you think you can’t stand it any longer, your mom will let out a choked sob and somehow you’ll know this is connected to the cop car, to the ambulance. You’ll feel it in your heart and in your gut.
“Chad’s dead,” your mom will say. Your cousin. That house was his.
He committed suicide, you’ll learn. He was your favorite and you let him know it. And maybe it seemed like a joke to the family, but it was true. You adored him. He was smart. And funny. And happy. Wasn’t he? He was so much more than you ever thought you could be.
Why would he do it? you’ll wonder. Why? This is a question that will never have an answer, but you can’t stop asking it.
The next day, you’ll be lost and numb and everyone will be crying and you can’t take the crying. Call your friend Wes. Call him. He’ll help you escape.
At dinnertime, you’ll realize you haven’t eaten all day. At the fast-food place, Wes will know the boy behind the counter. You won’t catch his name. He’ll give you extra fries. On a day like this, the fries mean more than they normally would.
Remember him. It’ll be a hazy memory, but keep it tucked away.
Three months later, a boy will come into the Laundromat where you work. He’ll ask you out. Say yes.
It will take you a few weeks, several dates, many hours spent on the phone, before you realize he was the boy behind the counter. The one who gave you the fries. That boy will become your husband.
Somehow, on one of the worst nights of your life, you’ll meet the most important person in your life. Fate may seem a silly notion, but sometimes, tiny, inconspicuous moments will connect to something bigger, something profound. So my last bit of advice is this: Take nothing for granted. Keep your heart and your eyes open. You never know when you’ll meet someone extraordinary. Or, even if it’s for a second in the dark, in a car on the highway, you’ll get your only chance to say good-bye.
Jennifer Rush is the author of the forthcoming young adult thriller Altered. She currently lives in a little 1930s house in a small town on the shoreline of Lake Michigan with her husband, the fabulously supportive J.V., and her two crazy kids.
SMILE!
Amy Kathleen Ryan
Dear Teen Me,
I know you hate to be told what to do with your face. Elderly men in particular love telling you to smile—for which you reward them with a sarcastic smirk. Good work. They should mind their own business. But since I’m you, and your face is mine, I have every right to make this suggestion: Slap a grin on your mug.
You know how you never get asked out on dates? That’s because you lurch through the hallways of your school with your head down as if you were ducking enemy fire.
I can’t blame you. High school isn’t easy. You’ve got all types—from motorheads to eggheads to potheads—crammed into a single building at high density, and you have to get through the day without erupting into civil war. I have news for you, too: Adults wouldn’t be able to do it. In adulthood, people have self-sorted into pockets of like-minded compadres. The computer geeks work together at Microsoft, the debate members have all joined law firms, and the drama kids are launching off-off-Broadway plays in Minneapolis. So don’t listen to adults telling you these are the best years of your life. It gets infinitely better when you can choose what you do, where, and with whom. But until that day comes, smile!
I’m not saying you should be one of those plastic, ever-chipper girls who bounce through the hallway swinging their ponytails behind them like bullwhips. These girls will grow up to be real estate agents, politicians, and PTA presidents. Their smiles will become like debit cards, earning them professional capital, but depleting them in the soul department.
Nonetheless, there are occasions when it would be eminently appropriate for you to smile. For instance, you know that cute guy in the leather jacket who was ogling you at the football game? And you know how you were so nervous you could barely glance in his direction? When you did look at him, it was oh so casually, as though your eye was actually drawn to the overboiled hotdogs behind him, and you just happened to look at his manly shoulders by accident. Did it never once occur to you that you could actually smile at him? Give him a little invitation? A little facial tic that says, “Hi. I am receptive. Please initiate.” If you’d managed to contort your frown a mere thirty degrees upward, he might be dating you and your fuzzy 1980s perm right now (instead of that girl with the bubble butt and colored contacts).
Because here’s the thing I don’t think you realize: It is actually possible for a guy to be attracted to you. No, you’re not the prettiest girl in school. And you’re definitely not the most popular. But that doesn’t mean that some nice, cute guy couldn’t notice you. And if you encouraged him with a friendly grin, he might be able to overcome his nervousness enough to say hi. And then you might have a date for homecoming instead of being forced to hang out on the bleachers with your wallflower girlfriends mouthing the lyrics to “Forever Young.”
You won’t be, you know. Your looks will fade, and you’ll spend money on creams and tinctures to try and buy a few more minutes of youthfulness. That’s what I do now every night; I scrub away dead skin cells by whatever means necessary. I’m trying to look like you. That’s because you’re beautiful. All teenage girls are beautiful. Your eyes are clear. Your skin is wrinkle-free. You’re energetic and lovely by virtue of your gorgeous, enviable youth. So don’t waste it. Pull your face up out of its foxhole. Take a chance on the world. Smile.
Amy Kathleen Ryan is the author of Vibes (2010), Zen and Xander Undone (2011), and Glow (2011)—the first book in the Sky Chasers series. She lives in Colorado with her family.
SING IT OUT
Tom Ryan
Dear Teen Me,
Let me get this out of the way first: You’re gay. And in the end, you’ll come out. And yes, eventually it does get better. Much better.
But let’s just say that it doesn’t happen overnight. In fact, there’s a whole hell of a lot you’ll have to deal with in the meantime before you’re able to admit who you really are.
That’s what I want to talk about now: the meantime.
First up: Don’t stop singing. Please.
You love singing. I know it. I know that the first thing you’ll do after you get your license is grab your favorite mix tape, pop it in the tape deck, and drive around by yourself singing along (at the top of your mother-freaking lungs) to Fleetwood Mac, Aerosmith, and Roxette.
You love dancing too, right? Jumping up and down and feeling like a superstar in the movie of your life?
You like to bake cookies and decorate cakes. You like sassy female comedians. You like to watch figure skating. You write poetry about sunsets over the ocean. Do you get where I’m going with this?
Yep. You love a whole bunch of supergay shit.
And that’s okay, despite what the voice has to say.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. The nasty little voice in the back of your head that tells you to rein it in, to try acting straight. The voice that tells you that the things you love and the thoughts you think make you worthless—an embarrassment. The voice that says you should be ashamed of yourself.
Worst of all, the voice will tell you, day and night, that if you don’t watch your step, then people will start to see who you really are.
But there are also going to be times when you can’t help yourself. When you let yourself get up onstage and belt out a tune for an audience. When you bust out your disco moves at the school dance because somebody has to do the Bee Gees justice. When you come to school bursting with the latest Hollywood gossip because it’s just too juicy to not talk about. When you buy that sweater at Le Chateau, because you have to—I mean, come on, it’s the perfect shade of green!
The voice is going to tell you to hold it all in—and more ofte
n than not, the voice will win out over your instincts. But sometimes you’re going to tell the voice to shut the eff up, because you can’t help it. You can’t help doing the things you want to do. Sometimes you just can’t help being who you are.
And those times are going to be the best times. When you don’t care what people think, when you let yourself do the things you want to do, with the people you love. They’re going to be the best times because you are better at being yourself than you are at being anyone else.
So please, promise me something…When you feel like singing, just do it. Lift up your head, close your eyes, open your lungs, and sing. Sing so loud and so long that the voice has no choice but to shut up and listen.
Eventually, you won’t even remember what it sounds like.
Tom Ryan was born and raised in Inverness, Nova Scotia. His first novel, Way to Go (2012), was recently published. He can be found online at TomWroteThat.com.
I’M NOT GOING TO GIVE YOU ANY GOOD ADVICE
Leila Sales
Dear Teen Me,
You’re probably hoping that I’m writing to you—from the future—with words of advice, sage wisdom I have picked up over my years as an adult which will somehow save you from all embarrassing and depressing situations. I should do that, shouldn’t I? It would be really nice of me to help you be a more well adjusted person.
The trouble with that is, when I think of advice I could give you, I mostly come up with things for you not to do.
For example, when the boy you’ve had a crush on for two years rests his elbow on your shoulder, do not respond by saying, “Aren’t you a little short for that?” Yes, that will remove his arm, but it will also remove any chance you might have had of going out with him.
Do not write long letters to every girl in your bunk at camp, or to every member of your graduating class, in which you explain to them how much you care about them and explain how they can still improve themselves. This is weird, and nobody will appreciate it. You are actually not an expert on other people’s character flaws. Furthermore, writing fifty letters is a huge time investment, and you could probably spend those hours doing something more useful, like learning how to cook (which you still do not know how to do, sorry).
Do not go on a self-loathing spree after you get rejected from your four top-choice colleges. It’s not because you’re worthless and unappreciated; it’s because getting into college is hard.
Do not pull out in front of that school bus when there’s a police car directly behind you. That’s a one-hundred-dollar ticket, Teen Me. You could use that hundred dollars, if you still had it today. You could buy yourself a new iPod. (Teen Me, iPods are this amazing technology that let you carry around thousands of songs instead of just a few CDs. I mean it. The future is a crazy place.)
Anyway. I could go on. You make a lot of mistakes as a teenager, it’s true, and you make some enemies as well. But here’s the thing: I don’t actually want you to avoid those mistakes. Because then you would have nothing to write about.
Even if I could instruct you on how to get through high school without offending a single one of your classmates, without scaring off a single boy, without angering any of your teachers—even then, I wouldn’t do it. Because each time you ate lunch alone in the library or totally botched a stage kiss, you were giving yourself the materials you now need as a novelist.
Eventually every one of your missteps, and every person who wouldn’t give you the time of day, will make their way into your books. And teenagers all over the world will read those books, and some will even say things like, “I love this book. Leila Sales seems really cool.” I’m serious. If you give it enough time, teenagers will think you are cool. It won’t be while you’re a teenager, but still.
So do exactly what you’re doing. Make every mistake you’re making, but also learn from them, remember them, and use them.
Two exceptions to that advice:
Do not be so bitchy to your dad.
And do not blow-dry the life out of your hair every day. Your hair is curly, and it looks good curly. Forcing it to be something that it’s not isn’t fooling anybody.
Other than those two things, just carry on as you were. Mistakes and all.
Leila Sales grew up outside of Boston and graduated from the University of Chicago. She is the author of the novels Mostly Good Girls (2010) and Past Perfect (2011). When not writing, she spends most of her time thinking about chocolate, kittens, dancing, sleeping, and receiving unsolicited text messages from strangers (which you can read about on her blog, The Leila Texts). Leila lives and writes in Brooklyn.
FRIENDS IN DARK PLACES
Cynthia Leitich Smith
Dear Teen Me,
You’ve had enough of the quarters game in the kitchen, the “Pink Floyd” album in the rec room, and the whispers and stares everywhere else. A girl on your high school newspaper staff just told you he was here. You have to get away. You’re not ready to see him yet.
It’s more than that actually. You’re not ready for everyone else to dissect how you two interact…or don’t. Maybe that sounds superficial, but this is social theater, and you’re the leading lady of the week. You’re not about to let them see you crumble.
What are you doing here anyway? You barely know the girl whose parents (currently out of town) own this place. Maybe your best friend had a point: Moping at home wasn’t helping, but offering yourself up as the focus of tonight’s drama wasn’t the best idea either.
For the first time, a boyfriend has told you that he doesn’t want you anymore. You’ve been together for months. You’ve gone on countless variations of his preferred date: dinner at a chain restaurant followed by the yogurt shop or miniature golf. You’ve been to church with his family, and he’s celebrated the holidays with yours. Your parents like him, especially your dad. They connect over football.
Was it because you’re a virgin? Is that why he dumped you? He never pressured. He never even brought it up. But that’s what your gut says.
In your suburban high school, it seems like a cheerleader gets pregnant every single year. You’re horrified by how people turn their backs on those girls, and you’re determined that it won’t happen to you. Could he sense that?
The split-level house is crowded. You squeeze past drunken kids to reach the second floor. Someone asks if you know he’s there, and you pretend not to hear. Couples are making out in the bathroom and in the bedrooms you pass. You slip into the master, where coats and purses are piled on the bed, and shut the door.
You need a few moments to pull yourself together. It’s already late. You consider hiding out there until your friends are ready to leave.
Then the door opens. Of all people, it’s the girl who’s been bullying you from the day you first moved to this district, back in fourth grade. She spray-painted the word “Bitch” on your driveway, and mocked your discount-store clothes.
That’s why you’re a cheerleader. You tried out for the wardrobe that came with it. Who would’ve guessed you’d take away her spot on the squad?
After that, she faded into the background. Until tonight. Has she been waiting for the opportunity to attack? You feel exposed, vulnerable.
“You’re too good for him,” she announces, and you assume it’s a trick.
You brace yourself for the punch line. You brace yourself to be the punch line, like you had been for many years before. But it doesn’t come. She’s sincere.
Has the world turned upside down?
“Why are you, of all people, being nice to me?” you demand with more spirit than you’ve ever shown her, toe-to-toe, before.
She blames the past on jealousy. She tells you how much you wow her.
It’s a small miracle. If she can change, then you will, too. No more hiding. You go downstairs to confront the boy. To ask what went wrong.
Years later, you won’t care enough to remember what he said.
In the end, that won’t be the conversation that mattered.
&nb
sp; Cynthia Leitich Smith is the New York Times best-selling author of the Tantalize series, award-winning books for younger readers and numerous short stories. She went to high school in the suburbs of Kansas City and earned degrees in journalism and law before deciding to write fiction full-time. Today Cynthia makes her home in Austin, Texas, with her husband, author Greg Leitich Smith, and four feisty writer cats. Visit her at CynthiaLeitichSmith.com.
FINDING HIM
Jessica Spotswood
Dear Teen Me,
You are a truly whimsical being. You wish upon a star every Christmas Eve (and on fireworks during the Fourth of July). You read Victoria Holt and Judith McNaught and Gone with the Wind, over and over again. You’ve never been kissed, but you write sprawling historical romance novels filled with flirtatious banter and spirited, thinly veiled Scarlett O’Haras.
You want to fall in love.
All of your best friends are dating. You’re simultaneously envious of and annoyed by their constant PDAs. When their romances are going well they don’t need you; but when they fall apart, your friends get all devastated and depressed and make very questionable decisions. Their entire sense of self-worth seems hinged on these relationships, and you don’t ever want to be like that. You swear that when you fall in love, you won’t lose yourself.
Your stepmom says you’re the type of girl who will marry her first serious boyfriend, and you know what? She’s right.
It will take a while for you to find him, though. Right now you’re going through a succession of crushes on boys who only see you as a friend, and who therefore don’t think it’s at all awkward to confide in you about their crushes on other girls. It’s mortifying. But in college you’ll make some amazing girlfriends—the kind who won’t drop you when they get boyfriends or husbands or jobs or anything. You’ll make out with a few boys. You’ll also have more wild crushes, which will make you feel small and stupid when they are not reciprocated. You’ll become as cynical as you are capable of being (which is not very, because you’re inherently optimistic). You will want to murder anyone who calls you cute, because cute seems naïve.
Dear Teen Me Page 15