Dear Teen Me

by Miranda Kenneally

  The boy who will become our husband, the Playwright—he is brilliant and witty and he never says what you expect him to. It’s maddening; you can’t decide whether you want to kiss him or kick him. When you’re almost twenty, you’ll be in a play together, and after every rehearsal and performance you’ll stand outside the theater talking together, and your friends will suspect long before you do that you like him. I won’t tell you how you finally realize that you’re interested in each other. Some things are lovely surprises.

  The Playwright never makes you feel small or stupid or calls you cute in that condescending way. In fact, he once tells you that you’re like Cruella de Vil and the Dalmatians rolled into one person. You will be bizarrely delighted by this.

  You will fall in love, but you won’t lose yourself. You won’t be one of those couples who are attached at the hip, who always speak in we’s. He will have rehearsals, see experimental plays that you hate, and be mildly obsessed with fantasy football. You will go on writing retreats and girls’ spa weekends and have a standing Tuesday dinner date with your best friend. You’ll still be an independent girl, but you can be braver and stronger and better once you’re confident that you are loved.

  Teen Me, I know we’re not very good at patience. But he’s worth waiting for.

  Jessica Spotswood is the author of Born Wicked (2012), Book 1 of The Cahill Witch Chronicles. She lives in Washington, DC, with her playwright husband and a very cuddly cat named Monkey. She loves theater, tea, cardamom cookies, the color pink, twirly dresses, and the sound of bells chiming the hour. Jess is never happier than when she’s immersed in a good story. (Swoony kissing scenes are her favorite.)

  BOYS BOYS BOYS

  Erika Stalder

  Dear Teen Me,

  Let’s talk about boys. I know, I know—you think the topic is overhyped and undervalued. And you’re annoyed that seemingly all the chicks around you are consumed—consumed!—by boy stuff. I really can’t blame you for thinking “Gawd—enough already!” What with your best friend dating a twenty-five-year-old gangster with jailhouse tattoos and a gunplay fetish (not to mention a thing for MUCH younger, virginal girls—gross!), and your carpool buddy who rhapsodizes on and on about her boy exploits…It’s pretty exhausting.

  And of course it doesn’t help that your first date was with a guy who drove a windowless van (which he borrowed), and who didn’t bring enough money to even cover his own tab. Or that most of the hotties in your tiny school act like dopey surfer brahs who consume beerios (yes, that’s Cheerios in beer—ugh) for breakfast. But humor me.

  Try to be nicer to the boys in your school. Even though the boy frontier is tumultuous, embarrassingly underexplored, and sometimes a downright hassle, high school guys are trying to get by just like you. They’re worried about whether their V cards have surpassed the socially acceptable use-by date. And they’ve all got that girl they desperately want to talk to but are terrified of approaching, just because they might be rejected. And despite the amount of misplaced innuendo and attaboying they engage in, these guys can be sincere. Sometimes, when a guy tells you that you look pretty, he means it, and you should simply thank him instead of knowing that he’s messing with you and flashing your signature “don’t eff with me” glare.

  And for God’s sake—when you’re at that post-lip-sync party with your crush, make a move! I know you’re all worried about ruining your friendship with the guy, but after high school, you’ll never talk to him again—so that friendship isn’t as important as you think. What’s more, when you see him a year or so outta high school, you won’t even think he’s cute anymore—so get him while the gettin’s good! Not only will he likely go for a little action, but making the first move with a guy will be great practice in gutsiness, semicalculated risk taking, and, most importantly, seeing the sweet side of the male species while you’re still in high school. Because as you’ll see, even just a year out of high school, the menfolk are awesome.

  Speaking of which, I’ve got a few highlights for you: There’s an amazing mix-tape-making photographer you’re about to meet. He whisks you off to this secret, mountaintop location and treats you to the perfect picnic. You sit together up there, looking up at the stars, and even though it’s definitely the stuff that rom-coms are made of, it still feels magical and authentic. There’s also this bass-playing skater guy who takes the time to teach you to kick-kick-push, who doesn’t make fun of you when you eat pavement, and who doctors you up after you scrape the hell out of your leg trying to barrel down a hill. The guys in your life just keep getting better and better as your life goes on, and all you have to do to access their awesomeness is just let down your guard a bit. Good luck, and enjoy it!

  Erika Stalder is a Cali-based journalist who has penned five nonfiction books for teens, including The Date Book (2007), Fashion 101: A Crash Course in Clothing (2008), and The Look Book: 50 Iconic Beauties and How to Achieve Their Signature Styles (2011)—all with Zest Books. She has written articles for magazines and websites including Wired, Gizmodo, Missbehave, Planet and MTV Style. She writes Dear Erika, a weekly advice column for teens in conjunction with ABC Family’s hit show Secret Life of the American Teen, and is FINALLY working to realize her teenage dream with the launch of an online magazine for teens at ErikaStalder.com.

  CHUNKY

  Rhonda Stapleton

  Dear Teen Me,

  Looking a little chunky, aren’t ya?

  Before that guy in junior English class said that to you, you’d had some fleeting worries about your thighs being a little too big. Your hips just a touch too curvy. But you’d just grown into a real bra size the summer before. You felt feminine, confident, strong.

  Right up to that comment.

  Those words are going to haunt you for a long time. Every time you look at yourself in the mirror, you’ll hear his voice: “Looking a little chunky, aren’t ya?”

  Not that you want to admit to yourself or to anyone else that one stupid guy has the power to hurt you like that. Especially one you had a crush on—a fleeting emotion that crashed and burned point-two seconds after he said that to you. But they’re just words, right? That’s what you told yourself that day as you bit back the sting, blinked away the tears, slipped into your seat, and stared blindly ahead, your cheeks burning hot with humiliation. They’re just words, and words can’t hurt.

  You never saw yourself the same way again after that, though. Your lens was broken.

  I look back on you, remembering the way you studied every inch of your thighs, your butt, your belly in the mirror day after day, sucking in, wishing you were skinnier. And I feel sick that your view of yourself became skewed because of what one (thoughtless) person thought of you.

  Because after that, you didn’t dress for fun, for flair. You dressed to accentuate the good and conceal the bad.

  It wasn’t about personal statement. It was camouflage. It was illusion.

  What’s even worse is that you weren’t chunky. You were healthy. You were curvy. You were attractive. But none of that mattered, because someone who didn’t care about you or your feelings blurted out one a sentence he probably forgot about five minutes later.

  Not you, though. You lost almost all of your power and your self-confidence shortly after that. And you didn’t stop there—even into adulthood you were surrounded by images of beautiful women on TV, in movies, magazines, real life. Because beauty is a girl’s greatest asset, isn’t it? Perfect face, perfect body. Perfect soul. And you longed, you ached to look like them.

  You have a daughter now. She’s fifteen—a sophomore. She has a free spirit, dresses how she pleases, doesn’t give a damn what others think of her. She’s healthy, she’s curvy, she’s attractive. But deep down you worry that some stupid boy is going to say something to mess that up.

  You can’t change the cruel things people say. But don’t ever, ever forget that beauty goes beyond what you look like. Your beauty is in your heart. You care deeply about others. You smile freely. You’re
generous with your time and spirit. There isn’t a damn thing anyone else can say about you that will change that.

  Embrace your curves. They reflect your unique femininity. Your body is amazing! It will carry you to New York City, New Orleans, Oahu, San Francisco. It will bear your stresses, bear your children. It gives the most amazing hugs. It loves belly dancing, booty grinding, doing the sprinkler. It loves to walk, to hold hands, to kick leaves, and swim through big piles of snow.

  No one has power over you. Not now, not ever. So please, step away from the mirror and step back into your life. You’ll thank me for it later.

  Rhonda Stapleton has a bachelor’s degree in English, creative writing, and a master’s degree in English. She is the author of the teen romantic comedy trilogy Stupid Cupid (2009), Flirting with Disaster (2010), and Pucker Up (2010). You can find these books in the new three-in-one bind-up, Struck (2011). Rhonda also works as an acquisitions and developmental editor for Carina Press. To learn more about her and her books, visit RhondaStapleton.com.

  KEEPING QUIET

  Mariko Tamaki

  Dear Teen Me,

  You’re fifteen years old, and you want to die.

  Just so you know, not a lot of people know this about you. People see you with your book, sitting in the windowsill. They see you writing poetry in your poetry binder. They see your picture in the yearbook, bangs in your face, slouched in the back row. But that’s all they see.

  No one knows how sad you are. Your parents don’t even know you’re sad at all, mostly because you avoid them—preferring to snack on cereal and soy sauce (separately) in your room.

  Of course, you have your reasons for keeping to yourself. Girls are so mean in grade school. Later on you’ll marvel at this phenomenon, watching a new generation of teenagers from a safe distance, while teaching creative writing. But at fifteen, this cruelty feels overwhelmingly close. And you feel so incredibly vulnerable.

  What I’m trying to say is that yes, it obviously makes sense to try and avoid them, to stay hidden in the camouflage of a shadow. To keep quiet.

  But here’s the thing. You keep quiet instead of expressing yourself (which is only a little ironic because you’re also a huge fan of Madonna). You keep quiet instead of saying things you think are funny, because you’re afraid people won’t get the joke and will think you’re weird. You keep your heart tucked into your sleeve instead of being honest about the things and the people (the girls) that you love, because being open about this stuff seems like a surefire invitation for attack.

  But this is not a solution. It’s a problem, and it’s what makes you start to think about suicide—about getting away for good.

  And let me tell you something, as soon as you stop being quiet, as soon as you stop hiding, and hiding who you are, things will change.

  Before this happens, though, you’re going to experience a real crisis. You’ll spend some time in a hospital, and that won’t be any fun at all. You’ll be diagnosed with depression. And it will seem like an insurmountable diagnosis. But it’s won’t be. Instead, by hitting rock bottom at fifteen, you’ll quickly learn how silly it is to be afraid.

  After the hospital you’ll suddenly feel like you have nothing to lose. Hiding your true self will seem like a ridiculous task, because everyone will now have PROOF that you are different. You’ll be legitimately, REALLY, crazy. Everyone at school will know you had to be admitted to the hospital. The “why” will vary according to which particular rumor people choose to believe. So, you’ll think, “Who cares? So I’m nuts. SO WHAT?”

  First you’ll find your look—a punk rock, artsy, goth-type thing. You’ll discover the joys of eyeliner as lipstick. You’ll wear little old lady dresses and striped tights. You’ll buy ten-hole purple Doc Martens and wear them to bed because you love them so much. You’ll discover the joys of being the strangest person in the room. You’ll dye your hair purple.

  Three years later you’ll go to university and meet and fall in love with a girl who dyes her hair pink.

  And, just so you know, even though no one gets your jokes in high school, people will TOTALLY (mostly) get them later on.

  As your future self, I can make this promise: Things will TOTALLY get better. Have a little faith in yourself. So stop hiding. Stop being quiet. Be brave.

  Mariko Tamaki is a Toronto-based performer and the author of the award-winning graphic novel Skim (2010). Mariko’s upcoming works include a novel about freshman year, (You) Set Me on Fire, and a comic book, Awago Beach Babies, co-created with Jillian Tamaki. Mariko still wears dresses from Goodwill and purple Docs, and still loves to dye her hair purple. Visit MarikoTamaki.Blogspot.com.

  STOLEN JEANS, SMOKE RINGS, AND SELF-ESTEEM

  Don Tate

  Dear Teen Me,

  Hey there, Donny Tate! I’m sorry to interrupt while you paint. I know how focused you are in art mode, but we need to talk. I am you, thirty years later. My hair is grayer, my face is fuller, my pants are a few sizes larger. But I’m still here—we’re still here—alive and kicking in 2012. We’re lucky, though, ‘cause you almost messed it up for the both of us.

  You sit there at seventeen-years-old in your high school art class. All decked out in your Playboy shirt, Levi’s jeans, penny loafer shoes. We dressed to impress. But something’s wrong with this picture, and you and I both know it. You stole those jeans (…and the shirt…and the shoes). And you smell like an ashtray after cutting gym class to smoke cigarettes in the parking lot with your boys.

  I’m not trying to out you, but if I’m going to help you get on the right track, I need to be real.

  I’m writing this letter to give you a piece of advice—something you and I will learn the hard way, after many years of bad decisions: You don’t need to prove anything to anyone but God and yourself.

  Don’t worry, I’m not getting all church-boy on you, so wipe the attitude off your face. (You’re just like your daughter—the one you’ve already conceived at seventeen and don’t even know about yet.) Listen, you spend way too much time trying to impress others. For example, that stuff you stole—you didn’t need it. You have two jobs. You stole to impress your friends. And they were impressed. So much so, they pressed you to steal stuff for them, too. Clothes, electronics, hair care products. Whatever they wanted, you got it for them. But where were those “friends” when the police showed up and you got fined for shoplifting?

  Please know I’m not judging you. High school is tough, and your home life is too. Especially after mom and dad got divorced. You want to be liked by your peers. You want to be looked up to, held in high esteem. But the most important man in your life—our dad!—dragged your self-esteem through the mud. He didn’t accept you as the artist you were. He wanted a sports star. He didn’t like your brown skin. He wanted a light-skinned kid with straight hair. He drank a lot and said a lot of really mean things. I get that. I understand.

  But there’s something else you need to understand : Your mom, she loves you. Your grandma and grandpa do, too. Your three little brothers all look up to you and love you. In fact—and you’ll find this hard to believe—your dad, he loves you too. He just doesn’t know how to show it, because he didn’t have a very good dad himself.

  Being a man is not about how many pairs of jeans you can steal. It’s not about whether or not you can blow smoke rings. And it’s not about making babies either. (Any dog, cat, or snake can do that.)

  Prove greatness through what you are truly good at: creating art. Not machismo. Take advantage of what’s already within you: raw, freaking, God-given talent. That’s how to be a big man.

  Don Tate has illustrated numerous critically acclaimed books for children including Ron’s Big Mission (2009), She Loved Baseball (2010), and Duke Ellington’s Nutcracker Suite (2011). Don is also the author of the book It Jes’ Happened: When Bill Traylor Started to Draw (2012). His illustrations appear regularly in newspapers and magazines, and on products for children such as wallpaper, textiles, calendars, apparel, and pa
per products. He lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife and son.

  YOU’RE SO RIGHT BUT SO WRONG

  Melissa Walker

  Dear Teen Me,

  You’re right about almost everything. I know it and you know it. But the truth is, you’re wrong about almost everything, too. Life is slippery that way, so let’s break down some of your core beliefs:

  You’ll never get over your first love.

  Why you’re right: He’s pretty awesome. He’s hot, he makes you laugh, and he understands what you’re thinking with just a glance. No one will ever know you in the same way that he does right now. There’s no getting over a first love. There’s only holding the memory of it close and making it a part of the fabric of the rest of your life.

  Why you’re wrong: Breaking up with him will not mean leaving yourself damaged in an irreparable way. You don’t have to get over a first love, you just have to move on from him. And you don’t have to rupture all your ties to him in order to do that. After the breakup, with a little time, you can even be friends again. (And by the way, I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass: You’ll dance with him at your wedding, and he’ll wind up being a close friend of your husband’s.)

  You’ll never have friends this close again.

  Why you’re right: These people are hilarious and awesome and most of them have known you since you were five. It’s hard to compete with that. The good news is, friendship is not a competition.