Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (14 page)

Kersten Hamilton

Dear Teen Me,

Some people say God doesn’t allow us to see our futures because we wouldn’t have the courage to face all that trouble and heartbreak if we saw it all at once—but I don’t think that’s true. The thing is, I know a secret that you’re just beginning to learn, and this secret isn’t just important for your dream of becoming a writer, it’s also critical to your survival. So I’m going to give you a little peek into the days ahead.

It starts with that litter of puppies. They’re three days old, and their mother is dead. Everyone says you should drown them because they’re going to die anyway without a mama dog to feed them. That’s what they say. You’re thirteen, but you gave up listening to what people said years ago. You’ve learned to think for yourself. You don’t trust adults.

Your mom left when you were six. She fell in love with a man who didn’t want kids, and she chose him over you and your brothers and sister. You haven’t seen or heard from her since you were seven.

Your dad is an amazing storyteller—very charismatic. He can convince anyone that he’s completely, totally sane. He doesn’t tell them about the “voice” that tells him when to quit each job he gets, when to sleep, when to eat, and when it’s safe to walk down the street.

You’ve had it with death and loss and craziness. You decide you’re not going to kill the innocent little puppies. Not going to let it happen. And that’s a good choice, teen self. You’ll save them all, and name the one you keep Shadrach (after they boy in the Bible who came through a fiery furnace and lived to tell about it). He’s a yellow mutt with a black muzzle, and he’ll repay you a thousand, thousand times for saving his life.

Before Shad’s a year old, the “voice” will tell your dad to stop talking to you. You’ll have to make all your own decisions from that moment on, and you’ll make some bad ones. You’ll drop out of high school after your freshman year. Really bad choice. And because you’re not in school, no one will notice when you disappear.

The “voice” says the world is going to end and demands that the family get off the grid before it does. You’ll spend the rest of your teen years moving from one hiding place to another. You’ll live in shacks and abandoned houses. And you will be so, so isolated (i.e., you’ll have absolutely no human contact outside of your immediate family). Your dad still refuses to speak to you. It’s only because of Shad that your heart doesn’t wither and die. You’ll love Shad, and he’ll love you, no matter what.

Listen: As soon as your brothers are old enough to look after themselves, you need to get out of there. Things are different for girls in your family. Run. Wherever you wind up going, it will be good to have Shad with you.

And when you eventually meet your mother—try to understand that she is as broken as your dad. It wasn’t anything you did or said when you were seven that made her leave.

The fact is, we can’t know what the future holds,
because it doesn’t exist yet
—it doesn’t exist until we create it. No matter where you start, and no matter where you are today, you can dream a new tomorrow. Your parents can’t stop you. You can create it through the choices you make (like the choice to save a puppy). If you have no adult to trust as a child, choose to become an adult that children can trust.

Bethany Hegedus

Dear Teen Me,

You stare at the neon green light on your bedside digital clock. In a few more minutes, you’ll let Drew go—like,
all the way
. You’ve made up your mind. That’s why you’re here in the middle of the night. That’s why you let Drew’s best friend, Nate, pick you up after you snuck out of bed, crept down the stairs to the kitchen, and out the garage door. Not the big garage door with its electronic switch, but the side door that opens to the backyard—to where your family’s golden retrievers sleep. Both Rainy and Snowy bark at you, and at that point you almost head back inside. Almost. Instead you run. You run for the corner.

When Nate picks you up, you don’t know what to say. He’s your friend. You’ve known him for the two years you’ve been dating Drew on and off. You don’t go to the same high school anymore. (Zoning.) Nate plays saxophone in the marching band. Drew plays trumpet.

Nate fiddles with the car radio and mentions that Drew’s car is in the shop. You make small talk.
Uncomfortable
small talk. Your best friend, Andrea, dated Nate for a few weeks. They broke up when she wouldn’t give him a BJ. Dad thinks black guys are only after one thing—sex—but you know that’s not true. You and Drew have been dating for a long time. You make out. You touch one another. But you’ve never gone all the way. He hasn’t threatened to break up with you if you don’t.

Tonight is the night—you know it.

You’re in his bedroom. Drew nuzzles your ear. You’ve been kissing for what feels like hours. The bed creaks and your bodies shift. Your journal is filled with poems about Drew. About how Drew feels about you. About how hard it is to date a black guy. To deal with the stares of people in the mall. Or the movies. Not that you guys go out very often. Neither of you likes the stares.

Your friend Alicia lives in the same neighborhood as Drew. Her dad is a colonel in the army. Drew’s dad is in the army, too, but you haven’t ever met him. Before Drew turned the lights off, you saw his family picture. His mom, his
dad, his little sister.
Why haven’t you met any of them? Is Drew ashamed of you? Of your whiteness?

You stare at the clock. The deadline has passed. You’ve been doing that all night. Adding five more minutes—working up your nerve. You’re ready to go all the way. You’re about to whisper, “I love you, Drew,” when he shifts his body. He rolls away from you, pulls up his jeans, zips his zipper. “You better go. It’s getting late.”

You pull down your skirt, slide back into your bra. You stand like strangers in the dark.

Drew never knew that you wanted him to be your first. Five days later, you find out he’s started seeing someone else. A girl who goes to his high school.

A few years later, when you do go all the way, it’s a joint decision—something that’s spoken about beforehand and attempted over and over again. (Who knew losing your virginity would take more than one try?) And when it does happen, no one’s best friend picks you up. You drive yourself there and you drive yourself back home. And looking back, you’re gloriously relieved that your decision wasn’t dictated by the flashing of a bedside clock, but by your own internal clock instead.