Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (16 page)

You are firmly convinced you have no edge. Though it’s hard to believe here in the future, you’re still very shy right now. You don’t tell anyone how deeply that song moves you, especially since you’re not totally sure what it’s all about. But when you listen to it, you feel as if there’s a world living and breathing inside the music. It seems like, in a way, the Stones
live
there, and that if you get the dancers to feel as much as you’re feeling through the movements you give them, the Jaggerverse will shimmer into existence, and you’ll suddenly find yourself living a Bohemian existence downtown.

Grossmont is your third high school. No one there knows that less than a year ago, you dropped out of your second high school and moved to Europe to become a classical ballet dancer—and that you came home six weeks later because your father died of a heart attack. When it happened your stepmother got you a ticket home—for the funeral, you thought. You fully expected to return to Europe to keep dancing, but your stepmother talked you into staying in California and finishing high school. Which seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time. But later on you find out that Mrs. Newman, your stateside ballet teacher, didn’t think
it was such a good idea. She felt like you’d lose your chance to become really good. But she never got the chance to speak to you before you got on the plane.

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.

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 it 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!