Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (22 page)

You’re about to go sit out the rest of this miserable night on the front porch when Joe, the boy Aimee had come to flirt with, approaches you. He leans his arm against the chimney, shielding you from the frenzy. He says something about getting away from the chaos. You nod because you don’t like crowds either, and Joe invites you to his room.

You want to get away from the party so badly that you actually think Joe’s bedroom is preferable to the front stoop. And you justify your lapse in judgment by blaming Aimee for ditching you first. What you don’t see now is that your biggest fear—even worse than boys—is of being lonely.

With barely a word, Joe leads you past the desk to his bed, directing you onto your back by pointing out the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. In the dim, quiet room, he starts kissing you. He tugs your tank top down, staring, while you feel about as romanced as a frog on a dissecting table. When Joe gets up, muttering, “I’ll be right back,” your brain finally kicks into gear. You fix your shirt, find the door, and run straight to Aimee’s car. You’re still there, shivering, when she turns up an hour later, saying that she never found Joe.

You tell Aimee that the party was lame. What you
don’t
tell her is what actually happened—even though that might have saved her some heartache later on. Instead, you swallow the shame of that night, flashing back to the image of your exposed breasts, white in the fluorescent plastic starlight, again and again. You keep Aimee as your friend by nodding, agreeing, and keeping quiet for the rest of high school.

This is not the last time you’ll make a bad judgment call. There will be other Joes. You’ll spend several more years behind your angsty, artsy mask before you’re able to openly admit how lonely and afraid you are.

You’re going to find your way eventually, but if it were possible, I wish I could help you be more confident now. Have the courage to say yes to a year of study abroad, to say no to things you don’t want. Ask for more time when you feel uncertain. Don’t turn down a cool job because you’re afraid of traveling alone across the city, and don’t miss the opportunity to see a great show just because your friend bails. Your life is the sum of your experiences, and fear just gets in the way. So live more, and fear less!

Tara Kelly

Dear Teen Me,

You meet her your freshman year. You’re the awkward new kid who dresses like a goth one day and like your mother the next. She’s the “school slut,” the kind of girl every other girl warns you about. But she’ll be the first person to reach out to you…the only person.

She’s not the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, but everyone notices her. It’s not her clothes. She dresses like a lot of girls, vintage jeans and baby tees with a logo or a slogan across the chest. It’s not her sunshine hair or her scarlet lipstick. It’s not even her voice, rough and sweet at the same time. It’s the unconscious things, the little things. The way her lips are always turned up. The sway of her hips. The look in her eyes—she’s seen enough life for someone twice her age.

The two of you always sneak off campus at lunch. Sometimes you go to the park. Sometimes her apartment. She talks about guys between drags of Marb Reds (the only brand to smoke, in her opinion). She’s always dating some older guy…sometimes a lot older. You think it’s pretty creepy, but you don’t tell her so. She’s not the first girl you’ve known who’s dated older guys. And you don’t want her to know how inexperienced you are. You don’t want her to know a lot of things.

You wonder why she hangs out with you, why she doesn’t see you for the dork you think you are. A big night for you is hanging out at the park with your best friend and his skater buddies, trying to get brain freeze from Slurpees. But your first night with her is something you’ll never forget. Nothing major happens, but it’s your first taste of her world—a world that will soon become yours.

She sends some guys to your house to pick you up while she gets ready. She only just met these guys the day before. They show up in this old muscle car. You won’t remember the make or model…just that it was green and loud. She’s dating the driver, who looks and dresses a lot like Spike in
Buffy The Vampire Slayer
(you’ll see what I mean in a couple years). He likes his car and his metal at breakneck speeds. You think he’s a lot older—old enough to buy
booze. Or maybe he just knows where to buy it. His friends are closer to your age, sixteen maybe.

You don’t talk to them. They don’t talk to you. The guy in the flannel keeps looking at you, though. Like he wants to say something. He’s quieter than the others, a little less sure of himself. At some point he says, “It’s okay, you know. We’re not axe-murderers.” You won’t remember what anyone says for the rest of that night, but you’ll always remember that. Don’t ask me why.

You wonder how she does it. Never questions things. Never obsesses over what people think. She’ll try anything once. You’ll wish you could be like her. And sadly, you’ll try to be.

Here’s the thing: You’re a freak. Always were. Always will be. You’re a creative spirit who wants to bend the rules. But you’re also practical and analytical. One day you’ll love this about yourself. But right now you hate it. You just want to be free…like her.

But she’s hiding as much as you are. One day she’s going to show you who she really is…and it’s going to terrify you.

I’m not going to tell you what happens, though. It’s an experience you need to have. It’s going to change the way you look at friendship for years to come.

Miranda Kenneally