Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) (5 page)
Read Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) Online
Authors: Unknown
“Just one? I’ll have to say the first time I asked a boy on a date. He said no, he couldn’t, and I asked, “Why not?” My friend yelled at me later for asking that.”
Tera Lynn Childs
“Being told that my crush only kissed me because he thought I expected him to.”
Jessica Spotswood
“I should have been embarrassed by lots of stuff, but somehow, nothing trumped when my mom would introduce herself to my friends in a leopard print bikini.”
Erika Stalder
“It involves a boob graze at a school dance and an ensuing letter declaring my undying love for aforementioned boob-grazer who, I learned about five minutes too late, did not reciprocate my feelings, despite our intimate connection on the dance floor.”
Sarah Ockler
“Getting caught kissing at the shopping plaza by my aunt. (I was supposed to be at the library).”
Dave Roman
“Anytime I was at a party, at school, or in any social situation trying to talk to people. I always felt stupid and ugly.”
Tracy White
“I had a hole in my jeans and my friend Marty ran past me, stuck his hand in the hole and literally ripped my pants off in the middle of the hall. I repeat: I was in my underpants in the middle of the hall.”
Geoff Herbach
“I guess I was so embarrassed, I blocked it out.”
Ilsa J. Bick
Ilsa J. Bick
Dear Teen Me,
No, you’re not imagining things. What you’ve found squirreled under a clutch of garden tools is very real. So, go on, pick it up. Just move that hedge clipper and the hammer…and then slip it out—quiet, quiet, quiet…
God, it’s
heavy
. No blood, though.
Well, of course not, you
idiot
. He’d be smart enough to clean it. God, you can be so dumb sometimes—and what now?
This is like Lois Lane always nosing around, or Lana Lang. (Does anyone know what happened to her? One day—
poof
—Clark’s just suddenly an adult? Did Superboy even go to college?) You can’t remember who snooped around Bruce Wayne’s mansion, but you understand why someone would. Everybody loves a good mystery. It’s like Zorro or the Lone Ranger:
Who’s the man behind the mask?
So
this
is like
that
. Only, instead of Clark or Bruce, that masked man—the guy with no past, the one you’ve wondered about for years (because, let’s face it, he’s
dangerous
)—well, this time, he’s your dad.
But what the hell is he doing with a Nazi knife?
***
This is not the way your day was supposed to go.
As a rule, Saturdays are about helping your father. Whether or not you want it that way, that’s the way it is. For your folks, chores are a kind of one-hand-washes-the-other thing.
We all work in this house. There’s no such thing as a free ride.
(Like getting born was something you asked for, just to get a complimentary breakfast and a free ride somewhere.)
It’s never
Ilsa, you’re reading; isn’t that nice.
Or
Of course, honey, go play—and here’s some money for ice cream, my treat.
No. Instead, it’s always:
You know, your father is out there, and
(never mind that it’s five-hundred-thousand degrees)
you need to get out there and help.
Your father routinely gives himself heat stroke, or at least comes close. In fact, that’s what’s happening right now: he’s in the house, stretched on the sofa, a cool washcloth over his forehead, and all because you’re an ungrateful wretch who
chained
this grown man to a lawn mower—because, as we all know,
he’s only doing this for you.
Let’s face it. Your father is bit of a maniac. This guy…Let’s just say there’s a lot of drama. Dad is…well, mainly he’s a bully. And you? You’re
an idiot, stupid, a dummy, a moron…
and
what were you thinking, you jackass?
He also has a tendency to explode. When he does, it means slaps, smacks, and spankings. And it happens a lot. Back then, this was acceptable behavior because every kid needed a good wallop now and then. One time, when your mom came at you with a shoe you just laughed, because she hit like a girl.
Your father is a different story.
Well, strike that: You’re not sure what your dad’s story is, to tell the truth. His past is a black hole. He says he doesn’t remember, but you think that’s crap. (In three years, you’ll say
bullshit
, but right now that’s a pretty dangerous word, and you’re a good girl.)
I mean, seriously, get real.
Who forgets Nazis?
***
This is all they’ve told you: Your dad was six—or maybe seven—when the Nazis came. His house was in Alsace-Lorraine; or no, it was Schneidach; no, your half-cousin said it was in Munich. Anyway, the Nazis took them all: mom, dad, grandmother, and your father—then just a little kid. The family bounced around from camp to camp to camp.
Then…everyone died. Well, everyone except your dad. Somehow he ended up in Delaware. The rest of his family was gassed in Auschwitz. Period, end of story.
When you ask for more, you’re told there is none. Dad doesn’t remember…No, he doesn’t want to talk about it…No, no, it was all so long ago, and anyway, don’t you have some homework to do?
