“Yeah, I know.”
“Why don’t you?” you ask, just curious to know.
He adjusts his shin guard. Reties the laces on his cleats. “I dunno. I just haven’t.”
“You should come sometime. It’s fun. This summer we’re going on a choir tour to Florida and we’re doing this mission trip thing, too.”
Jack smiles at you.
The next Sunday, he comes to church. He hangs around with the preacher’s son—the guy who plays quarterback for the football team—and some of the cheerleaders. And that’s fine. He’s very popular and in a different circle than you. But it makes you happy that he came.
Over the next several weeks, he keeps coming to church and you start telling him more about your life. You tell him about how much you like Charlie. Jack is sympathetic and listens to you whine about this other guy who is so not worth your time.
Right before he graduates, Jack writes a note in your yearbook. He tells you how much he’s enjoyed getting to know you. That he thinks you’re awesome. You show it off to your friends. “Can you believe he wrote that…to me?! Isn’t he so hot?”
Your friends are most jealous, indeed. You read his inscription over and over.
Over the summer, he goes on the church mission trip with you. You’re playing a game of poker after a day of painting an underprivileged family’s home. You’re practically in tears because Charlie has started hooking up with yet another girl, one he just met on this very mission trip. Jack tells you he doesn’t know why you care about Charlie.
“You can do better,” Jack says. “You’re nice. You’re honest and open.”
You hear what he says, but you don’t really listen to him. Miranda, you should be listening to this guy—this smart, nice, and thoughtful guy who keeps coming to your church events now that you’ve asked him to.
A few days after you get home from the mission trip, you’re lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling. One hand rests on your phone. The other wipes tears from your face. All you want is for Charlie to call. To tell you that he was wrong; that he likes you, not her. None of your friends will listen to you talk about Charlie anymore, because they’re sick to death of your obsession with him. You feel alone.
The phone rings. It’s Jack.
“Hey,” he says. “Want to come over to my house and swim? My parents aren’t in town.”
All you can think about is Charlie. What if he calls while you’re at Jack’s house? Cell phones aren’t really mainstream yet. You don’t have a pager.
“I can’t,” you tell him. “I don’t feel well.” Lie.
“Aw, come on. Come over.”
You lie there, staring across the room at the pictures of you and Charlie that are pinned all over your bulletin board. You think about peeling off a T-shirt and shorts to reveal a two-piece bathing suit in front of Jack. It never has fit right. You’re not skinny like the cheerleaders he hangs out with. Does he want to kiss you? What if he tries? No one’s ever kissed you before. What if you’re a terrible kisser because you’ve never had any practice? There’s no way in hell a guy like him would kiss me anyway, you think.
You remember all the guys you’ve liked over the years. None of them have liked you back. A few boys have liked you, but you weren’t interested in them. (You never gave them a chance. You were too worried that people would make fun of you for hanging around “dorky” guys.)
You don’t bother to think about Jack’s feelings because you assume that he, like everyone else (yourself excluded), lives a golden life. What if Jack needs a friend? What if he’s lonely and looking for something and wants to tell you about it? Did you ever think that he started coming to church because you asked him to? Because he thought you cared enough about him to include him?
Why don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself, Miranda? What if Jack needs you?
“I can’t come over.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you later,” Jack replies, and hangs up.
Now, over ten years later, I can tell you.
Jack never calls you again.
He goes on to college or wherever and you never see him again. Sometimes I look at pictures of him from high school and remember the series of conversations you had. In one photo from a soccer banquet, you’re wearing a dress and he’s in a button-down shirt and tie. He has his arm around you and you’re both smiling. He treated you like a real person. He wasn’t using you to get close to your friends. He just liked talking to you. And you screwed it all up because you thought he’d treat you like other guys had treated you.
Jack was right: You’re honest. You’re open. You take care of your friends. One day you’ll look back on this time and wish you had listened to him.
You’ll wish you’d picked up the phone and called him right back. “Yes, I’d love to go swimming with you.”
I’m not saying that anything romantic would’ve happened. I doubt it would have. But you could’ve had a nice afternoon with a good friend. He might’ve invited you over again another day. He might’ve asked you to a movie. He might’ve asked you to go to Sonic for a cherry limeade, or to cruise around town in his truck or something.
You’re in a great spot today, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything. But the next time a great person tells you that you matter to them—listen to them. And then tell them why they matter to you, too.
Miranda Kenneally is the author of Catching Jordan (2011), a contemporary YA novel about football and femininity. Her other books include Stealing Parker (2012) and Bad, Bad Thing (2013). Miranda is the cocreator of Dear Teen Me. She enjoys reading and writing young adult literature, and loves Star Trek, music, sports, Mexican food, Twitter, coffee, and her husband. Visit her at MirandaKenneally.com.
HE BROKE MORE THAN YOUR HEART
Stephanie Kuehnert
Dear Teen Me,
It started when he made you give Acacia that poor, pink, stuffed duck that he’d burned and stabbed and defaced with permanent marker with words like Skunkhead, which was supposed to insult Acacia because she’d bleached half of her black hair blond. “She’s copying you,” he said, referring to the blond streak you’d had in your hair for three months. You said you didn’t see it that way, but he insisted, “She’s jealous of you—of us being together. She’s been spreading rumors about us.”
You doubted this and you were right to. He cut you off from Acacia first for the simple reason that she was the biggest threat. If the two of you had stayed close, she would’ve noticed what he was doing to you. He said that she was out to get you. You believed him, because he was the first boy to tell you that he loved you.
He even said it before you did. You’d only been together for two weeks. It was earth-shattering. This gorgeous guy—a talented musician who looked like a dark-haired, hazel-eyed Kurt Cobain and smelled like sandalwood incense, cigarettes, and warm sheets—loved you, a girl who had just been used by two other gorgeous guys.
Of course if he really had been like Kurt Cobain, he would’ve joined you in trying to kick the convertible filled with loud, obnoxious jocks. They were screaming catcalls at you, but instead of supporting you, he threw you over his shoulder and lifted your skirt, flashing your underwear to the busy street. When you started to cry, he got pissed and said you couldn’t take a joke. He also said your skirt was too short and those fishnet tights made you look like a slut. After a few more arguments like this, including one where he shredded your favorite shirt, you adopted a baggy, multilayered uniform.
You were all he had (he said), so when you did something to upset him, he told you he wanted to die. You did whatever you could to avoid this, including having sex with him when you didn’t want to. He was your first, and the sex was beautiful…until that day he wanted to hook up in your friend Robin’s garage. You knew she’d be mad, and she was the only friend you had left, so you said no and he gave you the silent treatment all day. Robin convinced him to talk to you and he said that if you didn’t want to have sex with him anymore, it mea
nt you didn’t love him. So you did it. You never said no again, because you knew no one would ever love you like he did. He told you so.
After six months, he broke up with you anyway. You took a scalding shower and listened to Hole’s cover of “He Hit Me (and It Felt like a Kiss)” a thousand times. Now it’s dawning on you that even though he never physically hit you, he found other ways to smash you into a thousand pieces. You feel powerless, and blame yourself, and take it out on your own body with razor blades and alcohol. It will take you six months to call it “emotional abuse,” and then a year to call it what it really was: “sexual abuse.” It will take ten full years before you’re ready to put it all behind you and love yourself again.
But you will, I promise.
Stephanie Kuehnert got her start writing bad poetry in junior high. Then she discovered punk rock and started producing DIY feminist zines in high school. She got her MFA in creative writing from Columbia College Chicago. Her first two young adult novels are I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone (2008) and Ballads of Suburbia (2009). She writes about her teenage experiences for Rookie magazine at RookieMag.com. Visit her at StephanieKuehnert.com.
HOPE UNTIL THE LAST SECOND
Mary Lindsey
Dear Teen Me,
The adults around you love to say, “Life’s not fair”—which is totally unnecessary. You’re slapped in the face with that fact every time you step through the door to your house. Just like you, the house seems cheerful and composed from the outside, but inside, it’s a disaster.
You use the trick you learned in acting class: Work from the inside out, and if that doesn’t achieve the desired effect, cloak from the outside in.
I remember that last day of summer before your freshman year of high school. You made a pact with yourself. You closed the door to the laundry room (it was the only way to get away from them), and you vowed to never give in to addiction. You would not give up on yourself or on your future. You would never be like them, and you would never allow anyone to make you feel bad about yourself. Most of all, you’d never let anyone in on your private life outside of school. Success is based on appearances, and you would appear to be normal.
On one hand, this was a fantastic strategy. At sixteen, you’d realized that self-worth and outer impressions are keys to success. You have loads of friends (however superficial they may be) and will even be elected cheerleader—the pinnacle of high school success, right?
On the other hand, your strategy is unhealthy. You’re lucky this plan worked, because holding things in is not only stressful, but it can be physically and psychologically dangerous.
Next year, when you’re seventeen, you’ll find someone with whom you can share your pain and struggle. Someone who will understand what you’re going through and who won’t judge you, gossip about you, or lord your secrets over you. Someone who will tell you that you can rise above it. Someone who believes in you unconditionally, and who will hold a place in your heart for the rest of your life.
Something else I wish you knew right now: There’s always hope. At sixteen, you know in your heart that you will make it, but just as surely, you know that they will not.
The truth is, addiction can be beaten. Old patterns can be changed, and some of those people you are writing off as lost causes will turn it around, become sober, and pull away from the destructive behavior that you’re trying so hard to avoid.
There’s an old saying, “That which doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.” It didn’t kill you (obviously, since I’m here today writing this letter), and you’re going to come out of your teens very, very strong. Hang in there. Your future will amaze you.
Mary Lindsey lives in Houston with her husband, three kids, two dogs, her daughter’s pet rats, an Australian bearded dragon, and dozens of Madagascar hissing cockroaches. She has taught drama and playwriting in a large public high school and English in a private school. It just so happens, one of the themes of her debut novel, Shattered Souls (2011), is the theme of this letter: There’s always hope—even up to the very last second. Her second young adult novel, tentatively titled Annabel (forthcoming), is a gothic young adult novel based on Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee.” You can find more about Mary Lindsey and her books on her website, MaryLindsey.com.
THE RAMIFICATIONS OF MOUTHING OFF TO CUTE BOYS
Nikki Loftin
Dear Teen Me,
I wish I could stop you.
I wish I could stop you from even sitting on that tree swing with your First Real High School Boyfriend (he’s a sophomore and you’re just a freshman!), Bill Underhill.* Because I see where this is going. And I really wish I could stop you from leaning in for that first kiss. (That atrocious, saliva-soaked, tongue-so-far-down-your-throat-you-gag-and-almost-throw-up-Lucky-Charms, poorly executed car wash of a French kiss.)
But mostly? I wish I could stop you from saying what you say about three kisses later.
When you ask—oh God—if he wouldn’t mind NEVER kissing you like that again? Because he’s a great boyfriend, but UGH! THAT WAS SO GROSS!
You know what’s next: No more boyfriend.
You’ve pretty much always come right out and said what you thought, without thinking about the consequences. There are lots of times when it doesn’t turn out all that great (although having your face exfoliated by Bill’s tongue one more time would have been cause for homicide, so maybe you were right to insult the guy), but that runaway mouth of yours is going to cause real pain to friends and family members. Enough pain that I really, really wish I could get you to listen to this one piece of advice: Whether you intend to compliment or insult, think, for just a second, before you speak.
It’s probably hopeless. Still, don’t despair. Your tendency to blab’s going to do some good, too.
For instance, in a month, your friends will start telling you how much the cute/popular Ray Vargas likes you. At the first high school dance, when he asks you to dance, you’ll say yes, thrilled not to be the Utter Social Reject you were in middle school.
“So, you’re cute,” he’ll say.
You’ll giggle.
But then he’ll say, “I hear you dated some real loser last year. Why would you do that?”
You have a sudden vision of the “loser” he means: that darling seventh-grade boy who brought you roses and made you a set of twelve-inch-tall initials—N.L.—out of scrap metal in shop class (which he subsequently painted gold). And what this Ray character just said about him will completely tick you off.
Your mouth will start to move before you can think. Before you wonder if you shouldn’t just smile and say, “I don’t know. Silly me,” or something equally dumb. Instead, you’ll take a step back and say, “Well, I guess I didn’t think he was such a loser, or I wouldn’t have dated him.”
And then you’ll leave that popular jerk standing alone on the dance floor.
It doesn’t matter that you’ll hide in the bathroom the rest of the night, wondering if you’d just committed social suicide (you hadn’t).
Trust me when I tell you: This moment is one instance where that mouth of yours got it exactly right.
Even though it might have been easier, socially, to keep your mouth shut, you stood by a person that you really valued. You spoke the truth.
So try to be a little kinder when you’re criticizing your sister’s clothing, hair, and hygiene—but when it comes to standing up for the so-called losers of the world? Let your mouth do its thing.
Just—keep it away from Bill Underhill’s tongue? A valiant mouth like yours doesn’t need that kind of trauma.
P.S. Not getting along with Bill and Ray frees you up later to date an amazing boy…who kisses very well!
* All the names have been changed, because no one deserves to have his kissing technique trashed so publicly. Even if it was horrific.
Nikki Loftin still talks too much and says inappropriate things in polite company. She and her Scottish husband are raising two sons who also mouth off—mostly to their pare
nts. Nikki writes funny/scary stories for kids. Her debut novel, The Sinister Sweetness of Splendid Academy, came out in August 2012. Visit her at NikkiLoftin.com.
THE BEST DAYS OF OUR LIVES? REALLY?
Katherine Longshore
Dear Teen Me,
You know that they’re lying to you.
You sit in a crowded auditorium, breathing the reek of stale French fries and dirty shoes. Assaulted by the clang and angst of a hundred other voices. And pitying the anonymous, faceless administrator calling for attention, announcing the title of the film you’re about to see: The Best Days of Your Life.
Images of football games and track meets, homecoming queens and student government meetings crowd the screen, showering everyone with relentless cheer.
You stare into the screen onstage, with images of prom and chemistry flickering across it. And you imagine what’s behind that screen: The worn boards, the black wing curtains, the jumble of leftover props from dozens of plays.
And that’s what you want. Not the jerseys and pom-poms, but the props and rigging.
In your first role on that high school stage you’ll play a catatonic mental patient. You’ll sit in a heap for two hours. Not moving. Not speaking. Your only “line” will be a glass-shattering scream.
But then you’ll go on to play an exiled Russian duchess, a head in a box (which eventually gets its cheerleader body back), a variety show MC, and a dead woman (the play is in flashback, and your part is actually the lead).
You’ll nurture a deep love for theater—and it’s not just because it gives you the chance to be the object of appreciation and applause. You’ll fall in love with the character of Ariel at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (and eventually you’ll even have the chance to play the part in a circus tent in England). Sam Shepard will become your literary crush, and you’ll never lose your desire to ride a streetcar as Blanche DuBois.
Dear Teen Me Page 10
