Dear Teen Me, Page 2

  You may not have had a lot of self-confidence back then, but you did at least believe—truly and honestly—that art was everywhere (at least potentially): in a sculpture made out of tires, in a poem written on a napkin, in a black-and-white photograph of a dead bird, in a song written in an hour, or in a collage of supermodel heads torn from fashion magazines and glued to the cover of your never-opened Algebra II textbook. It was a liberating and exhilarating feeling to recognize that (lowercase) art was around every corner, just waiting to be made or discovered. Back then, everything was a tool, including (and especially) yourself: cameras, clay, pens, glue, crayons, your voice, or a guitar. The idea of potential practically swirled through the air—a cluster of insistent notes that made up the backbeat of almost everything connected with you at seventeen.

  Teen Me, I would love to be you again, even for just an hour.

  Because during that hour I would write the first fifteen chapters of a dystopian novel about a debutante vampire with a shopping addiction, bet heavily on the Super Bowl, pen an app that discourages people from using the word app in a sentence, and marry Natalie Portman.

  And still have ten minutes to spare, just hanging out, you and me.

  Plenty of time to knock out two or three more masterpieces.

  Sean Beaudoin is the author of the novels Going Nowhere Faster (2007), Fade to Blue (2009), You Killed Wesley Payne (2011), and the forthcoming duo The Infects (fall 2012) and Wise Young Fool (spring 2013.) He can be found at SeanBeaudoin.com, and can also be Liked and Loved on Twitter and Facebook.

  REINVENTING ME

  Charles Benoit

  Dear Teen Me,

  Just dropping in to let you know that your little plan actually works. Sure, it seems crazy, and it doesn’t start off well at all, but overall you’ll be pleasantly surprised about how it turns out.

  I’m stunned you ever came up with something like this in the first place. You certainly have reason enough to try—I mean, something has to happen—but we both know that “doing things” was never your specialty. But not doing things? In that respect you’re a pro. Not talking to girls, not watching what you eat, not caring how you look, not standing up for yourself, not trying in class—nobody does nothing better than you.

  And that’s why the plan seems so impossible. I mean, it’s one thing to say you want to change your hair; it’s another thing entirely to say you’re going to change everything about yourself—the way you look, the way you dress, the way you talk, who you talk to, what you talk about, what you watch, what you listen to, and where you plan to go on Friday night. Everything. And you’ve given yourself two months to do it. That’s your plan, anyway: the ultimate makeover. If it works—and given your track record, you have no reason to think it will—you’ll start tenth grade as a whole new person. And if it fails, well, you’re used to that.

  Granted, you have friends and you have a great (sometimes strange) family, but admit it: you aren’t happy. You can picture the guy you want to be. We’re not talking superpowers or sudden musical genius; all you want is to be the guy who doesn’t say something stupid every time he opens his mouth, the one who doesn’t get picked last for everything, who doesn’t let jocks push him around, and who does know what to say to girls. To put it simply, you just don’t want to be you anymore.

  So you make a list. The cool of James Bond, the wit of Steve Martin, the quiet toughness of Bruce Lee. Then you write up a bunch of little plays—literally write them out—planning what you’ll say when you sit down at a table of hot girls, revising the lines till you know that they’ll work. You do this for every possible situation, from the jocks in the back hall to the ninth-grade algebra teacher who you’ll have to face again soon. What, maybe twenty scripts or so?

  Then it’s off to the mall for a new look, and then over to the music store to buy the albums you really want—mostly early punk stuff—and before you know it, school is back in session and it’s showtime!…

  …where you proceed to get mocked and abused even worse than before.

  But somehow you stick to the plan, and before long, it starts to get better. You gain confidence; people see that you’re funny (in a good way, for once). You start taking karate and you don’t embarrass yourself when you have to fight. And what do you know, by the end of the first quarter, you actually have a girlfriend. Your plan is so crazy that it actually works.

  And you’re still at it today, constantly trying to improve yourself, to be better tomorrow than you were today. You don’t write out the scripts anymore—I can’t remember the last time you didn’t know what to say—and sometimes you even catch a beer with the guys who used to pick on you the most. Things changed because you made them change. Pretty impressive for a dork.

  See you in few decades.

  Charles Benoit is the author of You (2010) and Fall from Grace (2012), as well as several adult mysteries. When he’s not hosting his radio show or busting out the ska on his tenor sax, he works as a copywriter at an ad agency. He and his wife, Rose, live in exotic Rochester, New York. Paparazzi-quality details at CharlesBenoit.com.

  9 THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW

  Robin Benway

  Dear Teen Me,

  1. Let’s just start by ripping off the Band-Aid. You need to let your bangs grow out. I’m serious. Half of your teenage life (that’s a rough estimate, but I feel like it’s accurate) will be spent trying to straighten them and the other half will be spent worrying that they’re frizzing up, so just grow them out now. You’re welcome.

  2. High school stops mattering the second you graduate from it. Crazy, I know, but it’s true! Remember how upset everyone was when you were too lazy forgot to file your paperwork for the National Honor Society? Or when your Spanish teacher got mad because you ditched her class so many times? It turns out that nobody cares whether or not you were an honors student, and your Spanish skills turn out to be quite stellar—especially when asking for directions in Spain when you’re thirty-two. (Yes, you go to Spain. And Italy and France, too. Start packing now.)

  3. That boy in your chemistry class isn’t just being friendly. He’s flirting with you. The sooner you can figure out the difference between the two, the easier your life will be. And you really need to talk to Chemistry Boy more, because on the last day of senior year, he will write a beautiful sentence in your yearbook that involves him using the word “perpetually” correctly—and it will be the most awesome thing that has ever happened to you. So far.

  4. You pick amazing friends. All those girls you hang out with at lunchtime? You’ll still be hanging out with them when you’re all in your thirties. They’ll still make you laugh until you have to pee, and they’ll be the first ones to call you when things go horribly wrong. (Oops, spoiler alert!)

  5. Right before your senior year of high school, your house will flood while you’re on vacation with your family and you’ll come home to a total disaster. You’ll have to live with your mother and younger brother in a hotel room for the next three months, and while it seems insane at the time, the three of you will become closer than ever before as a result. They will turn out to be two of your best friends, and you’ll find yourselves laughing and reminiscing about that experience time and time again. Believe it or not, it actually becomes a funny story. And while you survive the hotel experience intact, you’ll never find that one sweater again.

  6. That being said, before you go on vacation, CHECK TO MAKE SURE A PIPE HASN’T BURST BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE. SERIOUSLY. GO CHECK.

  7. Six weeks after you turn eighteen, you’ll move to New York City to attend NYU and live in Greenwich Village. Sounds awesome, right? Like a dream come true? Well, you’ll cry like a baby for the entire first week, and then you’ll feel so homesick that you’ll construct elaborate fantasies about taking a cab to the airport and flying home. Don’t. Stay for at least two years. It’s good for you to be in a new city with new people. You’ll learn how to ride the subway and tell the difference between the express and local trains. An
d after eighteen years in Orange County, California, you’ll finally discover what “winter” really means. (Helpful hint: buy a sturdy umbrella, but don’t bother with a hat. You look ridiculous in hats.) If you leave too soon, you’ll miss walking through Washington Square Park after a January storm, seeing the bare trees filled with flecks of icy light, and feeling the contentment that comes from knowing you’re exactly where you ought to be. You’ll miss that exciting night at the diner when, for reasons that are never made entirely clear, your waiter has to run outside to punch a passerby while you huddle with the rest of the customers in the back of the restaurant, waiting for the police to arrive. (Now that is a story for another time. But don’t tell Mom about it until you’re a lot older. She’ll freak.)

  8. There’s going to be a period in your life where everything goes wrong. It just does. I’m sorry. Your grandparents will pass away. Your dad is going to die. You’ll become very sick and have to quit your awesome PR job at the bookstore. You’ll also get rejected from all your MFA programs on the same day. I can’t sugarcoat it; it’s just going to suck. You’ll cry a lot, and when you start working again you’ll think that you’ve screwed everything up, that everything you want to achieve will never happen. You’ll be ashamed of your life.

  Please, don’t worry. You worry enough as it is. All these seemingly wrong turns are actually leading you in the right direction. All those things you want to achieve are just ahead of you, so don’t you dare stop reaching for them. They’re closer than you realize, and if you stop, if you give up and give in, then all that struggle will have been wasted.

  9. You’re going to write the following in your journal on January 23, 1996: “The ideal life for me right now would be to live in a nice, sunny apartment in either New York or Los Angeles, with a PowerBook and my cat, and just write whenever I feel like it.” (Yes, I read your journal. Hope that doesn’t make things awkward between us. And you have lovely penmanship, by the way. Enjoy it while it lasts.) Look, I don’t want to give too much away, but one day, that journal entry will be important to you. (Except for the cat part. Why did you write that? You’ve never liked cats. Get a dog instead.) So relax. Take some deep breaths. You know how you spend every morning of senior year listening to music in the car before your first class? That’s okay. It turns out that a lot of your classmates are doing the exact same thing. And that one English teacher who hints that you don’t take your work seriously? You’ll never hear his name again, so don’t get all worked up about it. Just put that voodoo doll down.

  You know how Mom is always saying, “Everything works out”? She’s right. It’ll take some time, but you’ll get there. And the journey isn’t all that bad either.

  Buckle up, kid. You’re going to have an amazing life…just as soon as you grow out your bangs.

  Robin Benway is the author of Audrey, Wait! (2009) and The Extraordinary Secrets of April, May & June (2010). She lives in Los Angeles with her beloved dog and her equally beloved espresso machine.

  Q and A:

  WHAT WAS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT?

  “Failing gym class.”

  Jennifer Rush

  “Letting a friend talk me into wearing those orange overalls to her house, only to discover it was my surprise birthday party. All night in those things. Ugh.”

  Mary Lindsey

  “In 8th grade, I was singing a solo at church, and my knees locked and I fainted in front of everyone.”

  Miranda Kenneally

  “Oh, so many. How about the time I fell down the stairs at the theatre in a dress and flashed everyone? Let’s start there.”

  Jessica Corra

  “My first kiss. Awful.”

  Ellen Hopkins

  “There were too many to count, but maybe going up to a cute new dude named Jon and asking him if I could “draw him” for my art class. He was like, “uh… what?” ”

  Heather Davis

  “Washing up on a crowded beach naked. (Adventures in Skinny Dipping Gone Wrong.)”

  Jess Rothenberg

  “My whole life from ages 11–13 was one large embarrassing moment.”

  Lauren Oliver

  “When my (up to that point) lifelong crush told me I had a mustache in front of all our friends. I wanted to die. Where’s the facial hair bleach when you need it??”

  Nikki Loftin

  “Spending an entire day with the back of my dress tucked into my pantyhose. (And, really, “Wearing pantyhose to high school” should be the answer here, shouldn’t it?)”

  K.A. Holt

  “I had a lot of them that I’ve clearly blocked out, but having my dress bodice tear open at dinner before junior prom wasn’t my proudest moment.”

  E. Kristin Anderson

  “Misspelling “seamen” in a sports article for the school paper.”

  Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “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

  THE KNIFE

  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 mi
nd 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.