Free Dear Teen Me: Authors Write Letters to Their Teen Selves (True Stories) by Unknown

middle of the night. That’s why you let Drew’s best friend, Nate, pick you up after you snuck out of bed, crept down the stairs to the kitchen, and out the garage door. Not the big garage door with its electronic switch, but the side door that opens to the backyard—to where your family’s golden retrievers sleep. Both Rainy and Snowy bark at you, and at that point you almost head back inside. Almost. Instead you run. You run for the corner.
    When Nate picks you up, you don’t know what to say. He’s your friend. You’ve known him for the two years you’ve been dating Drew on and off. You don’t go to the same high school anymore. (Zoning.) Nate plays saxophone in the marching band. Drew plays trumpet.
    Nate fiddles with the car radio and mentions that Drew’s car is in the shop. You make small talk. Uncomfortable small talk. Your best friend, Andrea, dated Nate for a few weeks. They broke up when she wouldn’t give him a BJ. Dad thinks black guys are only after one thing—sex—but you know that’s not true. You and Drew have been dating for a long time. You make out. You touch one another. But you’ve never gone all the way. He hasn’t threatened to break up with you if you don’t.
    Tonight is the night—you know it.
    You’re in his bedroom. Drew nuzzles your ear. You’ve been kissing for what feels like hours. The bed creaks and your bodies shift. Your journal is filled with poems about Drew. About how Drew feels about you. About how hard it is to date a black guy. To deal with the stares of people in the mall. Or the movies. Not that you guys go out very often. Neither of you likes the stares.
    Your friend Alicia lives in the same neighborhood as Drew. Her dad is a colonel in the army. Drew’s dad is in the army, too, but you haven’t ever met him. Before Drew turned the lights off, you saw his family picture. His mom, hisdad, his little sister. Why haven’t you met any of them? Is Drew ashamed of you? Of your whiteness?
    You stare at the clock. The deadline has passed. You’ve been doing that all night. Adding five more minutes—working up your nerve. You’re ready to go all the way. You’re about to whisper, “I love you, Drew,” when he shifts his body. He rolls away from you, pulls up his jeans, zips his zipper. “You better go. It’s getting late.”
    You pull down your skirt, slide back into your bra. You stand like strangers in the dark.
    Drew never knew that you wanted him to be your first. Five days later, you find out he’s started seeing someone else. A girl who goes to his high school.
    A few years later, when you do go all the way, it’s a joint decision—something that’s spoken about beforehand and attempted over and over again. (Who knew losing your virginity would take more than one try?) And when it does happen, no one’s best friend picks you up. You drive yourself there and you drive yourself back home. And looking back, you’re gloriously relieved that your decision wasn’t dictated by the flashing of a bedside clock, but by your own internal clock instead.

    Bethany Hegedus is the author of Between Us Baxters (2009), Truth with a Capital T (2010), and the forthcoming Grandfather Gandhi. She serves as editor for the YA section of the popular literary journal Hunger Mountain. A longtime resident of New York, she now lives in Austin, Texas.

YOU ARE THE ELECTRIC BOOGALOO
    Geoff Herbach
    Dear Teen Me,
    Humiliation and hilarity are closely linked, my little friend. Don’t lie there in bed, your guts churning, as you replay the terrible scene. I’m glad your shirt stuck to the floor.
    I love your break-dancing crew, okay? You and your friends from the rural Wisconsin hills have that K-Tel how-to album (including posters and diagrams). You pop. You worm. You spin on your backs. You windmill. In fact, you’re not even that bad!
    I love your silver “butterfly” pants (with forty-six zippers) that burst red fabric when you spin. Beautiful.
    I love it when you take