Dear High School Girl

Dear High School Girl:

Every morning, I crawl my way through the turbulence in the halls, swimming through an intoxicating mixture of Dollar Store body sprays and hormonal odors, dodging students jostling with friends or infatuated with phone screens. And, every morning, I catch sight of you . . . well, you AND him, as I approach the classroom.

Yeah, I admit, I have to swallow down the gag reflex while the two of you make out and run hands all over each other. The way you look at him, twirling a stray curl from his cheek in one of your fingers, I know that nothing else matters in your world in that moment. I always note the crimson flush on your face long after you slide into your seat after the late bell. Ah, young love. 

But, this morning, you stand alone. 

Instead of your arms encircling his tall, husky frame, they’re wrapped tightly around your waist, as if they’re the only thing keeping you from melting into a puddle on the floor. Eyes that had fluttered and caressed his face, like you were gazing at a Greek god draped in flesh, now glance around nervously. Tugging my backpack through the crowd huddled at the door, the last thing I notice is the damp sheen reflected in your eyes and, suddenly, there’s something in my eyes too. 

It’s not easy for me to stand in front of the class and interpret for my student with your desk right here in the front row, the waves of your anguish ebbing and flowing in a swirl around me. Instead of seeing the view of your raven black hair as you bend over your phone every morning–passionately texting your beloved whom you’d been separated from for a whole seven minutes–your eyes stare vacantly at the video projected on the overhead screen. I’m so sorry, hon. We all saw it coming too.

But can I be honest, sweet girl?

I’ve seen your beloved Greek god in other classes and, well, he isn’t worth it. There, I said it.

Maybe you don’t know that he smiles flirtatiously at that brunette with the gold highlights in first period, or that he spent five minutes in sixth period yesterday poking his pencil into the bare midriff of the school’s “been-around-the-block-a-few-times” floozy (Sorry–not sorry–it’s the truth) while she giggled and half-heartedly pushed his hand away.   

Hon, he’s not worthy of you. You don’t see it now. You’re hurting, crushed, alone. I understand. Believe it or not, I was sixteen once. A long time ago, but not so long ago that I’ve forgotten. Loss of young love and being rejected burn like poison through our flesh and into our very souls with no antidote. I think it’s girl code that–even way back when Neanderthals roamed the Earth–females are compelled to protect their own. It’s woven into our DNA. 

What I really want to do is run up and slap a high-five on you. Maybe even throw a few fist bumps in. But I won’t. It’s not my place. You need some time first, anyway. But I’m hoping that the light will shine through and reveal some priceless truths to you. Truths about your self-worth and your amazing power to overcome and move on. Did you know that power is also woven into your DNA? It’s true. You’ll see. In time.

And, when the fog of your heartbreak clears, maybe I’ll give you a wink and a nod one morning before we head into class. You know . . . the girl code thing. 

Love,

Mrs. Felty