Katie Friedman Gives Up Texting! Read online

  “That’s not true.”

  “Besides, at talent shows people want to hear songs they know,” Becca said. “What if we write something terrible and everyone laughs at us?”

  I was afraid of that, too, but I remembered what Jane said about taking chances and tried to put any doubts out of my head. “That won’t happen,” I said.

  She put the milk away just as the doorbell rang. “Let’s ask Jackie and Sammie.”

  I felt myself getting frustrated. “I don’t care about Jackie and Sammie, Becca. I want to know what you think. You and I started this band, and we can decide what we want to play. Doing an original song would be so fun and cool. I know it’s risky. But let’s do it.” I saved the best for last. “And guess what? If it’s good, Jane said she would listen to it!”

  Becca laughed. “Oh, right,” she said. “Jane Plantero is going to listen to some song written by a couple of kids. Why would she do that? Just because she went to the same school as us?”

  “Because she said she would,” I insisted.

  “Whatever,” Becca said. “Let’s just go rehearse.”

  The front door opened, and Jackie and Sammie came into the room. “Froot Loops!” Sammie yelled excitedly.

  “Help yourself,” said Becca, getting the milk out again. But her smile was a little forced, and I could tell she was kind of mad at me.

  As the other girls chomped away, I pulled Becca aside. “I saw Jane up there, and as I watched her, singing her own songs, it was like I was watching a dream,” I whispered. “And it made me realize dreams come true. We can do this. I know we can.”

  Becca started putting the bowls in the dishwasher. “Well, maybe that’s the thing.”

  “What’s the thing?”

  She stopped and looked at me.

  “Your dream might not be my dream,” she said.

  We rehearsed for an hour and a half, and neither of us said another word about writing songs.

  10

  THE LAST TEXT

  “Katie? Everything okay in there?”

  I was at home in the bathroom, and I had the shower running.

  “What? I can’t hear you!”

  “You’ve been in the shower a long time!”

  “Okay, I’m getting out!”

  The truth was, I hadn’t been in the shower at all. I’d been texting my friends. It was an hour after rehearsal, and there was a lot to discuss. But if I’d been in my room, my parents would have done what they did the other night, knocking every five seconds and looking over my shoulder.

  So I decided to “take” a shower. And my mom wanted to know why it was taking so long to get clean.

  “You’re wasting water!”

  “In a minute!”

  My phone beeped—incoming. I was mainly texting three people: Becca, Nareem, and Charlie Joe. I was talking to Becca about the talent show, avoiding the topic of writing songs; I was complaining to Nareem that Becca didn’t want to write songs; and I was telling Charlie Joe that Nareem was a great boyfriend because he listened without judging.

  Are you saying I judge? asked Charlie Joe.

  Stop jumping to conclusions, I answered. Nareem is just nicer than you, that’s all.

  He wrote back immediately: Hey!

  “Katie!” It was my dad. “Turn that thing off!”

  You can’t pressure her. From Nareem.

  I’m not! I just thought writing songs would be cool.

  Becca: Sorry about today. Don’t be mad.

  So, she wanted to talk about the songwriting thing after all.

  I immediately wrote her back. i’m totally not mad!

  Phew, she wrote back. I don’t want to hold you back. If you want to start another band with more serious musicians i would totally understand.

  Cut it out, I wrote. i’m a CHICKMATER for life.

  HA-HA, Becca wrote.

  Another knock on the door. I turned the shower off. “I’m drying my hair!”

  “For crying out loud,” muttered my dad.

  I needed to wrap this up.

  TTYL XX, I texted Becca.

  Becca and I just made up! I texted Nareem.

  A text from Charlie Joe: Well i’m glad you still like Nareem. It actually makes life a lot less complicated. I mean it.

  A text from Nareem. Yay!

  “What exactly are you doing in there?” my mom asked.

  “I think we need to talk about possibly limiting your phone time,” said my dad. “Enough is enough. This is absurd.”

  “Coming!” I yelled. “I swear!”

  “Now!” my dad yelled back.

  “I can’t believe this!” I screamed. “I’m not doing anything wrong!”

  “Hurry up!”

  I stared down at the phone, my heart pounding. My parents were really getting on my nerves, but if I didn’t get out of there, I was going to lose my phone privileges. I quickly typed out one last text.

  I didn’t say I still liked Nareem. I said he was a great boyfriend. LOL! G2G

  I hit send.

  Then I unlocked the bathroom door, walked by my parents with a smile, went into my room, and lay down on my bed.

  My parents stood at the doorway and watched me.

  “We just think it’s getting too much,” my mom said, quietly.

  I stared at the ceiling. “What’s getting too much?”

  “You know,” said my dad.

  “You guys don’t understand,” I said. “It’s how kids communicate today. It is. Everyone does it. I told you that.”

  My mom took a deep breath. “We do understand,” she said. “That’s what we’re afraid of. It’s kind of communicating, but it’s also not. It’s also hiding behind something. It’s not completely real.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. It’s real to me.”

  My phone beeped.

  Incoming text.

  I didn’t move.

  “Aren’t you going to get it?” asked my dad.

  “No.”

  It beeped again.

  “Just get it,” said my mom.

  “Fine!” I grabbed my phone and looked.

  I think this was meant for someone else.

  From Nareem.

  Huh? I was confused. My first thought was that he’d made the mistake. Then my heart started pounding, and I scrolled up.

  I didn’t say I still liked Nareem! I said he was a great boyfriend. LOL! G2G

  My mouth suddenly went really dry. I let out a little gasp and started hyperventilating.

  I DIDN’T SAY I STILL LIKED NAREEM! I SAID HE WAS A GREAT BOYFRIEND.

  LOL!

  Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no!!!!!

  I meant to send it to Charlie Joe, but sent it to Nareem instead.

  Nareem—the absolute nicest, most caring person in the whole world.

  I immediately felt like the smallest, lowest person in the whole world.

  I felt like dying.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I covered my face with a pillow.

  “Noooooooo!”

  My parents ran over to me, asking questions. “What is it, honey?” “What’s going on?” “Can we help?”

  But I didn’t answer. I just kept crying. Finally I managed to croak out, “Please just leave me alone.”

  My mom looked scared. “Please tell us what’s happening, honey.”

  “Not right now,” I moaned. “Later I will, I promise.”

  My parents looked at each other, then came to a silent decision.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” my dad whispered to me gently. “We’ll be back in a little while.”

  “A very little while,” I heard my mom whisper to my dad, as they slipped out of the room.

  I turned all the lights off in my room and lay down on my bed for hours. My breathing slowly returned to normal. My parents came back every few minutes, but I couldn’t talk to them. Finally, I started to calm down, as my horror turned to sadness, and embarrassment, and then complete exhaustion.

  I wrote the lyr
ics to my first song.

  Then I cried myself to sleep.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just sent my last text.

  11

  HOW

  HOW?

  Lyrics by Katie Friedman

  (Music not written yet)

  How do you

  Speak the words

  That you never thought would be spoken?

  How do you

  Break the heart

  That never has been broken?

  How do you

  Find the strength

  To finally walk out the door?

  How do you

  Tell the one you loved

  You don’t love them anymore?

  I want to know.

  I need to know.

  I have to know right now.

  I’m on my knees

  So someone please

  Please come show me how.

  How do you

  Look someone in the eye

  When you’re not sure what you want to see?

  How do you

  Say the words

  There is no more you and me?

  How do you

  Resist the urge

  To hide behind a screen?

  How do you

  Know it’s time

  To give up the machine?

  I want to know.

  I need to know.

  I have to know right now.

  I’m on my knees

  So someone please

  Please come show me how.

  12

  SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

  I stayed home sick from school the next day.

  My parents didn’t question me. I think because they’re therapists, they know that it’s pointless to try to talk to someone, until that person is ready to talk.

  As soon as the school day was over, I got on my bicycle and rode over to Nareem’s house.

  His little sister opened the door.

  “Hi, Ru. Is your brother home?”

  She looked at me and squinted her eyes. At first I thought she looked mad, but then I realized I was imagining it.

  “Hold on a second.”

  She ran off, and I waited at the door. And I waited. I heard some low voices. I waited some more. After about three minutes, I headed back toward my bike.

  “Hello.”

  I turned around. Nareem was at the door. He was shielding his eyes with his hands, like he was protecting himself from a bright sun. But it was a cloudy morning. I think it was just his way of making sure he didn’t look directly at me.

  “Hi.” I stood there, not sure which direction to go.

  “You can come in if you want.”

  Nareem went back inside, and I followed. He headed to the kitchen, where his parents stood.

  “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Ramdal.”

  They both nodded. Neither one spoke.

  Nareem went to the fridge. “Can I offer you something to drink?” Still not looking at me.

  “Nareem, I—” My eyes darted to his parents.

  I think I saw a tiny look of pity cross Mr. Ramdal’s face. “We will leave you two to discuss this privately,” he said.

  My face went hot as they walked away. “You told them?”

  “I do not hide anything from my parents,” Nareem said. “Would you like a drink or not.”

  “Just some water.”

  He poured me a glass, and we sat at his kitchen table. I had no idea what to say, except for the obvious.

  “I’m sorry, Nareem. I’m so, so sorry.”

  He stared out the window. “I would be curious to know if you have felt this way for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nareem’s voice was calm and not at all angry. “Obviously I now realize that this is what you wished to talk to me about in study hall last week,” Nareem said. “And it is equally obvious that you changed your mind after I told you about the Plain Jane concert.”

  I felt my body fill with shame.

  “You’re right,” I whispered. “But I was torn about it. I like you so much. I didn’t know what to do. I would never ever do anything to hurt you—”

  “But you have hurt me. LOL, you wrote. I didn’t know there was meanness in you like that.”

  There was nothing to say to that. So I said nothing.

  “You have come to apologize in person. That is brave.” He looked at me for the first time. “You could have texted, after all.”

  I felt the need to cry, but I stopped myself. “You’re so mad at me,” I said. “You’re so mad at me.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “I wrote a song. About us. About the truth. I don’t think we should be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. But you are still the most amazing person I think I’ve ever met.”

  He walked over to the table, hesitated, and picked up the piece of paper. He read it. For the first time, I saw the sadness in his face. And then he smiled.

  “You have written something beautiful.”

  And then I did cry.

  13

  NAREEM

  Nareem and I talked for two more hours.

  I told him again that the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt him. I told him that I didn’t want to be a therapist anymore; I wanted to be a musician. I told him I didn’t know how I felt about Charlie Joe, but that I thought I might want to find out. I told him that my parents never kissed each other in front of me.

  I told him things I had never told anyone else before.

  He told me that the night I first kissed him at Camp Rituhbukkee was the best night of his life, but that when he saw me hug Charlie Joe on the last day of camp, he thought that one day Charlie Joe and I would become boyfriend and girlfriend. He told me that his dream in life was to dunk a basketball.

  We talked more that day than we had in nine months of going out, until finally I got up from the kitchen table where we’d been sitting. “I should go. Thank you again for letting me come over and talk to you. I’m so grateful.”

  Nareem got up, too, and picked up the piece of paper with my lyrics on it. “Your song.”

  I looked at him nervously. “You really like it?”

  He stared at the paper. I couldn’t tell if he was reading or thinking. Finally, he put it back on the table.

  “I’ll have my father send it to Jane.”

  It took me a minute to understand what he was saying.

  “Jane? Plantero? Plain Jane?”

  Nareem nodded. “Yes. The other night, she asked you to write a song and send it to her. It’s an amazing opportunity, and it would be foolish to let it go to waste.”

  I stood there, unable to move. “Nareem, I don’t know what to say—”

  “If you write her a note and give it to me, I’ll have my father send it to her tomorrow.”

  Suddenly, I was hugging him. There was a lot in that hug. Guilt, sadness, regret, gratitude, pain, joy.

  “Bring me the note in a sealed envelope,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be tempted to read it.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I mumbled into his shoulder.

  “I am just being me,” he answered.

  I kept hugging until Nareem gently pulled away. Then I cried a few last tears. “Thank you,” I said. “For everything. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nareem said.

  As I biked home, I thought about what had just happened. And I realized something. I was shocked, I was amazed, but I wasn’t surprised. Because of where the kindness and generosity came from.

  That was Nareem.

  14

  THE LETTER

  Dear Jane,

  The concert was so amazing the other night. And meeting you was definitely the most amazing part of all.

  I have been thinking a lot about what you said about communicating with people and not being so dependent on phones and other devices. I think you’re definitely right. I really learned that the other night when I made a terrible mistake and hurt
someone I really care about in a text. I feel unbelievably horrible. Texting and IM-ing and stuff can be really dangerous, and it seems like people are using it too much instead of doing things like talking to each other, and it can make people insensitive and mean.

  I don’t know if you meant it or not when you said to send you a song, but I decided to write one anyway. It felt good to write it. So far it’s just lyrics. Here it is. I really hope you like it.

  Your biggest fan,

  Katie Friedman

  15

  SOMETIMES IT TAKES A LITTLE SADNESS

  Two nights later, I was eating dinner with my parents when our home phone rang.

  My mom and dad looked at each other, since no one ever really called the house except for people trying to sell us stuff. In fact, my parents had been talking recently about getting rid of the home phone altogether.

  I got up to look at the caller ID. BLOCKED. I hesitated for a second, then picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Katie?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Kit St. Claire.”

  It took me a minute to process this. Kit St. Claire? I remembered meeting a Kit. Then it hit me. KIT.

  “Kit?”

  “Yup. You remember me, right? I work for Jane.”

  “Oh. Uh … Oh, yes. I remember you.” It was hard to hear myself—or anything—over the pounding of my heart.

  “Do you have a minute to talk with Jane?”

  I had a year to talk with Jane. “Um … Of course! Yes.”

  “Great! Hold on a sec.”

  As I waited, my parents looked at me with puzzled expressions on their faces. I’d told them about meeting Jane backstage, but nothing about her asking me to write a song and send it to her. I hadn’t told them about that, because it seemed so ridiculous to think that anything would come from it.

  But now, it seemed like something might.

  “It’s a long story,” I whispered to my parents.

  “That’s okay, we’ve got time,” said my dad.

  I rolled my eyes at him and waited. And waited.

  And waited some more.

  After about two full minutes, with my parents staring at me the whole time, I decided to come clean. “Jane Plantero from Plain Jane is calling me, I think about a song I wrote,” I told them, trying to make it sound as normal as possible. “I’m waiting for her to come to the phone.”