Katie Friedman Gives Up Texting!

by Tommy Greenwald

  I guess what I’m saying is, the place was loud.

  Before we went inside, Mr. Ramdal pulled me, Nareem, and Nareem’s little sister Ru aside.

  “WE STICK TOGETHER!” he yelled over the crowd. “NO ONE LEAVES MY SIGHT!” At least that’s what I think he said. He might have said, “NO ONE LEAVES MY SIDE!” Same difference.

  “OKAY!” we all yelled back.

  Then Mr. Ramdal gave us these bracelets to put on, which immediately turned us into incredibly important people. It got us through about eight security checks and down about three levels of stairs until we ended up seven rows from the stage.

  I turned around and saw about 14,000 people with worse seats than me. It’s easy to feel pretty superior when that happens.

  We got to our seats just before eight, which was five minutes before the show was supposed to start. Then we waited for an hour.

  “THIS HAPPENS SOMETIMES,” Nareem’s father shouted, as warm-up music blasted away. “MUSIC PEOPLE ARE LATE QUITE OFTEN. FOR MEETINGS AS WELL AS FOR CONCERTS.”

  We nodded, staring at everything, including our bracelets.

  At exactly nine o’clock, the lights went out.

  Then it sounded like a thousand planes taking off at the same time.

  Planes with huge engines, and filled with thousands of screaming teenage girls.

  I heard someone plunk some notes on a guitar, then someone bang a drum a few times. My heart started to race.

  Then, all of a sudden … BAM!

  The music exploded.

  The first chords of “Life Is for the Living” began, one of my favorite Plain Jane songs. Lights flashed everywhere, then suddenly, the band was right in front of us—no more than thirty feet away! My eyes zeroed in on Jane Plantero, guitarist and lead singer. She sang right to me. I swear.

  Don’t control—connect.

  Don’t attack—accept.

  Gifts are for the giving.

  Life is for the living.

  The whole audience was singing along, of course. I was probably singing louder than anyone—except when I was posting pictures online. I think everyone was doing some sort of online bragging. It’s definitely the best way of saying to your friends, I’m here and you’re not.

  The song ended, and the crowd went wild.

  Jane stepped up to the microphone.

  “Hey, what’s up Connecticut? So glad to be back in the old neighborhood!”

  The crowd answered with a sound louder then planes taking off. It was more like the sound of a rocket launching.

  Then Jane put her hands out and motioned for quiet.

  “I have a favor to ask you guys.”

  The crowd actually got quieter. Not quiet, but quieter.

  “I want to ask you guys to help me make music tonight.”

  The crowd got un-quiet quickly, until Jane put her hands out again.

  “I want you guys to help me make some beautiful music by taking it a little easy with those phones, and those cameras, those doo-hickeys and devices and gizmos and gadgets. Let’s just sing together. Let’s connect. Let’s make eye contact. Let’s make history. Let’s make music.”

  I suddenly realized I had my phone out, recording her speech about putting away our phones. When I looked around, I saw that 14,000 other people were doing the same thing.

  “Sound cool?” Jane asked.

  Everyone roared.

  “SHE WANTS US TO CONNECT!” I screamed to Nareem.

  “I KNOW!” Nareem yelled back.

  His father just shook his head and smiled.

  I put away my phone. Nareem put away his phone. Ru was too young to have a phone.

  I was able to listen to one whole song before I took out my phone and started texting and taking video again.

  6

  BACKSTAGE

  After the concert, which was unbelievably unbelievable, our magic bracelets became even more magical.

  First, a very large man came over and whispered something to Nareem’s dad. Then he nodded at us, and we all followed him past the stage, down a long dark corridor and up to a big gold door that said ARTIST on it.

  The very large man knocked.

  The door opened.

  Another very large man stuck his head out. Nareem’s father showed him his bracelet. The second very large man nodded.

  And just like that, we were in.

  Backstage!!!!

  Food everywhere. Candy everywhere. Soda everywhere. Beer everywhere. People everywhere. Famous people everywhere. All wearing the very same bracelets we had on.

  The four of us stood there for a minute with our mouths on the ground until a very young, very pretty woman wearing the nicest jacket I’ve ever seen—it was red and gold, with the Plain Jane logo stitched across the back—came up to us.

  She gave Nareem’s father a hug, and he immediately became the coolest parent I knew. By a long shot.

  “Mr. Ramdal, so good to see you.”

  Nareem’s dad nodded shyly. He wasn’t really the hugging type, as far as I could tell. “You as well, Kit.”

  Kit smiled at the rest of us. “Hi, guys, I’m Kit St. Claire. Come on back and meet the band.”

  We gave each other a look like “Are you kidding me?!” and then followed Kit down another, shorter hallway. There was another door, except this one was bright red, and the sign on it said PLAIN JANE. Kit didn’t knock, she just opened the door.

  The first thing I saw was Jane Plantero, half undressed.

  OMG!

  We were all about to turn away, but she looked up and smiled.

  “Hey, my man Sanjay!”

  It took me a minute to realize that Nareem’s father’s first name must be Sanjay.

  “Are these your kids?” asked Jane, as she put the rest of her non-concert clothes on.

  “These two, Nareem and Ru,” Mr. Ramdal said. Then he pointed at me. “This is Nareem’s friend and your biggest fan.”

  Jane shook all our hands. “You guys are all from Eastport, huh? My old stomping grounds?”

  We all nodded.

  “Your dad is a genius,” Jane said to Nareem and his sister. “He’s probably kept me out of jail more than once or twice.”

  “She’s kidding,” Mr. Ramdal said quickly.

  Jane looked at me. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Katie,” I said, or at least tried to.

  “Well, hey, Katie. Thanks for buying the merch.”

  “Merch?” I asked, confused.

  Jane pointed at my Plain Jane sweatshirt. “Merchandise, baby. That’s what pays the bills these days, ever since the record business blew up.” She looked at Mr. Ramdal. “Sanjay taught me that.”

  I couldn’t believe Nareem’s father, who’d always been this quiet, polite man, picking his son up after student government, was good friends with my favorite rock star. Boy, life can sure surprise you sometimes.

  “Katie is in a band,” Nareem said, out of nowhere.

  Jane’s eyebrows went up. “Is that right?”

  “They’re really good,” Nareem added, realizing that I was too embarrassed to talk about it. “They play a bunch of your songs.”

  “I know every song you’ve ever written by heart,” I blurted out, for some reason.

  “Sweet!” Jane said. “Do you write your own songs, too?”

  That was a tricky question. I’d started fooling around with lyrics a bit, but didn’t have the guts to show them to anyone.

  “Not yet,” I answered. “I want to, though.”

  Jane stared at me, her intense eyes burning. “Don’t ‘want!’ Do!”

  “If I can write one song in my lifetime half as beautiful as ‘Your Heartbreak or Mine,’” I told her, “I will be the happiest person who ever lived.”

  “Aw, now you’re just being nice,” Jane said.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not. I really think it’s just the most perfect song ever written.”

  “Well, look at you, sneaky little thing!” Jane said, laughin
g. “Flattery will get you everywhere!”

  “We should go,” Mr. Ramdal said. “You have many people who want to visit with you, I’m sure.” I stared at him, crushed—betrayed by this man who had been my hero for the last three hours.

  “In a minute,” Jane said. “So, let me ask you guys something. That stuff I said about taking it easy with the phones and the gadgets. How’d it sound? Did I come off okay, or did I sound like a school principal?”

  Was Jane actually asking for our advice?

  “I thought it was great,” Nareem said. “You were completely correct.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “People were spending so much time on the phones they practically missed the whole concert!”

  Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Not you guys, though, right?”

  We all stared at our shoes and said some variation of “Um.”

  Then she winked and let out a huge laugh. “Ah, I’m just giving you a hard time!”

  Kit came up and whispered something in Jane’s ear. “Well, duty calls,” Jane said to us. “Got some other folks that need tending to.”

  I looked around, wondering who the other folks were, since there was no one else inside that private room. Not even the rest of the band.

  Kit started steering Jane out the door, but as she passed me, she stopped and grabbed my arm. “Hey, you! Flattery girl! You write a song, and you send it to me,” Jane called back to me. “I wanna hear what you got.” She winked at Mr. Ramdal. “The money man knows how to find me.”

  Then just like that she was out the door, plunged into the crazy world of post-concert rock-star life.

  Wow.

  “That was so cool,” Nareem said. “She really seemed to like you.”

  “Hey, Nareem?” I said.

  He looked up from his drink. “Yes?”

  “Just … thanks.”

  “For what?”

  I couldn’t decide whether to say “For taking me to the concert,” or “For telling Jane I was in a band,” or “For not minding that she talked more to me than to you,” so instead I just said, “For everything.”

  Nareem smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Ru had one more question for her dad. “Are we going to meet the rest of the band?”

  Some people are never satisfied.

  Meanwhile, I tried to understand what had just happened. Jane was amazing. She was exciting. She was inspiring. She was scary. And she may have been the most important thing that had ever happened to me.

  As we headed out of the arena, I knew one thing for sure.

  I was going to write that song.

  7

  TWO LIES IN TWO MINUTES

  On the car ride home, we listened to Plain Jane songs until finally Mr. Ramdal told us he couldn’t take it anymore and turned on the news.

  Nareem took that opportunity to ask me the question I’d been waiting for.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  My first plan was to play dumb. “Huh?”

  “In study hall yesterday,” Nareem reminded me (as if I needed reminding). “You said you wanted to talk to me about something, but then I told you about the Plain Jane concert, and you never told me.”

  “Oh, right.” I moved on to my second plan. “I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry I was kind of rude to you at lunch. Everyone was texting instead of talking, and I started to get annoyed.”

  First lie.

  “People text instead of talk all the time,” Nareem pointed out.

  “I know, but I think it’s starting to get out of control.”

  “You sound like Jane,” Nareem said, smiling. “Don’t control—connect!”

  “Well, she’s right, don’t you think?”

  Nareem shrugged. “Sure, if you say so.”

  Right at that moment, of course, I got a text. I ignored it, which wasn’t easy. Anybody knows that ignoring an unread text, when it’s just sitting there on your phone, is one of the hardest things to do in the entire world.

  “You got a text,” Ru announced, unnecessarily.

  “You’re not going to read it?” Nareem asked.

  “No.”

  He started to laugh. “Come on. Get it. You know you want to.”

  “I don’t! Seriously, I don’t.”

  We rode in silence for a minute until finally I said, “Fine,” and pulled out my phone.

  It was from Charlie Joe.

  How was the concert with your not-ex-boyfriend?

  I put my phone away.

  “Who was it?” Nareem asked.

  I shook my head. “My mom, just wanting to know when I’d be home.”

  Second lie.

  I’d never lied to Nareem before, and now I had told him two lies in two minutes.

  Not a good sign.

  8

  MEET THE PARENTS

  The first thing I did when I got home was obsess over the pictures and videos I took at the concert.

  Then I posted them online and sat back, waiting for all the comments and likes to start pouring in.

  Which is when my mom poked her head in.

  “Are you going to tell us about the concert?”

  “In a minute.”

  She sighed as she walked away.

  Listening to her sigh, I sighed.

  I should probably mention that my mom and dad are both therapists. They’re big into communication and connection. Kind of like Plain Jane, but without the power chords.

  Which is great, usually, and I love them and we get along really well, but sometimes they’re a little bit more into communication than I want them to be, and sometimes they ask too many questions.

  And sometimes, a single question is too many.

  A few minutes later, my mom knocked again.

  “Hold on,” I called.

  The third time, a couple of minutes after that, my dad was with her. This time they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Tell us about how tonight went,” they said, marching into my room.

  “It was awesome,” I answered, not taking my eyes off my computer. Responses were starting to come in to my concert report—mostly saying various versions of “OMG I am so jealous!!!”—and I wanted to be able to read every one of them.

  My dad walked up and peered over my shoulder at my computer screen.

  “Are you on Facebook?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “I thought we agreed no Facebook until high school.”

  “We did, but then I told you that tons of other kids have it, and if I didn’t get it I would become socially isolated.” Sometimes you have to talk to a therapist in their own language—especially if it’s your dad.

  “How much time a day do you spend on this thing?”

  “Almost none,” I said, which wasn’t technically totally true.

  “Between the phone and the computer,” said my mom, “we barely see you anymore.”

  “And you’re not even in high school yet,” my dad added, piling on.

  “Listen, this is how kids communicate these days,” I said. “It’s crazy to fight it. You would have actually been proud of me at lunch yesterday, I got mad at the other kids because they were texting when I was trying to tell them something. But everybody basically laughed at me.”

  Right on cue, I got a text, which I glanced at quickly. It was from Charlie Joe: 46 LIKES ALREADY!

  “Oooh, nice going,” said my mom.

  I rolled my eyes. “People just think it’s cool that I went to the concert and met Jane.”

  “Well, don’t be too braggy,” she said. “People don’t like braggarts.”

  I KNOW! I typed back to Charlie Joe, with my two thumbs. I was the fastest two-thumb typer in the country, by the way. I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s hard to believe anyone was faster than me.

  Charlie Joe and I exchanged about five more texts in the next minute. My parents watched me the whole time, shaking their heads.

  “Unbelievable,” my dad said. “Does it ever st
op?”

  “I think unlimited texting was a mistake,” my mom said.

  “I need to check your computer,” my dad said.

  “What?!” I put my phone away and shut my laptop. “Don’t you guys trust me? I get good grades, I’m normal, I’m nice, I empty the dishwasher—what else do you want from me?”

  My mom sat down on the bed next to me and kissed my cheek.

  “A short description of the concert would be nice,” she said.

  9

  DIFFERENT DREAMS

  There were four of us in CHICKMATE: myself on guitar and lead vocals; Becca Clausen, who started the band with me, on guitar and background vocals; Jackie Bender on keyboards; and Sammie Corcoran on drums. We were still looking for a bass player. Turns out there aren’t a lot of bass players in middle school—especially girl bass players.

  Wednesday night, the night after the Plain Jane concert, we had rehearsal. We usually rehearsed in Becca’s basement, because it was soundproof—which was very important to parents—and because it was big enough to hold instruments, amps, drums, and five-foot-ten-inch Becca Clausen.

  I got there early, and Becca waved me into the kitchen, where she was eating cereal. “Want some?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  I watched her eat for another minute.

  “Okay, I guess I’ll have a little.”

  Becca laughed. “No one can resist the power of Froot Loops.” She was right about that.

  I helped myself and started chomping away. After a minute Becca said, “I still can’t believe you met Plain Jane.”

  “I didn’t actually meet the whole band,” I said between bites. “Just Jane.”

  Becca laughed. “Katie, she is the band. She’s the lead singer and she writes the songs. It’s all her.”

  “I guess.” After a few more bites, I decided to bring up the topic of conversation that I’d been thinking about all day, and the reason I decided to get there early. “So, speaking of writing songs, I was … I think we should write one for the talent show.”

  Becca stopped eating and looked at me. “Write a song? Us?”

  “Yeah.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know. I’m not a songwriter. I’m not even a real musician, the way you are. I’m a basketball player who plays a little bit of guitar.”