Katie Friedman Gives Up Texting! (11 page)

How do you write a song

If you've never written one before?

How do you write a melody

That doesn't sound like nails on a chalkboard?

After about twenty minutes, I threw my guitar on my bed in disgust and reached for my phone to text Becca.

Except my phone wasn't there.

Ack!

Okay, fine. I'd call her.

Except my phone wasn't there.

Ack again!

I raced down the stairs.

“Mom? I need help!”

My mom was in the kitchen, making chicken soup from the leftover chicken. It smelled amazing.

“What's up?”

“I need to talk to Becca, but I don't have my phone, and she doesn't have her phone.”

She stirred her soup. “Well, okay, so use our home phone. Do you know her number?”

“Of course I don't know her number! I don't even know how to FIND her number!”

My mom smiled. “Well, there are these things called phone books. You can use that.”

“Where is it?”

“Good question.” She rifled through a few drawers, looked in a few cabinets, then finally pulled out a tattered old book that looked like it was found in a Dumpster somewhere. “Here ya go!”

I picked it up. It was heavy. Who were all these people? I started thumbing through the pages—the print was tiny! After about two minutes, I finally found it: Clausen, 79 Sniffen Road (203) 555-0157.

Now all I had to do was find our phone.

I hadn't used it in about two years. Except for when Jane called me a few days before. Yeah, there was
that
.

I went to the place where it was supposed to be, and the receiver part was still there, but no phone.

“Has anyone seen the phone?”

They shrugged.

“Don't you guys know where it is?”

“It's probably where the remote is,” said my dad. “I can never find that, either.”

Great. I started overturning every cushion in the house, until I finally found it wedged underneath a couch in the living room.

“There you are,” I muttered.

I dialed the number.

Nothing happened.

“Mom? Dad? The phone's not working!”

“Maybe it's out of battery.”

“Try charging it.”

I stared at the phone. I realized I was breathing hard. I was actually out of breath, just from trying to make a phone call.

Wow
, I thought.
That's sad
.

I dropped the phone in my mom's lap.

“I'm going to bed,” I said.

My dad chuckled.

“Welcome to 1987,” he said.

 

29

THIRD LIE

The next day was Tuesday,
the second day of our phone strike. Nothing that fascinating happened at school, except that Mr. Radonski, our crazy gym teacher, told me he was so inspired by what we were doing that he was going to give up his cell phone for a whole year.

“But Mr. Radonski,” I reminded him, “then you won't be able to check the sports scores all during softball practice.”

Mr. Radonski frowned. “Good point. Forget it,” he said.

After school, I had a stop to make.

When my mom pulled into Nareem's driveway, I didn't get out of the car right away. She put the car in park and turned to me.

“What is it, honey?”

I stared straight ahead. “Well, he doesn't know I'm coming, since I didn't have my phone to call him, so I'm thinking maybe he's not home.”

“Well, the only way to find out is if you get out of the car and ring the doorbell.”

I sat there for another minute, doing neither of those things.

My mom turned the car all the way off. “Well?”

“I guess I'm a little nervous.”

She rubbed the back of my shoulder. “This is worth talking about for a second. Do you know why you're nervous?”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Because I'm about to ask the boy whose feelings I hurt for another favor.”

My mom shook her head. “Not exactly. You're nervous because you're about to ask the boy whose feelings you hurt for another favor
in person
. Ordinarily, you would have texted him. You would have texted, HEY I WROTE ANOTHER LETTER TO JANE, IF I LEAVE IT IN YOUR MAILBOX CAN YOUR DAD GIVE IT TO HER? And he would have texted you back, OKAY. But this way, you're forced to actually look him in the eye and ask him face-to-face. This is a good thing. This is what real communication is.”

I stared straight ahead, out the windshield of the car and up toward Nareem's front door. It didn't really feel like a good thing. But I realized my mom was right.

“Okay, here goes.”

My mom gave me a kiss for luck. “I'll be waiting right here.”

I jumped out of the car and ran up to Nareem's front door, almost as if I were worried that if I didn't do it quickly, I would change my mind. I rang the doorbell, and five seconds later the door opened.

Just like last time, it was Ru, Nareem's little sister. She looked up at me, but said nothing.

“Hi, Ru!” I said, a little too cheerfully. “Is your brother home?”

“Yes,” she said, as if that was all I wanted to know.

“Well, could you please tell him I'm here?”

She thought that one over for a minute—long enough for me to actually wonder if Nareem had told her what happened—until she suddenly turned around and sprinted up the stairs.

I waited.

After pretty much the longest minute of my life, Nareem appeared at the door.

“Hi, Katie.”

Way-too-bright smile. “Hi!”

We stared at each other for a minute.

“I thought I said we shouldn't talk for a while,” he said, finally.

“I know. Can I come in anyway?”

Nareem stood off to the side of the door, a silent invitation to enter. I slipped past him and looked around his house like I'd never seen it before, even though I'd been there at least five times. Finally I forced myself to look at him.

“I have a favor to ask you. Just one thing, and then I promise, I won't bother you anymore.”

He gave me a blank look. “What is it?”

I pulled the letter out of my bag. “I wrote another letter to Jane, to tell her the latest news.”

“What latest news?”

“You know,” I said. “That a whole bunch of us are giving up our cell phones for a week.”

Nareem frowned. “Why would you need to tell her that?”

I realized that Nareem didn't know why this was so important to me. He didn't know about the deal I had with Jane.

“I just think she would really enjoy knowing that not only did I decide to give up my phone, ten other kids did, too,” I told him. It was the third lie I'd told Nareem in three days. Who says face-to-face communication helps people connect? So far it just seemed like it was helping me become a better liar.

“Fine, yes. I will do it.” Nareem held out his hand, and I gave him the letter.

Poor Nareem. He's such a good person that even when he wants to be mean, he can't pull it off. “Thank you so much, Nareem, you're the best. I'll see you tomorrow.” I turned to head toward the door, but Nareem stopped me.

“If you don't mind, now I would like you to do something for me. Okay?”

I smiled. “Of course! Anything!” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Nareem still cared about me enough to think I could do something to help him. I felt the warmth of relief spread through my body.

He pointed up the stairs. “All you have to do is come with me. I want to show you something.”

I could hear his mom singing as we passed the kitchen. She was making something that smelled amazing. Every time I came to their house, Nareem's mother was making some incredible dish. It made me wish a little bit that my mom didn't have such a busy job, so she could stay home and cook more. But then I felt a little bad thinking that, and made myself stop.

We climbed the stairs and went into his room. He stopped. I stopped. I waited, but he didn't move.

“Nareem? What did you want to show me?”

He walked over to his desk and opened his computer. The screen-saver was a photograph.

Of me.

It was from the Plain Jane concert. My face was lit up with pure happiness as I watched the band onstage. My hands were in the air, and it looked as though I was dancing a little bit.

It was the first picture I'd ever seen of myself where I thought, hey, I actually
am
kind of pretty.

“When did you take that?”

“When you weren't looking.”

“It's really nice.”

“It is.”

Nareem closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. Without another word he headed out of his room and back down the stairs. I followed.

He went to the front door and opened it. As I went through it, I stopped and looked at him.

“Why did you want to show me that picture?”

Nareem looked like he was trying to decide whether he wanted to speak or not. Finally he decided. “Jane was right about trying to connect with each other,” he said. “She was right about trying to communicate. But sometimes memories are the only connection and the only communication we have.”

I felt tears behind my eyes. “Thank you, Nareem,” I said. “For everything. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

I didn't want him to see me cry, so I turned and headed to my mom's car.

“Katie.”

I stopped and looked back. Nareem smiled sadly.

“I took that picture with my cell phone,” he said.

 

30

MRS. KATZ

My mom asked me a bunch
of questions on the way home, but I didn't feel like answering any of them. Eventually she left me alone, and let me put on Plain Jane. Since Nareem lived close to me, we only had time to listen to one song, and I picked “Houses”—an amazing song Jane wrote, about being a child of divorced parents.

Two warm beds

Two kitchens

Two places to be

Two backyards

Two front porches

Two parents who don't agree

A person who

Divides herself

Can never truly be free

So why do I

Have two houses

When there's only one me.

“Wow,” said my mom. “Intense.”

“That's one word for it,” I said. “
Awesome
is another.”

My mom looked thoughtful. “Maybe her parents weren't honest with her about what was going on, and that's why she's so focused on people communicating with one another.”

There goes Mom, putting her therapist hat on again.

When we pulled into our driveway, there was a strange car there. It took me a minute to realize whose car it was.

Jake's mom's.

I mentioned her before, right? I think I did. I can't remember. Anyway, in case I didn't, here's a quick reminder: She's a little crazy.

Mrs. Katz is one of those moms who is in their kid's business all the time. I mean,
all the time
. She wants to know where Jake is, what he's doing, and why he's doing it, every second of every day. She's kind of out of control about it. I think they call them “helicopter parents” now, because of the way they hover over your every move. Anyway, she was one.

Which is why I was pretty sure I knew why she was at our house.

“There you are!” she shouted, when my mom and I walked through the door. Jake was there, too, looking embarrassed. And my dad, who was never a huge fan of Mrs. Katz's, looked incredibly relieved to see us.

“Mitzi,” said my mom sweetly. “How nice to see you.”