Access Denied (and other eighth grade error messages) (2 page)

“WHY CAN’T I GO?” I stood on one side of the island in the kitchen, my mom on the other. She was chopping onions for dinner
with a chopper that made a loud thwacking sound when she pressed down on the handle.

“Because—”
Thwack!
“—you’re too young to go to a rock concert.” She paused to look up at me. “I know Carla’s dad will be there but it’s not
about parental supervision. It’s about being in an environment that you don’t need to be exposed to right now.” She paused,
itching her nose with the back of her hand. “Maybe if it was a different band. But that one…”

Her voice trailed off as my insides curled up, hardening into stone. Every time I turned around lately there was a new rule
and each one began with NO. No staying out past ten on a weekend night (the city curfew was eleven!), no short skirts (which
I don’t wear anyway), no unsupervised parties, no cell until high school, no web presence (meaning no MySpace, no live blog,
no nothing, even though I totally know about being safe online)—and on and on until we got to the latest NO—no rock concert.
They did say yes to IM
finally
but way late—most of my friends had been IMing since 5th or 6th grade.

“Why do you always do this?” I asked. “Everyone else gets to go.” Which technically wasn’t true. Rosie wasn’t going either.
But Jilly, Mark, Tyler, and all of my other friends were.

“You know better than to use the ‘everyone else is doing it’ argument. That doesn’t fly in this house.” Mom scraped the chopped
onions into a bowl and placed another half onion in the chopper. Her lips pursed as she concentrated on another
thwack.
A few gray strands curled out of her brown hair and her eyelids seemed to droop. She suddenly looked like someone I didn’t
know—or maybe just someone who didn’t know
me
—and I had no idea when that had happened. After the BN we’d gotten close but then summer came and I was doing a lot more
with my friends and things felt different. We never used to fight—well, almost never. But now we do.

“But it’s true,” I said. “And it’s embarrassing to always have to say my parents won’t let me.” They wouldn’t even let me
go to just any PG-13 movie. Hello? PG-
13
?
I’m
thirteen? But no, my mom had to see the movie first or go to one of those online parental movie guides that rated the amount
of “bad stuff” in the movie and described various scenes. She practically had to write a research paper on it. And sometimes
she’d do all that and wouldn’t let me go and I’d have to lie and tell my friends I had a family thing so I wouldn’t be completely
humiliated. But I had a feeling they knew anyway, which made it even worse.

“Well, I’m sorry if we embarrass you, Erin, but that’s the way it is.”
Thwack!
She dumped the rest of the onions in the bowl. “I didn’t go to a rock concert until I was sixteen.”

“Things are different now,” I said. “Kids grow up faster.”

My mom shook her head. “No, they don’t. You’re just getting exposed to things at an earlier age. That doesn’t mean you can
handle them.” She picked at some stray bits of onion stuck on the chopper blade. “It’s about safety and well-being and whether
your mind and emotions can process all of it in an effective manner.” She turned to the sink and washed her hands, scrubbing
each finger.

I groaned. I hated when she talked like some parenting magazine article. “But you were so proud of how I handled things last
year. Don’t you think I can handle this?”

“We
are
proud of how you handled last year. But this is different.” My mom put her hands on the counter and looked at me, her face
softening. “I know how important this is to you, Erin. Really. But you have to understand that it’s my job to do what’s best
for you, regardless of what you want or what other parents are allowing their kids to do.” She crossed to the sink and rinsed
out the chopper. “I know this seems like the end of the world right now, but there will be lots of concerts in your life,
Erin. And lots of other things when you’re ready for them. I don’t know why you all have to rush out and do everything right
now.”

“I’m not rushing out to do everything right now,” I said. “I just want to go to this one concert with my friends right before
we start
eighth grade.
”

“You’re not going, Erin,” my mom said, placing the chopper on the rack to dry, “and that’s final.”

The stone inside me cracked.

“I’m not a baby!” I shouted. “And I wish you’d stop treating me like one!” Tears pricked my eyes. Why did that always happen?
Why did I feel like crying when I was mad? I ran upstairs and slammed my door, enjoying the satisfying
bang
that reverberated through the house. I didn’t care if my “behavior” wasn’t showing my maturity. It felt good to slam a door.

I STAYED IN MY ROOM the rest of the night, refusing to come down for dinner. I wouldn’t even talk to my dad, who tried to
get me to come out with a lame joke about a rock star walking into a bar. How could he make fun of my situation when he was
one of the two Parental Paranoids keeping me from having a good time?

I turned up the volume on my speakers in reply.

“If you get hungry, you can warm up some food later,” he said loudly through the door.

“I won’t get hungry,” I replied, trusting the music to drown out my grumbling stomach.

“Okay,” he said, “But if you or your stomach changes your mind…” He tapped twice on the door before shuffling away.

“Never!” I shouted after him, flopping down on my bed. Maybe I should go on a hunger strike until they let me go to the concert.
They would find me wasting away in my room, barely able to raise my head off my pillow, but with Jilly’s help I’d have just
enough strength to put on my new probably-too-short shorts with the to-die-for layered tank tops, dab on some makeup, fix
my hair, and slip into a car that would whisk me away to the concert. There I would finally eat and regain my full strength
so I could dance and clap my hands to the beat.

The stomach grumbles were becoming unbearable. I rolled over on my side and tried to think of something besides the roast
chicken that was cooking in the oven, its aroma wafting up the stairs and under my door.

I glanced at the clock. Barely ten minutes had passed since my dad had come up. Why did I say never? Never was a long, long
time.

An hour later, there was a sharp knock on the door. I sat up straight, grateful for getting lost in my book. I was still hungry,
but I didn’t feel like I might start eating the bedpost anymore.

“Yeah?” I said cautiously.

“It’s me.” My brother’s voice was low outside the door.

“Come in.”

Chris stepped inside, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water. It was all I could do not to leap off my bed and gobble
it down with my fingers.

“I figured you were lying about being hungry.” He held the plate out and I immediately shoveled a mound of mashed potatoes
and gravy into my mouth. He pulled out the chair and flipped it around so he was sitting with his arms resting on the back.
“I know you’re mad that you can’t go to the concert but you’ve got to suck it up or they’re never going to let you do anything.”

“I can’t help it,” I said, between bites. “It’s totally unfair.” When he started to speak, I held up my hand. “And don’t tell
me you didn’t get to go to a concert until you were in high school. This isn’t about you.”

Chris laughed. “No, it’s about you messing up your future. And mine. They’re talking about having a family night the night
of the concert so you won’t feel left out. There goes my Friday night.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Chris brushed his fingers through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. “Just be cool, Erin. That’s all I’m saying.
Take it from someone who’s been there.”

That night Mark sent me an IM.

Slamdunk12:
Bummer about the concert. We’ll miss u.

Webqueen429:
Thx. Maybe they’ll change their minds.

Slamdunk12:
Hope so.

I watched the cursor blinking on my screen. Then Mark started typing again.

Slamdunk12:
Confession: My mom screens PG-13 movies b4 she’ll let me c them.

Webqueen429:
WHAT??? Serious?

Slamdunk12:
Dead

Mark had to be one of the coolest people on the planet. I knew he was telling me because of the whole concert thing. How many
guys would admit something like that?