The Disconnect Read online

  First published in 2019 in Great Britain by

  Barrington Stoke Ltd

  18 Walker Street, Edinburgh, EH3 7LP

  This ebook edition first published in 2019

  www.barringtonstoke.co.uk

  Text © 2019 Keren David

  The moral right of Keren David to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in any part in any form without the written permission of the publisher

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library upon request

  ISBN: 978-1-78112-889-3

  To Deborah and Jeremy, at the start of your new adventure

  CONTENTS

  1. Decisions

  2. The Disconnect

  3. Dad

  4. @murrayloves

  5. Family matters

  6. Hello FOMO

  7. Addiction

  8. Support group

  9. Identity theft

  10. Spies

  11. Running

  12. Choices

  13. Info check

  14. Snap cheat

  15. Download

  16. Delete and reset

  17. Connected

  18. Selfie

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Decisions

  I take a selfie.

  And another.

  I look awful. I can’t go out like this. It’s the top I’m wearing. Shaquilla can wear sexy stuff like this, but on me it just looks silly. I haven’t got the body for it. I don’t fill it up. It makes me look stupid. Like a kid dressing up.

  I change my top to a plain white T‑shirt. Apply more bronzer. Try to remember how to contour my cheekbones.

  Selfie.

  My lipstick’s wrong. Too pink. Where’s that other one?

  Selfie.

  OK, that’ll do.

  I find our group – me, Natalie, Sophie, Shaquilla. Press send.

  Wait. One … Two … Three—

  My phone buzzes with a message from Dad. Ignore it. I haven’t got time right now for a long chat.

  Message from Natalie: Gorgeous as per, babe, but what is that top?

  I message back: Just an old one of Rosa’s. Not going to wear it …

  Panic. What can I wear?

  Message from Shaquilla: What about that black one from H&M you bought last week?

  She’s reading my mind. That was the one I had on first of all.

  I message back: Not sure it works.

  Messages from Shaquilla, Natalie and Sophie, all saying the same thing: Show us!

  I pull the top on. It’s too tight. It’s too low cut. It’s not me. I should never have bought it.

  Selfie.

  Oh God. Try again.

  Selfie, leaning forward, looking down. Send it.

  Natalie: That’s the one!

  Shaquilla: Stunning!

  Sophie: Yes! Babe!

  I look in the mirror. What do they see that I don’t see? But three against one … OK. It works. OK, I’ll wear it.

  I message: Thanks, guys!

  Dad’s FaceTiming me. I press the red button to decline.

  I message Dad: Sorry, I’m busy now. Talk later.

  Deep breaths. Find word game app. Play three rounds. Feel calmer.

  I go downstairs. Mum’s having breakfast, looking at her phone.

  “New pictures of Zack!” Mum says, beaming. She’s the proudest grandma in London.

  “I know,” I reply. “Rosa sent them to me too. So cute!” I’m the proudest auntie as well. It’s so sad that we’ve never met Zack. My sister Rosa lives in New York now, which was where Zack was born – and Dad lives there too. Half my family is a whole ocean away.

  “But there’s another nasty review of the cafe,” Mum says. “It’s terrible. Avi’s sure these reviews are fake. He’s so worried.”

  Avi is my stepdad, and he and Mum opened their own cafe six months ago. It was their dream. But things aren’t going to plan, and they’re struggling to get customers. I try to help out as much as I can, but you can’t drag people in off the street and make them eat. And even one bad review seems to scare people off.

  “Oh, that’s awful,” I say.

  Mum looks up.

  “Esther!” she says. “What are you wearing?”

  “It’s my new top. I like it!” I try to sound as if I mean it.

  “It’s …” Mum begins. “You look like you’re going to the beach!”

  “It’s a crop top, Mum.”

  “More like a bikini top.”

  “Well, I like it,” I tell her. “And I’m wearing it. So you’ll just have to cope with it.”

  “Do you really think it’s suitable?” Mum asks. “I don’t want old men leering at you.”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” I say, and I blow her a kiss. “I’m 16, Mum. I can choose my own clothes.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about it,” she says. “Oh, hang on, Avi’s texted me.”

  And Mum goes back to looking at her phone.

  2

  The Disconnect

  On Monday at school, I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. It’s like a wasp that’s been swatted away from a jam sandwich. I’m going to have to find a way to sneak a look at it when I get out of assembly.

  Ugh, what a rubbish weekend. When the girls actually saw what I looked like in that top, they sort of smirked. And a lot of pictures were taken. And now they’re all over Insta, all over Snapchat. The comments will be coming in thick and fast, either fake nice or downright rude.

  I should switch off my phone. That’s what we’re meant to do at school. But it could be something urgent. You never know. Dad likes to know he can contact me any time. And what if something happens to Rosa and Zack? I do worry about them, because they’re thousands of miles away. And so is Dad, of course.

  Maybe I can ease it out of my pocket … But we’re in a special assembly and someone would see. And I really can’t afford to have my phone taken away.

  We aren’t normally called into assembly in period two. I should be doing History. The whole of Year Eleven are here. The head teacher’s talking about some special guest. Must be the woman sitting next to him.

  She’s very smart and looks a bit scary. Her silver‑blonde hair’s all puffed up and she’s wearing a tailored jacket and a white blouse with a floppy bow. Plus a chunky silver choker and earrings. She looks like she might be the head of Ofsted, here to close the school down. But I don’t think she is, because then Mr Lamarr wouldn’t be smiling, and the school would probably send letters home to our parents rather than break the news in a Year Eleven assembly. Also, the school was rated Good last time it was inspected and the sixth form got Outstanding.

  “So, I’d like to welcome Dame Irene Irvine back to the school,” Mr Lamarr says. “She was a pupil here back in the 1970s, and since then she’s become one of our most successful former students.”

  Something stirs in my memory. Dame Irene Irvine. Mobile phones. Billionaire. Super impressive.

  “She’s got news of a very exciting new programme for you in Year Eleven,” Mr Lamarr goes on, “which I hope you’ll all get involved in. It’s a fascinating social experiment, and I think you’ll find it something that can help to improve both your exam results and your social skills … It might even increase your happiness.”

  I don’t know what he’s going on about. It’s a well‑known fact that schools only care about exam results. But anyway, how can Dame Irene Irvine make us happier? Give us all free phones with unlimited data?

  “Thank you, Mr Lamarr!” Dame Irene begins. “And it is so good to be back here again. I’
ve just been treated to a tour of the grounds and I can tell you that a lot has changed since 1979! In my day, a lot of classes were taught in temporary classrooms with leaking roofs. There were no computer suites or dance studios. Even the school’s name – I was a pupil at Finsbury Park Community School, not the New North London Enterprise Academy. But there’s still a lot that’s familiar.”

  I’m not interested in a history lesson, especially when I’ve been pulled out of a History lesson, so my mind starts wandering a bit. I think about how Natalie has gone a bit crazy about boys lately. How she likes it when they message her or like her pictures. How she’s always going on at me to friend different boys. And how I find the whole thing a bit annoying but could never say so.

  “So, mobile‑phone technology has been my life,” Dame Irene is saying. “And I am proud of what I’ve achieved. A few decades ago, no one could have predicted the sort of impact technology would have on our lives today.”

  I can’t imagine a life without phones. Mum talks about it sometimes, and it just feels so strange that someone I know lived like that. It’s like knowing someone who remembers Henry VIII beheading his second wife.

  “Phones are a vital part of our everyday life,” Dame Irene says. “We use them to communicate, to socialise, to share information and photographs, videos and links.”

  Typical older person with a really limited view of what phones are for. What about finding our way to places? How do you do that without GPS? How about googling stuff? And meeting people online?

  “My challenge now is to look to the future,” Dame Irene continues. “What role will phones play in the decades to come? What can we do better? How can technology grow to help us even more? And that’s where you come in. Year Eleven, I want you to help me.”

  The room buzzes with excitement. For a minute we forget to be silent and we turn to each other, words spilling out of our mouths as we try to work out what Dame Irene means. Then Ms Mohammed (head of discipline and decorum) blows her whistle and we’re silent again.

  “I’m creating a task force to advise me on mobile‑phone culture,” Dame Irene says. “And I thought there’d be no better way to recruit than by looking to your generation. You’re digital natives. People who have grown up with this technology.”

  Dame Irene pauses, gazes intently at us with her piercing blue eyes, and adds, “You know more about mobile phones than I do. They’ve always been part of your life. You can tell me exactly what’s good – and bad – about the way technology affects us. I’m sure each and every one of you could help me. But I need to find the best candidates. People who show discipline and determination. So I have a challenge for you.”

  A ripple of anticipation spreads across the room.

  “My challenge is this,” Dame Irene says. “You have to give up your mobile phone.”

  Every single one of us gasps in horror. Well, everyone I can see, anyway.

  “The challenge will last for six weeks,” Dame Irene continues, “until half term. Anyone who manages to go six weeks without their phone will win £1,000 and become a member of my task force. They’ll be paid to attend meetings. Their ideas will shape the future. Those who want to take part will get simple phones, which you can use for calls and texts. You won’t be out of touch in an emergency.

  “I’ll trust you not to cheat, and as the weaker participants drop out I’ll announce ways of monitoring you further. A letter has gone to your parents today, outlining the challenge, and I’ll need their permission for you to take part. I know it won’t be easy. But I think and hope that we will all learn a great deal from this challenge, which I’ve called The Disconnect.”

  My brain splits into two, like it’s a watermelon and Dame Irene has taken an axe to it. One half of my brain is all “My phone? My phone? She wants to take my phone away?”

  But the other is “One thousand pounds! One thousand pounds! Wow! Yes, please!”

  3

  Dad

  They’re not starting the challenge immediately. At break‑time, I check my phone for messages.

  From Mum, telling me I’d forgotten my lunch box.

  From Rosa: another super‑cute video of Zack.

  From Natalie: I’m in late today, what’s this special assembly, are we in trouble?

  And from Dad: Can you FT me, Esther? Sorry about yesterday, got caught in a meeting, love you xxx

  I FaceTime Dad when I get back from school. It’s 11 a.m. in New York, but he’s at home today. He has a week free. You’d have thought it would have been a good time for him to come to London to visit his daughter, wouldn’t you? Yes, well, I’d have thought so too.

  Our conversation goes like this.

  Dad (messy black hair, dark‑rimmed specs, T‑shirt with a picture of Bart Simpson): “Hey, Essie! Love you! How’s it going?”

  Me (similar hair but longer, similar specs but lighter, school uniform consisting of a white shirt, black skirt, wasp‑striped yellow and black tie and the ugliest shoes in the universe): “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  Dad: “Oh, not much. Went for an audition yesterday, so fingers crossed.”

  Me: “Oh, good luck.”

  I don’t bother to ask what for. Dad goes to tons of auditions but hardly ever gets picked. He’s an actor, in theory, but he hasn’t had an acting job in the last year. He mostly does readings and workshops and helps people develop new musicals and plays. “It’ll pay off in the end,” Dad always says. “Networking” is his favourite word, closely followed by “connections”.

  Dad: “Thanks, Essie. How’s my superstar?”

  Me: “Ha ha. I have no idea who that is.”

  Dad: “You, of course. How are you?”

  Me: “I’m OK. Lots of homework. Year Eleven is a bitch.”

  Dad: “But you’re doing OK, right? You get good grades? What did you get for that English essay?”

  Dad helps me with all my homework. I do my best, then email it to him and he sends it back, all corrected and improved. Works for me. Not sure how it’ll work out when I have actual exams.

  Me: “Not got it back yet.”

  Dad: “How’s your mum?”

  Me: “She’s fine, thanks. How’s Lucille?”

  Lucille is Dad’s girlfriend. Sometimes she’s there in the background waving at me when Dad calls. That makes me feel super self‑conscious and I can’t think of anything to say.

  Dad: “Lucille is …”

  He scratches his head.

  Dad: “She’s good. Pretty good. We’re good.”

  Me: “Glad to hear it.”

  Dad: “How are your friends? Natalie and Shaquilla and Sophia, is it? All well? Getting on with each other?”

  Me: “It’s Sophie. Yes, they’re all fine.”

  Dad: “Essie, if there’s anything bothering you, you know you can tell me, don’t you? Just because I’m not there in London … I’m still your dad. I still love you.”

  There is stuff I could tell him. Like, money’s tight, and Mum and Avi are really worried because they’ve sunk everything into the cafe and it’s not taking off like they’d hoped. Like, I really miss Rosa. Like, I’m not so sure that I really fit in with my best friends any more, but I don’t know what to do about it.

  But what’s the point? Dad can’t do anything to help. Talking only gets you so far.

  Me: “I know, Dad. Everything’s good.”

  I blow him a kiss.

  Me: “Love you! Talk to you soon!”

  When the screen goes black, I realise I didn’t tell Dad about The Disconnect. I didn’t tell him that he won’t be able to FaceTime me or send me pictures for six weeks. Well, I suppose he can, but it’ll all be via Mum’s laptop.

  I love my dad, sure, but it’s hard when you never see each other. When he lives thousands of miles away.

  Our phones mean Dad and I can see each other all the time. We can talk. We can share our lives. We can be very close.

  But somehow that’s just not enough.

  4

&nb
sp; @murraylove

  “We can do this,” Natalie says. “We can so do this, babes. After all, it’s only for six weeks.”

  Natalie is giving us a pep talk. If we’re taking part in The Disconnect, we have to give our phones in tomorrow, and I’m not sure I can face it.

  Nor is Sophie. “It sounded easy when Dame Irene was talking about it,” Sophie says. “But … you know … it’s my phone! It’s a basic essential! I’d feel weird without it.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Shaquilla adds. “If there was an emergency or something.”

  “We’d have the phones Dame Irene is going to give us,” I point out. “We could call 999. We just wouldn’t have smart phones.”

  “Yeah, but what if we needed information before the ambulance arrived?” Shaquilla says. “What if someone collapses, and we need to give them mouth‑to‑mouth and we can’t look it up on YouTube?”

  “The person at ambulance control—” I start to reply, but Natalie cuts in.

  “People managed this kind of stuff before smart phones were invented, Shaq. My mum’s always going on about it. ‘You kids, you don’t know you’re born. We had to have money on us and find a call box if we needed to phone home …’”

  “What’s a call box?” Sophie says.

  “Couldn’t they just send a text?” Shaquilla asks.

  “It’s not about emergencies!” I burst out. “It’s the everyday stuff! It’s being able to talk to each other all the time! It’s getting that reassurance, you know, by sending pictures …”

  “We can talk to each other at school,” Natalie says. “And … I suppose … on our new phones.”

  “Yes, but that means actually talking,” Shaquilla points out. “We don’t do that. And we can’t do that in a group.”

  Nat’s laughing. “Of course we can do that. We’re doing it now!”

  “Yes, but … it’s different,” Shaquilla says.

  She’s right. The new phones hardly count. Old‑style technology just won’t give us the chance to communicate properly, and in order to talk face to face as a group, we’d need to be in the same place at the same time, which isn’t very likely.