The Disconnect Page 2

  I’m a member of about 25 different groups on various apps. Some groups are small – like me and Nat, for when Shaq and Sophie wind us up. Me and Sophie and Shaq, for when Nat’s being annoying. My English group. My mates from primary school – except Lucy, because she upset Natalie once and there was a massive row and a split. Lucy’s group from that time. Natalie’s group from that time … The groups aren’t always active, but it’s a way of making sure you don’t upset the wrong people, while knowing everything that’s going on.

  And then there’s all the stuff on my phone that I do to stay calm. Meditation apps. Mindfulness apps. Word games. Films and Netflix and magazines and … kitten videos. Sometimes a cute cat is what you need after an upsetting day. What would it be like if you couldn’t get instant access to YouTube?

  “I’m feeling all shaky just thinking about it,” I confess. “But I’d love to win the money.”

  “How rich must Dame Irene be?” Shaquilla says. “I mean, there could be a hundred of us that make it to six weeks and then she’d be forking out a fortune.”

  “She’s a billionaire,” Natalie says. “I looked her up.”

  “On your phone …” Shaquilla adds, giving Natalie the side‑eye.

  “No, on Mum’s laptop,” Natalie tells her.

  “We could use laptops to make up for not having phones,” I say.

  “Esther, all the messaging apps are on our phones,” Sophie points out. “I mean, I suppose you could go back to Facebook …”

  We all groan.

  “Yeah, if you want your gran and your aunties and everyone knowing your business,” Shaquilla says.

  “But let’s face it, it’s not going to be the same,” Sophie says. “And anyway, if we all give up our phones, who are we going to be talking to?”

  “Well …” I say. There’s a whole group of people on Twitter I know because I’m a fan of Murray Myles (I’m @murraylove – but none of my friends know). And then there are the people I did ballet with for years, until I broke my ankle and had to give up. And then Rosa … Dad …

  “I hate this,” I say, feeling miserable.

  “Think of the money!” Natalie tells me. “What would you buy? I’d go on a massive shopping trip to Westfield, and I’d get eyelash extensions …”

  And there it is. The reason I have to do this. The reason why it’s worth the sacrifice.

  “I would go to New York,” I say. “I’d take Mum. So we can see my sister and her baby.”

  “And your dad,” Sophie says.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Him too.”

  5

  Family matters

  My family’s kind of complicated, as you’ve probably realised.

  My dad is American and my mum is British. They met in New York when Mum was a student on a year abroad. They got together and had Rosa. It was all pretty quick.

  After a few years, Mum got really homesick and they came back to London, where they got married and I was born. Dad came to the UK on a student visa and he did a course in musical theatre. And then he taught for a bit and got some acting work. But Mum and Dad didn’t have much money, and Dad didn’t have a work visa.

  And all of that stress meant a lot of arguments, and in the end they split up and Dad went back to America. His visa had run out anyway, so he couldn’t live here any longer.

  Dad went back to New York. And he’s still an actor and he’s done plays and musicals, but he’s never really made it big. His name is Don Levin. If you saw that Netflix thing about the aliens and the rock band, he played the bus driver.

  Most of the time Dad works as a helper in a centre for disabled kids. He’s really good at it, and everyone loves him – but it doesn’t pay very well.

  Mum brought me and Rosa up on her own and Dad sent money when he could. He’d fly over to see us whenever he could afford to. Which wasn’t very often. I’ve been to New York twice. Once when I was six and Dad had a small part in a Broadway musical – Rosa, Mum and I went to see him. And when I was 12, Rosa and I went to see our American grandma, who was sick. She died while we were out there. It wasn’t the most fun week, obviously, but it was good to be able to support Dad when he was so sad, and not just pretend‑hug him on the phone.

  Anyway, when Rosa went to uni, she picked a course which had a year in New York – just like Mum had. I was so jealous of Rosa being there and hanging out with Dad a lot. Like, I’m really close to Mum, and Avi’s a great stepdad, but I’ve never spent a long time with Dad and I’d love to have that connection. I’ve never had it. It must be so different face to face, not face to FaceTime.

  Rosa loved New York so much that she went back after she finished her degree. And she met Carlos. And about a month later she got pregnant with Zack.

  It wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, and no one knew that more than Rosa. It was very similar to how Mum and Dad got together. And that didn’t work out so well.

  So now my family is split in half. Dad and Rosa and baby Zack are in America. Mum and Avi and I are in London. I have stepbrothers and sisters too, Avi’s kids, but they are all grown up and they live in Israel, where Avi’s from. Like I said, it’s complicated.

  “So, I have to give up my phone,” I’m explaining to Rosa on FaceTime, “because of this thing called The Disconnect. But it’s just for six weeks and then I’ll have £1,000. If I put it together with everything I’ve saved from babysitting, then maybe I can buy flights for Mum and me to come out and see you.”

  Zack is gurgling at me on the screen. He is the cutest baby. He has huge chocolate‑brown eyes and tight curls and about five chins. I’d love to be able to kiss his dimples, breathe in his baby smell.

  “Whoa,” Rosa says. “What is this experiment? Sounds extreme.”

  I explain the rules. And Rosa points out that we can still Skype in the evenings on Mum’s laptop, and she’ll email pictures of Zack and it’ll all be fine.

  But I know that I’ll miss our random messages and sending photos back and forth. I won’t have that feeling that, while half of my family might be thousands of miles away, they’re still with me all the time. In my pocket.

  “It’ll be OK,” Rosa says. “Look, I’ll go out and buy stamps and postcards, and you can too, and we can send them to each other. Just like Mum did with her sister when I was a baby.”

  We still have those postcards. Mum must have sent about a hundred to Auntie Tamsin, and Auntie Tamsin sent the same number back. When Auntie Tamsin died from heart problems, her partner gave the postcards back to Mum. She put them all together and stuck them in a bag and said, “I must do something with these sometime.” They’ve been in her cupboard ever since.

  Rosa and I read all the postcards a few years back, hungrily searching for clues about why our parents’ love story went wrong. But we didn’t find much. It’s hard to read between the lines when the lines say “New York is wonderful” and “I can’t tell you how happy I am with Don and Rosa in our cute apartment. Even the smell of Mexican food from the cafe downstairs feels exotic and exciting.”

  “Yeah,” I say to Rosa now. “We can do the postcard thing.”

  “Have you told Dad about it?” Rosa asks.

  I shrug and say, “No, can you?” She rolls her eyes and tells me that I really should tell him myself.

  “I know,” I say. “But he’ll want to talk it over and, you know …”

  Sometimes it’s good having a screen dad. I get a lot of attention when we’re talking. It’s all very face to face.

  But sometimes I’d like the chance to tell Dad stuff just casually. To have him in the background being annoying – like most people’s dads.

  Anyway, just then Zack starts crying and Rosa has to go. I switch off my phone for a bit to see how I’ll feel during The Disconnect.

  And how I feel is bored and anxious and lonely, so I switch it right back on again.

  6

  Hello FOMO

  Today’s the day. Disconnect day. We have to give in our phones.


  “It’s not a bad idea at all,” Mum says. “You’ll be able to focus more on your homework. And perhaps you’ll have more time to help out in the cafe?”

  “I can, but do you actually need my help?” I ask her.

  “You never know when you might need an extra pair of hands,” Mum says. “It got quite busy yesterday. We had three family groups in, and then a couple ordered the falafel plate … It was the busiest day we’ve had for ages. Maybe things are on the turn.”

  I hope so.

  Mum and Avi set up the cafe a year ago. They’d planned it for ages. Middle Eastern flavours with an English twist. At first things went really well. But then some random person left a stinking review on TripAdvisor and it changed everything.

  “The review wouldn’t have mattered so much if the cafe had been open longer,” Avi says. A lot.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Mum always replies. “How can someone hate our scrambled egg with hummus and beetroot?”

  They’ve both got a bit obsessed with the bad review. Avi even played back the footage from the security camera to try to work out who’d left it.

  “It will change,” I tell Mum. “The food is amazing.” I take my plate to the sink and wash it up.

  “You’ll hardly notice not having your phone,” Mum says. “After all, everyone’s in the same boat! No one will have their phones, so you can all support each other. And I do worry about you walking around with your phone in your hand. You hear all these reports about moped muggers …”

  “Yeah, right,” I say.

  “Maybe you’ll actually talk to people! You might make some new friends.”

  “Ha ha,” I say. “Very funny. Perhaps you should try it too.”

  Then I pick up my bag. I can’t put it off any longer. Time for school.

  When I get there, the playground is full of small knots of Year Elevens shouting at each other. Seems like my group of friends weren’t the only ones debating The Disconnect.

  “I’m not doing it!” Saira Shah is saying to her mates. “I don’t need some sort of bribe to get me to control my phone use. And I don’t want to be that dame’s advisor anyway.”

  “I can’t,” Evie Lennox moans to the netball team. “How can I count my steps and monitor my fitness without my phone? I can’t buy myself a Fitbit just for six weeks.”

  Natalie appears at my side and asks, “Done it yet?” She waves an old‑fashioned, tiny non‑smart phone at me. “I have! Come on, I’ll take you.”

  She hustles me across the playground towards Mr Lamarr’s office.

  “They’re doing it here,” Natalie says. “You give your phone to Miss Chen.” She nods at Mr Lamarr’s secretary. “And then she labels it and puts it in a bag. And you have to sign a contract …” Natalie picks up a piece of paper. “And then they give you your new phone. First thing you have to do is call your mum so she has your new number.”

  I feel like I’m in a dream – or a nightmare – as I hand my phone over. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Can I really disconnect myself from my family … from my life …?

  “You wouldn’t believe the drama I’ve seen this morning!” Miss Chen says as she puts my phone into a plastic bag. “Girls in tears! Boys dithering, changing their minds …”

  I can’t help noticing that there are a lot of non‑smart phones left in the box.

  “I thought everyone had to hand in their phones before first period?” I ask.

  “Hmm, yes,” Miss Chen says. “Take‑up has been a bit disappointing. It was voluntary after all. Maybe your generation just can’t imagine giving up their phones for even six weeks.”

  Miss Chen hands me my new phone. I hate it right away. It’s so tinny. So tiny. So black and white. So lacking in everything that makes a phone a phone.

  “Ugh,” I say. “What’s my new number?”

  She finds her list. Writes my name. Shows me the number and … I see on the list that only 71 people have signed up for The Disconnect. Out of 300! I’m number 72.

  “Hang on …” I say. I look at the clock on Miss Chen’s wall. (How will I be able to tell the time without my phone?) There’s only five minutes to first period.

  “No one’s doing it!” I whisper to Natalie. “Everyone else will be messaging and we’ll be missing out!”

  Natalie’s scribbling down my new number.

  “It’ll be fine,” she tells me. “Don’t worry. Thanks, miss!”

  Natalie leads me out into the corridor. The empty corridor.

  “Nat, what the hell?” I say. “No one’s doing this!”

  “Loads of people are!” she says, trying to reassure me.

  “What about Shaquilla and Sophie? Where are they?”

  Natalie pauses. And then two boys pass us and go into Miss Chen’s room.

  River Jones. And Tommy Olivero.

  Tommy Olivero. Snake hips, dazzling teeth (his mum’s an orthodontist), glossy chestnut hair (his dad’s a hairdresser) that tumbles over his blue eyes. He’s clever too, but not swotty at all. He’s posh (he lives in a massive house just off the High Street), funny, enigmatic (he has three friends and only really talks to them). The rumour is that he has a girlfriend at St Clare’s, the private school nearby.

  I’ve never spoken to Tommy, unless you count the time he asked me what the French word for biscuit was. We were in a French lesson, so that’s not weird at all.

  Then there’s River Jones. River used to be a bit of a pain – you could never believe a word he said. He just made up stupid stories about everything.

  But last year that changed. It turned out there was some amazing but true story about his dad being an undercover policeman, and his mum was on the news. River went a bit sad and didn’t talk much. I’ve always wanted to ask him more about what happened, but we don’t have any classes together so I haven’t. Yet.

  “OK, so Shaquilla and Sophie sort of changed their minds,” Natalie says. “But that’s good, because they can tell us everything that’s going on.”

  “What? When did they change their minds?” I ask. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “They were talking about it yesterday and I tried to persuade them,” Natalie says.

  I’ve been without my phone for two minutes and already my fear of missing out – FOMO, Rosa calls it – is at emergency levels.

  “They didn’t even tell me!” I say. I’m wondering why I wasn’t part of this conversation. Have Natalie and Sophie and Shaquilla got a group that doesn’t include me?

  “They said Dina Mubarak set up some sort of group to boycott The Disconnect,” Nat explains. “She did some really intensive lobbying and so loads of people decided not to bother.”

  Dina used to sit next to me in Maths in Year Eight, and we got on really well. OK, so we haven’t really spoken in person for more than a year, but then who does? I mean, we never fell out. We’re in some of the same groups. I wouldn’t expect her to ignore my existence completely …

  “I don’t care,” I say as I try to blink back the stupid tears that have sprung into my eyes. “I can do this. Who cares about a stupid phone, anyway? I’d rather have the money.”

  “Exactly!” says Tommy Olivero, who’s just come out of Miss Chen’s office. “I was just telling River here, people are weak. They’re addicted. They can’t cope without their electronic drug.”

  River’s nodding and adds, “I’ve been meaning to go off‑grid for ages. These apps, these social media companies, they just use you. They spy on you. They gather your data and sell it, and try to sell stuff to you. It’s really sinister.”

  River is deadly serious.

  “But aren’t we just being used by Dame Irene for her research?” I ask. “Isn’t she going to use us to sell even more mobile phones?”

  “Hmm, interesting question,” River says. “I’m going to have to think about it. I guess this will give me more headspace.”

  “We should set up a support group,” Natalie says. “We can help each other during these six w
eeks.”

  She’s making a lot of eye contact with Tommy Olivero. He gives her a flash of his perfect teeth.

  “Good idea,” Tommy says. “Where and when?”

  Natalie opens her mouth. But I get in first.

  “My parents have a cafe,” I say. “It’s called Basabousa. It’s on Stroud Green Road, just past Sainsbury’s. How about there on Friday?”

  7

  Addiction

  I can’t do this.

  I really can’t.

  I just need to check my phone … I just need to check … I just need …

  I can’t do this.

  “Finding it difficult without a phone?” Avi asks me on day two. I’ve done my homework in the cafe, where he’s served me hummus and malawach, which is the most delicious flatbread imaginable – all puffy and buttery. Now I’m cutting peppers for Avi to make the sauce that goes with shashouka. If you’ve never had it, it’s the absolute best way to eat eggs – like a spicy tomato soup with floating poached eggs.

  “Really difficult,” I tell him. “Like, impossible. I feel really twitchy, and I can’t focus on anything.”

  “Why don’t you get together with your friends?” Avi asks. “Go to the park?”

  “It’s raining. And also, how would I get in touch with them?”

  “They all have phones like you do, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know their numbers,” I moan.

  “Well, get their numbers,” Avi tells me. “Or go and see them. Everyone lives near here, don’t they?”

  “You can’t just go round to someone’s house!” I say. “You have to be asked!”

  Avi shakes his head. “I don’t understand kids today. When I was a kid, we just all hung out at the beach.”

  I give up trying to explain to Avi why London today is different to Tel Aviv in the 1970s. And not only because we don’t have a beach.

  My phone rings. I jab at the button to answer it, hating its tinny ringtone.

  “Hey!” Natalie says. “You’ll never guess what.”