Disconnect

by Lois Peterson

  “Let what slide? What are you talking about?”

  “Your dependence on your phone. What amounts to an addiction. Do you know how little time you actually spend speaking to us, face-to-face? You would rather be texting your friends or watching those damn YouTube videos than spending time with your own parents.”

  Addiction? I had heard that somewhere recently. “That is such crap!” Dad winced, so I said it again, louder. “Crap,” I said. “I talk to you. I watch TV.”

  “It’s more than that, Daria. Everything you do or say or engage in is filtered through that damn phone.”

  “You bought it for me.”

  “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice rising. He ran his hand through his hair.

  “So what is the point?” I asked.

  “You always seem to be somewhere else. Instead of here.” His hand slapped the table. “With the people around you. With whatever is going on. It’s as if every text or call or Facebook posting is more important than what’s happening here and now.”

  “That’s so not true!”

  “Isn’t it?” Dad stood up. “Not only were you not in the room with the children you were babysitting. You weren’t even in the house.”

  “I was so!”

  “Perhaps you were there in body,” Mom chimed in. “But your mind? It wasn’t anywhere near that little boy when he hurt himself.” She leaned so close, I could feel her breath. “You might as well have been in Timbuktu for all the help you were to that child.”

  Chapter Ten

  All night, the covers kept bunching up. One minute, my room was too hot, then too cold. Every sound was louder than usual—the creak of my parents’ door as they finally went to bed, the fridge cutting in and out. Every few minutes, I stuck my hand out, forgetting that my phone was not in its usual place next to my bed. The green numbers on my clock took forever to change.

  The night lasted a lifetime.

  Next morning, I dragged myself down to breakfast. I shoveled six spoonfuls of sugar onto my cereal. Mom watched me without saying a word. I ignored the phony bright conversation that Dad had going with Emerson.

  She ignored me.

  I had just got up from the table when Mom said, “You can go over and pick up your phone after school. But can I trust you not to use it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Put it in Dad’s desk. You can use the landline to let Selena and Josie know that your phone privileges are suspended. Email too.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “And anyone else who needs to know.”

  Phone. And email! “But even if I can’t use my cell, I can still use the landline, right? And the desktop computer?”

  “Weren’t you listening last night?” Mom asked. “For homework only. Not socializing. Do I need to go over it all again?”

  I stomped upstairs. I locked myself in the bathroom and scrubbed my teeth so hard, I thought my gums would bleed. I swabbed my face with the towel, slapped on some makeup and headed out of the house without saying goodbye.

  At school, when I saw Cleo coming my way, I ducked into the music room.

  In math, the teacher kept telling me to stop flicking my pen against the desk. In Spanish, my hand kept straying to my pocket, then coming up empty. I was glad when lunch break finally arrived.

  Cleo caught up with me in the cafeteria. “We still on for tonight?”

  “Tonight what?”

  “I was going to hang out with you. And Emmy and Cade…” She peered at me. “What’s up?”

  I looked into the distance, trying to blink away tears.

  “You okay?” Cleo asked.

  I blew my nose. “It’s nothing. Must be my allergies.”

  “Allergies?”

  I squeezed the damp tissue in my fist. “Not really.”

  “Let’s go in here.” Cleo hauled me into the washroom. She pulled me into the handicapped stall. “Tell me everything.”

  “Mom and Dad confiscated my phone,” I told her. “For a whole month.”

  “I thought it was something serious. Brain cancer. One of your parents fired. Something really serious.”

  “It is serious.”

  “Well, okay. I can see it, I guess. But I thought you weren’t talking to your best buddies since the bust-up about the spring-break trip.”

  “We made up, actually. If you must know.” I glared at her.

  “So why have you lost your phone privileges?”

  “Dad says I’m addicted.”

  Cleo nodded. “He’s been reading about it too, eh?”

  Of course! It was Cleo who had thrown around the word addiction. As if I was a junkie. Or gambled away my allowance.

  “So that’s all?” she asked. “You’re crying because you can’t use your phone for a while?” She slid down the wall until she was sitting on her bag. She leaped up again when someone banged on the door. “What?” she yelled. “We’re busy in here.”

  “Do you mind?” a voice called from the other side.

  “Who’s that?” she hissed. “A teacher?”

  “It’s Whitney Houlden.” I opened the door, and we left the stall to let Whitney ease her wheelchair in.

  “Let’s go to Timmy’s for a coffee,” said Cleo.

  “It’s not just because Dad says I’m addicted,” I told her as I followed her outside. “Or dependent or whatever.”

  “What then?”

  We dashed across the street and headed for the coffee shop. “Caden hurt himself yesterday,” I said.

  “He okay?” Cleo pulled a handful of coins from her pocket.

  “He had to have twenty-one stitches.”

  “Twenty-one!” exclaimed Cleo. “What happened?”

  Suddenly I felt very tired. “Let’s get our drinks first.”

  When we were settled at a table, I told Cleo about finding Caden unconscious and the long wait for the ambulance. About the scene at the hospital when the kids’ mother told Mom she didn’t want me left alone with Emerson.

  Cleo rested her chin on her hand. Her eyes hardly left my face as talked. I told her everything, even about the blood. Caden so still and pale. Everything.

  The whole time we talked, my hand kept drifting toward my pocket, then back to the table. I shook a sugar packet until the sugar settled at one end, then the other. Was this how smokers feel, I wondered, when they try to quit? Twitchy. Nervous. Spaced out.

  “I’m only allowed to use the computer at home for homework,” I told her. “And I’ve probably lost my job too. Now I’ll never get back to Calgary.” I tore the sugar packet into tiny pieces and piled them into a little heap. “Everything is the pits.” A tear splashed on the table.

  “That’s a bummer,” Cleo agreed. “But I’m sure Caden will be fine. He’s a tough little guy. And hey!” She grinned at me. “We can hang out more. Now you don’t have to babysit. And without your phone or email, you’ll need someone to talk to.” She poked herself in the chest. “And here I am!” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.

  “I feel so…kind of…” I groped for the word. “Not abandoned. Adrift,” I said. “Like I’m stuck out here, out of touch with everything that’s going on.”

  I could tell by her face that she couldn’t connect with what I was saying.

  Suddenly I was aware of how hot the restaurant was. It was noisy with clattering dishes and loud voices, ringing phones and the crash of the cash register.

  I felt trapped. Penned in. “I’m out of here.” I drained my drink and crumpled the cup. “I’m heading home.”

  Cleo glanced at the wall clock. “What about social studies? Stryker’s setting the big assignment today.”

  “Forget socials.” I dropped my cup into the garbage. “Who cares about a dumb assignment.”

  I was running as soon as I was through the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as I got home, I realized I should have gone to the kids’ house first to get my stuff.

  I went downstairs to the den. I shed my jacket as I waited for Dad�
�s old pc to power up. I found nine emails from Selena. Four from Josie. And they’d posted frantic messages on Facebook too, using caps. WHERE ARE YOU? EARTH TO D!

  I was still mad. With Selena especially. But I was so used to telling them everything. I started an email to explain what was going on. But it sounded lame. Then melodramatic and whiny. I rewrote it, deleted that, then started again.

  I checked the clock on the corner of the screen. They would be at one of their houses. Or at the Little Chef Café.

  I deleted the last message without sending it, grabbed the phone from the kitchen and headed upstairs.

  I dropped onto my bed and adjusted the pillows with one hand as I dialed with the other. I might as well be comfortable if this was to be the last time I ever got to talk to them.

  As soon as Josie answered, I told her about having my phone confiscated.

  I kept my voice low, even though I knew it would be ages before Mom got home.

  Josie and Selena passed the phone back and forth between them. “Are you kidding?” “That can’t be right.” “That’s child cruelty.” “They can’t do that!”

  At last they left enough breathing space for me to tell them why Mom and Dad had confiscated my phone. And why I wasn’t allowed to email. “It’s because one of the kids I was babysitting had an accident while I was on the phone. That’s why I couldn’t call Josie back yesterday,” I said.

  “Daria,” said Selena. “I’m mad at my mom, you know. It’s all…”

  “Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” I told her. It seemed so unimportant, compared to the memory of Caden, dead-white, not moving, with a pool of blood under his head.

  But I didn’t tell them about the blood. I didn’t tell them about the hospital. And I didn’t tell them what Dad had said. About me not being there with the kids while I was on the phone.

  Until now, Selena, Josie and I had always told each other everything.

  I turned toward the clock radio on my bedside table. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll catch it if they hear me on the phone.”

  “So we really can’t reach you for a month?” asked Selena.

  “That is SO brutal,” said Josie.

  “I’ll try to connect with you later.” Maybe I could squeeze in a call or two after I’d picked up my phone from the kids’ house.

  In the kitchen, I replaced the phone on its base and grabbed a snack. As I opened a can of juice, I thought of Caden running around the house yelling “Vomitvomitvomit” and giggling like a maniac. I longed to hug his wiry little body and nuzzle his neck to make him laugh. So I went downstairs, grabbed my jacket and headed out again.

  Emmy opened the door, swinging her homemade phone by its string. “Mommy!” she called behind her. “Daria is here.” She frowned at me. “My mom is real mad with you. We have to find another sitter.”

  Caden pushed in front of her. “I had to stay in the hospital,” he said. “I got shaved and they gave me twenty-one stitches in my head.” When he turned around, I could see a white bandage taped across his scalp.

  Ms. Clarkson appeared behind him. “I thought I told you not to run around.” She put a hand on Caden’s shoulder and looked at me without smiling. “I expect you are here for your backpack.”

  “And my phone.”

  “You’d better come in.” Ms. Clarkson stepped aside to let me pass.

  “I nearly bleeded to death,” Caden boasted as we headed for the kitchen. “The ambulance people saved my life. I was asleep,” he told me. “If I had been awake, I could have drived in the front with Emmy.”

  “Don’t keep telling it over and over,” said Emerson.

  Caden ignored her. “I had lots of stitches. It hurt so much. But I was very brave. Right, Mom?”

  “You were very brave.” His mother smiled at him. “Now, how about you and your sister go and play?

  “But I want to show Daria my new LEGO,” whined Caden. “It’s a fire truck!” he told me.

  “Do as you’re asked.” Ms. Clarkson steered the kids out of the room.

  “I just came for my things,” I said.

  She handed me my backpack. “It’s all here.”

  I itched to find the phone and stuff it in my pocket, where it belonged. Instead, I wrapped my arms around my bag. “I really am sorry about Caden’s fall.”

  “I expect you are.” I felt a flash of hope until she added, “But I trusted you to take care of my children.” She blinked away tears. “We’re just lucky it wasn’t much worse.”

  “Can I say goodbye to the kids?” I asked quickly before I started crying.

  “Of course. Take care of yourself, Daria.”

  I could feel her watching as I ducked into the living room. “Bye, guys,” I said. “I’ve got to go now.”

  Caden was lying on his stomach on the floor stacking LEGO blocks. “Bye,” he called without looking up.

  “I finished my project,” Emerson told me. “I wanted to show your friend.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  I stumbled out of the house and down the front path without looking back.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next day, Cleo dragged me into the library on our way home from school. She settled in front of a computer. “I hope I can find this stuff again. I told you. There’s loads about technology addiction.” She clicked on one article after another. “See?” she said. “Discomfort. Short temper. Anxiety. That’s you.”

  “I don’t have a short temper,” I snapped.

  “It says here that it’s much like any other addiction,” said Cleo. “It shares many of the same withdrawal symptoms. It’s an illness, really. And you’re not the only one.” She glanced around the library. Some people were reading in the lounge chairs. Others were hunched over tables, studying. But nearly everyone had a phone sitting beside them, was plugged into an iPod or was texting. “Don’t you think it would be a great topic for our socials report?” she asked.

  “I thought you told Stryker we were going to do our project on homelessness?”

  “That was the first thing that came into my head when she assigned us to work together. Do you have a better idea?”

  “Not this, that’s for sure.” All I needed was to treat my rotten life like a research project. “What’s wrong with homelessness?” I asked.

  “Lots!”

  “I mean for a project, you jerk.”

  “See. There you go again,” said Cleo. “Temper, temper!” The purple pompom on her hat bobbed. “Do you happen to know any homeless people?” she asked. “If we do addictions, it would be like a real scientific study. I’ll be the control, as I’m not addicted to anything. You could be the subject, seeing as you are the one who’s hooked.”

  “Why me? What about your dad?”

  “I’m talking about technology here. Not booze. So shall we do this or not?”

  “All right, all right,” I said. Wet rag meets bulldozer, I thought. I knew which one I was. “But before we get into it, let me check Facebook while I have the chance.”

  “This can be the first experiment.” Cleo grabbed the mouse as I tried to move the cursor to the address bar. “We need to document what happens when you are prevented from feeding your addiction.”

  “Give that to me.” I tried to yank the mouse back.

  She held on tight. “Withdrawal symptom number one. Impatience.”

  “Cleo!” I squeezed her hand.

  “Violence now? I’d better record this stuff.” When she released the mouse to reach for her bag, I grabbed it.

  She hauled it away from me by its cord.

  “Girls. Girls. You know the rule. One person at a work station at a time,” said the librarian with the red spiky hair. “If you can’t work quietly, I’ll suspend your Internet privileges for the day.”

  “Excuse my friend,” Cleo told her. “She’s going through withdrawal. But we’re cool.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I hissed as the librarian went back to her desk.

  “Loss of sense of
humor. Must include that in our observations. This is going to be great!” Cleo picked up her bag and stood up. “You log off, and I’ll find us a table.”

  “I’ll be right there.” I was about to open my email when I noticed one of the links. Project Disconnect, it said. I opened it up to find it was a website about a school in the United States that had banned all phones, iPods, iPads and other devices for a month.

  “It would never catch on at our school,” said Cleo. “Log on. Log off. Check this. Text that.” She rolled her eyes. “One person in withdrawal at a time is all I can handle.” She opened her binder and wrote down a bunch of notes. “Your task is to start a journal of all your symptoms. Make a note every time you feel the urge to connect with someone, and record the side effects of staying offline.”

  Any minute, I thought, she would stick me on a treadmill or clip wires to my head!

  I’d often worked with Josie and Selena on projects. Josie was the one to assign tasks and set timelines. Then something would come up. Flu. A dance exam. Visitors from out of town. And soon Selena and I were on our own.

  Cleo was a born organizer. And bossy too. By the time we left the library, we each had a list of things to do. Timelines, even.

  She said she wanted an A for our first joint project.

  And she didn’t care what it took.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How come you didn’t call before?” said Selena when I snuck in a call before Mom got home.

  “I told you. I’m not even supposed to use the phone. And I got hung up on this socials project at the library with Cleo.”

  “Who’s Cleo?”

  “Just some girl.”

  “What’s she like?” There was an edge in her voice.

  “She’s okay. A bit weird, I guess.”

  “Weird, how?”

  “I don’t know. Just different.” I could have told her about Cleo’s hats and piercings and strange home life. But it felt disloyal. “Is Josie there?” I asked. “Let me talk to her. I don’t know when I can connect again.”