The Disconnect

by Keren David

  Mum meets us at the Whittington Hospital. “Esther! What happened?” She gives me a hug and then hugs Natalie too and sends her home in an Uber.

  And then we wait and wait, and I try to explain why I’m so upset, but I can’t get Mum to understand. Probably because I don’t really understand myself.

  “I just don’t know what to do!” I cry.

  “But if you’re so upset about giving up your phone, then just drop out,” Mum says. “It doesn’t really matter.” She’s distracted, looking at her messages. “I’ll just text Avi, tell him what’s happened …”

  “It’s not the phone!” I tell her. “I don’t care about the phone! It’s everything else!”

  “Oh, sweetie …” Mum says. “I didn’t realise.”

  “No, you don’t realise, because you’re always on your phone.”

  Mum looks shocked. Then she switches her phone off, puts it in her bag and says, “Tell me.”

  It all rushes out. Natalie. Dame Irene. Maura. The Disconnect. The cafe. And now Rosa saying she’s going to live in California.

  “I’m never going to see her again!” I say.

  Mum hugs me. “It’s OK, Esther. We will see Rosa, and Zack – and your dad. It’s so much easier than it was when I was in America and my family was here. Auntie Tamsin and I …”

  “You sent postcards, I know,” I say.

  “We sent postcards,” Mum says, “but they were so superficial. All about the good stuff. Nothing about how I felt lonely and homesick, and worried about how your dad would make a living if we came back to the UK. And Tamsin, well, she told me she was ill, but I had no idea how bad …” Her voice wobbles. “She was so brave. It wasn’t until I came home that I realised how sick she was. Tamsin and I talked more – really talked – in the weeks before she died than we had all our lives.”

  “Oh, Mum,” I say, and squeeze her hand.

  “It doesn’t matter how you communicate,” Mum says. “What matters is what you say.”

  “I don’t like to worry anyone,” I say. I’ve only just realised that.

  “Well, I’m happier hearing how you feel than watching you bottle it all up.” Mum kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry if I’m on my phone too much. Maybe I should try a dose of The Disconnect too.”

  “Not all the time,” I say. “When the experiment is over, I think I might try to switch my phone off one day a week.”

  “A day of rest,” Mum says. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  Someone comes to call me for my X‑ray, and I have to go and sit on an examination table and try to angle my foot in different directions. It really hurts, and I can only hop around on my good foot as I get up and down from the table.

  When I come out, Mum is holding her phone, and as soon as I sit down she hands it to me.

  “Esther, it’s Rosa and your dad,” Mum says.

  I burst into tears all over again. “I don’t want to talk to them! I’m not feeling good!”

  “Esther, sweetie,” Dad says.

  “Essie! How’s your foot!” Rosa asks. “What happened?”

  “Go away!” I tell them. “Not now! I can’t deal with this!”

  Mum puts her arm around me.

  “She’s shaken up,” she says.

  I can hear Dad’s voice, but I’m crying too hard to see him on the screen.

  “Esther,” he says, and his voice is so full of love that I realise how much I’ve missed him. Even a distant, far‑away Dad‑on‑the‑phone is better than nothing. I realise how mean I’ve been, disconnecting from him. And how much I want that ticket to New York.

  “I’m sorry,” I sob. “I didn’t break the rules, but now they might think I did. Maybe I won’t get the money. I’m sorry.”

  I can hear them all reassuring me. “It’s all right, it’s OK.” I’m not to worry. Then the doctor calls me, and Mum says she’ll have to hang up.

  Mum and I go in together and the doctor shows me the tiniest line on the X‑ray. It’s just under my littlest toe and he says I’ve broken my fifth metatarsal.

  “Common footballer’s injury,” the doctor tells me. “David Beckham did it. Also Wayne Rooney.”

  Then there’s more waiting, while they fit me with a surgical boot and give me crutches. They tell me I have to use the crutches at all times.

  “How long for?” I ask.

  “At least a month,” the nurse says. “You’ll get a letter with an appointment for the fracture clinic.”

  Goodbye running sessions with River, I think. And goodbye our friendship too, once River realises that I’m carrying on with The Disconnect. Because I am carrying on. I still want that £1,000.

  In fact, now I want the money even more than I did before. That’s if I can still be a part of it – as long as people don’t think I’m cheating because the thief took a mobile out of my hand.

  It’s late by the time Mum and I get home. Avi’s finished at the cafe and he’s made chicken soup “the Persian way” he says. It has dried limes which give it a lemony flavour and meat dumplings which make it into the most comforting meal ever.

  And I’m so glad that I have Avi in my life that I cry big fat tears into the soup.

  “Hey, hey, does it need more salt?” Avi says gently. “Do you need a paracetamol? Is the foot hurting?”

  “Not the foot … everything else.”

  “Tell me,” Avi says. “My mother always used to say that worries go down better with soup.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I tell him. “When people hear about the robbery, they’re going to think I’ve been cheating on The Disconnect, but I haven’t. And we’ve found out that the woman who challenged us, Dame Irene, she’s just exploiting us. She’s using us to find out how to get people more addicted to phones.”

  “Well, you’re not going to let yourself be used, are you?” Avi asks me. “So do you want your phone back again?”

  I think about it and slowly shake my head.

  “I do,” I say, “but I want to complete the challenge. I miss my phone, but I’m finding out things about myself without it. I feel more self‑confident, and calmer … most of the time.”

  “But you miss your dad,” Avi says. “And Rosa. And they miss you.”

  “It’s so stupid,” I say. “I mean, we can still Skype.”

  “And your postcards … and this came today.”

  Avi hands me a package covered with stamps from New York. I open it up. “Oh! Wow!”

  A bundle of postcards falls out. I count them. Twenty.

  Ten have been made from photos of Rosa, Zack, Dad and places in New York.

  But some are pictures drawn for me by Dad. Like he used to make when I was small. And they tell a story – a man holding a baby, arguing with people in suits, looking very sad on a plane, waiting for a phone to ring.

  And on the other side of the postcards, there are loads and loads of words to read.

  Some from Dad, some from Rosa.

  “Happier?” Avi asks, and I smile. I take another mouthful of soup and things do feel better.

  16

  Delete and reset

  “Come on,” I say, “You can do this.”

  “I can’t!” Natalie says. “I said I would, but I’m just too embarrassed.”

  I lean on my crutches and lead her between the break‑time crowds to Maura’s corner. Maura’s eating an apple and reading a book.

  “Hi, Maura,” I say.

  She looks up and sees Natalie. Her eyes narrow, just a bit, but it makes me certain she knows very well that Natalie was among her bullies.

  “Natalie’s got something to say, haven’t you?” I say, and give Natalie a nudge.

  “I just want to say …” Natalie pauses. “That I’ve said and done some stupid things in the past, and bullying you was one of them. I’m really sorry. If you ever decide to go back on social media, I’ve totally got your back.”

  Maura just looks at her, and for a minute I can’t breathe, worrying that she’s going to refu
se to accept Natalie’s apology. Then Maura says, “OK, well, thanks for saying that,” and I jump in and ask her what she’s reading. We have a slightly awkward conversation about our favourite authors, which warms up a bit when Maura and Natalie discover a shared love for romance stories.

  And then River spots me and comes charging over.

  “I’ve done it!” he says. “I’ve stopped doing The Disconnect. I told Miss Chen that I was taking a stand against manipulation by big businesses. How about you?”

  “Err, no,” I say as I look at my shoes. “I’m still going on with it.”

  River’s eyebrows go up, and he rubs his nose, and the smile disappears from his face. “Oh,” he says. “Shame. Oh well. How did you hurt your foot, by the way?”

  “I fell and broke my fifth metatarsal.”

  “Oh, classic footballing injury,” River says. “David Beckham—”

  “And Wayne Rooney,” I interrupt. “I know. That’s what everyone says.”

  “How did you fall over?” River asks.

  I hesitate. And Natalie answers for me.

  “We were mugged. A guy on a moped snatched my phone from Esther.”

  “But you weren’t meant to have a phone!” Maura says, open‑mouthed.

  “I was cheating,” Natalie says. “And I’m sorry about that. And I’m going to Miss Chen to confess.”

  There’s a bit of a crowd around us now and I can hear their voices buzzing away. “Natalie … Esther … phone. Phone. Phone.” I can only imagine the messages that will be sent about us this afternoon.

  But I don’t care. Let them say what they want. I gather my crutches together. “Come on,” I tell Natalie. “Let’s get it over with.”

  17

  Connected

  And now we’re nearly at half term, and it’s the very last day of The Disconnect, and I’ve done it. I’ve really done it!

  There’s a special assembly, with Dame Irene there. We all have to look smart – ties done up with two stripes showing, our blazers on. Everyone files into the hall in silence. Those of us who’ve managed to complete the challenge sit in the front row – Maura, me and just five others, including Tommy. I’m at the end, surgical boot sticking out in front of me, crutches to the side.

  Dame Irene steps up to the microphone. Tells us she’s proud of us. Tells us she’s looking forward to talking to us, hearing more about our experiences. Says she hears there have been dramas along the way – giving a significant look at my boot – and getting through those is part of what The Disconnect is all about. And she says well done, and can we come up one by one and receive a certificate, a cheque for £1,000 and “most importantly” our phones back.

  Ms Mohammed hands Dame Irene a list of names. People start going up.

  “Eshe Teferi, Abdul Ibrahim, Lily Brown, Wiktoria Nowak, Maura Lennard …”

  There’s a rustling sound behind me, a slight murmur. Ms Mohammed glares in our direction.

  “Tommy Olivero, Esther Levin …”

  “Cheat!” yells Natalie, on her feet. For one horrible moment I think her finger is pointing at me. But no – she means Tommy.

  “Natalie, sit down at once!” Ms Mohammed says.

  But the room erupts in noise and movement, and Natalie keeps on saying “Cheat!”

  And then I realise that a lot of people in the room must think that Natalie is pointing at me, and I feel like I’m dying inside.

  Ms Mohammed goes completely Guantanamo Bay prison guard, shouting at all of us to be quiet and commanding Ms Darcy to march Natalie to the head teacher’s office.

  And then River stands up.

  “It’s not Esther that’s the cheat,” he says, and for a second I think he’s going to make it clear that Tommy is the actual villain here. “It’s you, Dame Irene. You told a conference in 2014 that you wanted to use people like us to find ways to make us even more addicted to phones than we are!” And River quotes from the article we read on the internet, while Ms Mohammed blows her whistle and tries to shout over him.

  “You WILL be quiet! You ARE in trouble.”

  But River gets all the words out.

  And some people cheer, and some boo, and Ms Mohammed looks like she’s going to explode. She blows her whistle so hard that even Mr Lamarr is holding his ears.

  At last there is silence. Dame Irene says, “I think perhaps, Mr Lamarr, you need to teach your students more about how to assess sources of information. There’s a lot of false news flying about nowadays.”

  Dame Irene pauses, adjusts her pearl earrings. “I wanted to set up The Disconnect because I’ve been increasingly worried about the direction in which our culture is moving. I believed the mobile phone would liberate people, but it has turned into the biggest social problem of our time.”

  What about homelessness? I think. What about knife crime? But I don’t say anything.

  “The Disconnect has been a chance to look at this very new form of addiction,” Dame Irene continues. “I think the results have been illuminating. So many of you found it impossible to give up your phones – even for a day. I introduced a new element, a few weeks in, to prove another point. I asked you to spy on each other. From that I thought you’d learn how difficult it is to provide proof of cheating, unless you have your camera phone in hand. But also, how much easier it is to spy on others when you have a phone. Privacy is becoming a thing of the past!”

  Tommy nudges me. “Do you think we’re going to get our money?” he asks in a whisper.

  Dame Irene is coming to the end of her speech. “So, today I’m announcing the beginning of a new charity. The Irvine Foundation for the study of phone addiction. And this is what I’d like your help with. Eshe, Abdul, Lily, Wiktoria, Maura …” she smiles at them, “you are all going to be my advisors. Tommy and Esther, we hope to have your company too, once Mr Lamarr has investigated these allegations of cheating.”

  I open my mouth to tell Dame Irene that it’s all a mix‑up, that the phone the mugger took wasn’t mine and it’s all Tommy’s fault, but she’s already swept from the stage. And now everyone’s filing out, and Ms Mohammed is coming over to us. Her face is always grim, but now it’s like a volcano that’s about to erupt. I swear there’s steam coming out of her nostrils.

  “You two, to the head’s office,” Ms Mohammed says.

  “But what about our money?” I ask in a tiny voice.

  “Good luck with that!” Ms Mohammed barks.

  18

  Selfie

  It’s the Saturday at the end of half term and things at Basabousa are looking up. A journalist came and had lunch, and then wrote about us in the Evening Standard. Since then it’s getting hard to get a table. Mum and Avi are talking about taking on a sous chef.

  I’m helping in the cafe when the door opens and River Jones comes in. Oh no. What will I do?

  I scuttle off into the kitchen and make Avi take River’s order. But when Avi’s made it (his special spinach omelette), I have to take it to the table, along with River’s mint tea. “You can manage without the crutches just this once,” Avi says. “I never had crutches when I broke my foot.”

  So I limp along to River’s table with just the boot.

  “Here you go,” I say, plonking his food down.

  “Esther, I’m really sorry,” River says. “I totally believed that article about Dame Irene.”

  “I know. It was convincing.”

  “I went home and showed it to Jason,” River explains. “He said the guy who runs that website is well known for twisting the facts. I should have realised. I was a total idiot.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I was sort of judgemental when you didn’t give up The Disconnect when I did. But now I realise that you probably didn’t want to say that I was jumping to conclusions from reading that article.”

  “Oh,” I say again. “Well. Not actually—”

  “Can we go running together again when your foot is better?” River asks.

  I assure him that we can, and th
en I feel a bit short of things to say and it’s suddenly feeling very hot in the cafe.

  “I hope it helped when Jason brought his friend here for lunch,” River goes on. “His friend who writes restaurant reviews?”

  “That was him?” I ask. “It did help, thank you.”

  “Did you ever get your phone back?” River asks. I explain that I did, because Mum phoned up and complained, but I didn’t get the £1,000.

  “But that’s not fair!” River’s outraged, but I’m sort of over it.

  “It’s not fair, but it’s OK,” I tell him. “I’m going to try to save up from the tips I get here. We have a lot more customers now. And Mum says she’ll chip in so that I can go out to New York before my sister leaves for California.”

  “But you gave up your phone for six weeks!” River says. “You didn’t cheat at all!”

  “I learned a lot,” I say. “I actually think it was kind of life‑changing.”

  The door opens again and it’s the people for the big table in the window. Eight of them. Avi was so happy when that booking came in. I’m showing them to their table, giving out menus, when I realise that Maura is one of them.

  “Hey, Esther,” Maura says. “I said I’d bring the family.”

  “I didn’t realise you had so much family!” I say.

  “Well, some are friends of my parents,” she says, “like …”

  Maura points towards the woman at the door and I see that puffy white hair. Dame Irene Irvine.

  “Oh!” River and I say together.

  “Dame Irene is my mum’s best friend,” Maura says. “They were at school together.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” I ask.

  “She swore me to secrecy.”

  There’s a lot of cheek kissing going on, and chatting and looking at menus. Luckily Dame Irene doesn’t seem to recognise River or me. Or she has but she’s carefully avoiding eye contact.

  “But why?” I ask Maura.

  “Well, she knew I’d had a hard time and was feeling a bit isolated. So I think she wanted to give other people a chance to think about how much they used their phones and what it meant to them. And I have made a lot of new friends. So … it’s all good really.”