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.