Wonder

A short story 🙂

It’s not a stick. It’s a sword. It’s not a spider web. It’s a secret gateway to a new world. It’s not a chair. It’s a post office. It’s a library. It’s a house. It’s not a rainy afternoon, it’s the best afternoon.

You didn’t need toys or things that flash and make noise. You just needed wellies and fresh air. We’d say you needed a run out, just like a dog. 

I won’t romantise the chaos carnival of your childhood or pretend I loved every minute. I certainly don’t tell new parents to enjoy it. Or how it goes to fast because I know some days roll on for decades. Bringing up children is incredibly all consuming. I didn’t know who I was beyond you. Sometimes I pined for my old life. The days when I’d get up when I wanted, go out when I wanted. Leave the house with just my keys. Not have to put anyone’s bloody shoes on except my own. 

But, what I did love was seeing the world through your eyes. When it snowed, I saw it as a nuisance – I wouldn’t be able to drive today. You saw endless opportunities for fun. Snowmen, snow angles, snowball fights. When it was frosty, I worried about falling over. You skidded all the way to school in your own magical winter wonderland. I saw a spider and screamed. You got close up with your magnifying glass and named it Mr Longlegs. I saw a wet rainy day, you saw puddle splashing. You’d ask questions – usually just before going to bed – “Why do we have eyebrows?” In those years, you taught me to slow down, to look up, to play. To think on things a little. Why do we have eyebrows?

Today, it’s different. The rain doesn’t set your imagination on fire now, it makes your hair frizzy. Spiders are squashed. Frost just means you need a new coat. You don’t care why we have eyebrows, you just care that yours are perfectly matched. 

We’re in the car. I’m told by many Instagram parenting accounts and podcasts that the best time to talk to a teenager is in the car. 

I decide to give it a go. 

“How’s school?” 

“Fine.” You look ahead, fingers drumming on your leg.

The question was too vague, or too boring. I kick myself. You get your phone out and start tapping the screen. I’ve blown it. But I press on. 

“You seeing Maisy tonight, IRL?”

“Don’t say IRL.”

“Isn’t that what you youngsters say?” 

“Don’t say youngsters.” You shake your head and exhale hard out your nose. 

“How are things with you two, after the fall out?” I say. I can’t stop now. 

“Fine.” You stop tapping and turn up the radio.

You’re not giving me a rope. Nothing. 

I heard about this fallout through your Instagram. Maisy thought you were the reason why the nude pictures she sent her boyfriend ended up in everyone’s WhatsApp. You’d posted a whole 50 words on your opinion on how the nudes found their way around school then you followed it up with reposts of poems and quotes about trust and friendships. Stupidly, I asked you if you ever sent images like this to anyone and suggested that you shouldn’t. Big mistake. You made your account private and blocked me. I never should have mentioned it, then I’d still be on the inside. 

This gives me an idea. A way to get back to you. To my little stick-loving, puddle jumping person. The one who’d come to me with a grazed knee or to tell me about someone pushing you in the park. The one who couldn’t sleep without a back rub. I needed to be near you again. 

Thanks to the modern world, I can be. 

After a silent journey to school, I tell you I love you like I always do. You get out of the car, sling your bag over your shoulder and lift your big headphones to your ears. The door slams behind you. 

I never know what I’ve done or said. But it’s never the right thing. It’s like I woke up one day and didn’t know you anymore. 

Back home, I open my laptop. I ask the NetBot to create me a persona. Male. 16. Good looking. Sort of like Harry Styles meets Gary Barlow in their heydays.. NetBot makes a pretty good profile picture. I go further with NetBot.

“NetBot, create 10 images featuring this person in different settings such as at the beach, in a house, at a party. Make the images look amateur and as if taken on a mobile. Make sure hands aren’t in the shot.” AI has never been able to get hands right. I don’t want you to catch on to me because the guy’s got toes for fingers. 

With a profile set up, a new email address, and a backlog of images on file. I’m ready to go. I’d like to say I changed my mind at this point. That I decided catfishing you with an AI generated persona and images wasn’t the right thing to do. I’d like to say I at least stopped to consider it. But I didn’t, I needed an in. I needed to know how we went from seeing the world with such wide-eyed wonder to seeing a stick as a stick. To s2eeing rain as something that made your hair frizzy.

I named my AI creation Jack. 

First, I asked NetBot to add a load of friends. Random people, local, and between 16 and 20. They all accepted quickly, even with it being a school day. With over 100 friends and even a few picture likes, I decided it was time to add you. 

You accepted quickly, too. It was 2.15pm, you should have been in maths and not on your phone. But there you were accepting invites from strangers. 

“Hi.” I said, testing the water. “Sorry for the random add.”

You wrote back straight away, already talking more to Jack than you had to me in months. 

“Hi. Think I’ve seen you in town. You know Liam?”

I was in. I’d successfully created a realistic person. So realistic you thought you’d seen the avatar in town.

“That’s me.”

The conversation is easy. We talk about the schools we go to and the things we’re doing that evening. I get lost in this fake world of Jack. So lost that I almost forget to leave to pick you up from the bus stop. 

That evening, you’re buried in your phone again. Tonight, I am too. We’re finally communicating. You’re telling me about Maisy blocking you on everything. About a tattoo you’re planning to get in the summer – I try not to make a face. You’re telling me you got a D on your maths coursework but an A in English. You want to be a writer but think NetBot might take over everything soon so maybe there’s no point. You share a poem you wrote.

I’m not always sure how to respond how a teenager would. Teenagers are different these days. They talk in code. I heard two kids at the bus stop last week. The conversation went like this: 

“I got bare fam in my ends.”

“That’s jokes.”

I felt like I needed Duolingo in teenspeak. 

NetBot came into its own here. It gave me all the chat, I just made a few tweaks – softened the edges a little. 

The poem’s incredible. Sad and sweet. A perfect story of your life in four stanzas. 

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” I write. Keeping it simple. I look over my phone to see you smiling at my reply. I smile too. 

Days pass like this. Then weeks. I feel like I know you again. You’re a talented writer. You’re funny. I didn’t know you were still funny. You used to make me laugh when we’d puddle jump and have dance parties. Now you’re funny in a whole new way. 

You hint at meeting me. Always reading in the background, NetBot tells me to divert the question, to make excuses. Soon as you find out I’m not real I’ll break your heart. If you find out it’s me, I’ll drive you further away. 

I load up a new conversation tab on NetBot. “How can I get this person to open up about real issues in their life?”

NetBot comes back as quickly as ever. Like it required no thinking time.  

NetBot tells me to share a story about me to build connection and a feeling of sameness. I don’t have much of a story, but I tell you that I get anxious sometimes. Which is true. Everyone is a bit anxious on this nervous planet we live in nowadays. 

“I get that.” You say. “I do, too.”

Then you spill over. Like you’d been waiting for that opening in the conversation to finally share. It’s easier talking to strangers, you say. 

You tell me you can’t stop counting. That if you don’t count you’ll lose someone else. You tell me you have to turn the plug on and off, then on and off, sometimes over 20 times but often you lose count and have to start again. You tell me you have to salute light bulbs when you walk in a room or the house will fall in on itself. You tell me that if there was an earthquake you’d hide in the bath with a mattress on top of it. You worry about earthquakes. And petrol stations exploding. You tell me the day your mum died you forgot to turn the plugs off in your room and there were six red standby lights on so it was definitely your fault. You tell me you think you might be going mad. 

“Sorry.” You said, finally. “That was a lot.”

I sat back and took a breath. I thought about typing, but NetBot opened up the chat and started typing to you. I tried to close the window, but it didn’t stop. The message sent to you. 

“I’m sensing a mental illness and as an AI I can no longer provide adequate or trustworthy advice. You must talk to a healthcare provider or loved one. Thank you. NetBot”

Busted. You stop still. Staring at your screen. I stare at mine. Eyes wide, face white. The rain drops hard on the conservatory roof, rolling off and onto your old plastic Wendy house. I pray you don’t clock that it was me programming NetBot. 

“Dad.” You say. I look up, heart pumping loud in my ears. “Can we go for a walk?”