The Day the Screens Went Blank by Danny Wallace (best books to read for teens .txt) 📗

It was sad to say goodbye to Uncle Tony. I felt like he’d kept us safe for a bit and I liked being around all the animals.

I had the cardboard box of vegetables on my lap as Dad waved him goodbye and pulled away from the farm.

‘Well, that could have been worse,’ says Mum, looking relieved. ‘He could have had two shotguns, two sneezy cows and two angry pigs.’

Then she squeezes Dad’s hand.

‘I think you secretly enjoyed bits of that though. Am I right?’ she says.

What’s she on about? Why would she think Dad enjoyed waking up to a cow and being chased by a pig? But I can see Dad trying not to smile.

‘Something about it,’ he says. ‘Just being somewhere else. Doing something new.’

I just keep quiet and watch because it feels like they’re properly agreeing on something, though I don’t quite get what.

‘Feels like there’s a lot more going on when you look around, doesn’t there, kids?’ says Mum. ‘I want to get to Grandma’s and make things. Grow things. Play things. See things. So step on it, Dad!’

‘I refuse to drive aggressively,’ replies Dad. ‘It’s lunchtime on a new day. We’ll be there early evening. Let’s just not stress. I am fed up of being stressed. I thought I was stressed at work. I thought I was stressed in life. But here I am with no work stress and a totally different life and also every time I’m stressed I end up filthy or in a pond.’

Dad always thinks he can fix things, but it seems like without all his tools – his phone, his computer, his email, his texts – he’s realized it was just him and Mum and us and maybe we should just let whatever happens happen.

I’m starting to think he’s right. As you know, I pride myself on being organized. But, if all you worry about is doing the right thing at the exact right time, maybe that means more can go wrong. I used to think that being spontaneous was all well and good, so long as you planned it properly. But watching Dad up close has made me think perhaps it’s okay to let go.

Mum and Dad have gone a bit quiet and I decide I should just do what I feel, and ask the thing that’s been on my mind since this morning.

‘Dad, Uncle Tony was asking about Grandma and why we don’t see her more than we do,’ I say.

He looks at me in the mirror.

‘Oh, uh, yeah,’ says Dad. ‘Basically, Tony had a fight with his sons years ago about the farm. He was telling me on the very, very, very long walk back to the car last night.’

‘What kind of fight?’ I say.

‘A disagreement, that’s all,’ says Dad. ‘These things can happen. It’s very complicated. And now they don’t really see each other much.’

I wonder if that’s why he calls himself Uncle Tony. He must have a nephew or a niece somewhere who called him that. Maybe he’s hanging on to it. There are some things that even if they’re taken away you can still keep hold of.

So, anyway, this makes me look at his vegetables for some reason. Don’t ask me why. Maybe because it was the only thing I had of his. I don’t just immediately look at vegetables when I’m sad. It’s not like every time I stub my toe I immediately yell, ‘Bring me a courgette! I must stare at it to end my pain!’

There are some baby potatoes, which are cuter than normal potatoes. There’s some rosemary (I think?) and there’s carrots.

But I notice something in between the potatoes and the carrots. A small bag with a drawstring.

I pull it out and pour what’s in it into my hands.

Marbles!

They click and clack together and make that squeaky sound that makes your teeth feel funny. I hold one up to the sunshine. Such a small thing, but it’s like there’s a whole different universe to be found in there if you just take the time to look.

And there’s something else in the bag. A polished metal badge, almost like a medal, with a picture of a plane on it, and underneath, in blue, the words Royal Air Force.

I nudge Teddy and hand it to him.

‘Cooool,’ he says.

‘That’s from Uncle Tony,’ I say. ‘To make you happy.’

Dad slows down as we come up behind a bunch of cyclists who are taking over the whole road. I look at Dad because I know he hates cyclists. Maybe he never had a bike when he was a kid. Sometimes I wonder if he ever played at all. In Mousehole, when he has to get to Penzance in a hurry, he’ll always end up stuck behind some cyclists on a road and be fuming. I see Mum glance at Dad to see if he’s going to kick off. But this time Dad just takes a deep gulp of air, leans back in his seat and drives more slowly.

‘Shall we put the radio on?’ says Mum.

‘Music,’ says Dad. ‘Just some music. No news.’

So Mum puts on the radio and finds some music. Normally, if we go on a long drive, I would organize a complete playlist, with a range of options for every mood. And I’d have listened to it quietly on my headphones, while Mum and Dad put something random on the radio. I always thought that was the weird thing about radio. Like, when you listen to the radio you can’t even choose what song to hear. You can’t press a button and immediately get what you want. With radio, you get what you’re given. Things you’ve never heard before. Which seemed much too disorganized for my liking.

But actually I suppose there are more surprises that way. Like on this trip.

‘When I was a kid, you used to have to record the songs you wanted to hear off