I head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. On my way back, I pick up my laptop from the counter before sitting on the couch. I sink into the cushions and slip off my Converse so I can pull my feet up and tuck them underneath me. The laptop remains firmly closed while I sip my water, contemplating what I know I’m about to do.
The laptop has very strict filters. Having them installed was the only way I would agree to having a computer in the apartment at all. Of course, my father insisted I needed one for school, and the assistant dean we worked with on my admission agreed.
Doctor Jacobs, my therapist, encouraged me to leave the filters off entirely. “You need to learn to trust yourself, Daisy,” she said.
In the end, the four of us compromised with the social media filter—to which only I had the password. Dr. Jacobs insisted that I be the one who had the control should I decide to head out into the wild.
I shiver in spite of my totally weather-inappropriate hoodie and jeans. I replace the cap on my water and set the bottle on the table beside me. Am I really going to do this? Am I really about to open myself up to all the fear and pain I know is contained in that little button for my web browser?
I know my fear is not normal. My generation seems to be constantly online, hooked in, networking, heads bent over phones and laptops and tablets all over campus. Most nineteen-year-olds have probably spent several hours online already today. But I am not a normal teenager. The Internet is not a fun place for me, not a place to chat with friends and look at pictures and procrastinate when I don’t want to do my work. At least, it isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been for the past year.
You can do this, Daisy. The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Dr. Jacobs. You can go online and look up Daltrey and his brothers without anything bad happening to you. You are strong enough to stay away from the things you’re afraid of seeing.
With trembling hands, I unlatch the MacBook and hit the Power button. Within moments I’m staring at the access page for my filters. My fingers hesitate over the password box. Moment of truth.
I quickly type the passcode before I can change my mind and sigh in relief once it’s done. That wasn’t so bad. Next, I open a search engine and type in Daltrey’s name, holding my breath for the split second it takes for the results to return.
There are more than a million hits. I gasp, shocked by this proof of the enormity of their success.
When I went into my self-imposed radio silence last summer, Ransom was getting some good buzz online and on the entertainment shows. At the time, they were touring with Grey Skies, one of the biggest names in the alt-rock scene, and their album had just dropped. I could tell, even in those early days, that they were about to hit it big.
Of course, I haven’t been able to completely escape news of them over the last few months. They are occasionally mentioned even on the “safe” websites and TV shows I frequent. Every so often, I would see their faces smile out at me from a magazine rack at the drugstore. The weirdest thing was when I started to see the name Ransom scrawled out across the chests of classmates. The band had apparently reached the point where their names were on T-shirts.
It still felt totally surreal to click on the link for their name on Wikipedia. They have a freaking Wikipedia page, for God’s sake. These are the boys I grew up with, the boys I shared a hundred family dinners with, the boys who used to moon me and pull my hair. They were same boys I listened to for hours as they practiced in their garage. I sat giggling with Daltrey and Lennon on the upstairs landing the first time Cash had gone on a date, trying to peek over their heads to see if he’d kiss the girl. And now I’m looking at him, his hair professionally tousled, posing with his brothers, as they all stare moodily out at me from some photo shoot. It’s beyond weird.
I quickly move to the more gossip-happy entertainment sites. I soak in information about the boys as if I can’t get enough of it. Their album hit number one on the Billboard chart a month ago and is holding steady. They’ve done appearances on Letterman and The Tonight Show. Apparently, Reed is dating some actress—I snort at that—and Cash is frequently seen with a dizzying array of models and reality stars. When I find no mention of who Daltrey is dating, I start to feel more comfortable. I’m not sure I could handle seeing him draped all over some pop starlet.
I click on a link that takes me to the band’s ConnectMe page. I haven’t been on my generation’s most popular social media site since everything went down last year, and I remember why as soon as I click on the familiar yellow M icon. I barely register the fact that the boys have more than a million fans on their page before I see it—her name—right there, front and center on my screen. Joanie was the last person to comment on the band’s page.