“I made such a big deal out of how sexist this is!” I confess. “I’m a jerk.”
“You had a point. But what I meant, though, was”—Aminta taps Josh’s handwritten message to me—“what are the chances that you and Persephone are both allergic to the sun?”
“Weird, but it doesn’t matter. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days.” (Four days and thirteen hours, not that I’m tracking or anything.)
Aminta snorts. “I warned you to be careful.”
“I just thought that …”
“What?”
“He picked me up when I had a panic attack at school,” I tell her.
“That was nice, I guess.”
“And remember? He waited for me at the hospital. And he drove me home from the poke place and Ada’s.”
“Do you think he brought the cookies to school? Text him. Let’s see.”
“No.”
“Think of this as a test of his interest level.”
“It’s nonexistent.”
“How do you know?”
“He hasn’t texted.” Just to be sure, I sneak a peek at my phone. Nada.
“Whatever happened to journalistic pride?” Aminta sounds horrified as her arms splay wide. “Finding out the truth no matter what? Even if it hurts?”
“Well, when you put it that way …” So I type.
Me: Hey! If you brought the cookies, thanks for saving the bake sale!
Me: Persephone research is going super well …
“Wait, you double-texted,” Aminta says, worried, reading over my shoulder. “And you ellipsed. You shouldn’t do that.”
“That was purely professional. It was the I-have-more-to-tell-you kind of ellipses, not the I-want-to-kiss-you-again kind.”
“You kissed him?” Aminta groans. “I told you to be careful!”
If it’s possible to feel more anxious, I don’t think so. But it’s not like Josh is going to answer—“I’ll text you” (Darren, Disappearing Act, 2016) and “I’ll talk to you tomorrow” (Josh, Fade-Out, 2018).
My phone pings. (Heart palpitates!)
Josh: Tell me everything …
“He brought the cookies! He didn’t deny it.” Aminta leans over my shoulder. I can smell the peppermint on her breath when she gasps. “Whoa! And he ellipsed you.”
He did, indeed. (Palms sweat!) I reach for my Mac to send him my research brief. (Kissing memory ensues!) But now, I’m freaking because, according to my plan, he needs to be work-zoned. Work-zone him, I order myself. Work. Zone.
From: Viola Li
To: Josh Taylor
Re: Research Brief
Dear Josh,
Please find attached some background research on Persephone.
Best,
Viola
“Don’t send—” Aminta says as I hit SEND. “Oh.”
“What?”
“What happened to your inner flirt? It’s like she atrophied or something!”
“Because we are working together. I’m going to channel everything I want the Brians of the world to know about photosensitivity through Persephone.”
“Okay, not a bad idea. We could sell it at the next bake sale. But back to your inner flirt.”
“Really?”
“It’s like Darren silenced her. It’s like your heart’s been mummified.”
“Wait,” I point out, “you said to be careful with Josh.” For good reason, I should add. Just consider my research on the Necromanteion. Odysseus descended to the Underworld to rescue the love of his life. He escaped; she petrified into a statue. Why? She took one last look back at hell. That’s what this whole last year was for me, replaying my stupidity for not reading the obvious signs the summer before: Darren’s sporadic “let’s hang out” texts with him never asking me out on a real date, while somehow always finding the time for us to hook up. His “hey, girl” that never materialized into “my girl.” His acknowledging me for that last entire school year with a jerk of his chin—if that. Josh was one thing I did not want to regret because my heart shattered into a billion pieces of Hades-hot ashes.
“Well, yeah,” says Aminta, “that was before I knew he bake-saled you.”
“You’re hurting my brain. You told me he was a player.”
“Maybe he’s reformed.”
“What?”
“No one drives over cookies for just some girl.”
When my phone pings again, Aminta scoops it off my comforter before I even reach for it.
“I rest my case. More ellipses,” she says, holding the screen out triumphantly. She scoots off my bed. “I’ve got at least ten hours of Latin to do. So I got to go. Flirt, but cautiously.”
No, I will work-zone him. Josh has other ideas. My phone pings. He ellipses. Flirt cautiously. Will do …
Josh: Ultra …
Josh: Maybe Ultraviolent Reyes is a guy who wears ample clothes.
Josh: Maybe he’s murdered Persephone’s best friend or sister.
My mouth curves into a reluctant smile. I love these ideas, which is a whole lot safer than loving the unwanted warmth from that nickname: Ultra. This melty, bubbly ultrareaction to Josh should be the last thing I crave. Of course it isn’t. I practically buzz along with my phone.
Josh: Time to talk?
Me: Yes, as your editorial consultant.
Josh: Is that a fancy way of saying muse?
Me: It’s the salaried way of saying muse.
And then, putting me in line to win this year’s Darwin Award, do I stop? No. I cautiously flirt even more.
Me: Which you need:
Me: Photosensitivity expert.
Me: Encyclopedic knowledge of crises for plot twists.
Me: Exceptional fact-checking skills.
Me: Friends with superhero fashion sense.
Josh: You quadruple-texted me.
Josh: I have it from a good source that’s a definite no.
Me: Excuse me: quintuple-texted.
Me: Lucky you. I consult on math and science, too.
Me: My schedule happens to be open for the next couple of months.
Me: Which is a job proposal.
Me: And public service.
Me: For the record, this is a sixth text. Call me an overachiever.
Josh: Apparently.
Me: So. I’m hired. Right?
Josh: Well, that all depends.
Me: On?
Josh: Your interview.
I’m about to fume: Excuse me? An interview? Haven’t I already proved that I have scintillating ideas? That I can research? That I can—
Josh: For purposes of gauging your creativity.
Josh: And whether you have the Risk Gene.
Josh: Persephone is a superhero after all.
Me: OK. Fine. Fire away.
Josh: Name the trip you’d take if you had one day left in the sun.
Speechless, I lower my phone to my lap. It isn’t as if I haven’t thought of my travel adventures. My planner is open to that very unanswered question, after all. I just haven’t allowed myself to spend a single moment thinking about a sun-less existence. If I did, that would be admitting that I might be trapped in darkness for the rest of my life.
Josh: So far? Interview not going well.
Oh, yeah? I think to myself, but beads of sweat collect on my forehead and I’m probably leaving sweat marks on my phone. I’m relieved Josh can’t see me.
Josh: ?
Me: Necromanteion. Clearly.
Josh: Wow. That’s commitment.
Me: I take primary source research seriously.
Josh: Hired.
Not many messages warrant an escalation to a phone call. As in: actual person-to-person voice contact and verbal exchange. This last text did. I tap Josh’s name on the screen, my heart beating fast, and I calm myself: This is just a call. One simple fact-checking call. Besides, all I had to do was shimmy up a mental image of Mom and Dad, who never betray nerves before a call because they rehearse hard conversations together—Wa
it! Should I have rehearsed?
Too late.
“Hey, Ultra,” Josh answers smoothly like he’s fielded dozens— hundreds— of calls from girls. “Multiplatform communication, nice.”
Multiplatform flirting, even nicer. What is it that makes me want to not-so-cautiously flirt back? So antsy, I stand up to pace the room as I force myself to use my professional voice that I’ve perfected at Lee & Li. “Are you serious about hiring me?”
“Well, that depends. Are you serious about the Necromanteion?” he counters.
“Well, that depends on two things,” I fire back. “Are you serious about Persephone?”
Josh is so quiet, I wonder if our connection has been lost.
“Hello?” I say. “Josh?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I flaked on Persephone with Caleb for two years. We’d do these epic brainstorms late at night. He’d illustrate his part a couple of days later, and I’d blow off mine. Parties to go to, right?” His chuckle is wry, punishing, harsh. “After he died, I promised myself that I would finish Persephone, no matter what. So, yeah, I’m serious.”
“But you finished it. You don’t have to continue.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes it feel like he’s still alive.”
“Oh.” I sigh and lean against my desk. “I get that.”
He clears his throat. “So how about you? You serious?”
“Me?” I know a redirect when I hear one, and remember how intense our last conversation was. Was that why he had pulled back? “Yeah, I’m serious. Working on Persephone kind of helps me deal with my condition. I don’t know why, but it’s easier to process everything my body is going through when it’s one step removed.”
“A superhero surrogate.”
“Yeah, and it gives me a real voice for my condition. That guy who made fun of me?”
“Yeah, the jerk who showed you the video? I could take care of him for you.”
“You are not beating him up, but I’d be open to putting him in Persephone.”
“I’ll zombify him for you,” Josh offers gleefully, and I laugh (cackle). He continues, “Our first casualty.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Josh echoes. “So work together?”
My parents always say that professional relationships are like marriages with ups and downs. When things fall apart, the divorce can be just as painful. So I want clean, clear, reliable communication, the kind I didn’t get from Darren, who was so slippery, I could never nail him down on basic details: What time were we getting together? Heck, were we even getting together?
“Only if you call me when you say you will.” I pause, shocked I dared to say that to him, shocked even more when I ask him point-blank, “So what’s up with that?”
“Because you scare me.”
“Me?”
“I haven’t felt this comfortable—felt like me—with anyone since I can remember.” (Since Caleb.) “It’s a little scary.”
I understand him perfectly. So I tell him, “A lot scary. I let in a guy, like, really let him in. We texted pretty intensely for about five months, but in the middle of that, he’d just go dark and then reappear a couple of days later, no explanation. No I miss you. Nothing. But I honestly thought we were going out, otherwise I wouldn’t have, well, you know, with him …” I sigh. Admitting all of this is hard, but even harder is keeping the truth pushed down inside like my history never happened. “And then he got back together with his ex and I never heard from him ever again. Like, zero. He just disappeared on me even though I’d see them in the hall at school almost every day.”
“Awkward.”
“Totally. It would have been so much better if he had even just texted me that he was moving on, that he was going back to his ex instead of having me find out when I saw them together.”
“What a coward.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “He is.”
“You’d never be happy with a coward.”
That statement yanks me back onto my feet to roam my room. Was it true? Cowardice is the opposite of reporting the journalistic truth.
“So,” Josh says, “no ghosting on Persephone.”
That qualifier—“on Persephone”—stings a little, if I have to admit it. I’ve been work-zoned right back, which is what I wanted, right? But I agree, “No ghosting.”
“So tell me more about the Necromanteion,” he says.
It takes me twelve circuits around my bedroom to give him more details about the place of the dead: how it’s located at the confluence of three rivers (woe, fire, and wailing). At that vortex of pain, you could commune with the dead. Josh is so quiet afterward that I begin to have second thoughts: Was I stupid in thinking that there was a story possibility based on the Necromanteion? I’d never worked on a comic before. What did I know about fiction when I’ve only dealt with facts that could be checked and verified and used to help people see the truth?
Josh says thoughtfully, “Santorini is where vampires were taken to be buried.”
“Santorini?”
“Greek island.”
“So if vampires are the undead—”
“And if they kept reanimating like that asshole you were pseudo-dating—”
“—then that might be what Persephone found as soon as she dropped into the Mediterranean,” I finish, triumphant. “Near the site of the Necromanteion.”
“She’d have to battle all the vampires that are reanimating. Should he be the first to get a stake in his heart? A stake made from a meteorite?”
“Ha!” But I’m too engrossed in our brainstorming to dwell in sweet revenge (much). “And they’re all sucking down innocent tourist blood. So she’d totally feel honor bound to protect earthlings before she could hunt down Ultraviolent Reyes—”
“And head back home with him to Planet X. Hang on a second,” Josh says hastily. “I’ll FaceTime you in five minutes.”
FaceTime means we can see each other.
We. Can. See. Each. Other.
Panicking, I brush my knotty hair off my greasy face. Why hadn’t I bothered showering? Why didn’t I learn from Mom and always look camera-ready?
I rush to my bedside table and grab my emergency makeup kit that Mom insists I always carry, updated for my condition: hidden stash of twenty bucks, dental floss, tampon, Advil, SPF 100 sunscreen, extra hat, aloe vera, and the all-important lip gloss. Some color on my lips might make me look more living and less living dead. My phone buzzes. Answer it or be counted lame.
Be counted lame!
I have lip gloss to put on.
Finally, I accept his call, placing the phone as far as humanly possible from me on the base of my bed, only to realize: Josh is young and healthy; his eyesight is good. There’s no disguising my shapeless, dowdy shirt or my hair that’s a nest of coppery-brown confusion. I stifle a groan and smile gamely at Josh. “Hey!”
“Love your idea.” Josh looks at me admiringly, which makes me question his eyesight. “And the Necromanteion is safe underground.”
“In the dark.”
He grins widely. “I like it. A lot.”
I like his smile. A lot.
“Hang on a second,” he says, pulling out a sketchbook. His pencil moves quickly, and we’re both silent for a few minutes, him sketching, me writing, before he lifts up his drawings, each panel showing a different part of the action that we’ve just brainstormed. “Our first storyboard.”
“Whoa …”
“So. Ultraviola Adventure Numero Uno,” he says, nodding as if he approves of that thought.
“What’s that?”
“The Necromanteion. Research trip.” His expression is serious. “When?”
“Ummm … like how would I ever get to Greece? Money, for one,” I tell him, now holding my phone high for a better angle. “School. Parents.” I shrug. “My parents would freak out if I went to the land of the Mediterranean sun. Wouldn’t yours?”
“Mine pretty muc
h let me do what I want.”
“Well, mine don’t. Mine have me on lockdown. Mine see crises when I’m just crossing the street by myself.”
“O ye of little faith,” he says, shaking his head sadly.
“Seriously?”
He nods like money and timing and parental permission are easy obstacles he’s overcome countless times. Somehow, I don’t doubt it. My arm trembles so I lower the phone to my knees.
Josh explains, “So we got a huge settlement—huge—from the insurance company for pain, suffering, death. As if money will wipe out what happened.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“It’s blood money. Which is why the Necromanteion is a real possibility. I got at least the money part covered.”
“I can’t take your money,” I repeat.
“Why not?” (Because you blame me, too.)
“Because I’m an independent woman, for one. I pay my own way. Two, my parents would never allow it. Oh, my gosh, I can just hear them now: You can’t just take someone’s money.”
“You’re not. You’re taking Aetna’s.”
“I can fund-raise for myself.”
“Bake sales?”
“Okay, that seems self-serving.” I run my free hand along my ponytail before coiling it around my fingers. “I’ll figure something out. And three, you should save your money for college.”
“I go to community college.” Josh looks away from the camera.
“Which is awesome,” I tell him.
“Sure.” (I am a loser.)
Josh is right about one thing even if it’s taken me some time to admit it to myself: I am the master of the censored phrase. That’s how I translate his silent statement, flat and damning and self-incriminating.
So I continue, “It is, if that’s your plan. Is it?”
“Caleb had it all figured out: go to Seattle Central to save money, transfer to CalArts, then intern at Marvel, where he’d work on—”
“Thor?” I ask hopefully.
“No, X-Men. Then pitch Persephone.”
“That sounds like what you’re doing,” I tell him softly. “Are you sure that’s your plan?”
“It is,” he says immediately. He clears his throat, then says, “Add twenty-five bucks to your Necromanteion fund.”