“Great plan,” says Dad as if this is my idea.
Mom’s eyes brighten, which should have prepared me for the hat the size of Starship Enterprise that she pulls out from under the breakfast nook table. “Ta-da!”
I have been crisis managed.
No one needs to remind me that there are a billion worse fates—like battling cancer, losing all my hair from chemo and radiation, and needing a hat to keep warm. After watching a child trafficking case in a stifling courtroom in Accra, after driving by some of the ramshackle shelters in Arusha, it’s not lost on me that I have a roof over my head to hide me from the sun. I had the luxury of traveling to Tanzania and Ghana with my aunt. My parents have the means to keep me stocked in hats. And umbrellas.
Yet.
Umbrellas.
By Monday night, rage—hot, white, and pure—escalates to UV Index 11+, the most extreme level. I am the sun in all its full, searing, dangerous glory. The unfairness of everything burns in me and through me and over me. There I was, helping Auntie Ruth support her friend in the name of justice, and I might have gotten sick from taking meds that were prescribed to keep me safe and healthy.
I need to parse the last day and a half of my life. So close to midnight, I text Aminta: SOS. Parents gone crazy.
More accurately: Girl gone crazy.
For ten minutes, I perch on the edge of my bed, knees bouncing up and down, staring at my screen, willing her to answer.
Anything, anything.
Nothing.
I resort to calling Aminta.
And go straight to voice mail.
My best friend isn’t hanging out with Caresse without me again, is she? What if my stay-out-of-the-sun existence turned into a stay-away-from-me one because I’m no longer fun?
My heart is heaving. Images of impending doom at school tomorrow fill my head. The worst one: I’ll be all alone to deal with everyone’s stares and snickers, no Aminta in sight. I glare at my own personal canopy, the new sun hat, spread across the foot of my bed. I need something, anything, to take my mind off tomorrow—cooking is outside the realm of possibility since I don’t want to be in the vicinity of my crisis-controlling parents, and it would take a miracle for my parents to allow me to go for a run outside, much less hit a trail.
Against all odds, I drift over to my desk, where my Mac awaits my next query. My college essay is already printed and ready to go to school with me tomorrow. The college counselors all “strongly recommended” that seniors return from summer break with good “working ideas.” I have a good, working draft, focal point: NYU Abu Dhabi. Except now I’ve discovered that my dream campus is parked in the desert with roughly 3,462 hours of sunshine a year compared to Seattle’s measly 2,044 hours. I yank my hands off the keyboard. (Research is so much more fun when the facts you dig up don’t singe you.)
Sighing, I reach up to the shelf for my favorite Tamora Pierce novel, cover lost years ago. That’s a world I can get lost in. But Persephone from Planet X winks up at me from the trash can, her twin assets gleaming in the dim light. Seriously, this comic is worse than an STD, following me around forever.
Desperate for distraction, I actually pluck the comic out of the bin. My room is too dark to read so I turn on my lamp, then hold still. Was natural light through windows or artificial light from a lamp less dangerous? What if my rash and hives are the least of my worries, and the light bulb triggers an even worse response? I scoot the lamp to the far edge on the desk, then tuck myself into the extreme-most corner of my bed, where the light won’t graze me.
Page one of Persephone gives me the perfect place to direct my anger.
Meet Persephone, an intergalactic Amazon from the farthest planet in our universe, the so-called Planet X, never mind there are only eight planets in our solar system. I flip another page. So the warrior princess (how many times have we seen that trope?) leaves her besieged planet ruled by a power-hungry dictator who denies the oncoming Ice Age. She speeds light-hours to Earth to find a home for her people and finds herself battling … vampires.
I snicker.
Who wouldn’t be a little irritated by the time they reach page five? And no, my annoyance has nothing to do with the fact that the author didn’t text me the way he said he would. Nothing to do with how this neglect feels so very love ’em and drop ’em like Darren.
What gets to me is how so very wrong—anatomically and astronomically—Josh is about all things photosensitivity. I mean, seriously, Persephone’s kryptonite is the sun. Okay, that I buy since she’s from the farthest reach in our galaxy. But she’s walking around, fighting vampires in broad daylight in her teeny tiny, itsy-bitsy almost-bikini? Right. Talk about dropping straight into a guy’s fantasyland.
My critique is far, far more than a single text could ever express. I think about all the extra work my parents do for their clients, telling each other, Well, this is for clean water. Well, this will help girls get educated in Afghanistan. Well, this will deliver books to kids in Kenya. Well, this will provide dental care to the homeless in the Northwest.
Well, this will educate a misogynist.
So, no, I’m not sharing the research I’ve done for Josh, but my parents—lo and behold!—have it so very right about one thing, though: A letter is a fine way to make change. Because of them, I’ve written missives to companies (please stop using carcinogenic ingredients), my school administration (please stop censoring my articles), my representatives in both Washingtons (please address the growing sex trafficking epidemic). And the comic so very conveniently has a generic email address for the publisher on the back cover.
Even better.
My letter won’t go to Josh, but to the publisher. For extra credibility, I’ll use my email account with my parents’ firm and collect the halo effect of being associated with communications experts.
I grab my Mac from my desk. Fingers on the keyboard, I pound the anger out of me.
From: Viola Wynne Li
To:
[email protected] Subject: (Photo)sensitivity for Dummies
To Whom It May Concern:
I recently read Persephone from Planet X given to me by one of your writers. I am quite literally speechless at some of the inconsistencies, not to mention insensitivities, in this work.
Number One: If photosensitivity is triggered by the sun and if Persephone has recently vacated the planet farthest from said sun and has zero sun tolerance built up, there is no possible way that she would be traipsing around Earth in a glorified swimsuit. No, seriously, if she did, she would have melted into a puddle of pain, and her skin would have become an irradiated red.
Number Two: Given Persephone’s photosensitivity, how is it possible that she can have a twelve-hour epic adventure in full-blast sunlight without taking any kind of precautions? First, there isn’t a single iota of shade for her. Second, where’s her hat? For that matter, where are her clothes? (See point Number One because even if that scrap of fabric had beaucoup UPF protection, its coverage would be—shall we say, scant?) Let’s also, for the sake of this thought experiment, believe that Persephone (miraculously) had sunscreen on, she would sweat it off in two hours flat, less than an hour if she were really combating vampires.
Number Three: By the way, I thought vampires self-combusted and incinerated in direct sunlight. So why on earth would they battle Persephone in the daytime? Wouldn’t she—a superhero—know that all she had to do was lure them into the sun, then kick back and watch them smoke on their own?
Number Four: Can you say objectification? Why, why, why does a female superhero have to wear barely there clothes? This is not beach volleyball, but frankly, even that sport is a mystery to me since the male beach volleyball players seem to play just fine in board shorts and shirts. Look, I get that aerodynamicity is a prerequisite for superhero uniforms.
But consider this:
Superman: chin to toe coverage.
Batman: head to toe coverage.
Spiderman: face to toe coverage.<
br />
And not one of them is photosensitive.
(Incidentally, I highly doubt that any self-respecting superhero of any gender in this current millennium would travel 7.44 billion kilometers just to attract the attention of another being, vampire, human, or otherwise. No one is that desperate.)
These are (all) serious errors, which I hope you’ll remedy immediately.
Sincerely,
Viola Wynne Li
Intern, Lee & Li Communications
…
My fingers almost hurt from typing so hard and fast. The smallest, almost undetectable flare of misgivings stops me from pressing SEND. I can hear Mom warn: “Think through every possible ramification before you send anything.” Dad would caution, “Give every inflammatory email a good twenty-four hours to cure overnight.”
Perhaps I ought to cast a cursory look over my email, but the screen is so bright. My eyes burn. I close them, assuring myself that I’ve just become accustomed to the dark.
My parents are wrong: In no way will I ever get used to carrying an umbrella—umbrella!—in the sun.
There it is again: rage.
My eyes snap open. I don’t want the dark. I want the light.
I hit SEND.
After dropping Roz off at the boathouse on Tuesday morning, pure muscle memory speeds me along Lake City Way, and I’m halfway to Auntie Ruth’s before I even know where I’m driving. This sketchy stretch of road runs around the north end of Lake Washington, where seedy pot shops and gritty bars mix with truly great hole-in-the-wall pho and Ethiopian restaurants. I yawn, exhausted from my late-night tirade.
My phone buzzes an alert for an email. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, which stretches my skin uncomfortably. I groan. Blotchy and red, a new blister bubbles on the top of my left hand. I had worn my spaceship of a hat around the house all day yesterday, but I hadn’t thought to protect my hands. Or my heart.
As my parents tell their new employees, in this world, there are promise-keepers and promise-takers. After Darren, the one promise I’ve kept to myself: no more takers. I haven’t gone out with a guy for over a year, which is nothing compared to Auntie Ruth going man-free for five whole years. So why the heck had I not only lowered my guard, but thrown down the drawbridge, rolled out the red carpet to my bedroom, and invited a taker to stroll straight into my life with my offer for free research?
Another alert. I loosen my hold. As much as I’m itching to check the message, years of cautionary tales of car accidents care of Auntie Ruth do what my parents’ lecture(s) don’t: I keep my attention on the road.
The phone buzzes insistently, now with a text. There is no possible way that the publisher could have read my email about Persephone so soon, right? Suddenly, I’m wide awake. The moment I pull up crookedly in front of Auntie Ruth’s repair shop, my phone pings again. Another text. Instead of righting the car, I consider myself parked and check my messages. As it turns out, the cage of metal surrounding me isn’t much more protection than a canvas tent, not after I’ve poked the beast’s ego.
5 min ago
Hey, it’s Josh. I’m glad you emailed. It felt too weird to ask your mom for your number.
Josh read the email? I blush, remembering what I wrote. And how I wrote it. Let’s just say: I did not practice what my parents preach about tone and wording and effective communication. I groan. I cannot believe that I forgot to erase my number in the signature line. And no, this was not a Freudian slip. Another buzz, another message.
Josh: You bring up good points.
Josh: So let me know when you can talk.
Talk? I want to ignore his texts, but as Lee & Li always say, No ignoring, no ghosting, no pretending about problems. Willful neglect of an issue is what turns minor concerns into major crises. Yeah, but I hadn’t just kissed him; I had lost sleep over him. Out the passenger window, a brown leaf drops to the sidewalk, exactly how I feel as I try but fail to compose a response: parched dry. Someone didn’t have the same writer’s block. My phone alerts again.
Josh: And where.
Me: That letter was for the publisher.
Josh: I am the publisher.
Me:
I panic.
He. Is. The. Publisher.
I panic some more. Silence is not an option. Silence signals that I am embarrassed (which I am). Silence signals a tragic lack of ability to compose a creative comeback (which is true). My scalp itches. I take off the hat, wipe the sweat off my forehead, and smash it back on my head.
Anything is better than silence. Anything. So I do the classic Lee & Li maneuver: I deflect to a safer topic, partly to distract him, mostly to buy myself time to think.
Me: What are you doing up? Before 6?
Josh: Swim practice.
Me: The shoulders. Got it.
The moment I hit SEND, I stare at my screen, mortified. What the heck had I just texted? Why on earth isn’t there a retract-immediately function? Was there some kind of magnetosphere around this guy that repelled normal, simple, benign conversation?
Josh: What are you saying about my shoulders?
I started it; I had to see it through.
Me: Some people might call them otherworldly wide.
Josh: I’ll take that as a compliment.
Josh: Unless you’re saying they’re comic-book wide.
Josh: As in: I need to wear more clothes?
I can’t help it. My laugh sounds suspiciously like a girl who’s being flirted with and who likes it. A lot.
Me: I thought double-texting was a no-no …
Josh: It is when you’re flirting. Which ellipses are.
Josh: For the record, you used ellipses first.
Josh: And correction: I triple-texted …
No, the guy cannot possibly be flirting with me after my ranting email? And I’m not ellipses-ing flirting with him, am I … ? Was he … ? Could he be … ?
Me: A sign of desperation.
Josh: Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that …
An ellipsis! He ellipsed me!
Josh: So can we get together? Talk?
Josh: Because.
Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Forget it. Waiting serves as much purpose as malaria-ridden mosquitoes in this world.
Me: ?
Josh: Because if I hurt your feelings, I want to apologize.
That wasn’t what I expected. Stunned, I sink back against the driver’s seat as my mind strays to how Darren had trampled all over my feelings like I was his personal practice field. Which, in a way, I was, since, as it turns out, I was just a midseason substitution while he waited for his ex-soccer-star-girlfriend’s return to him. After they got back together, there was nothing, not even a single text, to break up with me. Or to apologize for stringing me along as if that had been his right. My flattened heart, his trophy.
A rap on the passenger window startles me. I’m half expecting a homeless person and automatically reach under the driver’s seat for the emergency supply kits my parents keep stocked there: plastic bags filled with socks, two KIND Bars, a Jimmy John’s gift card, and the number for the Union Gospel Mission emergency shelter downtown. Instead, I tug out an all-new Sick Girl emergency kit stuffed into a clear pouch: aloe vera, scrunchable sun hat, sunscreen, and a card with my name, my parents’ phone numbers, and contact info for my doctor.
“Viola!” Auntie Ruth’s outside, frowning with worry. Dark half-moons under her eyes mean she’s slept fitfully like me. “Are you okay?” She opens the passenger door and leans down to conduct a full-body search of me with her eyes. “Is your car?”
“All good.” I nod even as I hide my blistered hand.
“Then what are you doing sitting out here? I was starting to get worried.” She casts an accusatory glare at the bruised purple sky, looking exactly like Dad declaring war on light bulbs. She frets, “It’s going to be light soon.”
Hardly. The sun’s not going to rise for a good hour, just shy of seven at the very earliest. Sti
ll, Auntie Ruth’s uncharacteristically cautious, sounding eerily like my paranoid parents. This is my aunt, who prepares for adventure the way Dad does for crisis. He tucks emergency kits in our cars; she stashes trail running shoes for emergency runs. But now she urges, “You need to come inside. Just in case.”
Every single muscle in my body protests. “In a second.”
“I feel so terrible, honey. This is all my fault. If you get sicker, I’ll feel even worse. So come on in, please.”
Coming here was a terrible mistake. My parents’ hovering is bad enough, but Auntie Ruth—the coolest aunt under the sun, so to speak—has amplified her guilt with anxiety, and we are now ten billion light-years from cool. I’m way too tired to remind her that the meds may not have caused my condition because that would just invite a dissection of how I’m feeling.
“Then why have you been parked out—”
My phone chooses that precise moment to buzz, buzz, buzz as text messages flood in.
She says knowingly, “Oh.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Josh?”
Well, two can play this game. Mom had asked me to be the arrow to her Cupid. So I take aim. “Hey, Mr. Silver Fox from Souper Bowl Sunday wants your number.”
“Oh.” A small dent in the door suddenly sidetracks Auntie Ruth and she probes the nick with her finger. “When did this happen? We can fix it.” Her eyes lift, and she catches sight of my uncovered hand. Again with the upset tone. “Is that a blister?”
“Don’t tell Dad.”
“You know your dad and I don’t keep secrets.”
That’s what I’m worried about. What if my legs got shaky inside? Or I fainted? What if I fainted at school? I hadn’t even considered that possibility. My phone buzzes yet again. And again. Seriously, how much does this guy have to say? Was Josh this verbose with all the girls?
Before she shuts the door, Auntie Ruth winks at me and says, “I’m coming out for you in five minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say with a weak, unconvincing smile. No matter how hard I try to believe that nothing is going to change my plans, everyone seems intent on babyproofing my life. Case in point: Auntie Ruth turns around to check on me, worried, before she finally slips inside her shop.