Lovely, Dark, and Deep

  “So I’m hired?” I ask. A Lee & Li mandate: Close the deal as soon as a client expresses interest.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Your commitment to research.”

  I sit up straighter. “But you said: Hired.”

  “That was for a researcher, but if you’re wanting byline credits …”

  “I don’t.”

  “You should.”

  Which is what my parents would say, too. Especially my dad: Don’t let anyone take credit for your work.

  “Well, we can’t go to Greece!” I protest.

  “Why not?”

  “I told you. Money, timing, parents.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “Money, timing, parents.”

  “Then let’s find a research trip that doesn’t entail money, timing, or parents,” he suggests.

  For a weird, brief moment, I’m disappointed that I can’t race ahead to twenty-three, have enough money banked so that we can book a real research field trip to the Necromanteion and travel to Greece together.

  “You sure you’d be up for my kind of research trip?” I ask. When he nods—of course—I say, “Nighttime polar dip in the lake.”

  “Too cold.”

  “What happened to your creativity and risk gene? How are you going to draw how it feels to crash-land from a meteor into a body of water?”

  Josh laughs. I swear, my dad in the kitchen can hear every last note of that booming laughter. For a moment, the dark feels a little less lonely. I can’t wait to make him laugh again (for purely research purposes) (of course).

  Even though it’s five thirty in the morning and I can’t drive Roz to crew anymore (hallelujah!), I’m up and dressed for a full-frontal sun attack on my predawn jog despite it being completely dark. That’s what I intend to tell my parents when I get to the kitchen: I was fine during my last jog. I’ll bring my phone in case of emergency. I’ll run laps around our block so I won’t be more than three minutes from home. Plus, I rested all yesterday (never mind that I stayed up until three, multiplatform “working” with Josh).

  Halfway out my bedroom door, smoothing my hair back into a ponytail, my fingers graze my blistered cheek. I want to scream. Maybe I do.

  Footsteps thud to me.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom demands before she looks scared, then cries, “Mick. Mick!” An instant later, Dad is standing next to Mom.

  “Oh, honey,” he says, worried, as he inspects my face.

  “How bad is it?” I ask, looking between them.

  These are not the poker faces of world-class crisis managers who are trained to be the still point in every chaos, the voice of reason, the center of calm. Tears well in Mom’s eyes. I’d check the mirror above my bureau, only I’m too afraid to look at myself.

  “Aloe vera,” Mom says, holding her fingers to her trembling lips as she speeds to the bathroom.

  Even Roz—she with the highest tolerance in our family for blood-and-gore on Netflix—grimaces when she joins us in my bedroom. “You know that scene in Star Wars where Anakin Skywalker falls into lava and comes out like a slab of barbequed meat and Darth Vader is born?”

  “Seriously?” There is no disguising the panic in my voice.

  “It’s not that bad,” says Dad, but his expression remains concerned. “Did you go outside yesterday?”

  “No, I was working inside,” I answer. “And I was wearing everything: hat, clothes, everything.”

  “Did you stand by the windows?”

  “No.”

  “Did you bake under the skylights?”

  “Dad, you were home. Did you see me baking?”

  “Did you walk outside?”

  “Not even for a second.”

  “So,” says Dad, worrying his jaw, “what have you been doing?”

  “Just work,” I wail, “on my Mac.”

  “Your Mac,” repeats Mom from the bathroom. When she hurries back to us, aloe vera forgotten, she asks me, “Texting? IM’ing? Phone and computer?”

  “Ummm … why?”

  Mom is relentless like I’m a witness she’s cross-examining. “Your blisters are mostly on the left. Your phone, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but then I was on FaceTime. The phone wasn’t even on my face.”

  “Hmmm,” says Dad. My parents exchange a meaningful glance.

  Years of hearing that contemplative, gears-turning, theory-generating hmmm puts me on edge. That hmmm has been the harbinger for all kinds of sad verdicts. My favorite purple dress when I was five: junked (because, hmmm, Mom read an article about lead in the zippers of kids’ clothes). The crew carpool that Roz could have been in so I wouldn’t have had to drive her: deal voided (because, hmmm, Dad wasn’t convinced that the coxswain drove cautiously enough).

  I tell them, “But my research showed that screens don’t emit UVA rays.”

  “Or UVB,” Mom adds. She stares up at Dad. “What did we miss?”

  “It could be that your condition makes you extra sensitive to any light,” Dad says. “We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, no going out again today.”

  Wait. Any light?

  Any?

  Light?

  That would explain how a few minutes under any kind of light bulb and driving in the daytime could inflame my skin. Could screens? How was I going to research local field trips? How was I going to “work” with Josh?

  “I’m calling Dr. Anderson,” I say.

  Before I can dial, Mom cries, “No phone!”

  “Mom, chill,” Roz says as I scowl wordlessly. I’d aim a smile at Roz for her unexpected solidarity, but any facial movement makes my face burn like I’ve sunbathed in the Sahara Desert without an umbrella, sun hat, or sunscreen for two days too long. This is much worse than I thought. I chance a look in the mirror.

  A chain of blisters. Darth Vader. Slab of barbequed meat.

  What happens when you spend thirteen straight hours in front of a computer and phone and you’ve got a more extreme case of photosensitivity than you, your parents, and the medical community realized? You get burned.

  That evening, as I’m starting a test batch of this week’s Souper Bowl Sunday offerings (Seahawks vs. Buffalo Bills), Mom says casually, “So we were thinking, honey, about your phone.”

  Oh, no.

  No, no, no.

  The emergency appointment for a second opinion with a different dermatologist today was demoralizing enough with the doctor’s murky answers. I rest the heavy knife on the cutting board, drained of all hope that I could lose myself in this new and intriguing recipe for buffalo chicken wings soup.

  …

  HOW TO ANSWER WITHOUT ANSWERING: A MASTER CLASS

  Q: Could my skin be allergic to plain old visible light, not just ultraviolet rays?

  A: Perhaps, but it would seem so.

  Q: Screens don’t emit UV rays. So is my skin supersensitive?

  A: Unclear, but it’s a possibility.

  Q: How bad will this get?

  A: Uncertain, but it could possibly worsen.

  …

  I’m not prepared for one more piece of my life to be stripped away when I would so much rather stay in the land of denial, pretending this is just another normal day prepping for yet another normal Souper Bowl Sunday and waiting for another normal text or two from my friends and the strong-and-oh-so-very-silent Josh.

  But no.

  I can’t handle my parents’ new plan of doom, whatever it is. So I host my own intervention. I face my parents, a united front of Lee & Li “We Were Thinking” dictums. Well, this Lee & Li has her own thoughts, too.

  …

  I WAS THINKING: THE HIJACKED EDITION

  Me: Funny, I was thinking, too.

  Mom (eyebrows lifting):

  Dad (eyes widening):

  Me: How about I shut down my devices at midnight? That’ll give me enough time to do my homework, and I’ll use them in ten-minute intervals until we know for sure if the screens are t
riggering my skin.

  Mom: Oh.

  Dad: We’ll all shut down at the same time.

  Mom: At eight o’clock.

  …

  “Excuse me?” Roz clutches her phone to her chest like it’s a flotation device and snarls, “Take Viola’s.”

  “No, princess,” Dad says, his hands spread out in a way that’s authoritative, “we all stick together. No one’s taking anyone’s away, but Viola’s got a good plan. We can limit everyone’s nighttime usage.”

  “At eight,” Mom repeats.

  “Eleven thirty,” I counter.

  “That’s not fair!” Roz protests as she slips her phone underneath herself at the breakfast nook.

  Everyone turns to me expectantly: Mom, Dad, Roz. In my head, the soundtrack for the tragicomedy of my life swells. Except my movie got hijacked, and I no longer know the screenwriter or the director, and certainly not the actress or plot. Still, I’ve memorized the old script, the one with my cue to play the Good Girl, the one who sacrifices. The one who dutifully offers, No, just take mine. Roz shouldn’t suffer.

  I don’t say a word. Instead, I let my chopping do the talking. My butcher’s knife guillotines three stalks of celery. Off with their heads!

  “Whatever,” Roz grumbles, and a moment later, her bedroom door slams shut.

  “Actually, honey.” Dad sets his ankle on top of his other leg. “We were thinking about That Boy.”

  Mom adds for clarification, “Josh.”

  “That Boy who waited for me at the hospital? Who brought me home twice?” I’m Josh’s advance PR team, already guessing what’s about to come next.

  “That Boy who doesn’t seem to have your best interests in mind.” Dad’s voice flattens, a single note of grim. “He’s a rule breaker.”

  “You’re the one who thought he was great,” I point out to Mom before I narrow my eyes at Dad. “Is this about him going to community college?”

  “Not entirely,” Dad says, sounding reasonable, even though his face is getting flushed.

  “Dad, isn’t that a little elitist of you? I mean, you don’t even know his story.”

  “We know enough,” Mom says, slipping her hand back into Dad’s. “You should only surround yourself with people who want to protect you, who put your best interests ahead of their own, even if it hurts them to do so.”

  For the record, anger cooking is not nearly as satisfying as anger baking. Fists or rolling pin, I’ve punched down plenty of dough with both, but I can’t possibly wait hours for dough I haven’t even made to rise. The next best thing: I dismember the next batch of celery.

  “Umm, honey, don’t you think you should be a little more careful?” Dad asks uneasily.

  “Hello, I’ve been cooking since I was four,” I grind out, and whack the stalks into tidy quarter-inch segments, but when I almost nick my thumb, I force myself to take a deep breath. Ignoring my parents, I crouch down to pull out the slow cooker and bang it on the counter. Perhaps all this unusual aggression scares my parents away.

  Carrots and potatoes have never been peeled and diced so vigorously (violently). I dump them all into the slow cooker. The chicken breast I’d roasted earlier needs to be hand-shredded, but I tighten my grip on the knife handle and mince the chicken. Sour cream? I bypass Mom’s fat-free container of choice in the fridge and go for the full-fat one. Calories? Who cares? What the heck, let’s add another whopping spoonful. Or two. I slam my finger down on the on-button for the slow cooker.

  Breathing hard, I glare at the aftermath of the Category 5 hurricane that’s gusted through the kitchen, because someone, c’est moi, has not been cleaning as she cooks. Bits of celery leaves and potato peelings cling to the counter. Wait another thirty minutes, and they’ll be encrusted on the surface. The cutting board is clogged with chicken bits and coagulated fat. Blue cheese is smeared on the fork I’d used to crumble the wedge.

  I sweep out of the kitchen. Let someone else clean up for once.

  To quote Roz: Whatever.

  It could be Christmas morning, me creeping down the hardwood floors before anyone else has woken up, except there are no presents to break into, just my jailed phone. Apparently, I’m not the only one suffering from tech withdrawal. Roz is crouched behind the kitchen island, rapid-fire texting in the dark. She drops the phone behind her back when she feels my presence, not that that hides the evidence. The phone glows in the dark.

  Roz whispers, “Oh, it’s just you.”

  “Just me,” I say, drawing to the basket of impounded goodies.

  “You won’t believe what Mom’s done this time.”

  This conspiratorial tone I haven’t heard since we were little, sneaking into the Girl Scout cookies. A placard in beautiful calligraphy is tied to a basket: After-Hours Charging Station.

  “When did she have time to go all Pinteresty on us?” I ask.

  “Yeah, don’t they have a couple of crises to solve?”

  That’s the problem. They do: me. No point in mentioning this to Roz, not when we’re getting along. Before our devices had been corralled for the night, I had sent a few hasty texts.

  Me (to Aminta): How about a bake sale for a program that feeds elementary schoolers with no food over weekends?

  Me (to Caresse): SOS. I need your fashion skills.

  Me (to Josh): Tech confiscated. Screens are burning me. Who knew?

  He’s been incommunicado all day, according to my new schedule of periodic and timed tech usage.

  Tech Check, 8:00 a.m.: no text.

  Tech Check, 10:00 a.m.: silence.

  Tech Check, noon: crickets.

  Tech Check, 2 p.m.: boycotted afternoon check; bad for my self-image as strong, independent young woman.

  Tech Check, 4 p.m.: out of responsibility to my academic standing, I take a quick peek. Nothing.

  Now, when I turn on the phone, my heart leaps at the sight of the alert: Josh has answered a minute ago.

  Josh: Sorry, I’ve been cramming for tests all day.

  Josh: So. I have an idea.

  What could ten more minutes of unsanctioned and nonessential screen time possibly hurt, especially if my screen is permanently set on night mode?

  Me: What?

  Instead of a text buzz, my phone rings, a sound I only associate with my parents, who are the only people to call me. It’s Josh. What’s with my nerves? It’s as if Tuesday’s FaceTime and phone calls never happened, and I’m speaking with him for the first time.

  “Shh!” Roz is back to hissing. So much for our sisterhood détente. I quickly silence the phone. She drags me to the basement door. What? Is she going to shove me down the stairs? “Don’t blow this.”

  Clearly, my little sister is more skilled in covert spycraft than I am, because the basement is the best place for a clandestine conversation: under the living room, out of earshot of our parents’ bedroom, and no one ever dares to come down here unless it’s to do laundry. As soon as I’m in the stairwell, Roz closes the door so gently, I don’t hear it shut. That leaves me in the dark. With the wolf spiders. The phone vibrates again.

  I fumble for the stairwell light, even as I answer the phone, but the overhead light is so bright, I can’t chance any further skin reaction, especially since I’m not geared up in a hat or the right clothes. I cast a nervous glance up, over, and around myself. No spiders.

  “Why are you calling?” I say, then flush as I flick the light switch off. It’s too late to backtrack to a benign hello. Or even better, a casual hey, but to be honest, I’m a little miffed at his stuttering, on-again, off-again communication.

  “How sick are you?” Josh asks just as preemptively as if we’ve both agreed to edit out the inconsequential bits of a conversation. Immediately, he swears and says—more accurately, barks, “Put me on speakerphone.”

  “But the screen is black.”

  “Remember, I’m not a science guy. So if it emits any kind of invisible rays, I don’t want to burn you even more. Hey, speakerphone.”

  I
sigh—loudly—into the speakerphone, then set it by my feet. I sit down warily on one of the top steps, where I’m within an arm’s reach of the door and fast escape from any creepy crawlies.

  “You don’t sound so great,” he says.

  “It’s because I’m in the land of spiders,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “Okay, so, when we moved in ten or so years ago, we found these three huge, super-fast spiders in the basement. I mean, these things could run.”

  “Wolf spiders.”

  “Yeah, and then Mom read that they can rise up on their hind legs!”

  “No way!”

  “Way! And show their fangs. And then Roz saw one pounce.”

  “Not even.”

  “It jumped. So we were all: roll out the red carpet to chemicals. Pronto.”

  “I take it your parents don’t represent the Arachnid Humane Society.”

  “No! Wait, is there even such a thing?”

  “Probably,” he says.

  “I am so not baking for that cause.”

  “Good, because how sick are you?” Before I can answer, he says, “And don’t censor.”

  “I don’t censor.” (Much.)

  “You actually do, but you don’t have to with me. Just tell me what you’re thinking, straight up. So on the sick scale: one to five.”

  “Two.”

  “Or a three. Or three and a quarter, right?”

  Was he right? I frown, wanting to deny it, but what was the point of denying the truth when he seemed hell bent on hearing how I was really feeling?

  “Okay,” I concede as I lean against the step behind my back. “A solid four after the poke shop. And a two and three-quarters today.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is. We talked way too long Tuesday night. I mean, I like talking with you.”

  “I know what you mean.” I smile because his words run into each other like he’s a little nervous-excited to be talking with me, too.

  “So what’d you do today without your phone?” he asks.

  “I planned: my college, our research expeditions, Persephone.”

  “Where are we researching this weekend?”

  “We’re not.” I clear my throat, embarrassed. “I’ve been zombified. Blisters and everything all over my face.”