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: Publisher@PlanetXComix.com

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.

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.