Fresh from my shower and safe in my new UPF-protective and boy-repellant outfit, the dutiful chauffeur is ready to transport the princess to the boathouse, but Dad raps on my bedroom door.

I sigh as I finish tucking my college essay for my meeting with my college counselor into my messenger bag. “Don’t you have someone else’s crisis to solve?”

“Well,” says Dad, widening the door while juggling a large box and thrusting a sheet of paper at me, “I thought maybe you could read the letter before your mom and I send it to the school.”

Conflicting emotions slow my response time: irritation that they went through with writing a letter, grudging astonishment that they actually shared said letter with me.

Dad taps the box in his arms. “And this came for you yesterday. In the middle of everything, I forgot to give it to you after the doctor’s appointment. What’s Planet X?”

My heart quite literally leaps. All thoughts of proofing the ballistic letter are forgotten. Despite knowing a diversion when I’m on the receiving end of one, I hold out my hands. “Dad, give it to me.”

“And what”—Dad pauses theatrically as he holds the box above his head—“is Josh Taylor sending you?”

I lunge for the box, which entails a nonelegant hurdle and a near-stumble when I read the label for myself.

From: Josh Taylor of Planet X

To: Viola Li of the Spaceship SERENITY

Supreme Magnificent Executive Intern

c/o Lee & Li Communications

What the heck required a physical package and not, say, a triple text? Before I can find out, though, Dad sets the letter on my desk. He rubs his nose and says, “We’re trying, honey. We’re just worried.”

“I know, but this is my life.”

“I know.”

The door swings closed behind Dad. That gentle motion sets off the new, parent-approved night-light in the corner of the room. I draw to the vague suggestion of light, dropping to the floor with the box. Inside is a sheet of bright yellow paper, hand-lettered in black marker to look like a book cover.

(PHOTO)SENSITIVITY FOR DUMMIES

by Josh Taylor

“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 a being, vampire, human, or otherwise.”

–Viola Li

Supreme Magnificent Executive Intern, Lee & Li Communications

You got my attention.

And I hope to prove you wrong on one point.

Tomorrow, travel 2.3 miles to Ada’s Technical Books?

Underneath the dummied-up book cover is a khaki hat, the kind that Auntie Ruth wanted us to wear on our safari and I refused on the grounds of because. Now, unbelievably, I laugh and try on the hat. It’s a perfect fit, but there’s still no way I’m going out with him.

Even so, I find myself putting on makeup. When you add my new SPF foundation and a poorly lit bedroom, you get Halloween, four weeks early. Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Still, I (compulsively) dab on another layer of concealer when I hear Roz clomping down the hall.

“Where is she?” Roz’s voice vibrates with impatience.

“Viola, time to go!” Mom calls, then not-so-conspiratorially, adds, “Roz, princess, can you make sure Viola wears her hat at school today?”

I crush the pink makeup sponge in my hand.

Now, indignation rings: “Viola. I’m. Late!”

With one last glance at the mirror, I drop my makeup sponge on my desk. I’d need special effects makeup skills to camouflage my face anyway. And then there’s the matter of the Lee & Li letter, a missive to Dr. Luthra and the school board that’s so well written, so well researched, and so well reasoned, there’s zero chance the school won’t blot out the sun with all the measures my parents “strongly suggest.” Honestly, I’d be in awe if it also didn’t guarantee that everyone will know about my condition before long. Maybe I should just fake being sick, stay home from school, enforce my ban on players. Did I really need to add Josh’s expression to my Library of Regrets: Tanzania (regretted), Darren (regrettable). He has other ideas, apparently. My phone pings with a text.

Josh: Meet at 4:32 p.m. today?

Tonight is my prep night for the bake sale when I’m supposed to make and bake all the cookies so they’re ready to be frosted and packaged tomorrow. But that 4:32 p.m. is catnip with its mysterious specificity. I bite.

Me: Not 4:30?

Josh: Official sunset.

Josh: Somewhere

I admit it: I laugh out loud and on-screen.

My bedroom door thuds under a disgruntled palm. “I knew it! Mom! She’s not even getting ready in there!” Another thump. “I can’t be late!”

Apparently, the Viola Express runs, rain or shine. News flash: This conductor is taking her own sweet time.

Me: 4:32:05