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 triggering 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.