I turn my attention back to my father. “Weird” is all I can think to say, sensing a pang of guilt at the pit of my stomach.
Tenet number one: Respect. I will honor what I do not understand.
My father’s burning gaze stays fixed on me a moment longer, then dissolves just as quickly as it arrived. He grins wide and nods, chuckling to let me know the bit is over.
He’s just messing around.
“It’s been a long day,” Dad announces. “I don’t blame you for feeling a little out of it. Do you want us to get a door for your room?”
“I … guess,” I reply.
He nods. “I’ll head down to the hardware store when I have some time and see what I can do. Should be an easy fix. Night, hon.”
With that, my father turns and heads back into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
The house falls quiet once more.
I creep back into my room under the soft yellow glow of my bedside lamp. I undress and pull on a long green T-shirt featuring the logo of a classic condiment. RELISH is written across the top of this familiar design, while the center part continues with two words: SWEET JESUS.
I slip under the covers and turn off my bedside light, but I don’t shut my eyes. Instead, I stare at the ceiling above me, my mind flooded with all the curious thoughts I’ve been explicitly told to avoid.
Whether or not I swallowed a mouthful of mayfly eggs, the creatures are still absolutely fascinating.
You know how you can get, my father said, a phrase I’ve heard before.
Focused. Tuned out. Obsessive. Single-minded.
Curious.
I glance back at the empty doorframe, searching for any movement in the dark hallway beyond and then finally sliding over to the edge of my bed. I reach out and grab my phone, which rests on the side table, then quickly turn down its brightness as the device springs to life.
Having technologically illiterate parents can be frustrating, but it also has its advantages. Case in point: the fact I can access all the same information on my phone that I can on my laptop seems completely lost on my father.
I open up a new tab and do a quick search for Ephemeroptera, which means the whole mayfly order instead of any specific species.
I slowly peruse this endless trove of information, the dim light of my phone a pale glow in the darkness. Several pages that I’ve already read appear, but I scroll onward in search of fresh information.
Strangely, the more I read about these insects, the less I think about my traumatic expulsion over dinner. I’m filling my brain with just enough logical stimulation that the rest of my consciousness can take a break.
While mayfly larvae eat plant matter, the adult mayfly is a rare example of an animal that has no diet. They don’t live long enough to eat.
“Whoa,” I gush aloud, my eyes dancing across the tiny screen as I scroll onward.
The next search result is a local story about a man who claims he discovered a new species of leech in the deep Neverton County woods. A photo is included, showing a clearly fabricated invertebrate that is nothing more than a pale sagging balloon wrapped around someone’s deflated football. Stringy hair has been pasted along the ridge of the mysterious creature’s “back.”
I remember when this story came out and a wave of sadness washes over me. The hoaxer was a deeply disturbed man, a lost soul who would eventually take his own life.
He was a nonbeliever.
My phone buzzes, a notification appearing at the top of the flat rectangular screen.
“Martina Coachman has tagged you in five photos,” I recite under my breath, reading the words out loud against my own volition.
I click the notification, my hush-hush and wholly top-secret social media app filling the screen as it displays an assortment of pictures from today. I don’t remember posing for any photos, and as I scroll through these uploads I find my recollection to be correct.
However, I did end up in the background of several shots, and Martina was kind enough to tag me.
I take a moment to swipe through today’s images, glowing with appreciation at my inclusion in this gallery that feels both familiar and deeply foreign. Many of these people are my friends, but a few nonbelievers have wormed their way into the mix.
I see kids making hand signs that I don’t understand or recognize. There are swimsuits covering way too little, and T-shirts with logos that seem nothing short of occult.
Fortunately, there’s just as many shirts featuring Bible verses to balance things out. I smile when I see one that reads, I GET HIGH ON THE MOST HIGH, which is about as lurid as I’m willing to get. Even then, I feel guilty about my reaction.
In one photo Isaiah flexes for the camera, a display that makes me wrinkle my nose and unconsciously frown. In another, one of the guys has pulled the bottom of his shirt into his own collar to create the approximation of a bra. I’m in the background of that one, standing by myself and struggling to act natural.
The next photo features Martina flanked by two girls I only vaguely know, the three of them doing some kind of secret-agent finger-gun pose I’ve seen before but can’t seem to place.
I can’t help making note of how pretty Martina is, a strange feeling bubbling up inside me as I observe these digital representations of her smiling face. The emotion coursing through my veins is uncomfortable, an ache that burns and sizzles awkwardly.
It feels a little like jealousy, but not entirely.
I dive even deeper into my friend’s archive, my fingers gaining a mind of their own as I swipe from one image to the next. I’m no longer just perusing snapshots from today, but bounding back in time to various activities, outfits, and hairstyles.
I stop at a photo of a strangely innocuous moment, a portrait Martina appears barely ready for. She’s standing on her couch midlaugh, casually clad in a blazer and a white button-up shirt that’s way too big for her.
I’ve never noticed just how many freckles Martina has dancing across her skin, even today at the swimming hole.
So jealous.
Martina’s strawberry hair is up in a messy bun, renegade strands falling around her shoulders in a way that somehow appears both completely random and perfectly planned. One eyebrow is cocked high above the other in a silly face—a face that would probably be deeply unflattering on anyone else—but for some reason her expression slips right between my ribs like a perfectly placed spear to the heart.
My body flushes with heat as I shift my weight in bed, turning from side to side. My skin is tingling.
Suddenly, however, the rising temperature comes to an abrupt halt. A wave of cold washes over me, chilling me to the bone.
My breath catches in my throat, and I’m unsure of how I should respond to this bizarre thermal shift. I look to the bedroom window, wondering if I’d accidently left it open and allowed the cool of the evening to slip inside.
I didn’t.
What I do notice, however, is the slightest bit of movement from the corner of my eye.
It’s so fast I barely have time to react, and even when I turn my head fully there’s nothing there. It feels as though I’m witnessing some residual presence, the ethereal ghost of someone who stood in my doorway just moments earlier.
I gaze into the darkened hallway, struggling to perceive anything as my eyes adjust from their warm visions of Martina’s freckly grin on the brilliant phone screen.