Midnight Sun(4)

I hope he realizes how much I need my independence right now. Years of hanging with my father in places kids usually hit with friends—the movies, the mall, the bowling alley, the fro-yo joint—doesn’t do much to dispel the impression that having XP somehow makes me a superweird person. I know Dad does everything in his power to give me a normal life and I appreciate it, but his efforts don’t change the fact that the way I have to live is not now and will never be normal. Like when he watches a different movie in the same theater complex so I won’t be the loser girl who went out with her dad on a Saturday night? Not normal either. Because who goes to the movies alone on a Saturday night? Right. No one but a superweird loser—and me. Which people generally would assume are one and the same.

Tonight I just want to be Katie the normal girl who doesn’t have a rare disease and whose father doesn’t follow her around nervously all the time.

I toss my hair into a messy bun, grab the case, and head downstairs. I look for my dad in the den. He’s not there. I try the kitchen next; maybe he’s having a snack. Nope. There’s only one place left. I go to the basement and see the telltale glow coming from underneath the darkroom door. I knock.

“Come on in!” Dad calls from inside.

When I open the door, I’m hit by how bittersweet the vibe is in here. The walls are plastered with magazine covers he shot in exotic locales. There’s an impoverished village in India. An arctic glacier rising out of a churning gray sea. A tranquil savannah in Africa punctuated by a lone giraffe. Glimpses of a life that once was and isn’t anymore. It makes me proud of all the things my dad used to do and be, and sad he doesn’t go anywhere anymore because of my “condition.” Proud that my dad is so talented, and sad he’s wasting it on this nothing town.

He’s got a bunch of newer shots hanging from a clothesline. In addition to a few landscapes, there are a ton of me. Candid pictures, ones he badgered me into posing for, and now the latest from earlier today: me playing Mom’s guitar. Most of the other ones embarrass me, but I kind of like how I look there.

“That’s a good one,” I say.

He points at me hovering above the gorgeous guitar. “That part is kinda weird, though.”

I playfully punch him in the arm. He laughs and dodges away. I’m grateful for his relaxed mood; it’ll be easier to convince him to let me go out alone tonight. It’s not that I mind that he always finds an excuse to tag along. But how will I ever get honest feedback about my songs with my daddy standing right there next to me?

“Any schmuck can take a good photo of such a beautiful subject,” he says.

I roll my eyes and walk over to one of my favorite photos of his, a group of Pakistani girls in school uniforms outside a worn-down building. “Now this is a beautiful subject,” I say, turning to face him. “How can you not miss it?”

“All that travel?” My dad scoffs. “It was miserable.”

He moves elegantly through the room. He makes taking and developing great photos look easy. But I know better. He didn’t become one of the most highly sought-after photojournalists in the world by being a hack. He notices my expression, the one that says, Come on, now. You can’t expect me to believe that.

“I’m serious,” he insists, nodding at the photo I’m standing in front of. “That trip, somebody stole my bags and I ended up wearing the same clothes for a week. I had to sleep on my guide’s floor, no mattress, no blanket. It was so cold I just lay there all night waiting for the sun to rise.”

He’s full of it. Of course he misses that life. Who wouldn’t? I’d give anything to be able to go anywhere in the world anytime I wanted to and see everything I’ll probably never get to see.

“I’d much rather sleep in my own bed and teach younger knuckleheads how to go out and get dirty,” he concludes.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I tell him.

He gives me a look, like he’s about to divulge something more than the always happy, always positive front he always puts on for me, but then he seems to think better of it. Nothing to be gained from opening that particular can of worms, I guess, but for once I’d love to have an open, honest conversation about how XP has changed just about everything in our lives. I’m the reason he can’t follow his dreams anymore, and we both know it.

“So what’s up?” he asks instead.

I take a deep breath and then let forth a fast stream of words. I figure that way he has less of a chance to get a word in edgewise, which translates to less of a chance of his saying no. “I was wondering if I could go play my new graduation present at the train station tonight?”

It comes out like this: IwaswonderingifIcouldgoplaymynewgraduationpresentatthetrainstationtonight?

I add a huge smile at the end, meant to convey: I am a competent, confident high school graduate now (with twenty-four college credits!). I am fully capable of walking half a mile down the road and playing my guitar for any late-night commuters who happen to be around. Which will probably be no one, but still. I already checked, and Fred, the station manager, will be there, and you guys have known each other since you were a kid so I will be safe, I promise. PLEASE DON’T SUGGEST COMING WITH ME.

My dad’s face falls like a ruined soufflé, and he taps his watch. I honestly don’t know what kind of horrible outcome he’s imagining might befall me if I venture outside without him—probably we’ve watched way too many horror movies over the years and his mind is in overdrive—but our sleepy little town has, like, a zero percent crime rate. I’ll be fine. I know he doesn’t want to agree, but he can’t quite come up with a good reason to deny my request yet. So he’s stalling. “It’s already ten o’clock. Why can’t Morgan come over? Or you could just play for me here.”