Page 87 of Nerdplay
I can’t hear the words, but I can tell from Gloria’s tone that everything is not okay.
“I’m sure she’s fine, but if it would make you feel better, I’ll see if I can find her.” Cricket’s eyes meet mine and she mouths the word ‘Buffy.’
I understand the problem before Cricket hangs up. The sugar glider is outside in the deluge. With that small body, her wings are likely vulnerable during a downpour.
“I’ll let you know when I find her.” Cricket tosses me a look. “Buffy flew outside and hasn’t come back. Gloria is worried sick.”
“I heard your end. Let’s go. I’ll help you.”
She blinks. “You want to help me?”
“Why not?”
“You came here to get out of the rain.”
“I know how important Buffy is to Gloria. Besides, I’m already soaked. Where’s your flashlight? We’ll flash a Bat Signal.”
“Good thinking.”
She dashes to the corner of the cabin and grabs the light from underneath a chair. “Let’s go!”
The rain is even worse than when I arrived at Cricket’s cabin. The downpour has become torrential. There’s no way Buffy could glide in these conditions.
We run toward the woods, calling Buffy’s name and splashing muddy water everywhere.
If I were an animal, where would I hide to ride out the storm? Childhood memories bob to the surface. I was obsessed with animals as a kid. I read every zoo plaque and watched every nature program I could find. It was only when I was old enough to play sports that my interests were squashed by my parents.
I have a distinct memory of being enthralled by a David Attenborough episode on National Geographic. My father marched in and turned it off, ordering me to go outside to practice throwing and catching because he wasn’t raising any tree huggers. I remember the shame I felt, as though I’d been caught watching porn. My parents weaponized shame against all three of their kids, but they needed to use it less with my siblings. Michael and Lizzie were far more likely to fall in line before any shaming was necessary.
Cricket switches on the flashlight and aims it the dark sky. I let loose a shrill whistle and yell Buffy’s name. Raindrops pelt my face. If I look in the mirror right now, I have no doubt my skin will be covered in red splotches from the intensity.
“I can’t see anything,” Cricket says.
I turn to look at her. “That’s because you need windshield wipers on those glasses.”
She takes them off and attempts to stuff them in her pocket, but her fingers are too slick. The frames fall straight into a fast-moving stream of water.
“Your glasses!” I rush to retrieve them, but I’m too late.
“Leave them. It’s fine.”
“You won’t be able to see.”
“I can see fine, Charlie.”
“Who wears contact lenses and glasses at the same time?” My face snaps to hers as the realization slams into me. “You don’t need them to see.”
There’s no need for verbal confirmation. Her expression tells me I’m right.
“I can’t believe this.”
“I like the way they look, okay? They’re fashion frames. I have perfect vision.”
A gasp escapes me. “You’re not even near-sighted?”
She drops her gaze. “I’m sorry. I have perfect vision.”
“You talk about authenticity, yet here you are walking around like you’re half blind.”
