The Umbrella

Many people have their go-to object; the thing that they always have with them, no matter what. Normally it's a cellphone or their credit card or their house keys. But in my case, it's sunscreen.

I'm sure that would sound completely reasonable, if I happened to live in a place like California. The thing is, I live in Seattle. It rains a lot, but every day I am covered with a thin layer of that smelly, gooey stuff. And it makes me sick.

Why do it then, you ask?

Well the answer to that is simple.

I'm allergic to the sun.



Walking down the street with an umbrella on a clear day definitely earns you some stares. But I've grown used to it. Umbrella or no, eyes are going to be on me. Mostly because if I'm not protected from the sunlight (or, to be more specific, the UV rays), I get hives.

Ugly, itchy, pus-filled, scratch-until-your-skin-is-raw-and-bleeding welts that don't go away for days and days. Thus the need for the smelly, gooey sunscreen and the tattered eyesore of an umbrella that makes my skin look even paler than it already is.

So when girls cry about how jealous they are of somebody's tan or the sprinkling of freckles on someone's face, it is miniscule to the green-eyed envy that I feel deep inside myself whenever I see someone who is darker that my I've-just-seen-a-ghost skin.

Which is everyone, in case you were wondering.

No sunkissed streaks in my hair, no glowing skin full of vitamin D and sunshine.

Just pale and bland and boring little Nicole Alex Nicton, who is afraid to go outside.

I suppose if people weren't so cruel about it, my bitterness about this whole ordeal wouldn't be so... prominent.

Yet every time I slap on my sunscreen and pull out that ugly little umbrella of mine, along with my wide-brim hats and long-sleeve shirts in the summer, I can see and feel those malicious grins of theirs, glinting like knives in that forbidden sunlight.

What bitches.

Except for one. Janet McAllister*, the burning star in my sunless world. A bright ball of giggles and smiles who was friends with everyone, including me. We even hung out, like in the movie theatres where I was free in the darkness to be a normal person who didn't have to worry about hives or rashes or smelly sunscreen.

Our bond was special: where she had a face full of freckles, I had the skin of a porcelain doll, smooth and white and, in Jan's opinion, perfect. We wanted what the other had. It was a grim irony, but we laughed about it.

Frankly, she was my best friend.

My only friend, but the best one anyone could ever ask for.

How this best-friendery started is a whole other story, and difficult to tell. But I suppose that's why I need to tell it.