moved around the sun in elliptical orbits. Conspiracy theorists and ufologists were more hesitant—but not outright skeptical. It irritated me that no one was calling Oswald a phony.
How did he do it? How could he stand in front of a crowd, say he’d discovered the fountain of youth, and have people believe him? I could hardly get anyone to trust me about things that were true.
I spent so long stewing and reading everything I could find about Oswald that I didn’t notice the growing dusk. I was startled when Ishmael burst into my room, saying, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for—”
He stopped short and I looked at him expectantly.
“Dude. What did you do to your face?”
“What?” I asked, holding a hand to my cheek. “Is it better?”
“Um. Maybe you should look in a mirror?”
I bolted into the bathroom. In my haste, I skidded on the wet floor—
Ishmael must have just finished mopping. I grabbed the sink to stop myself from falling, pulled myself back into a standing position, and looked in the mirror.
My entire face was bright red.
Not my usual acne-prone red. Not even the terrible red from a few hours earlier. No, it was the red of the worst sunburn ever. The red of poison ivy rash. The kind of red that doesn’t even look natural.
“Oh god.”
Ishmael came up behind me. “It looks painful.”
“Just to my ego.”
“Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“No,” I said. “I think I should never leave the house again.”
“What about your date?”
“I’ll text him and cancel.”
Except I didn’t have his number. Not to mention, he was driving from Pittsburgh and probably on the way already since he was supposed to pick me up in—I pulled out my phone and glanced at the time—fifteen minutes.
“This is bad.” I turned to my brother abruptly. “Do something. Fix this.”
Ishmael winced. “This might be beyond repair.”
It was Oswald’s fault. Everything was his fault. His stupid myTality™ product had ruined my skin as effectively as he was ruining my life. I hated him. I hated him more than I’d ever hated anyone before.
I grabbed the tube of spot treatment from where I’d left it by the sink and tossed it angrily to the ground. When that didn’t make me feel better, I stomped on it. The cap burst off and the rash-causing cream shot all over the bathroom floor.
“Hey!” Ishmael said. “I just cleaned in here!”
“Ishmael, my date is going to be here in a few minutes and I look like I have an infectious disease!”
My brother bit his lip. “I have an idea.”
I followed him into Maggie’s bedroom. He didn’t bother knocking, but it was empty anyway.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He gestured to a basket sitting on the dresser. A basket filled with makeup.
“Don’t girls use that concealer stuff to hide acne?”
I was willing to try anything. I rifled through the basket until I found a bottle of tan liquid.
“How do I use this?”
Ishmael shrugged. “How should I know?”
I opened the bottle and poured some into my palm, then smeared it across my forehead.
“It’s kinda unfair,” Ishmael pondered out loud. “Why should girls get to use makeup to cover their flaws and guys just have to deal with it? I mean, I could wear it, but people would give me shit. Wouldn’t it be nice to normalize men wearing makeup?”
I spread more makeup over my chin and nose, then my cheeks, which were more inflamed than the rest of my face.
“Don’t you think, Gideon?”
I rubbed the makeup in, expecting it to absorb into my skin like lotion. It didn’t. It was a different consistency—thicker and goopier—and it only smeared. I began to rub more frantically at my face, which had become messy streaks of red and tan.
I looked worse than before I started.
“What are you doing in my room?” came a voice from the doorway.
I spun around to find Maggie with her hands on her hips, nothing remaining of her Zen master attitude.
“What happened to your face?” she gasped. Then, after a pause: “Are you using my foundation?”
“Please help me fix this,” I said in response.
She stalked over to the dresser and grabbed the makeup. “You wasted half the bottle!”
“I didn’t know how much I was supposed to use.”
“None,” Maggie snapped. “Because it didn’t belong to you.”
“I take full responsibility for the idea,” Ishmael said, holding a hand up.
“What do I do?” I asked Maggie.
She studied my face closely and cringed. “The color doesn’t even match your skin tone.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yeah, after you wash