The Temperature of Me and You, page 12
For Christmas that same year, he gave me a painting that he won off eBay. The painting is a terrible mismatch of geometric shapes over the outline of a cat. Sometimes I get secondhand embarrassment thinking about him actually believing it was good, but gems like that for me don’t come out of Falcon Crest High all that often, so I cherish them when I can. I have the painting propped up on my desk.
At the Spring Fling dance, Perry went with Keaton and Kirsten went with a senior on the baseball team. There was no one else to go with, so I went by myself. I danced alongside Perry and Kirsten and their dates the whole night—which was fine. I was used to being a fifth wheel. Around nine thirty p.m. the DJ announced the dance was wrapping up in a half hour, and he was going to slow it down one last time. I nodded to the group and retreated to the bleachers as I usually did during the slow dances.
A minute later Perry ran over and asked me to dance.
“Why aren’t you dancing with Keaton?” I asked. Perry grabbed my hand and pulled me to the dance floor. Keaton walked past us and said, “You guys be dates the rest of the night.”
And it wasn’t in a creepy, I’m giving you permission kind of way. It was in a nice Keaton way. He knew what Perry and I had, and knew Perry’s night would be better if she had this moment. I asked her if she wanted to be my date for the final act of Spring Fling and she accepted.
I could see why Keaton was so lovable and why Perry said she loved him after only two months. This got me thinking that one ingredient for love might be when the person you are with starts loving the people in your life who came before them.
I asked Perry how she knew she loved him, and she said, “You know when you’re away for a long time on vacation and everything is foreign and then you come home and sit on your bed and there’s that overwhelming feeling of comfort and ease? That’s what it feels like when I’m with him. And it’s not just for that day. It’s all the time.”
It was abstract but honest.
“What’s, like, the physical feeling?” I pressed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Have you ever used one of those weighted, heated blankets? That’s what it feels like. Like you’re being kept warm and safe in the arms of someone else.”
I had never used one of those blankets. But I went to Target the next day and bought a thirty-dollar heated blanket to experience love. I brought it home to my bedroom, plugged it in, turned the setting to high, and watched The Conjuring 2.
I didn’t feel love—just an underwhelming sense that I was missing out on something. I had the heated blanket over me for only thirty minutes because my feet got sweaty, so maybe I didn’t give it a chance to bestow its full effects. Combined with the movie’s influence, it was that moment I decided love must be different for everyone else. It had to be. If that was love for everyone, I didn’t want it.
I’m most afraid of love becoming a routine. A word that’s just said to people you’re supposed to be close with. Can you love someone just because you’re supposed to? I think that’s a love that has no reason to be called love. If it’s presumed or expected based on probability, like making out with the only other out boy in school, I don’t want it. It wasn’t created from a feeling. I think that’s the kind of love I want. I want there to be a push and a pull. I want my first love to be fought for, not granted to me by circumstance. I want to build new love with someone who’s unexpected so that every time I say it, I mean it. So that every time I say it, I can taste the Spring Flings, the Second Saturdays, the movies, the kisses, and the art it’s made of.
Perry honks the go-kart in my driveway. I look closely to see if Kirsten is in the front. She hasn’t been at school since before the accident. But she granted Perry access to driving the car this week, so I’ve been co-captain. And it looks like I’m getting the passenger seat again today, because it’s still empty.
I’ve been lying on the couch in my living room, contemplating whether I’m going to take a mental health day. I’ve been running a hundred-degree fever for days.
On Sunday, my throat closed up by nightfall. I went to the bathroom, inspected my mouth in the mirror, and it looked like the kraken that Johnny Depp got sucked into at the end of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. There were white bumps and red sores and swollen gums. Something was going to jump out at me fast. I ran back to my bed and didn’t move for the rest of the night.
I think I might have been lovesick these past few days. It’s no better this morning. I wonder what the school office would say if I gave them a sick note midday saying I was “lovesick.” Would they send me to the nurse or the psychologist?
“Hi,” I say, getting into the car.
“Hi,” Perry says.
“Still no Kirsten?” I clear my throat. “Have you talked to her today?”
“No. But she’s totally fine. We facetimed last night. She wants to use the day to catch up on all the work she missed and relax.”
“Ugh, jealous.”
“Of?”
“Her being fine. I’m, like, over here dying.”
“From what?”
“Hypothermia or some flu sickness.”
“Dylan, please. If she didn’t have hypothermia, then you definitely don’t have hypothermia.”
Kirsten went to the ER Saturday night but left before noon on Sunday. They said she was fine and had no signs or symptoms of hypothermia. That would have been impossible to believe if you saw her on Saturday when she jumped from the water. But the only person who saw her in that moment was me. After that, Jordan wiped everything clean. Convenient for her, terrible for me. I was partly in the ice water too and didn’t think about getting sick. I’m even more excited to see Jordan now. I hope he can send a wave of heat down my body and cure me too.
Perry and Kirsten are in the same homeroom because their last names both start with L. That means their lockers are next to each other, which also means they get to see each other a lot throughout the day. I’m always jealous. I hate when we get to school and I have to turn down the A through K hallway by myself. The people with last names that start in the second half of the alphabet get to have all the fun because their lockers are in the back of the school away from the front offices.
The A through K hallway, where my locker lives, has a hundred-yard wall display of our “hometown heroes.” It’s essentially portraits of everyone from our school who has either joined some branch of the military or went on to play college sports. Behind my locker are three portraits of Savanna’s older brothers, who have played college football at Penn State, Louisiana State, and the University of Florida. I get to look at their faces when I pack up every day. Today, their faces are more punchable than usual. It’s hard to see how Savanna is going to follow in their footsteps and end up as a “hometown hero.” Maybe she knows it too and acts out because she can’t handle the truth.
“Dylan! Hey! Oh my gosh,” a squeaky voice says. I jump. I turn, and Darlene Houchowitz smiles up at me. I take my history book from my locker and start walking.
“Hey, Darlene,” I say.
Everyone calls her Lena, but Darlene is such a good name that I refuse to call her anything else. When I think of the name Darlene, I picture a gray-haired, seventy-five-year-old woman, but our Darlene is the complete opposite. She’s five feet one and always emphasizes the inch. She has an angled bob cut and wears black combat boots and bright short skirts that sit high above her waist. Every day she wears a new pair of mirrored sunglasses with a different colored tint. Today, my purple reflection stares at me while I talk to her. It makes my head spin.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.
“Have you? What’s the occasion?”
“Well, don’t freak out, because I know how you get, but I need you for something.”
I stop walking and pull my backpack straps tighter over my shoulders. The heat inside my body is intensifying, and I am also 100 percent positive my fever is higher now. I wipe sweat from my forehead.
“You’re scaring me,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Dylan, it’s not scary.” She pauses and purses her lips. “I want to know if you would like to join your school’s very own GSA.” She claps her hands together and lets out a beaming smile.
“GSA?”
Her eyes tighten and she flips her hand. “The Gay–Straight Alliance.”
“We have one of those?”
“Of course we do. But not for much longer unless we do something. We only have three members and our faculty sponsor is retiring at the end of the year.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Who’s in this thing?”
“It’s yours truly”—she pulls the sides of her skirt out and curtsies—“Maddie Leostopoulos, and Brenton Riley.”
“Who the hell is Brenton Riley?”
“A freshman passionate about social change.”
“That’s the randomest assemblage of people I have ever heard of. Is Brenton gay?”
“No, but you don’t have to be gay to be in the Gay–Straight Alliance.”
“Clearly.”
“This is why we need you, Dylan!”
I start walking again. Darlene follows.
“So?” she asks, dodging a few students to keep up with me.
“You know I don’t do extracurriculars.”
“Well, if there was one extracurricular you were going to do, wouldn’t this be it?”
“Why? Because I’m gay?”
“Yes! Precisely because you’re gay. We haven’t had a gay member since Marshall Andrews graduated two years ago and the GSA guidelines from the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network, aka GLSEN, say our group should be inclusive and composed of diverse identities.”
“You know your stuff.”
“I don’t half-ass things, Highmark.”
“Have you tried recruiting anyone else yet?” My eyes dart up and down the hall trying to locate the nearest bathroom. A lump grows in my throat. Saliva pools in the back of my mouth.
She sighs and puts her hand on her hip. “No.”
“Well, maybe you’ll have better luck than you think, and it all won’t hinge on my participation.” I grab a boy by the shoulder as he walks by us.
“Hey,” I say. “Do you want to join the GSA?”
“The GS-what?” he asks, and continues walking. I shake my head.
Kara Bynum from cheerleading is standing by her locker. Maybe I’ll have better luck with her because she knows of my existence. I run up behind her and tap her back.
“Kara!”
“Hey, Dylan,” she says.
“Quick question. Do you want to join the GSA?”
“What’s that?”
“The Gay–Straight Alliance.”
She purses her lips. “When does it meet?”
“Good question.” I turn to Darlene.
“It meets every other Monday after school, and we have a few events on the weekends here and there,” Darlene says.
“Oh, sorry,” Kara says, frowning. “I have cheerleading after school and Nationals are coming up, so I probably can’t. Sorry.”
When she closes her locker door, Savanna comes into view.
“Should we try?” I ask Darlene. I know Savanna won’t join. But I can’t pass up an opportunity to make her uncomfortable. I also need to end this interaction fast because I am going to puke any second now. Talking to Savanna is the best way to kill any kind of situation—at least for me.
“What? No!” Darlene says through gritted teeth. I take a few steps forward and she grabs my arm. “Dylan, I don’t want her in the—”
“Savanna, how are you this morning?” I ask.
She takes a few books from her locker and places them in her bag. She doesn’t say anything. I’m talking to the side of her face.
“Darlene and I are recruiting for the Gay–Straight Alliance and were wondering if you wanted to join.”
Her head turns. She looks Darlene up and down, swishing gum in her mouth. “Why would I want to be associated with that freak show?” she asks.
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe I thought you had a nice bone somewhere in your body.”
“I’m busy after school doing things that actually matter.”
I lurch forward and gag. Savanna takes a step back. “Ew. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I swallow hard, then prop my hand on the locker next to hers. I clutch my throat. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re sweaty and disgusting. I said I am busy after school, so go away before you get us all sick.”
Darlene clears her throat and raises a finger. “Um, if I may add something?” she asks. Savanna’s eyes go from me to Darlene, but her head doesn’t move. Darlene swallows. “The GSA actually has a pretty impressive impact outside of school,” she starts. “Last year, we volunteered at nearly twenty events and during the holiday season we led a donation drive for—”
Savanna puts her hand to Darlene’s face. “Lena, the fact that you even thought to consider me for this group is insulting enough,” Savanna says. “But your squat presence around me is making my stomach sick. As you’re the school’s resident toad, I know the only way you can make friends is by starting a group for other friendless creatures to congregate. I get it. But here’s a news flash for you since you probably can’t see through those idiotic rainbow sunglasses you wear every day: I am not one of those creatures. So scram.”
Darlene takes a step back. She clutches her arms over her stomach. Her fingernails dig into her skin, turning it bright red. She bites her bottom lip and remains silent.
“Why would you say that to her?” I ask, stepping in front of Darlene. “What do you even do after school? Mock trial?”
“Yeah, exactly that. And volleyball and tennis.”
“They call it mock trial for a reason. It’s fake, acting, and no one cares.”
“There are tryouts for my sports and a twenty-person waitlist for mock trial. I think people care.” She squints at me. “Your group, which no one knows exists, is obviously desperate for members. I saw everyone in this hallway already turned you down. That must suck. I have to use my influence elsewhere.”
I laugh through my nausea. “Please. What influence?”
“I can’t really explain it. Maybe if you weren’t so ‘woe is me I’m the only gay kid in school’ all the time, you could gain some and understand it better.”
“Right.” I tap my fingers on the locker and hang my head. The bell rings for first period. “Better get to woodshop,” I snap.
“We don’t even have that class, weirdo.”
“Well, maybe you and your dad can start one.”
“Maybe he will! Right after he finds the idiots burning down his buildings. Whoever is responsible for the fires should be very afraid. Missing out on woodshop will be the least of their concerns.”
I snarl at her. She spins and struts down the hall. Her ponytail sways from side to side.
“I’m so sorry about that, Darlene,” I say, tugging my shirt from my chest to cool myself. She’s staring at the floor. Her face is paler than mine.
“I…” she starts. “I never really had an interaction with her before and I heard she was mean, but I didn’t know she was mean to your face like that. She thinks we’re a freak show?”
I roll my head in a circle. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked her. We have a long history, so just ignore that.”
The warning bell rings, meaning we have a minute to get to class.
“I have to go. Can I let you know about the club?” I ask.
“I guess. Why won’t you join? If Perry Lyle and Kirsten Lush were in it, would you come then?”
I shrug. “I mean yeah, probably.” I don’t lie. “Why do you care so much if I’m in it?”
“I don’t know. High school is hard enough. I can’t imagine having to go through it all by myself like you have to.”
I let out a long sigh. That’s twice in a minute people feel the need to tell me how lonely I am.
“Well, maybe it shouldn’t be up to me to fix it, then.” I throw my hand up. “Do you talk about that in the club? Why should the one gay guy have to make the school better for everyone else?”
My voice cracks when I finish my rant. My hands suddenly go numb. My feet rise a few inches off the ground, and my back slams against the lockers as if I am swept away by a gust of wind. My body crumples to the floor.
My head spins. I can’t even process what just happened because I’m intensely staring at one of the brown marks in the speckled tile floor to stabilize the room. Was there an earthquake or did I explode in my pants and the force threw me? Wouldn’t be surprised at this point if it was the second option.
I finally look up and Darlene’s eyes are wide. We stare at each other for a few seconds in silence.
Her chin trembles and she crosses her arms. “What was that?” She looks up and down the hall.
I shake my head.
She yelps at my slight movement. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Move.”
I shrug.
She yelps again and slaps her hand over her mouth. “You moved.”
“Darlene…”
She backs away from me. Her eyes glisten. “I don’t know what this is, but I do know you’re mean, Dylan. I was just trying to be nice and include you.”
“Wait,” I mumble. I reach for her. “Darlene, I’m sorry. I have a lot going on and I—”
She swats my arm away. “I said don’t move!” she screams. “You’re just like Savanna.” She bursts down the hall without helping me to my feet.
A group of boys walking by me cut her off from my line of sight. “Cruella get to you again, Highmark?” one asks. The group laughs. He kicks my history book, and it slides down the hall. I roll my eyes. “Toughen up, man. She sucks.”
I ignore them as they enter Dr. Brio’s classroom. I stand and brush off my knees.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mr. Highmark?” Dr. Brio asks, emerging from his room. I look up and down the hall and I’m the only one here.
“I do,” I say. “And I think it’s home.”
