The Temperature of Me and You, page 25
Next Saturday, I’m back with Dr. Ivan.
When I arrive, she makes me fill out a twenty-page form to document everything that has happened to me since my last visit. It asks me about the powers that have manifested, my physical reactions to the Balancer, situations when my powers are most active, and everyday things like how my sleeping and eating patterns have changed. There is even a question about my “libido and ejaculatory history post body-composition change.” I leave that line blank.
Now she has me back in the glass box, which has been cleared of the bed and all furniture. I’m shirtless and barefoot, wearing only shorts. Wires are attached to my chest. They hook up to a dozen machines pushed up against the glass. Overhead lights shine down on me from all sides of the box. My hands rest on my hips, waiting for directions.
“Have you heard anything from Jordan?” I ask her. She’s typing on a computer.
“I have not,” she says. Her head moves slightly from one end of her screen to the other as she reads.
“I thought you were supposed to be taking care of him.”
“It’s not just me on the team. I’m tasked with you now. I have other partners looking after Jordan.”
I blow air from my nose.
“There were a couple other fires this week. I’m thinking Jordan might still be around.” I pick at one of the wires on my chest, watching for her reaction. She looks up from her screen and stares at me, expressionless. Then she returns to typing.
“Those weren’t him,” she says. “Like I told you before, he’s not around here anymore.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure.”
She stands and walks to the edge of the glass box. She pulls an access card from her pocket, puts it against the glass door, and enters. The form I completed earlier is attached to a clipboard in her hands. She flicks through the pages, nodding as she reads. “You seem to be handling everything relatively fine.” She tightens a few of the cords on my chest. Goose bumps cover my skin.
“That’s what you got from that? I’d hate to see what handling things badly looks like.”
“We should be good to go.” She exits the box and tosses the clipboard aside. “Can you run for me?”
I look around with my eyebrows raised. “Like, right here?”
“Yes, in place.” She crosses her arms.
“I guess.” I start to jog. Dr. Ivan walks around the glass box with her arms crossed. She watches numbers change on the machines surrounding me.
“Faster,” she says.
I pump my arms and move my legs at a quickening pace. The machines start beeping rapidly. “What is this for?” I ask between heavy breaths.
“Very good. Jumping jacks.” She ignores me.
I squint at her. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’m watching how your body reacts…. Looking at your heart rate variability, body temperature, and other things.” She circles her hand in the air. “Keep going. Jumping jacks.”
I stop running and huff. I lift my arms, then wave them in the air. I sync my lower body with my upper body, bringing my limbs together and then pushing them apart. Some of the cords get in the way of my movements, slowing me down. My heart pounds against the inside of my rib cage.
“Push-ups,” Dr. Ivan blurts.
I roll my eyes and drop to the floor. I can’t remember the last time I did a push-up. My arms are sore after five reps. Sweat drips off my nose onto the floor.
“Stand up and jump as high as you can.”
“Just jump?” I ask, panting. My shoulders rise and fall as I breathe. The muscles over my stomach contract.
“As high as you can.” She nods at the ceiling.
I jump.
“Again,” she says.
I jump.
Again and again and again. We repeat the cycle of running, jumping jacks, push-ups, and high jumps several times.
My hands are covered in sweat by the fifth round. They slip along the concrete floor as I attempt more push-ups. My hair is drenched and falls into my eyes.
“Jump,” she says, and raises her hand to the sky.
I quickly stand and jump. When I land, my foot slides on the sweat-covered floor, and I fall. My arms flail as I land on my back. The back of my head smacks against the floor.
“Jump,” she repeats.
I clench my teeth and slam my fist into the ground. I stand, but I don’t jump.
“No!” I shout. Spit flies from my mouth. “Screw you!” I point at her and charge the glass. I smack my hand against the wall right in front of her face. She doesn’t flinch. It leaves a sweaty handprint. “I hate you! I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know you. You suck at helping Jordan and you suck at helping me. You’re all pieces of shit. Every one of you at HydroPro. Just because you left the company doesn’t mean you’re not responsible. You did this.” I tap hard against my bare chest. “To me and to Jordan and to his parents. You’re not a good person. You say you are. You think you are.” I bite my lip and shake my head. “You don’t know what I need.” I step back to the center of the room. “I’ll do this myself.” I tug at the cords on my body. “I’ll get Jordan back. You’ll see. You’ll see.” The cords pull at my skin. “Dammit. How do you get these things off?”
I throw my hands to the side and then suddenly shoot to the ceiling of the box. The machines go wild, like a dozen fire alarms blaring at high volume. Dr. Ivan grabs her clipboard and takes notes. I spin through the air. The wires tug me to the right and to the left. When I float too high, they tug me closer to the ground.
As I watch Dr. Ivan scribble on her paper, I realize this is probably what she wanted. Sure, she was testing my heart rate and temperature during the exercises. But she was causing me stress on purpose to get me to float and see my manifestations. I know it’s to help me, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. When Jordan complied with her, it got him nowhere.
I think about what they’ve done to him, and my future without him. I flex my arms and scream. A fireball grows in my stomach. My eyes blur and my vision goes black. Then I explode. Just as Jordan did on the lake. It feels like when hot coffee travels down my esophagus, but all over my body.
The machines go silent. The glass walls shatter around me. I fall through the air until my bare skin smacks against the concrete. The fire dissipates, and I’m left bent over on the ground surrounded by a circle of black ash.
Dr. Ivan swallows and takes a step back. “I think that’s enough for tonight,” she says.
I stare at her.
Dr. Ivan forces me to stay with her for another hour while I calm down. I shower, then sit beside her desk and drink a glass of water. My hair is wet. Water drips from my head to my knees. She’s typing notes on the computer.
“Can I go?” I ask, biting my fingernails.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks.
“No. I have a chronic fever and debilitating anxiety from my potentially near future death. Am I ever supposed to feel better?”
She sighs. “I’ll see you next Saturday.” She pulls a paper from a drawer and puts it in my lap. “Use this to track your manifestations this week.” Her hand brushes her brow.
The paper has a table composed of columns for each day of the week and rows for each hour of the day. Across the top, there is a heading with random numbers and the words Special Projects. I stand and tear it in half.
Dr. Ivan’s eyes go wide, her mouth agape. “What are you doing, Dylan?”
“I’m not coming back again,” I say, shrugging. “I’m not your little project. This is my life. I don’t feel better when I come here. I’m going to find Jordan and let this play out. And if it means dying together, then so be it.” I throw the shredded paper. The pieces dance through the air as they fall to the ground.
“Dylan, you have to come back.”
I turn and walk to the door.
“Dylan!” I hear Dr. Ivan’s chair slide against the floor as she stands. “Dylan!” She slams her hand against the desk.
I stop walking. My body goes rigid.
“There’s a…a potential cure,” she says. Her voice is softer. “An antidote…of some kind.”
My hand grips the doorknob. “A what?” I ask, my back facing her. I squeeze the knob. My hand shakes.
She exhales. “There’s a technology that might be able to reverse the course of your changing body.”
My hand instantly heats up. My fingers melt into the doorknob, leaving an impression of my prints. As I turn, the knob is ripped out of the door. I toss it across the room before it liquefies in my palm. It clinks along the concrete floor until it stops near the remnants of the glass box. I power walk toward Dr. Ivan.
“A cure? Do you have it?”
She holds up her hands as she walks backward. “No. It’s in development by HydroPro. I’ve heard about it from a few of my remaining connections. It’s a result of some of their original experiments with Jordan. That’s why I still need you…. To get a way in—”
I slam my hands on her desk. “Does Jordan know about this?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to give you two false hope.”
I laugh. “That would be better than what you’re giving us now. How are you going to get the antidote from them?”
“I’m formulating a plan with some other partners from my team and—”
“So you don’t have a plan?” I nod and dart back to the door.
“Dylan, please wait!”
“I don’t have time to wait! Jordan could be out there putting himself in danger for no reason.”
Like I’ve said before, waiting around has never done me any favors. Jordan left because he thought it was going to save me. He thought the best thing for us was to live separately. But now I know what the best thing is for us—it’s finding this antidote and bringing us back together.
My body trembles on the train ride home as I google HydroPro’s address again and look at the building from every angle on Street View. Within minutes, I locate several doors, garages, and windows I could infiltrate. Getting into HydroPro won’t be an issue. My powers make that part simple. I could float to the roof, melt a lock, or fly through an open window. It’s finding the antidote that’s going to be complicated.
But one thing I know for sure is that HydroPro is obsessed with Jordan. There’s bound to be crumbs of information scattered about the facility. I’m hoping once inside, all hallways lead to Jordan.
I pull up the news article about Jordan’s accident and jot down his parents’ names and other details I can look for once inside HydroPro. I open Twitter and search for tweets about the company. There’s nothing that seems useful.
There’s a tweet from Kara Bynum saying the cheerleading squad is back in Philly. I click her account and scroll through her tweets. There’s no mention of them winning any competitions. I think it’s safe to assume a national championship for Falcon Crest Cheer Squad wasn’t in the cards this year. I scroll farther down and find the real trophy.
Kara tweeted a picture of Ms. Gurbsterter and Perry on Wednesday. Ms. Gurbsterter is wearing Mickey Mouse ears on her head and a fanny pack around her waist. If she’s trying to stay lean, someone should tell her a fanny pack doesn’t accentuate the hips in the best places. She’s beaming and has her arm draped around Perry’s shoulder. Perry’s staring at the camera, completely deadpan. But I can tell she’s about to vomit from the odor that’s most likely leaking from Ms. Gurbsterter’s armpit in the Florida heat. I hope the torture Perry is going through becomes worth it in the end, because that girl needs a win.
Speaking of, seconds later I swipe away an influx of messages from Perry and Kirsten asking me to hang out and call them. They are definitely back in town and it looks like they got their phones from their parents. They sent me pictures of their completed spring paintings. Mine still only has a couple shades of blue.
I exit the app and lock my phone without responding. I have nothing to say to them because I don’t want to lie. Continuing to ignore them sucks, but it’s less risky. I don’t trust myself enough to keep track of the lies I would need to tell them to explain my and Jordan’s whereabouts.
Not only will this antidote cure Jordan and me, but it will also fix the messed-up relationships I currently have with my best friends and family. I’ll be able to be myself again. Who would’ve thought I’d want to revert back to ordinary Dylan so quickly?
The train drops me off at Liberty Pike Station. I unlock my bike from the fence and pedal down the desolate road toward HydroPro. I pass the Blatt development of new homes on Liberty Pike. I stare at the ghostly houses, thinking of when Jordan told me he burned one of them to the ground on his first night in Falcon Crest. I frown, thinking of the loneliness he felt when he moved here. It hurts even more to think how he’s probably feeling that same way again right now. I hope I eased the isolation for him during the brief time we were together. I know he did for me.
In the corner of my eye, an orange spark flashes in the sky. I slam my pedals backward, my tires skidding along the pavement to a stop. I turn, watching the housing development for any sporadic bursts of light. It remains dark.
Then there’s a thud, like a door slamming closed. Goose bumps erupt on my arms. It’s Saturday night, so there is no way construction is currently happening. This site should be empty. But it’s not. The sounds are either Jordan or another arsonist. My heart flutters at the thought of Jordan being close to me again. But if it’s the other arsonist, I need to shut them down. Jordan can’t come back to Falcon Crest if HydroPro still thinks he’s too dangerous for normal life. If someone other than Jordan is running around setting fires and making the town unsettled, it isn’t fair. And I’m tired of things not being fair.
I drop my bike at the curb and walk into the construction site. I creep along the mud between two half-finished homes, my hand gliding along the prickly plywood. In the mud are two sets of footprints. I bend down to inspect them. I place my right foot next to the prints and it’s significantly larger than both.
Suddenly, there’s another sound. This time louder, like a shampoo bottle hitting the shower floor. I whip my head up from staring at the ground. My body stiffens, and I retreat against the nearest house. I press my back against a wall as I try to calm my breathing.
A murmur of whispers erupts in the night. There’s a giggle. My face wrinkles. Who is this?
I slowly slide down the wall to my knees, then crawl along the frozen ground toward the sounds. I reach the freshly paved driveway and I spring up. My eyes lock onto a small set of flames burning on the side of another house farther down the street.
“No way,” I say to myself. I start running to the home. The fire outlines two window frames. It quickly climbs to the roof. The gray smoke grows thick. It contrasts against the black sky.
Two hooded figures jump from the doorless front entryway of the burning home. My breath catches in my throat. I halt in the middle of the street. My shoes scrape against the concrete.
The figures wear black pants, black shoes, black gloves, and black hoodies. One has a black bag draped over their shoulder and juggles a bottle of something between their hands. They walk casually across the front lawn of the house. When they reach the curb, they wrap their arms around each other.
They must not know I’m here. They can’t know I’m here. I inspect them. I take a step back. Then I take a step forward. It can’t be him.
“Jordan!” I yell.
The figures freeze. They push themselves apart and slowly turn their heads to look down the street. When they see me, they bolt.
A shock travels down my body. I throw my head back and break into a sprint. My arms flail. I don’t really have a choice. I came here looking for something and I found something. I can’t stay here alone either. This house is about to be covered in flames in 2.4 seconds, and the cops would love to find someone to arrest for the arsons at this point. HydroPro infiltration is temporarily on hold.
“Hey!” I yell. “I’m not looking for trouble! I just have some questions.”
They don’t stop, or even look back at me. The figures jump over a curb and disappear between two homes. I hang a sharp left off the street and copy their trail.
They head down a grassy hill. One falls to their knees. They quickly jump back to their feet and run into the street. A car skids to a stop. Its horn blares. I cringe at the sight. The headlights shine directly on them. Their bodies keep moving across the pavement. They vanish into a wooded area.
I sidestep down the hill, watching every move I make so I don’t trip like them and fall into the street. After all this, getting run over by a car would be too anticlimactic. I didn’t become a freaking part-time superhero to get killed by a grandpa on his way home from purchasing lottery tickets. I watch the lone car glide down the road and take with it the last remaining bit of light, then I cross.
I enter the trees. But I quickly realize I’m running after nothing. I stop. It’s silent. I listen for a sound. The trees creak back and forth with the wind. The burning house crackles in the distance.
A twig snaps, followed by nonstop crunching leaves. I take off after it. I shoot a flame into the air and the arsonists appear in the brief flash of light. They stumble, shuddering from the sudden burst of heat. I run alongside them.
I know I’m not supposed to voluntarily use these powers, but I need to use them. For Jordan. He used them to save me, and I am doing the same. I jump over a rock and blast another flame through my path.
I don’t see the arsonists. I shoot another burst of light and there’s nothing. I’m losing them.
I shake my hands at my sides and then jump into the air mid-run. I go maybe a foot above the ground, but then gravity pulls me right back down. My ankles twist. I jump again and again and again. I go nowhere. I suddenly want to do this stuff and it’s not happening. Just my luck. I grab a branch and hoist myself up into a tree. Maybe a higher starting point will do something for me.
A siren goes off in the distance. I look back toward the Liberty Pike development. Red-and-blue lights flash between the trees.
