The Temperature of Me and You, page 6
“Okay, I’m listening.” I scooch my butt closer to him.
“It’ll probably be easier if I show you?”
“More flames?”
He cracks a smile. “No. Wait here.”
He exits the bathroom. I ignore his directions and quickly follow him, hoping to move this conversation to a more normal location than inside a bathtub surrounded by wet washcloths.
I step into Jordan Ator’s room and it is pristine. There isn’t a piece of clothing on the hardwood floor. His bed has a black frame. There’s a wrinkle-free gray comforter on it and four pillows perfectly positioned equidistant from one another. At the foot of his bed is a black desk with nothing on it. The walls are bare, except for a black-and-white poster of the band the 1975 above his black dresser and a poster of Jon Snow on the back of his door. Floor-length black curtains frame two windows. The only area somewhat out of order is a stack of books on a window seat.
Outside, it’s dark. It suddenly hits me that I have no idea what time or day it is. I pat my thighs and reach in my pockets, searching for my phone. There’s nothing.
“Here,” Jordan says. He’s rummaging through one of the desk drawers when he pulls out a piece of paper. He extends it to me. I grab it and place it on the desk to read. He switches on an overhead light. It’s a newspaper titled the Local Valley Courier. He moves behind me. His chest presses into my upper back. His body is so warm. The headline reads: “Area’s First Starbucks Set to Bring Record Crowds to Sun Valley Shopping Center.”
I glance at him. “I don’t get it,” I say. “What does this have to do with your parents?”
“Down here,” he says, tapping on the bottom right corner of the paper. A much, much smaller headline above a tiny little paragraph reads: “HydroPro Director and Wife Killed in Fiery Inferno.”
“Oh, Jordan…this is horrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Keep reading.”
On July 9, HydroPro senior director Gregory Ator and wife, Jennifer Ator, were killed in a motor vehicle accident off Lenape Road. Their sixteen-year-old son, Jordan Ator, was rushed to the hospital from the scene and is currently in critical condition. No other vehicles were involved in the crash. Police are investigating and, based on the the extent of the fire damage, believe the accident may have been fueled by a malfunction of a HydroPro-engineered hydrogen engine. HydroPro has given no comment.
“But how does this explain—”
“This?” Jordan says, shooting a flame from his index finger.
“Yes.” I swallow and step back. “That.”
“The article isn’t entirely true. I wasn’t taken to a hospital. I found out later HydroPro arrived at the accident first and took me back to their headquarters. I was in a coma for six weeks. Something weird happened to me during the—”
“Wait, Jordan, this is nuts. Why wasn’t this national news? Was it? And did I miss it? Is this your medical condition? Who cares about this stupid Starbucks?”
“What medical condition? I wouldn’t call it that. It wasn’t news. Thanks to HydroPro. But it’s better that way. You can’t say anything. You’re the only one who knows.”
I tap my head to make sure I just heard him correctly. “Me? I am? Why me?”
There’s a knock on the door. Our heads snap to the sound.
“Jordan?” a woman says. “We’re going to bed. We’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“Okay,” Jordan says. “Good night.”
We stand in silence while we watch her shadow disappear from the crack beneath the door.
“Was that your aunt? What time is it?” I ask.
Jordan pulls his phone from his pocket. “Eight forty-six,” he says.
“Shoot. I have to go. Can you tell me more later?”
“Of course.”
I grab his phone and start typing. “Here’s my number. Text me.” He nods. “And where’s my stuff?”
“Your phone and scarf and everything are over there on the dresser.”
“And my bike?”
“It’s on the side of my house.”
I have four missed calls from my mom, two missed calls from my dad, and seventy-three unread texts from my group chat with Perry and Kirsten.
“Oh no,” I mumble under my breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just have to get home.” I shove my phone in my pocket.
“Sorry for keeping you out late.”
“Don’t be. I’m happy you told me. Everything kind of makes more sense now. But not really.”
“Let me walk you out.”
He cracks open his door and peeks into the hallway. It’s clear, and he waves me along. We lightly walk down the stairs, then out the front door. The bitter, cold air stings my face the moment I step outside.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay riding your bike home?” he asks.
“I mean, I don’t really have another choice. We humans have learned to manage without fire abilities.”
He laughs.
“I didn’t mean that to be offensive…. If it was…I don’t know…I didn’t mean you’re not human.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. No offense taken.”
“Bye,” I say, and extend my arms for a hug.
“Oh, right,” he says, stepping into my embrace.
“You’re so warm.”
“A steady one hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit.”
“I’m a measly ninety-eight point six.”
“Such a weakling.”
I laugh and push myself out of the hug. “Don’t get too comfortable with me now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m just kidding. I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah.”
I take a few steps off the porch but then stop. “Wait. What do I tell my friends?” I ask.
“What do you mean what do you tell your friends? You tell them nothing.”
“But I kind of said how I met you the other night and you were—”
“You can’t say anything, Dylan. People finding out about me is the reason I came here. No one can know. It gets too dangerous.”
“It gets what?”
After I ask my last question, Jordan’s eyes dart past my head to the street. I look in their direction. A silver car with tinted windows idles in front of a neighboring house. Clouds of smoke rise through the sky from its exhaust pipe. It lingers for a moment. Then the red brake lights flash on, and it speeds away down the snowy street.
“Jordan, are you outside?” his aunt asks from the house. Jordan closes the door behind him and grabs my shoulders.
“Come with me,” he says.
“What’s happening?”
“Just go.”
He pushes me to the side of his house. We walk swiftly until he pulls my bike from the bushes. I take ahold of the handlebars and start wheeling it through his front yard. But Jordan grabs it and turns the bike around, toward the back.
“You have to go this way.” His voice is panicked. His eyes search every direction. We cut through a few other yards before emerging onto a street I don’t recognize. I mount my bike. He waves me along.
“Jordan, what’s happening?”
“Nothing. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” He looks up and down the street several times. “You should be fine. Get home safe.”
“Fine from what?”
“You’ll be fine,” he repeats.
He nods, then darts back toward his house through the trees without another word. I gaze into the darkness for a few moments, wondering if he will come back. The evergreen trees rustle from a light breeze. He doesn’t return, so I decide to pedal down the hill. The cold air forces tears from my eyes as I pick up speed.
Earlier today, I was excited about the idea of being the only person who knew of Jordan’s secret. But now that I know for a fact that A. he has a secret and B. I am the only person who knows about it, I want to pass out in the middle of this street. Why would he tell me this if it’s too dangerous that I know? And who was in that car outside his house? Like, come to think of it, what a mean thing to say: What I just told you is going to put your life at risk, but have a nice night anyway. Go ride your bike home alone on an arctic January night. Who does that?
It looks like I’m going to be a damsel in distress like Jane Foster from Thor after all. Fortunately, I’m in good company—Mary Jane Watson, Lois Lane, Pepper Potts. All lady baes and no gays. I’ll be setting records even in my time of plight. I hope Jordan has a good reason for telling me this. Otherwise, I’ll settle for Jimmy.
I pull up to my house and every single light is on. I drop my bike in the driveway, then head for the front door. But before I reach it, someone opens it for me.
“Dylan!” Mom says from the doorway. Her long hair blows back from the resultant gust of air. She’s wearing her robe and slippers. “Cam, he’s here,” she shouts back in the house to Dad.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey? Where have you been? You couldn’t answer our calls? Our texts?”
“I’m sorry. I was at a friend’s house and left my phone in another room.”
“What friend? I called Perry’s and Kirsten’s parents, and they said you weren’t there. The girls said they didn’t know where you were either.” She clutches her arms.
“Well, you’ll be glad to hear I’m branching out and making new friends.”
“Get inside.” She points to the foyer.
I slink past her. She shuts the door behind me.
“This isn’t funny, Dyl,” Dad says, walking down the stairs. “Your sister was sitting outside on the porch when we came home.”
I grunt. “Is today Thursday? I forgot it was my day.” I put my hands to my temples.
“You can’t forget. She’s ten.”
My parents thought it’d be a good idea for my sister to have Thursday nights off from her extracurriculars and chores, so she could take a break and do schoolwork. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have just one day off a week. I have six and it’s honestly still strenuous. My one shift a week at Dairy Queen makes me feel like I’ve been crushed by a stampede of elephants and rhinoceroses and the people from school aren’t even there. I think the people in high school suck the life from you. My theory isn’t proven, but it reminds me of the movie Jumanji. We’re all playing the game, trying to get ahead. But in the end, we get sucked into an alternate dimension and forget who we are.
“I’m sorry. There’s just a lot going on and there’s this new person and I had to meet up to help him out—”
“New where? At school?” Mom asks.
“The area.”
“Hm.” She pouts. “That’s nice of you.”
“Didn’t take you for the type to show around the new kids,” Dad says, smirking while patting me on the back.
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, really, that’s great, Dyl. Just remember Thursdays. It’s the only day we ask you to help out.”
“I know. Won’t happen again.”
“Now get to bed.”
“I will. I need some water. I’m a little parched.”
I watch them walk up the stairs, then I head to the kitchen. I fill a glass with water and listen carefully until their bedroom door closes. Once it clicks, I race to the basement.
My upstairs bedroom is directly adjacent to my parent’s bedroom. I swear this house was made from cardboard or something because you can hear all conversations through the walls. Therefore my covert calls with Perry and Kirsten must happen in the basement.
I plug in a set of Christmas lights twisted around bare wooden studs and the bulbs illuminate the cement-gray room. I pull my phone from my pocket, then fall back on a beanbag chair.
“Not so fast,” a blanket-covered lump on the green beanbag chair next to me says. I shriek. The blanket flings itself to the side. My sister jumps up, bulging my eyes from my head. She’s wearing bright pink pajamas.
“What’re you doing, you weirdo?” I yell in a hushed scream. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“What’re you doing is the better question.” She stands and crosses her arms.
“None of your business. Go to bed, Cody.”
“Ugh.” She sighs and fake faints back onto the beanbag chair. The back of her hand rests on her forehead. “I was abandoned and left freezing and starved this afternoon and you still can’t be nice to me.” She coughs. “I still haven’t warmed up yet. So cold.” Her voice softens. She fakes a shiver.
I tickle her bare feet. “Well, maybe you should put on some socks, then!” She giggles and kicks me away.
“I’m sorry I left you on the curb like a trash bin,” I say, and pull her close for a hug.
“As you should be.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“As it shouldn’t.”
“Now go to bed before Mom and Dad realize you’re down here and get mad at both of us.”
“I will. But first, you have to tell me where you were.”
“I was just with a friend.”
“A boy friend or girl friend?”
“Boy.”
“A boy you kiss or a boy you play video games with?”
Good question. In my ideal world, a boy I could kiss while playing video games would be a dream.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Not sure? If you’re going to forget about me, next time be sure.”
Out of nowhere, a parade of fire engine and ambulance sirens interrupt the basement stillness. The red-and-blue lights flash in the thin basement windows at the top of the walls.
“Do you hear that?” I ask. “They’re coming for you because you’re not in bed.”
“Stop!” Cody yells. She runs up the wooden steps, then exits through the basement door.
I rub my hands down my face and sigh. If I have to play twenty questions with one more person about Jordan, this relationship is not worth it. No one is ever interested in my life and now I have something interesting going on and people are interested? Funny how that works.
I didn’t ask for this and I don’t know how to handle it.
My phone rings, and I jump. Kirsten is facetiming me. I glance at the time and it’s nearly ten p.m. I’m supposed to be facetiming her. What could she possibly have to tell me now? Nothing could be more interesting than my life currently. I swipe to answer.
An orange glow covers the screen. Smoke billows from Kirsten’s mouth. Whoa.
“Kirsten? Are you outside? Are you okay?” I ask.
She moves her mouth, but sirens overpower her voice. I lower the volume.
“Kirsten? Hello?”
I stand and pace across the room.
“Dylan?” She puts the phone to her mouth. The closeness of her face turns the screen black. “I can’t hear you! Where have you been?”
“I can’t hear you either. I was successfully sleuthing. I have to fill you in.”
“What?” she shouts.
“This doesn’t seem like the best place for you to be facetiming. Can you text me?”
“I can’t hear you!”
I groan and pull on my shirt collar.
“You have to see this,” she says. “Come outside to the woods by my house. The new town houses they were building are on fire. It’s insane!”
“What?” I ask. “All right. Stay there. I’m going to come.”
“I will!”
I take a deep breath to soak up the last bit of warmth before I head back into the southeastern Pennsylvania tundra. I slip out the basement’s sliding glass door and run to the front of my house, where I dropped my bike. The ground feels like a concrete pathway. The frozen grass crunches beneath my boots like gravel.
The weather people said some polar vortex system has been hanging over us for the past few weeks, and as a result it’s been negative one hundred degrees—negative one-fifty, if you factor in the wind chill. I can already see myself frozen outside in a bush later tonight, killed by the elements in the style of Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Everything is bone-dry, and I’m sure that’s not helping this town-house fire. It’s definitely not helping my lips, which are splitting at this very moment. Come to think of it, I haven’t ever really had to take care of my lips for someone else. I brush my finger across my bottom lip to feel the torn skin. My skin is almost as white as the snow. I wonder if Jordan was disgusted by me. I’m disgusted by me. I’ll have to make a trip to the pharmacy tomorrow to get some supplies to make myself look like a functioning human and not an extra from The Walking Dead.
In the distance, the sky by Kirsten’s house flickers orange. Scraps of paper, or wood, or something dance around in the glowing air. I pedal out of my neighborhood, past Dairy Queen, and on to the town-house development. Two fire trucks pass me on my way. They stream additional cold air in my face.
When I arrive at the scene, a crowd of about fifty people observe the blaze. A line of police cars blocks them from getting any closer to the raging inferno. Flames cover a row of five town houses. The orange-yellow waves twirl four stories high toward the black sky. The wooden frames of the neighboring homes are inches away from catching fire. A dozen Blatt Builders signs hang on the chain-link fence around the construction site.
I scan the crowd and recognize the pink pom-pom on top of Kirsten’s winter hat. Campfire scent wafts through the air.
I grab her shoulder. She yelps.
“Hey,” I say. “Is everyone okay?”
“I think. They were under construction, so no one was in them, but the firemen are putting out the fire.”
“How did it start?”
“No one knows. But you could feel the heat at my house.”
“Yikes.” I squint, putting my hand in front of my face.
“Did you find Jordan? I am assuming the answer is yes since you were ignoring our texts. How was it?”
I scratch my head. “Good,” I say.
She frowns. “Good? After all that it was just good?”
“Yeah, it was good. We just met. It’s not like we’re getting married.”
“Well, what did you talk about?”
“He just told me about school and stuff.”
“Okay? You’re being weird. Did you make out or something?” She smiles.
