The Temperature of Me and You, page 7
“No!” I blush. “It was just uneventful. Maybe I don’t like him as much as I thought I did.”
She studies me, telling me with her eyebrows that she knows I’m lying.
I look around, avoiding eye contact with her. I rub my arms for warmth.
Across the crowd, Savanna Blatt watches the blaze with her dad. The long white hair down her back nearly blends in with the snow. Her head twists in my direction. We make eye contact before I can turn away. She beelines toward me.
“Savanna is coming from our right,” I whisper.
Savanna reaches us. She strikes a pose, crossing her arms and extending her right leg. “What’re you doing here?” she asks, looking at me.
“Kirsten told me about it. I thought I’d come to see if she’s okay.”
“This isn’t a show. Do you know how much money my dad is losing from this?”
“I’m sorry about this, Savanna,” Kirsten says.
“Thanks, Kirsten.” Her voice softens. “This is the second property to go up in flames in two weeks. It’s been really hard on the family.”
“Second time?” I ask.
“Yes, Dylan. Do you pay attention to anything? Please don’t tell me there’s not a brain in your unfortunately shaped head.” I grunt. “The model home over at the new development on Liberty Pike got torched two weeks ago. They think it’s arson now.” She purses her lips.
Savanna’s dad and older brother come up from behind her with two cops at their side. Her dad is a tall guy with a huge stomach. If you only saw him from behind, you’d think he was skinny.
“Who are these kids?” he asks.
“People I know from school,” Savanna answers.
“When did you arrive at the scene?” one of the cops asks, stepping forward.
Kirsten and I exchange a glance.
“Um, twenty minutes ago,” Kirsten says. “I live right down the street. I’ve been home all night. You can check with my parents. I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to be here—”
The cop holds up his hand. “It’s okay. Thank you. And you?” He turns to me.
“Um, five minutes ago,” I say.
“Which way did you come from, son?”
“That way.” I look and point in the direction of my house. My jaw falls open.
Down the street, the silver car that was outside Jordan’s house pulls up to the scene. This time, it isn’t alone. Two more silver cars pull up behind it. They park along the curb. A group of people exit the cars and congregate in a circle. One makes a phone call, one writes something on a piece of paper, one texts, and the other leans against a car with his arms folded. I hold up my phone and take pictures of them to show Jordan.
“Hey, kid,” the cop says, tapping my arm. “I asked you a question.”
I snap back to my conversation. “Wait, what? Sorry. What did you ask?”
“I said we have a few witnesses saying they saw a teenage boy fleeing the scene right after the flames started picking up. Have any idea what that’s about?”
“No…no.” I shake my head. “I was also at home with my parents. You can ask them.”
The cop writes something on a notepad.
“Know any other boys your age out tonight?”
“You’re wasting your time,” Savanna says, stepping forward. “Dylan doesn’t have any guy friends.”
“Thank you, Savanna, for clarifying,” I say. “I think that point you just made will really enhance the investigation.”
“Of course. You two don’t have anything against the Blatt family, do you?” Her nostrils flare.
“Thanks, miss,” the cop says. “We can handle it from here.”
The cops nod. They walk away with Savanna’s dad and brother in tow to another group of onlookers.
“Savanna, you don’t think we had anything to do with this?” Kirsten asks. “I would never do something like arson.”
“Not unless you have something to tell me.” She quickens her rate of blinking.
“What? Absolutely not.”
“Good. Didn’t think so.”
“Savanna!” Mr. Blatt yells. He points his finger at the ground in front of him.
Savanna brushes a loose hair behind her ear. “I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow…” She glances at me. “Unfortunately.” She takes a step toward her dad and purposefully slams her shoulder into mine as she passes.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, rubbing my shoulder.
“You should be asking yourself that question, not me,” she says.
I turn to Kirsten. “She’s such a bitch sometimes,” I say.
“I mean, this is a stressful situation for her. Anyone going through something like this is bound to lash out with atypical behaviors.”
“Can’t you just agree with me?”
“Arson is pretty scary, though,” she says, ignoring my comment. “My house is right here.”
“Yeah, but it looks like there’s a theme to the fires if there’s been two of them. So I think you’re good.”
“The theme being?”
“Blatt de-struction.” I giggle.
Kirsten holds back a smile.
“Get it? Like, since it’s a construction company—”
“Yes, I get it. But you never know what could happen. This fire is huge. It’s also scary to think about someone doing this to the Blatts or there being a criminal in our town. What could someone possibly have against them that they have to do this? Seems like an investigation is needed.” She gestures to the flames.
“I mean, I can think of a lot of reasons to hate the Blatts.”
Kirsten slaps my arm. “Don’t be so hateful. It isn’t a good look.”
“Ouch. It was a joke. Chill.”
The flames die down from the relentless spray of water, revealing black skeletons of what used to be houses. The power of the flames took them out in less than thirty minutes and I met a boy who can control those same flames with his fingertips. I check my phone for any messages from him. There’s nothing. It’s probably not my smartest move to try to get closer to him—or the safest. But I can’t ignore him. Not after tonight. Not after he opened up to me like that.
I look back to where the silver cars were parked. They’re gone.
Kirsten and I turn away from the scene. We lose the warmth of the fire. I immediately think of wanting to touch Jordan. To feel the heat again. To feel the warmth of his chest against my back.
And this is where I redefine thirsty. Even though he used his powers to knock me out, I want to touch him again.
I have a new crush on a boy. Someone send help.
There are a few reasons why I have never had a boyfriend. Some are circumstantial and are definitely changing for the better. Others, like my noodle arms, are just facts of life and don’t do me any favors. Technically, they could be changed. But who has the time? I’ve calculated how many hours I would need to spend in the gym to even begin to pop a bicep, but by the time that happens I’d be out of high school and on to the next phase of this so-called life. So why would I waste my time in a gym with creepy lighting?
I pretended to be straight in middle school and have written those years off. No boys could’ve dated me if they thought I liked girls. During freshman year of high school, I had my first exploratory period and made out with two boys in one month! But it should be noted that neither of them was in my grade or from my school. My choices quickly dried up, and there haven’t been any left to date. The drought has been severe, to say the least.
And now it looks like things won’t be picking up speed anytime soon. It’s been almost two days and Jordan hasn’t texted me. He was supposed to text me his name, at the bare minimum, so I could at least save his number to my phone. I can’t even text him now if I wanted to. What an annoying little—
My phone lights up as the thought crosses my mind. It’s not Perry or Kirsten because I have the length and emojis of their message ribbons memorized. It’s a Snapchat add from jay_ordan10. There are two flames after the username. He has to be joking. I sit up in my bed and add him back.
Two seconds later he snaps a selfie of himself. He’s lying in bed. He’s sticking out his tongue with his left eyebrow raised. A blanket covers most of his body, but his shoulders are exposed. He’s shirtless. His collarbone pops from his skin above his chest muscles. I gasp. I recognize the long black curtains from his room in the background.
The picture disappears in five seconds. I message back because I don’t have time for games.
Dylan
Oh hi?
Jordan
Good morning
Dylan
Where have you been?
Jordan
School
Dylan
Praying?
Jordan
Lol basically
We learn sometimes too
Dylan
Interesting
Jordan
V
Dylan
What’re you doing today?
Jordan
I have to go downtown
Dylan
Downtown? To the city?
Jordan
Yeah
Dylan
That’s random. For what?
Jordan
Stuff
Dylan
Oh. Sounds interesting
Thanks for the details
Jordan
Lol. It’s stuff related to the accident.
I see a doctor
Dylan
Ugh. That’s twice now. I’m sorry.
Jordan
One strike left
Jk
What’re you doing?
Dylan
Art galleries
Jordan
Fancy
Dylan
So are you going to text me so I can have your number? Or are we just going to do the Snapchat thing
Jordan
Maybe if I get pic
A picture? What? Am I about to sext with Jordan? I guess it’s only fair that I snap him back a picture since he sent me one. I exit from chat and the camera pops up. I tap the screen twice so it faces me.
There’s a massive yellow eye booger in the corner of my right eye and white, dried drool crusted in the corner of my lips. I grunt. I toss my phone, then dart to the bathroom to cleanse myself from my fourteen-hour sleeping stupor. I jostle my hair as I jog back into my bedroom. I twist open the blinds for better lighting, dive on my bed, grab my phone, snap a selfie, swipe once for the brighter filter, and send to jay_ordan10.
It takes about one minute for him to respond. Hopefully, he didn’t lose interest in talking to me during that time period. But who knows with this guy.
Jordan
Cute
I smile and run my hand through my hair.
Dylan
Thanks
So a fair trade?
Jordan
Pushy
Dylan
Says the guy who has literally pushed and burned me to the ground twice
Jordan
Fair. I’m just trying to figure this all out.
I’m really sorry
Dylan
I know
He reads my last message and doesn’t reply. I sigh. Point taken that anything related to his abilities, abnormalities, powers—I don’t know what to call them—is a sore subject.
He texts me his number five minutes later with the words my number. I get the hint he isn’t in the mood to talk anymore.
I wonder why he would tell me probably the most secret thing about himself and then ghost me. In my personal psychology textbook of dating, I have a whole chapter devoted to ghosting. There’s no physical copy of this book. It simply exists within my mind. Although one day I should publish it with all the knowledge I’ve acquired from my hypothetical relationships. First, in order to be ghosted the dude has to show an interest. If he never shows an interest and stops talking to me, then he was just never into me. I get it. But what I can’t stand is when someone shows an interest in me and then vanishes. No texts. No calls. Gone. Adios. Bye-bye. It’s more infuriating than the fact that my sister is smarter at the age of ten than I’ll ever be.
Like when I made out with Ryan Bonchetti at Maddie Leostopoulos’s sweet sixteen party last year. Sophomore year of high school was ridiculous for many reasons, but one of the top reasons was how there was a sweet sixteen party every other weekend, and I was somehow invited to 50 percent of them. Maddie’s best friend made an announcement early in the night that half of the invitees were only invited so Maddie could say she had one of the biggest sweet sixteens of the year—making this party more salty than sweet.
Ryan went to the neighboring high school, so I had seen him around before. He was tall, lanky, and always wearing sweatpants. He also had a buzz cut.
He approached me, and we started talking, which somehow led to making out. I didn’t really like it. Not because he wasn’t a good kisser. I had only made out with a few people before him, so I didn’t have much of a baseline to compare it to.
I didn’t like it because Perry had stolen a bottle of Salted Caramel Bailey’s Irish Cream from her mom’s liquor cabinet, and we threw it back in a matter of five minutes before the party. I told her I didn’t think this was the kind of liquor people drank alone without mixing it with something else. Perry asked if I had a mixer. I didn’t. So we drank it alone. At one point I burped mid-kiss and almost threw up in Ryan’s mouth.
He ended up having a decent personality and asked for my number at the end of the party. I gave him my real number, and we texted the rest of the night and for a few days after. The following weekend, I texted him asking if he wanted to hang out again, and the dude left me on read. I texted him a question mark three days later, and my poor little question mark floated all alone in its blue bubble in the message feed for the rest of time—GHOSTED.
It was a different story when I made out with Marshall Andrews the summer after freshman year. He was about to be a senior and was the only other out person at my school. I was staying with Perry and her mom at their vacation home in Ocean City, New Jersey, for the week. Perry knew Marshall from her all-star cheer team, and it turned out he was down the shore with a friend that same week. Perry invited them over one night, and we played card games on the deck. After the game, we ended up running to the beach at midnight.
Things got hot on the beach with Marshall quick. And when I mean hot, I mean really hot. He had facial hair and actual muscles and was the first person I was kissing after publicly coming out. There was even dry humping. I couldn’t believe it. I was quaking in my pants.
After we finished, he said, “I’m not looking for anything serious. Just so you know.”
I thought it was the weirdest response to a make-out session ever. Like, Chill, I don’t want to marry you either. But I appreciated his honesty, and we went our separate ways.
I saw him at school in the fall and asked if he wanted to get together sometime. And it wasn’t because I wanted to date him. I wasn’t a stalker and ignoring his intentions, but I thought maybe we could have been friends. I had no gay friends and hadn’t made a new friend since Perry and Kirsten in kindergarten, so I thought I could try to make an effort. He said he would let me know but never did. I didn’t consider this ghosting because he told me up front that he didn’t want my ugly self, and so it didn’t take up any of my mental space.
Either way, ghosting has happened to me for one of two reasons. Either because the guy found someone else, or he wasn’t ready to commit to anything.
For Jordan, I’m leaning toward the idea that he isn’t ready to commit to our friendship. I’ll give him his space and let him cool down after his big reveal. I guess cooling down will take longer than usual, if it’s even possible, since he’s made of fire. I totally should’ve screenshotted his shirtless selfie, though. I pull my covers over my head and moan.
I stare at the Received symbol of my last snap to him, overthinking his nonresponse. Jordan vanished from Arizona without a trace. His life revolves around hiding from HydroPro. He’s basically a professional ghoster.
I google Jordan and his family. There’s no mention of the accident. I pair Jordan’s name with HydroPro in the search box. Zero relevant results emerge. But when I search HydroPro alone, there’s plenty of information to digest. I don’t need to scroll far before an article grabs my attention. It’s titled “HydroPro Expands Footprint in Philadelphia Area.” I sit up.
I copy the address of the new Philadelphia facility. I paste it into Google Maps, click street view, and swivel around the structure. I repeatedly tap the screen to move closer to the building, but the street view stops near the parking lot. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve seen enough. I drop my phone onto my cover. I run my hands through my hair as I study the picture.
The same silver cars from the other night are parked in the lot. I’m beginning to think it’s not a coincidence that Jordan and those cars have come into my life at the same time.
I sloth around the house until four p.m. when Perry and Kirsten’s cheerleading practice is over. I stand by the front door and watch the go-kart pull into my driveway. Perry’s and Kirsten’s shoulders bounce side to side as the car climbs over the curb. I sprint from my doorway to keep my bare skin from being exposed to the elements for too long.
“It’s freezing,” I say as I dive into the car, rubbing my hands together. The high ponytails of the girls reach above their headrests. They each have a white ribbon tied in their hair.
“How was practice?” I ask. “Are you going to win Nationals?”
They exchange a glance.
Kirsten’s lip curls. “No, because the one stunt group falls every time. It’s very frustrating,” she says.
“It’s so annoying,” Perry echoes.
“Who is it?”
“Kara Bynum is the flyer,” Perry says. “She’s the skinniest girl on the squad, and she can’t stand in the air for more than two seconds without falling.”
“We’ve gone over the routine dozens of times. She has the best back spot too, so we know it’s not that,” Kirsten adds with a grunt.
She reverses out of my driveway, and we take off to the Chili’s in town. I don’t even need to ask where we’re going. It’s what we do before Second Saturdays.
