before you. I used to love that feeling of weightlessness. Now, after the floating dream, I found it unsettling. It didn’t help that I was periodically experiencing waves of nausea mixed with images of Asher’s dark eyes and Devin’s blue ones.
Aunt Jo was home from the backcountry and tried to keep things cozy by baking. I, being kitchen-averse, just stalked around in a hat and scarf and kept turning up the thermostat.
“Cut it out, Skye; it’s not that cold.” She laughed as she scooted a tray of cinnamon spice cookies into the oven.
“But I’m fa-fa-fa-reezing.” I shivered dramatically, huddling up on one of the stools that surrounded the cherrywood and marble kitchen island.
“I think the thermostat can stay at seventy. Put on another sweater.”
“I’m already wearing, like, five.”
Aunt Jo exaggerated an eye roll. “You’ll live. Here. Taste.”
I took the wooden spoon from her and bit off a chunk of raw cookie dough. It was delicious, spicy. I missed Aunt Jo’s cooking when she was gone. She’d been too tired last night after getting in, but today the kitchen was filled with the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon.
“It would be better fresh out of the oven,” I pointed out hopefully.
“Well, then you’re just going to have to wait another fifteen minutes.” She turned around and patted down her apron. “Do me a favor and get my Barefoot Contessa off the credenza in the hall, okay? Maybe I’ll make apple turnovers for dessert tomorrow.”
“’Kay,” I said, hopping off the stool and padding down the hall in my wool socks. I slowed as I passed the thermostat on the wall. I didn’t care what Aunt Jo said—even though it said seventy degrees, it seriously felt like negative fifty.
I shivered and reached to adjust the thermostat to eighty. But as my hand neared the digital display, my heart began to race. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Without my touching the controls, the numbers began rolling upward at a scary-fast rate. When the display reached a hundred and one degrees, the small white box sizzled and shorted out. The screen went black.
“Shit!” I whispered. What had I just done? I hadn’t even touched it. I stared at my fingers. I was too afraid to look in the mirror, afraid I’d see that my eyes had morphed again into that weird, mercurial silver.
Had I just caused the thermostat to short-circuit . . . without even touching it? No, it was ridiculous even to think it.
“Skye?” Aunt Jo called. “Everything okay?”
I grabbed the cookbook off the credenza and trotted back into the kitchen.
“Yep!” I said, dropping the book onto the counter and looking away. “I think the thermostat’s broken. We should get that thing looked at.”
“Keeping the house at subtropical temperatures doesn’t mean it’s broken,” she said with a snort. “Can you toss me the egg timer?”
“Sure.” I extracted the neon green egg timer from the drawer in the island and tossed it to her. “Hey, I think it might actually be warmer outside. I’m going to take a walk. Mind if I disappear till the cookies are done?”
“Are you really that cold? Hope you’re not coming down with the flu.” She came toward me with her hand outstretched as if to feel my forehead.
I ducked away, grabbing my heavy coat, mittens, and knit cap. “I’m fine. I won’t be out too long anyway.”
Once I was outside, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and started trudging through the snow. My fingers still stung. I couldn’t explain what had happened with the thermostat. Maybe I’d simply built up a charge of static electricity and when I’d gotten near enough— Pop! Bang!
I should have had the courage to look in the mirror, but even if my eyes were silver, what did it mean? Everything was getting so weird lately. My eyes. The sensation of floating when I woke up. The boiler explosion. The thermostat short-circuiting. Two—no, three—guys showing an interest in me. In my whole life,
Aunt Jo was home from the backcountry and tried to keep things cozy by baking. I, being kitchen-averse, just stalked around in a hat and scarf and kept turning up the thermostat.
“Cut it out, Skye; it’s not that cold.” She laughed as she scooted a tray of cinnamon spice cookies into the oven.
“But I’m fa-fa-fa-reezing.” I shivered dramatically, huddling up on one of the stools that surrounded the cherrywood and marble kitchen island.
“I think the thermostat can stay at seventy. Put on another sweater.”
“I’m already wearing, like, five.”
Aunt Jo exaggerated an eye roll. “You’ll live. Here. Taste.”
I took the wooden spoon from her and bit off a chunk of raw cookie dough. It was delicious, spicy. I missed Aunt Jo’s cooking when she was gone. She’d been too tired last night after getting in, but today the kitchen was filled with the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon.
“It would be better fresh out of the oven,” I pointed out hopefully.
“Well, then you’re just going to have to wait another fifteen minutes.” She turned around and patted down her apron. “Do me a favor and get my Barefoot Contessa off the credenza in the hall, okay? Maybe I’ll make apple turnovers for dessert tomorrow.”
“’Kay,” I said, hopping off the stool and padding down the hall in my wool socks. I slowed as I passed the thermostat on the wall. I didn’t care what Aunt Jo said—even though it said seventy degrees, it seriously felt like negative fifty.
I shivered and reached to adjust the thermostat to eighty. But as my hand neared the digital display, my heart began to race. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Without my touching the controls, the numbers began rolling upward at a scary-fast rate. When the display reached a hundred and one degrees, the small white box sizzled and shorted out. The screen went black.
“Shit!” I whispered. What had I just done? I hadn’t even touched it. I stared at my fingers. I was too afraid to look in the mirror, afraid I’d see that my eyes had morphed again into that weird, mercurial silver.
Had I just caused the thermostat to short-circuit . . . without even touching it? No, it was ridiculous even to think it.
“Skye?” Aunt Jo called. “Everything okay?”
I grabbed the cookbook off the credenza and trotted back into the kitchen.
“Yep!” I said, dropping the book onto the counter and looking away. “I think the thermostat’s broken. We should get that thing looked at.”
“Keeping the house at subtropical temperatures doesn’t mean it’s broken,” she said with a snort. “Can you toss me the egg timer?”
“Sure.” I extracted the neon green egg timer from the drawer in the island and tossed it to her. “Hey, I think it might actually be warmer outside. I’m going to take a walk. Mind if I disappear till the cookies are done?”
“Are you really that cold? Hope you’re not coming down with the flu.” She came toward me with her hand outstretched as if to feel my forehead.
I ducked away, grabbing my heavy coat, mittens, and knit cap. “I’m fine. I won’t be out too long anyway.”
Once I was outside, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and started trudging through the snow. My fingers still stung. I couldn’t explain what had happened with the thermostat. Maybe I’d simply built up a charge of static electricity and when I’d gotten near enough— Pop! Bang!
I should have had the courage to look in the mirror, but even if my eyes were silver, what did it mean? Everything was getting so weird lately. My eyes. The sensation of floating when I woke up. The boiler explosion. The thermostat short-circuiting. Two—no, three—guys showing an interest in me. In my whole life,
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