P. Hoover - Solstice

Mom says, “Watch the heat today.”

I nod and hug her and go to school like normal. Her concern’s nothing out of the ordinary. And neither is the heat.

At school after lunch, I walk through the breezeway, keeping my head down so the mist doesn’t get in my eyes. The vapor sprays out from above, causing a layer of green gel to settle on my skin and hair. I reach up and run my hands through my hair to try to smooth it, but the cooling gel only makes the curls get wilder; it’s no use. My clothes stick to me, and under my backpack, I’m coated in sweat. Out on the old parking lot, heat waves ripple over what remains of the black tar, only disturbed by a random cactus here and there. Still, I take my time before Social Sciences, soaking in the heat. Every other kid at school complains about it, but to me, the heat finds a way to sink into my soul and give me strength.

For the school to be spraying gel, the heat has to be extreme. Just before I walk back inside, I glance up at the bright red numbers of the thermometer. It blinks one hundred and twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit, which definitely falls into the extreme category. The temperature hasn’t climbed this high since we moved to Austin four years ago. It rarely goes above one hundred and sixteen. I pull out my FON to double check it, and it registers the same. One degree more and…

The sirens start blaring in an earsplitting pattern of high and low, up and down. One degree becomes a reality. I step inside, and for a second, all the kids just look around at one another, like the sound hasn’t yet registered. Like they’re all waiting for someone else to move.

“It’s another drill,” one guy to my left says.

“Didn’t we just have a drill?” someone else asks.

I shake my head because I know this isn’t a drill; I’d seen the thermometer. But I don’t want to cause a panic. The principal comes on the intercom system and does the job for me.

“Report to your designated cooling areas immediately. This is not a drill.”

Realization sinks in, and the hall erupts in chaos. The crowd effect’s going on, so movement just stops. But I’m on the Disaster Student Council. I need to help out. I push my way through person after person until I escape into the science hallway; the emptiness makes the sirens seem even louder as the sound bounces from one wall to the next, then off the floor and ceiling and straight into my ears. I rush toward the end, checking in each classroom to make sure it’s empty, and from there, I circle around until I’m close to the gym—the designated cooling area for our high school. I take up my position at the door on the far left and start directing kids inside.

We have drills every month, but one degree makes everyone go crazy. Drills consist of kids walking, talking, and making stupid jokes about the Global Heating Crisis. But there aren’t any jokes now. Just a whole lot of pushing and screaming and everything they tell us not to do during a real disaster.

My job is to make sure everyone who comes through this door is accounted for. I stand to the side of the door and try to scan each person with my FON as they walk through. But the crowd’s too thick; I’ll have to wait until they’re inside.

Of the ten doors leading into the gym, only me and three other student council members are already in position. Chloe’s supposed to be next to me, but she must be trapped behind everyone. I don’t want to think about her getting stuck outside in the heat. The last time she got too hot, she passed out.

“where r u?” I text her.

She responds in under five seconds, “b there in a sec,” and when I look out across the crowd, I catch her waving.

My FON is almost back in my pocket when it vibrates again. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Hey, Mom.” I cover one ear with my free hand and yell into the FON over the sound of the sirens.

“Piper. Why haven’t you answered? I’ve called you five times today.”

She’s actually called me seven times, and I’ve ignored each one. “I’m at school, Mom.”

“You have to come home right now.” My mom is always oversensitive that the earth is going to swallow me whole or something ridiculous like that, but this time her voice has an extra layer of worry on top.

“I can’t,” I yell back. Two kids in front of me start pushing to get to the door faster, but one of the teachers breaks it up. I motion them inside with my free hand.

“You have to. Please.” Her pleading comes through even amid the disaster. But she has to hear the sirens in the background. Does she think I’m going to just cut out in the middle of the crisis?

“I’ll be home when this is over.”

“Now, Piper.” Instead of worry, she uses her authority voice. But it only makes me want to do the exact opposite of what she’s asking.

“I’m not leaving now,” I say.

“It’s a heat bubble. The whole city is covered in it.”

I don’t speak as her words sink in. A real heat bubble means we could be stuck with deadly temperatures for weeks. The last time one of the pockets of hot air formed, the city was evacuated, and even then, almost a thousand people died. An evacuation is going to be nothing short of a disaster.

“Piper?”

“I’m here,” I say, but a sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. Heat bubbles are the newest, worst threat of the Global Heating Crisis. Cities all around the world are testing different ways to get rid of them, but it seems like the more done to combat them, the more frequent the bubbles become. Three months ago, one formed over Central America, and a third of the population died. They’d suffocated from the heat. Scientists called it the most horrible natural disaster since the tsunami fourteen years prior that had wiped out most of Indonesia.

“The city’s going to disperse the bubble. And activate the domes,” she says.

Disperser missiles have never been tested on a real bubble. There’s no telling what’s going to happen. “But—” I start.

“Take cover. And get home before they seal the domes. Please,” she says, and then she ends the call.

I’m still holding my FON when Chloe shows up next to me. My mind is spinning over what my mom said, because there’s no telling what a missile will do to the heat bubble. They’ve only been tested in the deserted regions of western Texas.

I give Chloe a quick smile to reassure her—or maybe myself—but we don’t get a chance to talk because at least thirty freshmen are trying to get my attention. I give up entirely on scanning them and just motion them all inside. If the city really is going to try to disperse the heat bubble, we need to get everyone behind the sealed doors.

It takes another few minutes before the hallway finally clears. Anyone stuck outside now is going to have to find some other shelter. The thought of being stuck outside during the disaster sends a wave of dread through me, but I try to suppress it since I’m supposed to set an example.

I mouth to Chloe, “Let’s talk later,” and she nods. And then we both go into the gym and pull our doors closed behind us. One of the teachers swipes his FON in front of a scanner, and thick walls of plastic start lowering to the ground, forming a shield to protect us from the outside. My entire body relaxes when the shields touch the floor. We’re going to be safe.

The freshmen are supposed to be in a single file line, but most of them are sitting next to their friends, crying and consoling each other. I’m not going to stop them; most people do think the Global Heating Crisis will end the world. If the heat doesn’t stop sooner or later, everything on Earth will die except maybe the cockroaches. Already most of the smaller vegetation is gone.