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They all jerked their heads toward him. “What?” Nick asked. “What happened to lying low?”
Seth winced, pulling on the polka dot cravat hanging limply around his neck. “I was going to ignore it. I thought I could. But—” He shook his head tiredly. “I don’t know. I was careful, but when I got to the scene, no one was in trouble. Three people were waiting for me. I overheard them talking about how when I showed up, they were going to use fire extinguishers to subdue me.”
Nick gaped at him. “Theywhat?”
Seth sighed. “Burke has turned this into a manhunt, and he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”
“Maybe it’s time for Pyro Storm to take a break,” Jazz said. “Not permanently, but at least until this all goes away.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Gibby asked. “Is he not supposed to be Pyro Storm again?”
“It might not be such a bad thing,” Jazz countered. “Last I checked, Seth wasn’t even sure he wanted to be Pyro Storm anymore. Has that changed?”
“I don’t know,” Seth admitted. “This certainly isn’t making things easier.” He took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I don’t know if I could do it, not all the way. The first time a real call comes in, and I, what, pretend I didn’t see it?”
“You can’t save everyone,” Gibby said, sounding troubled. “You’re already stretched thin enough as it is.”
“What else is new?” Seth asked. “That’s how it’s been for years.”
“And look where it’s gotten you,” Jazz said. “I know you don’t do this for the accolades or the press, but Seth, you really need to think of yourself here.”
“Which is why I asked Miss Conduct and TK to help us,” Seth reminded her. “We can’t do this on our own.”
An idea struck Nick. It wasn’t anything grand, but at least it’d be a start. He reached into his pocket, meaning to get out his phone, only to remember that it had been crushed by TK in an alley. His life was so weird. “Gibby, can I see your phone?”
She didn’t question him, just slid her phone across the table. He snorted at the picture of her and Jazz she’d saved as the background before opening the app he was looking for and logging himself in. “How about this? I delete the official Pyro Storm Twitter account, and I don’t send the email I wrote to the creators who I wanted to make the art for the merch.” He looked down at the phone again. “Well, crap.”
“What?” Jazz asked through a mouthful of Wagyu.
“We’re up to three hundred thousand Twitter followers,” Nick said, “and there’s a new hashtag trending worldwide.” He squinted at the phone. “Hashtag #PyroStormMillion. Hold on, the mentions are through the—holy shit, we’ve beenverified? Goddammit, Jack! There are freakingNazison your platform, and you’re busy verifying Extraordinaries? Okay, you know what? That’s pretty cool. I’ve never been verified for anything, and this might be the validation we—No.No. I willnotlet this go to my head.” He looked up at the others. “Right? I shouldn’t let this go to my head?”
“Right,” Gibby said slowly.
“Right,” Nick said. “I’ll … okay, I really was going to deletethis, but we’ve now been retweeted by two former presidents, one of whom quote-tweeted me and said,Who is this fire guy and how can I meet him? Twitter, work your magic!”
“Which president?” Jazz asked.
“The bad one,” Nick said with a frown. “I feel gross.”
“Don’t delete it,” Seth said as he pulled away. “Not yet. Too many things are up in the air. I don’t want any of us making decisions right now. We’ll figure it out. I don’t need this turning into—Nick, did you just respond to the president?”
“Damn right, I did,” Nick growled. “I told him you’d never meet with him, since he’s a war criminal. Oh no. What if the Secret Service is going to come to my house now? Dad will make me mop the floors, and I hate mopping.”
Gibby snapped in his face. “Focus, Nicky.”
“Right,” Nick said, shaking his head. “The Secret Service won’t care if our floors are dirty. What was I thinking?”
“That’s not what I—you know what? Let’s go with that.”
“We need to talk about other things,” Jazz said. “Take our minds off all of this. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” they all said as Nick slid Gibby’s phone back to her.
“Good,” Jazz said. “Prom. We all have our outfits, and I’ve made reservations at Austers for dinner.”
“Austers?” Nick asked. “Isn’t that the place that charges twenty bucks for a glass of water and is impossible to get a reservation for?”
“It is,” Jazz said. “Daddy knows the owners, so they bumped a diplomat and gave us their table. It might create an international incident, but Daddy said Ireland will get over it.”
