For three months during winter it doesn’t totally suck to live in the Coachella Valley. Then the heat comes and half the population hops into their fancy cars or private jets and escapes to their second, third, or fourth homes, leaving behind a bunch of old people, a few crazies, and the rest of us—trapped outside the country clubs in the “non-rich” areas.

My family’s one and only house is unfortunately stuck in the middle of an unruly date grove in Bermuda Dunes, California, a.k.a. the hottest freaking place on the planet. Today it’s 109°F. The kind of day where the locals sit around and talk about the nice “break in the heat,” because two days ago it was 126°F. I can’t feel the difference. But I’m not a local.

I moved to California just after my eighth birthday, when my adoption became final. So to this Nebraska native—even after nine years living here—pretty much anything over 100°F feels like sticking my body inside an oven. People keep telling me I’ll get used to it, but I swear every year it gets worse, like the sun’s melting me from the inside out and I’ll eventually be nothing more than a Vane puddle on the ground.

On hot summer days like today, I do everything in my power to avoid leaving the dark cave I call a bedroom. Which is the main reason I refuse to let Isaac drag me out tonight for another one of his disastrous fix-ups.

There’s another reason I don’t like to date—but I’m trying not to think about her.

“Come on, man,” Isaac whines. It’s the third time he’s called me in twenty minutes. “I promise it won’t be like last time.”

By “last time” he means when he hooked me up with Stacey Perkins. Apparently she’s a vegan—which is cool. Her choice. But nobody told me that until after I brought her to Outback Steakhouse. Then she asked the waitress if they had any “cruelty free” items on their menu.

Things only went downhill from there. Especially when I still ordered a steak. There are few things worse than an irritated vegan.

“Not interested,” I tell him, pulling my blinds closed and flopping on my bed. I spread out my arms so I can get maximum fan exposure. The breeze feels better than AC, better than jumping headfirst into a swimming pool. Almost like my body craves the rushing air.

“Come on, Hannah is Shelby’s cousin and they’ve been joined at the hip since she got to town. It’s been three weeks. I’m going out of my mind.”

“Pawn her off on someone else. I’m not getting stuck on another crappy blind date just so you can make out with your girlfriend.”

“You know I’d do the same for you—if you ever had a girlfriend.”

“Don’t go there.”

“But, I mean, dude—you’re seventeen and you’ve never even kissed a girl. What is up with that?”

I don’t say anything because he’s right. I have no problem asking girls out—or even getting them to say yes when I do. But I officially have the worst luck with girls. If I don’t screw things up on my own, something always happens. Drinks spill on their clothes. Birds poop in their hair. I swear I’m cursed.

“Come on, Vane—don’t make me beg,” Isaac finally says.

I want to hang up on him. The last thing I need is another dating humiliation. But he’s my best friend.

So I throw on a slightly less wrinkled T-shirt, run water through my short, dark brown hair, and an hour later I’m stuck with Hannah from Canada, who didn’t even crack a smile when I pointed out the rhyme. She’s also complained about the heat at least ten quadrillion times. And we’re only fifteen minutes into the date.

“Cheesecake Factory or Yard House?” I ask, pointing to the massive restaurants overlooking the shallow, man-made river we’re walking along.

Tourist traps like The River are pretty much the only things open this time of year—though I’ll never understand why any tourist gets excited about a fake river and some chain restaurants. Especially when it’s too hot for any sane person to be outside. My T-shirt is stuck to my back like the sweat formed a vacuum, and all we’ve done is walk from the parking lot to the mall. Not even the tiniest breeze to help cool us off.

Hannah wipes a bead of sweat off her brow and turns to me. “I don’t really like cheesecake, so maybe the other one, eh?”

I bite my lip. They do serve food besides cheesecake—but I’m not in the mood to argue. “Yard House it is.”

The AC blasts us as we enter the crowded restaurant, and Hannah releases a sigh at the same time I do.

The tension between us evaporates. Whoever invented air conditioning should win the Nobel Prize. I bet they could bring peace to the Middle East if they gave everyone an AC unit and let them cool the freak down once in a while. I should e-mail the UN the suggestion.

The hostess leads us to a booth big enough to seat six people. Not that any other table would be more romantic. Between the loud music, sports games, and the guys at the bar drinking beer by the half yard and cheering for their teams, it isn’t much of a date spot. Which is exactly why I suggested it. Maybe if I don’t treat tonight like a date, I won’t run into any problems this time.

“Looks like you’ve got some fans,” Hannah says, pointing to three girls sitting a few tables away. All three blush and start whispering when I look at them.

I shrug.