Dissonance (12 page)

The cards vibrated in my hand, gaining strength as the frequency crescendoed. I peered through the narrow window, studying the back of every girl in the room. They were perched on their lab stools like brightly colored birds, arranging pencils and reviewing notes—except for one girl, crouched on the floor, frantically emptying her backpack. “Bingo. Third row, left side.”

Eliot checked the map again. “Great. Time's up.”

I shook off his arm. “What if I gave her back the cards? What would happen?”

“We'd be even more tardy.”

“Five minutes,” I said. “Think of it as an experiment.”

He scowled, but didn't stop me.

The room smelled of sulfur and nerves. I eased past the kids lined up at the pencil sharpener, dropping the cards a foot away from the girl's backpack. Her pitch grew sharper as I waited for her to notice.

Panic must have blinded her. She dug through her bag with staccato movements. Her sniffles were audible behind her curtain of light brown hair. The second bell sounded, and Eliot waved wildly from the doorway, pointing to his watch.

So much for limited interference. I touched her shoulder. “You dropped something.”

She lifted her head, red-rimmed eyes startled. I pointed to the note cards, and she fell on them with a squeal. “Oh my God! Thank you!”

“No problem,” I said, but she was too focused on the cards to respond.

Doc Reese, on the other hand, spotted me. “Can I help you?”

“Just leaving,” I said, backing out the door.

“The pitch is changing,” Eliot said. Onscreen, the dot of light was folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

“Because of the note cards?”

“Must be. It started right after you handed them over. I didn't think it was possible to alter an Echo's frequency.”

“Me neither. It's kind of cool,” I said as we headed down the corridor, my short legs struggling to keep up with his lanky ones. A strange quiver ran through the air.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, my steps slowing.

Eliot tapped the screen. “It's reverting to the Key World frequency.”

I stopped. “Do not tell me we created a second Key World.”

“You're good, Del. But not that good.” He scanned the hallway we'd come from. The lockers blurred and snapped back into focus, like adjusting a camera. The lines on Eliot's forehead deepened, and fear sent a wave of dizziness crashing over me.

“Did I cleave it?”

“No,” he muttered. “It think it's a transposition.”

Choices create worlds, but not every world is sustainable. When you decide between strawberry and blueberry yogurt for breakfast, odds are good your morning will play out exactly the same way. When that happens, the multiverse autocorrects, absorbing the new branch into the older, more established one. The same thing happened when Walkers made a choice—without an Echo to sustain the pivot, the branch reabsorbed into the Key World almost immediately. The effect was called transposition.

The thing is, consequences are like people: hard to predict and harder to change. If the blueberry yogurt is expired, you could end up with food poisoning and spend three days in the hospital instead of at school—a big difference rooted in a small choice. We never knew which worlds would transpose and which would form significant Echoes, but since transpositions were both common and harmless, we barely touched on them in class.

Now that I was inside one, they didn't feel harmless. Across the hallway, the bio lab doubled and merged, the Key World room overtaking the Echo one.

“This is not good,” Eliot said, eyes shifting between the map and the wavering corridor. “Since when can we cause transpositions?”

“Hell if I know,” I said, and pulled him toward the stairs. “What happens if we don't get back before the Echo is absorbed?”

“The frequency will carry us back into the Key World wherever we're standing at the time. Like we're surfing into shore. Could be a rough landing, though.”

It couldn't be any worse than escaping from a cleaving. “Won't people notice if we appear out of thin air?”

“Nope. It's a continuous transfer. Their Echoes see our impressions before the transposition and the Originals see us after. Once they've combined, they think we've been there the whole time.”

It made sense. People ignored what they couldn't explain. It was more comfortable that way, and Walkers exploited that weakness all the time.

“Then why are we running?” I asked, and stopped short.

“We're late for music. Eight minutes, you said. This is more like fifteen.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “If we can sneak into class before the transposition's done, Powell will never notice we were late.”

Eliot gestured toward the rapidly stabilizing staircase. “The transposition's nearly finished. She'll catch us.”

“Pessimist,” I said, and took off again, headed for the music wing.

The curving wall of cement block pulsed as the frequencies melded, the tile beneath my feet shifting. I lost my footing, and the transposition caught up with us, sending Eliot careening into me. My shoulder slammed into the wall, and I swore loudly.

When I looked up, Ms. Powell was standing outside the classroom, her expression puzzled. Confusion was replaced by exasperation as the Key World's signal overtook the Echo's, the sound locking into place.

She'd seen us. The transposition was complete, and we were too late.

“Sorry,” Eliot wheezed as we struggled past her. “Really sorry.”

Simon glanced back for an instant, but didn't say anything before returning his attention to Bree. I studied the nape of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders under the thin gray T-shirt—and took a few deep breaths, trying to recover from my sprint. The crisp scent of cotton and citrus rose off his skin, so different from his Echo.

“Eliot, Del,” said Powell, as we flopped into our seats, “glad you two made it.”

The ability to Walk is hereditary. Recent advancements in genetics and neurology have revealed a mutation on chromosome 8q24.21, corresponding to hyper-development of the primary auditory cortex. This mutation enables Walkers to detect and manipulate matter on a quantum level. Other characteristics frequently tied to this chromosome include perfect pitch and a predisposition for early-onset dementia.

—Chapter Four, “Physiology,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

M
S. POWELL LEANED
against the podium like a lounge singer on a piano. “Since everyone's finally here, get together with your partner and start planning. This is your last big project before the semester exam, so you've got a solid month to write and rehearse your composition. I'll give you the whole period today, but the bulk of the work should be done on your own time.”

My head snapped up. Time with Simon. The real Simon, the one I couldn't form proper sentences around. Anticipation and anxiety weren't so different, not under the skin, where my heart stuttered and my blood skipped.

While my classmates rearranged their desks to meet with their partners, I sat catching my breath, unsure how to approach Simon.

As it turned out, there was no need to figure out an approach.
He spun around in his chair, his legs knocking into mine and staying there. It was the kind of casual, flirtatious move I'd seen him use a million times with a million other girls. Now that I was on the receiving end, it felt anything but casual.

“So. Delancey.”

He'd never said my name before. Not ever, in this world, and not my full name in any world, and the way he said it—slow and thoughtful, like he was considering the way each syllable felt in his mouth—stole my breath anew.

“Simon,” I said, trying to mimic his tone, trying to shake off the weirdness, trying not to gape. “And it's Del.”

“Del. You're good at this stuff, aren't you?” He held up the packet Ms. Powell had given us, full of rubrics and instructions and blank staff paper. “It's your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Aren't you some kind of music prodigy? You always know the answer to Powell's trivia. Plus, she's made you play the violin for us a bunch of times. Piano, too.”

I stared at my hands, my fingertips roughened from hours practicing. This is what he'd noticed about me? My freakish musical ability? “My family's big into music.”

Not only my family. All Walkers had perfect pitch. While our love of music wasn't genetic, I'd never met one who didn't play at least three instruments.

“What about you?” I asked, wanting to shift his attention. His Echo had watched the band with the focus of a musician. How did his Original compare? “Didn't you used to play the drums?”

“In sixth grade, sure. A bunch of us thought we'd start a band in Matt Lancaster's garage.” He shook his head. “I can't believe you remember that.”

I remembered more than his ridiculous band. Sixth grade was the year his mom found out she had cancer, and the whole community pulled together—throwing car washes and bake sales, raffles and walkathons. Even my mom had helped out, dropping off casseroles and containers of soup. Mrs. Lane had recovered eventually, and every mother in town had wanted to adopt Simon. Five years later, they still did.

“My mom tried me on a bunch of instruments, but it was a total disaster. She says I couldn't carry a tune in a paper bag.” His smile quirked and his voice dropped. “Be gentle with me.”

“Composition isn't that hard, I promise.” I cringed at the eagerness in my voice. I'd been brave enough to flirt back when I'd met him in Doughnut World; why couldn't I do the same here?

Because bravery comes easily when there's no cost to it. Anything was possible in Echoes; if I didn't like one world, another, better one was a few short steps away. I could kiss Doughnut Simon without fear of consequences. He wasn't real, no matter how hard he'd kissed me. It was heat and spark, with no chance of being burned.

I liked who I'd been last night, and I tried to recall her now, saying, “Do girls usually fall for the whole ‘charming your way out of work' routine?”

A few feet away, Bree watched us through narrowed eyes, ignoring Eliot's attempts to catch her attention.

“Depends on the girl,” he said. “Not you, I'm guessing.”

“Not even close.”

He studied me, tapping his pen on the desk. “We've had classes together before, haven't we?”

Freshman biology. Geometry and civics sophomore year. This year it was American history and music theory. But if he couldn't remember, I wasn't going to point it out. “Probably.”

“That explains it.”

“Why I'm immune to your charm?”

“Why you look familiar.” He pretended to look insulted. “And who says you're immune? You're smiling.”

“I'm not. . . .”

“Oh, yeah. Right . . . here.” His thumb touched the corner of my mouth, the slightest pressure, his fingers curling under my chin, the Key World's frequency rising around us.

I didn't throw myself onto his lap, or anything quite so obvious. But I
felt
obvious. Clumsy and naive, definitely not the version of myself I wanted to be around him. The charge running through me at his touch must have been written across my face.

He was supposed to look smug. Everything I knew about Simon Lane prepared me for his eyes to light up with triumph, like the scoreboard after a three-pointer. Instead, he looked confused.

“Making progress?” inquired Ms. Powell, wandering past.

Simon let go of me, shook his head as if to clear it. “Excellent progress, ma'am.”

For once, I kept my mouth shut.

Identifying the choice that triggered an Echo is exceedingly difficult. Historical analysis can be used with some degree of success, but unless the pivot formation is witnessed in real time, theories about why an Echo formed cannot be proven.

—Chapter One, “Structure and Formation,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

A
RE YOU SURE
you can handle him?” Eliot asked once class was over.

A few feet ahead of us, Bree and Simon were walking together, his dark head bent over her fair one. It was as if our strange, electric moment was even more of an aberration than the time I'd stolen with his Echo.

“Absolutely,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn't feel. “It can't be any worse than working with Bree. That looked super fun, by the way.”

Eliot grimaced. “I never thought I'd say this, but I agree with her. Powell should let us switch.”

He doesn't even know your name,
Bree had said. “It's good for Bree to experience disappointment. Builds character.”

Eliot transferred his frown to me. “Don't tell me you
want
to work with him.”

Simon and Bree stopped outside the history room. After a short conversation—one where Bree stroked his arm and tossed her hair and batted her eyelashes, as subtle as a two-by-four upside the head—he ducked inside.

The moment he was out of sight, her friends swooped in with an audible squeal. “Did you ask him?” one asked in a mock-whisper.

Bree's smile slid away. “Maybe tomorrow.” She caught my eye before they disappeared down the hall, the glare so unmistakable even Eliot recoiled.

“You might want to reconsider going to Mrs. Gregory's class today.”

“I can handle Bree.” Open hostility was easy to deal with. Simon's unpredictable, unexpected tension was more dangerous. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“To order a pizza,” I said. “Why do you think? We have a sub in history again. I need something to do while she shows the movie.”

“You could try watching the movie for once.”