Dissonance (19 page)

I bought a steaming cup of apple cider from one of the booths, hoping it would settle me, and heard a familiar laugh.

Simon stood on the corner in a red anorak, hair cut military short, holding hands with a black-haired girl. He pulled her in for a kiss, their bodies fusing together.

Jealousy flared, then died away. Taken separately, the breaks here were insignificant. But cumulatively they might be enough to pose a threat. When I turned in my report, would this world be cleaved? Would I have caused another Simon to unravel? Dizzy and sick at heart, I sank onto the curb.

“It's not lost yet,” said Monty from somewhere above me.

“Yet,” I said morosely. “How soon will they come to cleave it?”

“Depends.” He helped me up. “There's always another way, Del.”

Through the crowd, I caught a flash of red. “He's not real. None of this is.”

“If that's true, what's got you so upset?”

I didn't have an answer, and he patted my arm. “We can tune the breaks, you know. Tune enough, and they'll ignore this world. I can teach you.”

“Grandpa,” I said, shaking my head. “We have to cleave. It's what we do.”

“What
they
do,” he said. “You're better.”

Laughter scraped against my throat. “I'm not better. I'm suspended. Tuning breaks instead of reporting them would get me expelled. Addie would turn me over to Lattimer in a heartbeat.”

At the mention of Lattimer's name, the fight went out of Monty. He seemed to curl in on himself. “Don't tell,” he said, his reedy voice turning small. “Don't tell.”

“I won't.” I took his hand in mine. “You followed me last night, didn't you?”

“I never left the house,” he said primly. “Wanted to know where you were, to make sure you came home safe. I won't tell either.”

“Thanks,” I said, and gave him the rest of my cider. “Let's find Addie and get out of here.”

He nodded, waiting as I nestled a star at the base of the tree.

Addie was sitting on a bench by the train station, watching the kale-loving couple I'd spotted earlier climb into a battered red pickup truck. “Did you get your readings?”

I handed her my notebook and she scanned the entries. “Nice. I'll turn these in when we get home. Good work, Del.”

It didn't feel good, but I managed a smile.

•  •  •

We hit three more Echoes. None had as many breaks as the first, which was a relief, and none contained an Echo Simon. Monty was quiet for the rest of the trip, singing to himself and methodically working his way through a bag of jelly beans. My dizziness faded, but a headache crept across my skull, clamping down with iron fingers.

“One more stop,” Addie said.

“Do they serve lunch?” Monty grumbled. “The least you could do is feed an old man.”

“Lunch?” My stomach dropped. “What time is it?”

Addie checked her watch. “Oh, wow. Nearly two.”

“I'm late!” I took off for the nearest pivot, Addie and Monty following behind.

“Late for what?” Addie called. “Del, wait up!”

Fixing the Key World frequency in my mind, I burst through the pivot back home and headed for the library, a few blocks away. My headache eased, but not my panic.

“I'm supposed to meet someone,” I said when Addie and Monty caught up to me at an intersection. I jammed my thumb against the walk button, but the light didn't change any faster. “I was, anyway. An hour ago.”

“Your school project? Since when do you worry about school on the weekends?”

“I promised my partner.”

“Since when do you care about promises?”

I hit the library at a dead run, heading for the group study rooms. The woman at the reference desk shot me a dirty look.

The glass-windowed rooms stood empty. There was no sign of Simon. I cursed under my breath, earning a second glare.

“Is there another study area?” I asked the librarian.

“Just the desks,” she said stiffly, and pointed to a group of tables.

“Was there anyone here earlier? In the study rooms?”

“I saw a young man, closer to lunchtime,” she said. “He left.”

I checked my phone and groaned. We didn't get cell service in Echoes, but judging from the string of texts Simon had sent, he'd assumed I was ignoring him.

Here.

Where u at?

Booooorrrrred.

U OK?

WTF?

Time is finite. Minutes spent in Echoes are lost in the Key World. It's the cost of Walking, we're taught, and it was a price I'd been happy to pay.

Until today.

•  •  •

On the way home I sent Simon a string of apologies, but my screen stayed dark. No messages from Eliot, either.

U mad?
I texted Eliot, while curled up on the threadbare chaise in my room. There was no reply. Maybe he was out with our class. Maybe he was so focused on debugging his map software that he didn't hear the chime. Maybe he was ignoring me.

Sorry. Really. Miss u.
I picked up the violin, trying out a few
melodies for the composition project. None of them were right—too mournful, too insipid, too clichéd—and I couldn't keep my eyes off my phone.

Patience was never one of my strong suits. I took a deep breath and dialed.

“Hey,” I said when Eliot picked up. “Did you get my texts?”

“Yeah.” Definitely mad.

“I'm sorry. I was out of line.”

“I know.”

I began to pace. “I was pissy about Simon blowing me off, and I took it out on you.”

“I know.”

“And I was sick of Addie acting superior, and I have to put up with it until this stupid suspension is over, and I took that out on you too.”

“I
know
,” he said, not hiding his exasperation.

“You're very smart. And probably right about Simon.” Before he could tell me he knew that, too, I rushed on. “How was class today?”

There was a pause. “Fine. Quiet.”

“I'll bet. Did you show your map to Shaw?”

“Not yet. I want it to be perfect.”

“Nothing's perfect,” I reminded him. “Not even me.”

“Definitely not you.” Warmth trickled back into his voice, the first signs of a thaw.

“But you love me anyway,” I said, giddy with relief.

Another pause. “It's late. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“I'll be here,” I said.

I couldn't sleep, imagining the look on Simon's face when he'd finally given up on me. I worked on our composition, but my fingering was clumsy, my pacing off, the melody hovering just out of reach. Maybe a trip to see Doughnut Simon would help. Without thinking, I moved toward the pivot—and then stopped. Another make-out session would be a distraction, not a solution. Eliot might be on the path to forgiving me, but Simon was another question entirely.

Tomorrow, I'd have my answer.

J
UDGING FROM THE
stiff line of Simon's back when I slunk into music the next day, forgiveness was a long way off.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered as Powell started the day's lecture. Simon stayed immobile, the chill coming off him practically visible. “I had a family thing.”

He leaned over to Bree and murmured inaudibly. She dipped her head toward him, giggling, and Powell frowned at us over her cat-eye glasses.

“Change of plans,” she said. “Take fifteen minutes to check in with your partner, make sure everyone's on the same page.”

The class split up, but Simon continued to face front.

“Hey.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “I said I was sorry.”

“Everything okay, you two?” Powell asked, arms folded.

“Great,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Simon?”

He sank down farther in his chair. “Awesome.”

“Sounds like it,” she replied dryly, and circled the room.

“You can't ignore me for the whole project,” I said.

“You blew me off!” he growled, spinning around. He looked
more shocked than angry. For Simon, being stood up was probably as incomprehensible as gravity failing.

“Not intentionally. I was out with my family and I lost track of time. And I apologized.”

“So what? You're as bad as everyone says,” he shot back.

Guilt shifted to temper. “Everyone? Or Bree? How was the party, by the way? Did you two have a nice ride?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You blew me off because you were pissed about the party?”

“Please. Like I care.”

“Then why'd you bail?”

“I didn't bail! I had to do something with my sister and it went longer than expected.” When his expression didn't soften, I added, “Here. I worked on this last night.”

“It's supposed to be a team project,” he said, taking the staff paper from me.

“Fine. You do the next part and I'll take a nap,” I said. “It's a peace offering, you jerk.”

He stared down at the notes. “I don't know what any of this means. Does it sound decent?”

“Of course it does.” I moved to Powell's piano. Grudgingly he joined me on the bench, and I played the opening measures.

“It's nice,” he admitted. “It sounds like . . . I don't know. Rainy nights.”

“A little bit, maybe.” I'd taken the music from the band at Grundy's and improvised, adding and subtracting until the song was both familiar and new. Kind of like Simon.

“The party sucked,” he said.

“Bummer.” Impossible to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

“Would have been better if you'd come.” There was no gleam or charm to his words this time, only a quiet honesty that brushed away the remnants of my hurt.

I kept my eyes on the music and my voice light. “Wasn't invited.”

He pressed a low C. “I'm sorry. I should have . . .”

I shrugged. “We're even.”

“Guess so.” The dark blue of his eyes turned thoughtful. “Play it again.”

He traced the notes as I played, and I couldn't help remembering the feel of his fingers against my cheek as we'd stood in the rain.

“How do you keep the notes straight?” he asked. “The minute the parts start going in different directions, I'm lost.”

“Perfect pitch, remember? I can hold the notes in my head more clearly. Plus, I've been playing violin since I was four.”

“Definitely a prodigy,” he said, shaking his head. “Your whole family is musical? Even your sister?”

“Addie's good at everything.” I rolled my eyes. “Wait. Addie's
perfect
at everything. Good isn't good enough.”

I was accustomed to thinking of our abilities as genetic, but Simon's question spurred one of my own. If Walking was my birthright, why did I feel like such an outsider in my own family?

“Could perfect write this? I don't think so.” The words were
teasing, but there was an undercurrent of sympathy to them. “Perfect is boring. No challenge to it. And you know how I love a challenge.”

Flustered, I turned the conversation back on him. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”

“Neither. I was all the kid my mom could handle,” he said, a note of wistfulness creeping in. “It would be nice, though. Especially now.”

“Why now?” I asked.

He bumped his shoulder into mine, mouth curving. “I could make them do my homework.”

I glanced down at the half-filled score. “I can finish it at home. It's no problem.”

“I told you, it's a team project.” He scooped up the pages and held them out of reach. This Simon, it seemed, had a stubborn streak. “You don't play well with others, do you?”

Eliot, sitting a few feet away, made a choking sound. I twisted in my seat and glared at him. He put his hands up and made a show of turning his attention to Bree.

“I play fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Glad to hear it. We're never going to finish this here, you know. Let's get together and”—he tapped the score and leered comically—“make beautiful music.”

I threw one of the crumpled papers at him. “Very funny.”

“Couldn't resist,” he said, batting it back at me. “Look, Del. I need this grade.”

I scoffed. “You're not failing the class. Everyone says you're a
lock for a basketball scholarship. Who's going to care about your music grade?”

“My mom.” He looked genuinely worried. “How about Thursday? I've got three games this week, and my other nights are kind of shot.”

Spending time with him outside of school wasn't a hardship. “My sister has taken over my weeknights. What about Saturday?”

“Away game,” he said apologetically. “Sunday?”

A full week before I could see him alone, away from school. I fought back disappointment. “Sure, as long as it's in the afternoon. Library again?”

“We need a piano, don't we? What about your house?”

The last thing I needed was Simon running into my family. “What about your place?”

“I don't have a piano.” He tapped his pencil, a quick 7/8 rhythm. He might be tone-deaf, but he wasn't totally hopeless when it came to music. “You don't want me to come to your house. What are you hiding, Delancey Sullivan?”

“Nothing.” Everything. I wasn't used to people seeing me—really seeing me. At home everything I did was eclipsed by Addie's performance or my parents' work. At school I kept to the fringes, the girl with the wild hair and the thrift-store clothes and the bad attitude, and I cultivated my isolation like a shield.

People see what they expect. Their minds are conditioned to smooth away the impossible until it's transformed to the probable. Seeing the truth requires patience and attention, and seeing the truth of a person is even harder.