Dissonance (31 page)

“Um . . . yeah.” Simon stuffed his hands in his pockets. “We were . . .”

“Making good use of your time?” Ms. Powell was very carefully not looking at me. Her eyes moved from Simon to the shelves to the floor to the light fixtures—anywhere but me. I'd never actually repelled an Echo before. Then again, Simon hadn't touched me. All she could have seen was my impression.

The frequency swelled dramatically, reminding me how easily Eliot and I had mistaken Baroque events for cleavings on the map. Time to go.

“I forgot my notebook,” I said. “See you in a minute.”

I crossed the pivot as the Baroque event began to toll.

•  •  •

Back in the Key World library everything seemed normal. Low conversations hummed around the room, the occasional muffled squeal of laughter from a table or the stacks. Simon had triggered the Baroque event, I was certain. There had to be a connection—and I headed for the stacks, determined to find it.

He stood, one hand on the spine of a book, the other dangling at his side. “Miss me?” I asked.

No response.

“Simon?”

He ignored me.

“You're mad I left? I was gone for five minutes.” My own temper bubbled up. I stepped closer, ready to tell him off, but the words died in my throat.

When Addie was little, she used to sleepwalk. Not the world-hopping kind, but the garden-variety, standing-in-the-middle-of-the-pantry-at-three-a.m. kind. We'd find her playing Rachmaninoff, or organizing everyone's shoes, or reading a book upside down. In the morning she'd have no memory of her ramblings. She hadn't done it in years, but there was something about the stillness of Simon's face that reminded me of it.

I touched his hand. “Are you okay?”

He jerked once, a full-body shudder so violent it knocked the book he'd been touching off the shelf.

“Find your notebook?” he asked, warm and familiar. “I thought—why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you fall asleep standing up?” The shadows under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual.

“I wasn't asleep. I was talking to . . .” He looked up and down the row. “Guess I did.”

“Late night?”

“Not really.” He observed me like a painter with a subject, noting every detail, and my skin warmed.

Flustered, I scooped up the fallen book. “Here.”

“Thanks.” The cellophane cover crinkled in the silence between us. “Did I, um, say anything? When I was out?”

Out. Not sleeping. I wondered if his choice of words was deliberate. If this wasn't the first time it had happened.

“Nope,” I said, watching his reaction. “You didn't say a word. It was like you were somewhere else completely.”

He looked more relieved than surprised. “And you brought me back. Woke me up.” He grinned now, mischievous. “Kind of like a fairy tale. You should wake me with a kiss, don't you think?”

Something in me fluttered wildly at his words, too chaotic to have a rhythm, too impulsive to resist. “A kiss?”

“Del.” His voice inexplicably urgent. “You promised me another time.”

The bell rang, and I winced, like always.

“Yeah,” I said unsteadily. “But this isn't it.”

“Then when?” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I want to see you. A date. You and me. No running off to cut class or get something out of your locker, nobody interrupting at the worst possible time. No stupid bells. Tonight, Del.”

“We're supposed to work on our composition,” I said, and wanted to smack myself.

“Screw the composition. Come out with me. An actual date.”

“Why?” My mouth was so dry I could barely force the word out.

“Because I cannot figure you out, and I want to.” His hands flexed at his sides, like he was trying to keep from reaching for me. “Isn't that enough?”

I couldn't figure him out either. Maybe this was my chance. Maybe a few hours alone with him would explain the Baroque events. Maybe it would give us a clue about how to fix the worlds.

Maybe I just wanted to be with him.

“More than enough,” I said.

Synaptic Resonance Transfer occurs when strings of two separate branches overlap and resonate in unison. While uncommon, it is not typically a cause for alarm (see:
Case Studies in Quantum Psychology
).

—Chapter Four, “Physiology,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

Y
OU'RE WEARING LIPSTICK,”
Addie said as I came downstairs that night.

I covered my mouth with my hand. “I wear lipstick.”

“Yeah, but this looks pretty. And you changed your sweater.”

“Leave her alone,” my mom said. “You look very nice, sweetheart. Are you and Eliot doing something special?”

“Eliot's got a school project,” I said. He'd complained about meeting up with Bree, and I'd commiserated without telling him the change in my own plans.

“Big night?” Monty asked.

“I thought you and Simon were working on your composition?” Addie asked.

“We might go out instead,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You and Simon?” Mom pinched the bridge of her nose. “Del? Really? He's an Original. There are rules.”

“I'm not breaking any of them. It's not serious,” I said. “He doesn't
do
serious.”

“How reassuring,” she replied.

The doorbell rang, and Addie slipped down the hallway before me.

“Let her go, Winnie,” said Monty from his place in front of the TV. “What's the harm?”

She sighed deeply. “Fine. Be home by curfew. Not a minute later.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I grabbed my bag.

“What about me?” protested Monty. “I'm the one who told her you should go.”

“Thanks to you, too,” I said, and gave him a quick kiss.

Simon stood in the entryway, looking nervous. Addie was grilling him about his family and his hobbies, no doubt gearing up to ask about his intentions. I took him by the arm. “Time to go.”

The Jeep was parked across the street. A memory of the one in Doughnut World—black, not red—rose up, startling me.

“I'm supposed to get that,” he said as I reached for the handle.

“I can open my own door.”

“Not on a date. Let me at least start off like a gentleman.”

“This is weird,” I said, but let him open the door and help me inside.

“I'm the same me,” he said.

But he wasn't. I felt vaguely guilty. Was it cheating if you were dating the same guy in two different worlds? And since Doughnut Simon and I weren't a couple—just two people who
ended up making out every time we saw each other—did going out with
anyone
count as cheating?

I nudged a tooth-marked Frisbee with my foot. “Where's Iggy?”

“When did you meet Iggy?” He looked genuinely confused.

A million times in Echoes. Never here. “Everyone's heard about that dog,” I said, laughing weakly.

He joined in. “He's so spoiled. He's home with my mom, probably sneaking treats.”

“How's she doing?”

“Pretty much the same.” He squared his shoulders, resolutely cheerful. “Does the Depot sound okay?”

“Sounds great.” Familiar ground and not too crowded. “Definitely better than one of the mall restaurants.”

“I figured you weren't a huge fan of the mall,” he said with a grin.

“What gave it away?” I smoothed the thrift-store sweater I'd changed into—dark green with a wide neck and a slim fit—dressier than I usually wore, but comfortable.

“If I said you're not like other girls, you'd think it was a line.”

“It
is
a line.”

“Doesn't make it untrue. Besides, you like it that way.”

“For someone who never spoke to me before this semester, you've certainly turned into the expert.”

He raised a shoulder. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

“Basketball,” I said, desperate for a neutral topic. “The season's going well?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you end up talking with the scout?”

He stared at me, slowing down enough that the person behind us laid on the horn. “What scout?”

“The one from Arizona. Bree said . . .”

He swallowed. “It's not in the cards for me right now.”

Of course not. He couldn't go halfway across the country when his mom was so sick. I touched his sleeve. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's my choice, right?”

I bit my lip. Somewhere there was an Echo where he'd chosen to go. “Definitely.”

We pulled up in front of the restaurant. The clean, art deco lines seemed both vintage and timeless, and the bold colors emphasized the structure instead of competing with it. The disparate elements blended together in a quirky, compelling harmony.

“You come here a lot?” he asked when he came around to open my door. He took my hand as I climbed out, kept it as we crossed the parking lot.

“Sure,” I said, pausing at the small bronze plaque next to the doors. The air was filled with pivots, their edges like tattered silk.

The train crash on this site had left thousands of worlds in its wake. Twenty years later, the Echoes formed from those pivots were some of the strongest around. We'd taken field trips to this site every year since I started training. If I crooked my fingers, I could have caught a pivot and Walked to countless realities, but I was perfectly happy in this one.

The Depot smelled like warm bread, candle wax, and coffee. Simon guided me to a table in the back.

“This seat good?”

“It's my favorite,” I said, and pointed to another bronze plaque on the wall next to my seat. “I like the marker.”

“You
are
here a lot. With Eliot?”

Happiness evaporated. “Would you lay off the Eliot thing? I've known him since I was in diapers. That's it.”

“According to your sister, you two make a great couple.”

“Don't listen to Addie,” I said. “I never do.”

“So you and he aren't . . .” He fumbled with his napkin. “Promised, or something?”

I nearly spewed water across the table. “I'm going to kill her.”

“I'll take it that's a no.”

“How about this? You stop giving me shit about Eliot, and I won't mention Bree again.”

“Bree? I told you—”

“I know. And I know how she looks at you.”

He scowled. “You've got a deal. No more questions about Eliot.”

“Excellent.”

“Your sister is . . . intense,” he said cautiously.

“She's a control freak,” I said. “But that's a much nicer way to put it.”

“You two don't get along?”

I made a face and scanned the menu. “We've been better lately.”

“Must be. You're not grounded anymore, right?”

Had I told him I was grounded? I must have, but the fact
that I couldn't remember served as a warning. Too many worlds. Too many Simons. I needed to get a grip. “Kind of. My folks are easing up.”

“I'm glad.”

“Me too,” I said, as the waitress approached. After we'd ordered, I leaned forward. “Want to know a secret?”

His slow, dangerous smile muddled my thoughts. “Definitely.”

“I would have come out anyway.”

“Snuck out? For me? I'm flattered.”

“You should be.”

His hand covered mine, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles. “Does this mean I'm your secret now? Like when you disappear at school?”

“Hard to keep you secret when you show up on the front porch. Are you telling people about us?”

He leaned back. “There's not really an ‘us,' is there?”

The heat that had been washing over me receded. Stupid, to assume that flirting in the library and one date meant we were together. This was Simon. Charming, casual, loved-by-many, in-love-with-none Simon. I'd been fooling myself.

It was so easy to fall back into old defenses. They fit better than any outfit I might have worn tonight.

“Flavor of the month?” I said, lifting my chin and plucking a roll from the bread basket. Calm. Indifferent. He hadn't gotten close enough to hurt. “Figured you'd mix it up? Go slumming before you try again with Bree?”

“Dial it down, will you?” His eyes flashed. “It's our first date.
I haven't even kissed you yet. Can we save the relationship talk until after dessert?”

I paused in the middle of tearing my roll to bits, hearing exasperation, not anger, in his voice. Foolish as it was, I let myself hope.

“Yet?”

He looked at me blankly.

“You said you haven't kissed me
yet
. Were you going to?”

His mouth curved. “To start.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice fainter than I intended.

“Yeah.” His eyes met mine again, and now it wasn't anger sparking in them. “So eat up.”

Both of us made a deliberate attempt to keep the conversation light and inconsequential during the meal. Finally he asked, “Did you want dessert?”

What I wanted was to go somewhere without a table separating us and a crowd of people watching. “Not here.”

“My mom was at the crash, you know,” he said offhandedly, signaling for the check.

I gaped. “Was she hurt?”

“She was running late that day. She spilled tea on her outfit and had to change clothes. She was in her car when the train derailed, but the people she usually sat with? Dead. Every one. Switching outfits saved her life. Hard to believe.”

“Not really,” I croaked, and took a long drink of water.

“That's where she met my dad. He worked for the NTSB, investigating the accident. She says by the time the interview was over, she knew he was the one.”