Dissonance (20 page)

But Simon saw me. In the Key World, in Echoes, he saw me in a way that no one else did, and he didn't look away. It was terrifying, and magnetic, and addictive. I couldn't help worrying that one of these days he'd see too much. “You're not exactly rolling out the welcome mat either. What are
you
hiding?”

His pencil skidded over the paper, a slash of black. “Nothing.”

Never try to con a con, Monty said. But I smiled as if I believed Simon. “Okay, then. Sunday afternoon at my place.”

“Sunday,” he agreed. Relief washed over his entire body, the tension ebbing from his shoulders and jaw, his lazy smile coming back. “It's a date.”

Isolating break threads is part of cleaving protocol. By determining which strings are responsible for an Echo's instability, the cleaving can be rendered more efficiently. Be advised, however: Direct contact with a vibrato fractum increases sensitivity to frequency poisoning.

—Chapter Five, “Physics,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

Y
OU SAID YOU
wanted something different,” Addie said, when we went out for a quick lesson later that afternoon.

“I spend eight hours a day here,” I said. “This isn't different; it's cruel.”

At the Original Washington, only the sports teams were still around, practicing. Here, the halls were crowded with kids in tan pants and maroon sweaters.

“Blame Grandpa,” she said. “It was his turn to pick.”

When I looked over at Monty, he was mumbling to himself, tugging at the buttons on his sweater. “Why this one, Grandpa?”

“Sounded right.”

It did, actually. Strident but stable, with no nearby breaks. It was as safe as an Echo could get.

Addie gestured to the students filing quietly past us. “This
is
different,” she said. “You wouldn't last ten minutes in those uniforms.”

I looked down at my ripped jeans and “runs with scissors” T-shirt. She had a point. Around us the corridor was rapidly emptying.

“I want something new. Something exciting.”

“Exciting is another word for trouble. Which you have more than enough of.” Addie headed toward the cafeteria, calling over her shoulder, “We can go home and catch up on your reading, if you'd rather.”

Monty shot me a look of apology and followed her.

I trailed after them, twirling the dials of each locker I passed. They spun too freely under my hand, and on instinct I yanked on one. The door sprang open, revealing a tan canvas coat and neatly stacked books. I tried the next one and found the same thing. Four in a row, completely identical.

What kind of high school had no locks on its lockers?

One where theft wasn't a problem.

And privacy wasn't a concern, as evidenced by the surveillance cameras mounted at both ends of the hall. They shouldn't pick me up, unless I touched an Echo—but their presence made me uneasy.

“Cafeteria,” Addie called back, and I hurried to catch up. The tables stood in perfectly straight rows. I ran a hand over one, the laminate pristine. At home the lunchroom tables were pitted and carved from years of student graffiti. Monty circled the
room, poking at each brick as if he was reading their individual frequencies. Addie watched him for a moment and then turned back to me.

“We're isolating break threads,” she said. “So tell me why I picked the cafeteria.”

“Not for the smell.” The universal scent of disinfectant and boiled vegetables permeated the air. I breathed through my mouth, adding, “Lots of repetitive choices. People choose the same meals and the same seats every day. The pivots sound monotonous, so the breaks stand out more clearly.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “Once the Consort authorizes a cleaving, the next step is to isolate the unstable strings. They're the first ones you'll cut, but you have to fix them beforehand.”

“Why?”

“If you start cutting while the threads are unstable, the cleaving won't heal properly, and the damage will spread.” She gestured to a whiteboard with the day's menu. “Try this one.”

I laid my palm flat against it, bracing myself for the tremor of the break. “Doesn't sound too bad.”

“Nope. We aren't dealing with anything that would require cleaving. We're finding the thread and letting go. I'll help you through the first few. Curl your fingers and catch the break, like when you choose a frequency midpivot.”

I did, the movement natural and familiar. The break intensified, traveling over my skin. I twitched reflexively, and Addie smiled. “You get used to it. Now, keep your hand in contact with the break, and . . .” She broke off as I crooked my index finger,
gathering up a group of threads. On instinct I slid my other hand along them and began sorting through them by touch, humming lightly.
Nimble fingers, open mind . . .

Most of the strings felt smooth and taut, resonating in unison. But one vibrated out of sync with the rest, its surface kinked and rough, and I transferred it to my other hand, shuddering at the contact.
Hum a tune both deft and kind . . .

“What next?”

Wordlessly Addie reached into the break, her hands covering mine and feeling for the threads. When her hand closed around the one I'd separated, she drew back as if burned. “Let go. Right now.”

I did, withdrawing my hands and dragging them down the sides of my jeans, trying to scrub off the feeling of the faulty string. “Did I screw up?”

“No. You did great.” She peered at me. “When did you learn that?”

“Um . . . three minutes ago.”

“That wasn't your first time isolating a thread.” She turned her hands over. “It takes tons of practice. Have you been messing around on your own?”

I didn't think my solo Walks were what she meant, but I picked my words carefully. “I've never tried that before. Ever. I swear.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“I don't know! It was instinct, I guess. My hands kind of took over my brain.”
Nimble fingers, open mind.

“You must have picked it up somewhere. From someone.”
She straightened and looked around. “Where's Monty?”

The cafeteria was empty.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “We'd better track him down.”

We headed out the double doors, into an eerie silence. Class was in session, but unlike home, there were no stragglers. No sign of Monty either. I asked, “Which way?”

“I'll go left; you go right. Bring him back to the cafeteria.”

“What if he's crossed a pivot?” I called.

“Then he can find his own way back,” she snapped. “No. Find me and we'll track him down together.”

I headed toward what was the music wing back home. Here it looked like tech classes—industrial equipment and car parts were visible through the windows. I'd wring Monty's neck when I found him. The first time Addie taught me something good, and he'd spoiled it. He was probably off looking for dessert.

Intent on listening for pivots, I hadn't realized someone was rounding the corner until he slammed into me. I fell backward, swearing.

“Watch where you're going!” Simon snapped.

“You?” I was losing track of how many Simons I'd found. Sometimes the strings making up an Echo would cross with the Key World, causing duplication, but I'd never heard of it happening this often. I rubbed my stinging elbow. “I'm fine, thanks. Don't bother to help me up.”

He paused and held out his hand. I took it, nearly gasping as the break in his frequency crashed into me. He looked me over, annoyance changing to amusement. “Nice uniform.”

“I'm not really a uniform kind of girl.”

“Excellent. Maybe they'll leave me alone and go after you.”

Now I studied him more closely—he wore the same tan pants and sweater as the students I'd seen earlier, but the chinos were threadbare, hanging low on his hips, and his hair stood in unruly, gelled spikes, porcupine-style. His frequency wasn't the only volatile thing about him.

“They?”

His smile flashed. A tattoo circled around his wrist—a vine, intricate tendrils spiraling across his skin. My mouth went dry.

“They won't care if you're new, either,” he said. “ ‘Ignorance of the rules is no excuse for breaking them.' They never mention the part where they keep us ignorant about the real world.”

Okay. Clearly this was Angry Dystopian Simon. Monty's choice made more sense now. A world with fewer choices made for a more stable environment, and the breaks would be easier to identify. In his own way, he'd been trying to help. “I'm just visiting.”

“Lucky girl.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you? Are you supposed to be somewhere? Everyone else . . .”

“Do I look like everyone else?” He braced an arm against the wall, leaning so close his breath feathered across my cheek.

“No,” I squeaked, and he laughed.

“I got called down to the office. You're making me late.” He didn't sound bothered. “Might as well cut. Want to come with?”

“Cut?” This was new—Simon as the rule breaker, me as the
voice of reason. “What happens if they catch us?”

“I'm already in trouble,” he said, and took my hand, tugging me toward the nearest door. He was in more trouble than he knew. His break was stronger than any of the ones in the cafeteria. If I'd listened to Monty the other day, I could have tuned him. “What's a little more?”

“Del! Where are you going?”

Addie clipped down the hallway, boots clicking on the linoleum, Monty in tow. I couldn't let her hear Simon's signal. She'd know immediately that he was a break, and she'd report it. “I can't really handle any more trouble today. But you should go.”

“You're sure?” he asked.

“Another time,” I said, not meaning it, but desperate to get him away from Addie's scrutiny. “Someone's coming.”

He turned on his heel and strolled away, moving fast without seeming to rush.

“You were supposed to stay with us,” I scolded Monty when Simon was out of earshot.

“He was in the office. We're lucky nobody saw him.” She squinted at Simon's retreating form. “Is that the basketball player?”

“Kind of.” Before she could say anything else, I asked, “Back to the cafeteria?”

“As long as Grandpa stays put,” she said.

“Bah. I'm here now, aren't I?” he replied, unabashed. “Let's see how she handles those breaks.”

I handled them pretty easily, to Addie's continued surprise. How I'd handled Simon's break was more worrisome.

•  •  •

Seeing Simon at the reform school, as I'd privately christened it, had put Addie on high alert. For the rest of the week, everywhere we Walked, she looked for him. More often than not, we found him.

There was Simon the drummer, who wore black T-shirts that clung to his biceps and had a line of eyebrow piercings. Shy Simon, who helped me reach a library book I had no intention of checking out and vanished into the stacks. Simon the science geek, who spent the better part of an hour discussing relativity with me until Addie shot down his theory with basic Walker physics. Simon the horndog, who managed to ask Addie
and
me out in the space of fifteen minutes. (“Not my type,” she'd responded, witheringly. I'd laughed all the way home.)

“I'm telling you,” Addie said. “There's something strange about him.”

“It's nothing,” I said, checking my phone. Eliot hadn't made much progress researching the problems in Park World, but his map was running smoothly. “Every Walk we take is either at school or in town. He's not the only Echo we keep seeing.”

Bree Carlson, for example, though she never noticed me. She shifted as dramatically as Simon did, from Goth to cheerleader to teacher's pet. In some Echoes she and Simon were obviously a couple, but in others they barely crossed paths. I liked to think the lack of continuity between their Echoes was a sign they weren't supposed to be together in the Key World, where Bree was pursuing Simon like a lioness about to take down a really tall, hot zebra.

“Yeah, but Simon's the one you keep running into. It's not an accident, Del. You're looking for him.”

“He's easy to look at.” In truth, his frequent appearances unnerved me, too. But aside from Dystopian Simon, his recent Echoes had sounded stable, so I chalked it up to coincidence.

This time we'd found Simon the student council president. Clean-scrubbed, smart and sensible, and not a member of the basketball team. Instead, he was running the concession stand with Bree.

“Who knew filling the popcorn machine was so tough?” I muttered the third time Bree needed Simon's help to make a fresh batch.

“Who cares? The break's somewhere in the concession stand. Isolate it, we'll grab Grandpa and Eliot, and go home.”

Monty had wandered off too many times recently, so we'd pressed poor Eliot into service—they were inside watching the game and tracking pivots while we worked in the nearly deserted lobby. Bree's laughter trailed across the room, and Simon's answering chuckle followed.

“Gladly,” I said. Simon's back was to me, and Bree was too focused on him to notice anything else—least of all a Walker.

“Cassidy's having people over after the game,” Bree was saying. “We should check it out.”

“For a few minutes,” he said.

“A few?” She pretended to pout, lowered her voice to a purr. “We'd have fun. I guarantee it.”

“I bet,” he said, a smile in his tone. Jealousy squeezed my lungs.

“Excuse me,” I said, leaning over the counter. My fingertips barely touched his elbow, but his frequency—like the feedback from a microphone—ricocheted through me.

Simon turned, his smile broadening. “What can I get you?”