Dissonance (6 page)

I should have known she wasn't going to let the assignment go. We weren't friends. I didn't
have
any Original friends, and if I did, she wouldn't be one of them. I folded my arms and waited.

“We should be allowed to switch partners,” she said, oozing chumminess. “Don't you think? It's not fair that we have to depend on someone we don't even know for a grade. What if
we don't get along? What if they're a complete idiot?”

I bristled, but kept my tone syrupy. “Eliot won't hold that against you. He's very patient.”

Her mask slipped as my words registered. “You don't have to be a bitch about it. Won't you be happier sticking with you own kind?”

“My own kind?” I didn't think she meant Walkers.

She simpered. “You know. Socially speaking. I'm only trying to help.”

“Sweet of you to worry. But Powell won't let us switch.”

“She will if
you
ask. For some reason, she likes you.” She looked me over, the brightness in her voice ringing like steel. “Convince her to let us trade.”

Annoyance shifted to anger. “Why? So you can climb all over Simon? He was tired of you back in September, Bree. He won't be interested in a rerun.” I turned on my heel and left her fuming in the hallway.

Bree and her friends viewed everyone as either a stepping stone or a target. I was the weird girl who was constantly skipping class and blowing off homework, so far on the fringes of the social scene I didn't qualify as either. I wasn't dazzled by her talent or taken in by her performances, but I'd never tried to outshine her. At most, I'd been an afterthought.

Now I was a threat.

“Del,” said Mrs. Gregory as I slid into my seat. “Good of you to join us. We missed you yesterday. As we so often do.”

“Not all of us,” said Bree, coming in behind me. Snickers crackled through the room.

“Family emergency,” I said.

“And yet the office has no record of either one of your parents calling to inform us of this . . . emergency. Which means, as you're certainly aware by now, your absence is unexcused.”

I sighed. The Walks I took during school weren't part of any assignment. They were my own secret ramblings, illegal but irresistible. I couldn't stand being cooped up in a classroom, not when the multiverse beckoned to me from every pivot I passed, new frequencies calling to me like a siren song. The War of 1812 or quadratic equations couldn't compete. Hence, my familiarity with the inside of the dean's office.

Gathering up my books, I waved halfheartedly. “See you tomorrow.”

“Don't leave yet.” She gave me a stack of papers and a thin smile. “Pass these out, if you will. You can see the dean
after
our pop quiz.”

Like one quiz would make a difference to my abysmal grade. Wordlessly I started circling the room. When I reached Bree's desk, she took a paper and casually, deliberately, knocked the rest out of my hands.

“Sorry,” she said.

I bent to scoop up the papers, and she added, “At least he knows I exist.”

“Excuse me?” I reached for another quiz, and she planted her leopard-print ballet flat on top of it.

“Simon. Did you honestly think one stupid project would give you a shot with him? You could disappear tomorrow and
he'd never notice. He doesn't even know your name.”

I stood, papers crumpling in my fist. Mrs. Gregory called, “Del, the quizzes? We don't have all day.”

Sotto voce, Bree murmured, “Watch yourself, freak.”

I forced my fingers to uncurl. She settled back, triumphant, her ponytail swishing as she surveyed the room. I looked at the sheaf of papers in my hand, the questions so foreign I might as well not bother.

So I didn't.

“Del! What are you doing?” Mrs. Gregory called.

“Saving time,” I said, swinging my backpack over my shoulder. “I'll tell the dean you said hello.”

Every Walker leaves an audible trail when moving through Echoes, as does any object brought from the Key World. Over time, the signal will weaken until it becomes untraceable, though inanimate objects hold signatures longer than people.

—Chapter Two, “Navigation,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

W
HEN I GOT
home from school, disciplinary paperwork stuffed into the bottom of my backpack, my mom was sitting at the kitchen table. A glass jar of buttons stood at her elbow and one of Monty's sweaters lay in her lap. “The school called.”

“I know.” I'd been sitting in the dean's office when he dialed. “I'll be more careful next time.”

“There'd better not be a next time,” she replied, and snipped a loose thread. “Have a seat.”

I dropped into my chair. “You heard from the Consort?”

“They want to see you tonight.” She tugged at the button and made a small, satisfied noise. “Daddy and I will take you in.”

The last thing I wanted was an hour-long lecture in the car. I glanced at the teapot, squat and fire-engine red, the same color
as the little girl's balloon. My throat tightened, but I said, “I'm going with Eliot.”

“He can ride with us. We need to be there.”

“You
don't
need to. You've already turned me in, Mom. Isn't that enough?”

“That's not—” She broke off as Monty wandered in, clutching the sports section of the newspaper.

“I'm cold,” he complained.

“Perfect timing,” Mom replied with forced cheer, and helped him into the sweater. He must have given her a rough time today—the more difficult he was, the more upbeat she got, as if she could reverse his decline solely through willpower. “Honestly, Dad, I don't know how you manage to lose so many buttons.”

Monty winked at me and put his finger to his lips. I stifled a laugh, despite my mood.

“Good as new, and here's my best girl in the bargain.” He gave me a whiskery kiss on the cheek. “Have you been out Walking? Did you see Rose?”

“I was at school, Grandpa.”

“It's late. She should be home by now,” he said, and swiped a handful of buttons from the jar. “We should look for her.”

“How about a snack?” Mom said. She packed up the sewing kit with exaggerated care, like the precise arrangement of threads and needles would somehow make everything else fall into place.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “A snack?”

“I'll fix you something,” I said quickly. When Monty lost
time, distraction was the only way to stop him from taking off. “How about granola? With honey on top?”

He scratched his chin, considering, and then sat as if he was doing us a favor. My mom exhaled. “I'm going to finish up some work. Del, we're leaving in an hour.”

I didn't answer.

“Have you been out Walking?” Monty asked again when she left. “Did you see Rose?”

“Nope. School, remember?” He did this a lot, asking the same questions over and over, as if the answer would change.

“You're in trouble,” he said. “I heard them talking.”

“Yep.” I kept my tone even and my face hidden behind the pantry door. “I . . . made a mistake. When I was Walking with Addie.”

He made a harrumphing noise. “Nothing's done . . .”

I was not in the mood for rhymes. Not with so much at stake. “I cleaved a world, Grandpa. It doesn't get any more done.” I spoke more softly. “It was an accident. I know they don't believe me, but it was.”

Monty didn't say anything, and I dug through the shelves for the giant mason jar of granola. “You know what I don't understand? If Echoes are such a threat, why am I in trouble for cleaving one?”

The air around me quivered. As quietly as I could, so as not to disturb the chord, I backed out of the pantry and turned my head toward the table.

“Damn it, Grandpa!”

Monty was gone, the pivot point he'd used trembling faintly. If I hurried, I might be able to catch him before my mom realized he'd wandered off. In a way, I admired how neatly he'd played us, but I doubted my parents would see it that way.

If they found out.

I'd need to be fast, not only to keep my mom from discovering I'd let Monty escape, but because his signature would only last a little while. I had to find him before the trail went cold.

Grabbing my backpack—even on a quick trip, I wanted my tools nearby—I followed him through the rift.

Monty had been tracing my grandmother's path for so long, he was Walking between worlds at random, searching for a hint of the frequency that meant she'd been there. He'd never found one.

I was luckier. I let the cacophony of the pivot swallow me up, searching for the smooth, crystalline pitch of the Key World. Only a few minutes had passed, and Monty hadn't gone far—his signal was loud and clear, nestled in an Echo with a frequency close to ours.

This Echo was old. Someone else had moved into this version of our house and rehabbed it, the empty kitchen gleaming and catalog worthy, with artful flower arrangements and perfectly staged clutter instead of the
actual
clutter that filled every surface of our house, despite my mom's efforts. A neat line of monogrammed backpacks hung from hooks by the open back door.

I dashed outside and heard the next pivot point, whirring
like crickets at dusk. When I crossed through, a giant spruce had replaced the crimson-leafed maple in my backyard. Nestled against the trunk was a bright yellow button, resonating at the Key World's frequency.

Monty's breadcrumb.

I got lost once, when I was five. My parents had been busy working, Addie was practicing piano, and I'd slipped outside on my own. I'd found an unfamiliar Echo of our backyard, with a full swing set—a slide and glider and monkey bars instead of the single rope swing my dad had made for Addie and me to share. I'd loved it, until I lost track of time. The pitch that had started out as intriguing transformed into overwhelming. I couldn't find the pivot I'd come through, and I couldn't hear any others.

That's when Monty appeared, button in hand. He'd scooped me up in his arms and called me his best, most clever girl. A glow spread through me at his words. Even back then, I'd grown tired of hearing how smart my sister was. He'd given me the button, ringing with the sound of the Key World frequency, and promised that as long as I left a trail of breadcrumbs, he would always find me, and together we would find the way home.

These days I usually didn't want to be found. But I left a trail of paper stars when I Walked anyway, both habit and reminder of the fun we'd had.

When I stepped through the next portal, he was waiting for me, leaning against a mailbox shaped like a giant fish.

“You scared me!”

“Nothing to be scared of,” he said, pulling a shiny silver
button from his pocket. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”

“Mom's going to kill me,” I said. “We have to go back.”

“It's a beautiful afternoon, Delancey. Walk with me.”

He flipped the button to the ground and set off, singing under his breath. I could see the village water tower in the distance, the same view I'd grown up with, but we were standing in a development of Tudor-style townhomes, with steeply pitched roofs and wooden cutouts decorating the balconies, exactly where our once-stately Queen Anne should have been.

You learn pretty quickly not to mourn the changes in a world. It wasn't a Walker's place to decide which Echoes were better, only to decide which ones were threats to the Key World. Sadly, chintzy housing was not considered dangerous.

I chased after Monty, linking my arm with his.

“Grandpa, the Consort wants to see me. Tonight.”

“Bah. There's time enough.” He stopped short. “Feel that?”

His mind might have been going, and his hearing was shot, but he retained the touch. I stretched out my hand, quieted my mind, and felt the quiver of a pivot point I would have missed on my own.

Again and again, the ground changed under our feet—from sidewalk to dirt road to cement to blacktop to grass—a sign we were making big jumps between worlds. In every one, he dropped another button and smiled slyly, like a kid who'd gotten away with something. We were far from the Key World now, wandering among Echoes of Echoes.

I loved how vast the multiverse felt on these Walks, hungered
for the possibilities. Someday I'd travel not only in the Echoes of the world I knew, but all over the globe. If I could find this much variety when we'd covered only a few miles, what would it be like to explore Echoes of Rome, or India, or Antarctica?

My steps slowed. How many Echoes had I destroyed with my cleaving? How many possibilities had I unraveled?

“You've cleaved worlds before, haven't you?” I asked Monty. “Back when you were a First Chair?”

“When I was young and foolish.” His tone softened. “It bothers you, what happened.”

“I keep thinking about them.” About those people, rippling away, as if they'd never existed in the first place. “Did it bother you?”

He studied the cracked sidewalk and finally said, “Still does. As it should.”

“They're just Echoes,” I said. “That's what everyone says.”

“Not everyone.” He brightened, our conversation forgotten. “You choose the next one.”

“I choose we go home.” I checked my watch—Eliot would be at my place soon. If I intercepted him, we could head out before my mom realized we'd left. We could cross directly from here to the Key World, but we'd still need to get from downtown to our house.

“We used to have such fun,” he wheedled. His chin had taken on a stubborn set. “One more.”

“One, and then we go home.” I surveyed the grungy Echo we'd stopped in. Every third storefront was boarded up; graffiti
scrawled across the plywood; the gutter was littered with food wrappers and cigarette butts and pulpy shreds of newspaper. At home we would have been standing directly outside a juice bar.