“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.
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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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
YOU 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.”