There was a discreet cough, and Simon drew back as someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Another project for Mrs. Jordan?” Ms. Powell asked.
“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
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
YOU’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.”