Dissonance (16 page)

“The three of you can go together,” Mom said. “Addie's right—sporting events are a great way to practice mapping. And, Eliot, you can test the software in a high-stress situation. Everybody wins.”

Addie smirked at me. “Told you so.”

Monty pushed back from the table, his chair squeaking on the hardwood. He'd been so silent, I'd forgotten he was there. “Sounds like a plan, girls. I'll get my coat.”

Addie's jaw dropped, and it was my turn to smirk.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later the scent of popcorn and nachos filled the air—but instead of the maroon carpet and plush chairs of the movie theater, it was hardwood floors, ancient bleachers, and the staccato squeak of sneakers against the thud of dribbling basketballs. The field house was packed for the first home game, and the four of us were stuck in the nosebleed section.

“Sporting events tend to create really dense concentrations of pivots,” Addie said. “Emotions are running high, which leads to more emphatic decisions and more significant repercussions, and the game itself is a compressed cycle of choices and reactions.”

“Lots of choices,” Monty translated around a mouthful of hot dog. “Lots of branches. Plenty to see, and a familiar face, to boot.”

He nodded toward Simon, bushy eyebrows waggling. I pretended not to know what he meant.

The number of pivots opening and closing around us was dizzying. The sound was like the sweep of wind through tall grass, or a thousand birds taking flight—all flutter and rush and thrill. So many worlds, dangling in front of me like brand-new songs waiting to be played.

Rather than explore, I was stuck with my notebook, marking every pivot that sprang up: people choosing where to sit, the players' actions, the referees' calls, and the coaches' directions. It was a tedious, mind-numbing job, and I fought the urge to shove Addie down the bleachers in retaliation.

While I worked longhand, Eliot analyzed the scene with his phone, the lights scattering and twisting like a kaleidoscope. He barely lifted his head to watch the game. No matter where I looked, my gaze kept wandering back to the court.

Back to Simon. I wouldn't have argued quite so much if I'd remembered he would be here. The thought made me feel shallow, so I pushed it away and focused on the sight of him pounding down the court, shouting instructions to his teammates. I'd watched him for years, but tonight was my first basketball game. He moved with an urgency that surprised me. The lazy grace that marked his everyday movements was gone, replaced by a sharpness that verged on anger.

It was easy to sense the pivots Simon created. I didn't need to look at Eliot's display to see the strength of those branches—I could hear them, the tangle of realities tantalizingly complex.

Next to me, Eliot jerked in surprise.

“What's wrong?” I had to shout to make myself heard over the crowd.

“Your partner,” he said, tapping the screen. “Watch.”

Bright dots were scattered across the display, smaller pixels clustering around them. “That's him,” Eliot said, pointing to a pulsing light. “He's drawing the other branches in.”

I hadn't heard it, because I'd been so focused on Simon himself. But now, seeing the entire court in miniature, the interplay was obvious. Simon's pivots fed off the smaller lights around him, increasing with every passing moment.

Monty peered over Eliot's shoulder, then down at the floor. “You don't see that every day.”

“What is it?” Eliot asked.

“A Baroque event.” Addie tilted the phone toward her. “One branch in a group of similar frequencies causes the smaller ones to shift. Once enough of them start to shift, they combine, like they've been transposed. The resulting branch is much stronger. They're not super common, but you see them at sporting events sometimes.” She launched into a more detailed explanation, filled with technicalities and citations. It was like listening to someone read their term paper out loud.

“So it's a transposition?” I asked. Eliot slanted me a look, no doubt remembering how we'd transposed Doc Reese's science test.

“Not exactly,” she said. “Transposition occurs in newly formed Echoes, before the frequency locks in. Baroque events happen in established Echoes—they're a lot more complex.”

“What causes them?” Eliot asked.

“Nobody knows,” she replied. “So long as the end result is stable, it's not a problem. These are the right conditions for it, though.”

Below us the Baroque event was finally audible. It was like listening to an orchestra tuning up—myriad pitches colliding with one another, making minute adjustments. Not even the
regular, everyday game noises—the crowd's stomps and yells, the refs' whistles, the cheerleaders' chanting—could mask the sound spreading through the field house.

“It's kind of cool,” I admitted, watching the pivots forming in Simon's wake.

The halftime buzzer blared, putting a stop to the Baroque event. We were ahead, 52–37, and the bleachers shook with the crowd's enthusiasm. The team headed for the locker room, fists pumping, but their absence caused the pivots to fall quiet.

Eliot stood. “Nacho run?”

Addie looked repulsed. “That cheese is nothing but artificial dyes and hydrogenated fats.”

“I'm living on the edge,” he said cheerily. “Come on, Del. You said you wanted popcorn.”

“Popcorn?” Monty said, but Addie caught his sleeve.

“We'll stay here,” she said. “Be back before halftime's over.”

Taking me by the hand, Eliot led me down the bleachers and into the crowded lobby. Children darted through the crowd while parents chitchatted, and our classmates clustered together, tight-knit little groupings that didn't admit newcomers.

“You hate nachos,” I said.

“I didn't want to talk in front of the others. Tell me exactly what the map looked like before it crashed yesterday.”

“One big light. Took up the whole screen.”

“What did it sound like when you crossed through?”

“Strong,” I said, thinking back. “I couldn't have stayed longer than an hour, tops.”

“I think you saw the remnants of a Baroque event. Same as now, lots of pivots combining into one. You came in at the end, after the branches were absorbed.” His hands traced paths in the air as he spoke. “I bet another one forms during the second half. Do you think Addie would let us take a look?”

“Not unless we spike her pop.” But the lure of exploring trumped my concern about Addie. “We could go without her. Wait until she's distracted and check it out.”

“She's turned you in once already,” he warned. “Don't give her the chance to do it again. Let's ask.”

Halftime was ending. Through the doors we could hear the pep band playing a fight song, heavy on the trombone and the bass drum.

“Guarantee you she'll say no.” I shrugged. Even though doing the sensible thing fit me like a pair of someone else's shoes, I could see the logic in it. We headed inside and made our way up the stairs. “But you can try.”

Addie spent the second half lecturing us on branch theory and Walker protocol. Monty napped, despite the deafening noise of the crowd. Eliot's eyebrows shot higher and higher, his posture ramrod straight as he compared the action on the court to his display. I kept my eyes on Simon and the Baroque event.

Even without looking, I knew the minute Eliot's map crashed—it was the same moment the pivots cramming the floor coalesced into a single, deeply resonant one, tolling like a bell. I clapped my hands over my ears. Even Monty jolted awake.

“And that is how a Baroque event works,” Addie said, like
we were kindergarteners and she was the put-upon teacher. The game ended moments later, the crowd on its feet, roaring triumphantly.

Simon led the team through a complicated handshake ritual with the opposing squad, then huddled with his own on the sidelines. He'd played nearly the entire game, turning his uniform dark with sweat and his face ruddy. The triumph in his expression verged on cockiness, as if their victory had never been in question. Fists pumping, the team swarmed into the locker room.

As the crowd dispersed, I turned to Addie. “Did they lose, in the Baroque Echo?”

“Impossible to say without crossing through.” Before I could suggest we do exactly that, she held up a hand. “I'm not taking you into a world we haven't planned for, Del. It's not safe.”

I shot Eliot an “I told you so” look.

“We'll stay on this side,” Eliot promised, towing me down the bleachers.

We hovered on the sidelines until the gym was nearly empty. Pivots covered the court, their edges brushing against me like moths' wings. Ghosts of previous games, they were unaffected by the Baroque event.

I tucked my hands in my coat pockets and zeroed in on the Baroque pivot. It was centered on a curving red line on the far side of the gym, the edges so pronounced that if I hit them at the wrong angle, it would be like walking into a doorframe. Across the room Addie was explaining the finer points of Baroque events to Eliot, who looked like he was longing for escape.

A basketball rolled into my ankle. I picked it up, surprised by the weight of it. Tentatively I dribbled it, listening to the rhythmic whump as I memorized the new frequency. Maybe I could explore it during school, when Addie wasn't around to catch me.

Out of nowhere Simon swiped the basketball away mid-bounce.

“Gotta keep your guard up,” he said, evading my attempt to steal the ball back. “I didn't peg you for a basketball fan.”

“I'm not.” I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. His hair was damp and disheveled from the shower, his expression curious. “This is my first time. Congratulations, by the way.”

He glanced over at the scoreboard. “It was okay.”

“You won. By twenty points.” I was pretty ignorant about sports, but even I knew that was a good thing.

“True.” He made a show of looking around. “Want to know a secret?”

“Always.”

He leaned in, his fingers skimming my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. “It's more fun when it's close.”

I ordered myself not to blush. “Is that so?”

“Winning's always better if you have to work for it.” He handed me the ball. “Shoot a free throw.”

“I can't make a basket.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“In PE. Not pretty.”

“Don't be so sure. Watch.” He took the ball back and stepped to the line. I watched the shift in him, the way his awareness
narrowed to the strip of hardwood, the ball, the net. I'd been on the receiving end of that kind of focus the other night, and the memory stole my breath.

He dribbled twice, raised the ball with his fingers spread wide, and shot, wrist snapping down and hands hovering in the air. I heard the rustle of the net and the bounce of the ball, but my attention was riveted on Simon, who dropped his hands and smiled.

“Very nice,” I said.

“That shot won the state championship last year,” he said. “In overtime.”

“I think I remember hearing about it,” I said dryly. No one had talked about anything else for a week.

“Best day of my life, winning that game. They even let me cut down the net.” He scooped up the ball and pressed it into my hands, his fingers covering mine, his frequency strong and true. “Now you.”

“This is your thing, not mine.”

The smile spread, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Scared?”

I lifted my chin. “Hardly.”

“Then let's go. Feet on the line, Sullivan.” He spun me toward the free throw lane, poked a finger into the small of my back, and prodded until I was standing where he had been. “Show me what you've got.”

The ball barely made it to the backboard. “See? Hopeless.”

“Take off your coat,” he ordered. “Your range of movement is restricted.”

I struggled to pull my arms out of the sleeves, and he helped
me, pulling it off with practiced ease and a wolfish grin.

“Okay, you're right-handed, so put your right foot here”—he nudged my boot with the tip of his shoe—“and point your toes toward the basket.”

My limbs felt stiff, like a puppet's, like I'd forgotten how to move.

“Bend your knees a little,” he said, setting his palms against my shoulders. “Arms up. You're shooting with your right hand—the left is only there for balance.” With every command, he touched me, the gentle pressure of his fingers making me light-headed. “Give it a try.”

The ball sailed into the backboard and careened away. “Told you.”

“Nobody likes a quitter.” He retrieved the ball, spinning it like a top. “So, you came to cheer me on in our home opener? I'm touched, partner.”

“My sister wanted to come.” I tilted my head toward Addie and Eliot, who were half watching the map, half watching me, and wholly unhappy. There was no sign of Monty—but I'd let Addie deal with him this time. “I'm grounded, unless I'm with her.”

“And here I thought you cared.” He tossed me the ball and stood directly behind me, his arms coming around to position my hands. “Fingers spread out. You need backspin. And keep your eyes on the back of the rim.”

I fought the urge to turn and face him. He was the wrong Simon for those kinds of thoughts. Instead I concentrated on the
solid expanse of his chest against my back, the way our hands looked together—strong hands, both of us, for entirely different reasons.

His voice was rich and teasing. “Did you do something really bad to get grounded? Please say yes.”

I stared straight ahead. “Long story. Suffice it to say I have a problem with authority.”

“Shocking.” He laughed. “Shoot, Del.”

His hands guided mine, and the ball arced through the air, sliding through the net with a faint whisper.