Dissonance (17 page)

“I did it!” I whirled to see the smile break across his face, mirroring my own.

“With my help,” he pointed out. He tugged the little braid I'd woven into my hair. “Grounded for scandalous reasons? Cutting class? I'm getting a very clear impression of you.”

“Oh?”

“You're trouble.” He made it sound like a good thing.

“Funny. That's what people tell me about you.”

“You should listen,” he said softly. His skin radiated heat, as it had the other night, and the memory made me bold enough to step closer.

“Simon!” Bree ran up, throwing her arms around his neck. “You were amazing! It's like they didn't even show up, you guys were so good! And that three-pointer was incredible—I swear, the scout from Arizona didn't even
look
at anyone else.”

Simon eased away, his smile fading. Bree tipped her head to the side and gave him a beseeching look. “Can I get a ride with
you to Duncan's party? Cassidy has a ton of people in her car already.”

“Yeah, sure.” He turned to me, a note of apology creeping into his voice. “Party. At Duncan's.”

“I heard.” Cold settled over me, and I scooped my coat off the floor, avoiding his eyes.

“You could probably come, if you wanted. It's pretty low-key.”

“Duncan won't want a bunch of people he doesn't know showing up,” Bree cut in. “We can't go around inviting everyone.”

For one crazy moment I thought he might do it anyway. He had enough social currency stockpiled that he could have brought a leper—an actual leper, not just a social one—and people would have been okay with it. He hesitated, and his choice was obvious.

I beat him to the punch. “Grounded, remember? And high school parties aren't my scene.”

“Really,” Bree said, dripping sarcasm. “Why's that?”

I smiled at Simon, radiating nonchalance as hard as I could. “No challenge. You two have fun.”

“Del,” Simon began, but I was already heading for the door. Always better to be the one leaving.

Aside from the need to keep Walkers secret from Originals and Echoes, romantic relationships are frowned upon for another, more pressing reason: The future of our people and the Key World depend on maintaining the genetic line.

—Chapter Four, “Physiology,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

Y
OU LIKE HIM,”
Eliot said as we sat on the front porch after the game.

“Simon? Hardly.”

“You've been acting weird ever since Powell paired you up. Walking when you're not supposed to. Flirting with him in class. He was hitting on you tonight, and you let him. Evidence doesn't lie.”

It was Eliot's guiding principle, but that didn't stop me from denying it.

“Did you miss the part where Bree told him not to invite me? And he listened?” I dug my toe into the floorboards and pushed off. The wooden swing creaked loudly as we swayed.

“You should stay away from him,” Eliot said. “He makes you unhappy.”

“This conversation is making me unhappy.” Eliot never liked
the Walkers I went out with either, and I wasn't in the mood for this talk. Besides, I wasn't going out with Simon.

“There's something weird about the guy. Two Baroque events in as many days, and he's at the center of both? Let me look into it before you start throwing yourself at him.”

I scowled. “I'm not throwing myself at him! He's not even my type.”

“
Who
isn't your type?” asked Addie through the screen door. “That basketball player? The grabby one?”

“Forget it.” I slouched down.

“You know it can't go anywhere,” she warned. “He's not a Walker.”

“He's not anything,” I said. “Just a guy.”

“Good,” Eliot and Addie said in unison.

The order against Walker-Original relationships was stupid. Even the Consort turned a blind eye to it until after apprenticeship, when people started settling down and relationships turned serious. I understood the need to pass along our genes; without future generations of Walkers, the Key World would eventually crumble. But I wasn't looking to marry Simon. I wanted . . . I didn't know what I wanted, but a white picket fence wasn't it.

Addie went back inside. I must have looked like an idiot, flirting with Simon only to have him leave with another girl. Embarrassment curdled in my stomach.

Eliot slung an arm over my shoulder. “Find someone else, Del. Someone who's actually worthwhile.”

I stiffened. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“I'm not. I'm saying be smart, for once.”

“You're the relationship expert now? I don't see you getting anywhere with Bree Carlson—or anyone else.” The words came out nastier than I intended.

“Why would I want to?” His brow furrowed. “Simon's the one who bailed. How come you're mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad? I love hearing Simon Lane couldn't
possibly
be interested in me. Keep going. Tell me more.”

“That's not what I—” he started to say.

“You're jealous,” I said. His face went cold and remote, and I knew I should shut up, but my humiliation had been festering since the game, turning to anger, thick and oily in my veins. I couldn't stop myself. It was leaking out, contaminating everything, poisoning the one good thing I had left. “You're jealous because I actually go after what I want, and I get it.”

“You didn't tonight,” he said, voice like acid.

“At least I
tried
. You'd rather spend your time analyzing data than take an actual risk. Jesus, Eliot. Find a girl. Make a freaking move. Maybe then you'd get the hell off my case.”

“And maybe if you'd pay attention to anything except yourself for five minutes—” He broke off, like he was stuffing down the words he wanted to say. “You want to be mad? Get mad at Simon or Bree. I saw your face when he chose that party over you, and
evidence doesn't lie
. Don't tell me that you're not falling for him.”

“And that's your business?”

“You're . . .” He dropped his head, took a deep breath, and
met my eyes. “You're a pain in the ass, and tonight you're kind of being a bitch, but you're my best friend. I don't want you to get hurt.”

The anger leached away at the truth in his words. “You think he'll hurt me.”

“He already has.” He threw up his hands. “Do what you want, Del. You always do.”

He jogged down the porch steps without another word, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his coat pockets. I wasn't the only one who was mad.

In sixteen years we'd fought only a handful of times. Each one left an awful, hollowed-out feeling in my chest. Now the hollowness was tinged with guilt. Eliot had always been unfailingly, unquestioningly on my side. What if I'd broken our friendship? What if it couldn't be mended?

Inside, Addie was drinking a cup of tea and reviewing a map. “You two were going at it pretty good.”

“I'll fix it.” Some things, you had no choice. And fixing Eliot and me was one of them.

“Good luck with that.”

“It's late,” I said, surprised by how quiet the house was. “Where is everyone?”

“Monty's asleep. Mom and Dad are holed up in her office. Again. I wish they'd tell me what the problem was.”

“Good luck with that,” I mimicked, and she glowered at me, her frustration clear.

My entire life I'd watched Addie follow the rules, gathering
praise and attention. There'd been no way for me to match her perfection, much less exceed it. Eventually I'd stopped trying. Addie and the rules were interchangeable, and I'd grown to resent them both. I'd never given any thought to why she was so driven. If people love you because you're perfect, what happens when you screw up? Constant perfection was its own kind of pressure, I realized, and felt an unexpected rush of sympathy.

“He's right about that guy,” Addie said. “What's his name?”

“Simon,” I said after a moment's hesitation.

“You were talking to him at the park, weren't you? Before the cleaving.”

“His Echo,” I corrected. Hair so long it obscured his eyes, leather cuff, warm hands and a warmer invitation.

“You shouldn't get involved with him, especially if Eliot thinks he's bad news.”

“Eliot's wrong.”

“Eliot is biased, but he's not wrong. Be careful.”

I rolled my eyes. Sisterly bonding time was over.

•  •  •

Upstairs, I flopped onto the bed, the ancient springs squeaking in protest. Above me, my origami garlands swayed in a draft from the window. Hundreds of stars, twins to the ones I'd scattered while Walking.

Including the one I'd left with Simon, back in Doughnut World.

The Simon who wanted me. The one who'd left a show and a room full of people to spend time with me. The one who didn't
judge or scold or do anything except make my heart quicken and my blood sing.

Echoes weren't real, but I was falling for one. Or was I falling for the real Simon, and using his Echo because it was the only way to be with him?

I eased out of the bed, holding my breath. My backpack was still stocked from today's training session—duct tape, Swiss Army knife, matches, candy, and now, Monty's lock picks—and its weight was comforting. I might be reckless, but I wasn't stupid.

I'd snuck out plenty of times before, but never with this much at stake. The smart thing to do was to stay here, figure out a way to make Eliot forgive me, and convince my parents I had learned my lesson.

But ask anybody: Addie was the smart one.

E
VEN THOUGH PIVOTS
created by Walkers didn't last, most houses contained at least a few—previous owners, plumbers, the occasional visitor. We might not choose to spend time with Originals, but some interaction was unavoidable. The pivots riddling our house were old, but they worked—and provided the perfect escape route.

I tiptoed across the room, feeling for a rent in the air next to my music stand. The edges were soft as mist when I eased my way through, listening for Doughnut World's frequency.

I'd been using this passage out of my room for years, ever since Monty had shown me how. Even though our house existed in countless Echoes, we weren't the owners. Sometimes I'd cross through and find it abandoned and in disrepair, but most of the time, someone else had moved in. I'd grown accustomed to seeing rehabbed master suites, dusty storage catchalls, and home offices, though I never got over the sensation of being a burglar in my own house.

This time I crossed into an empty attic, exactly as it looked before I had moved up here in elementary school. I headed downstairs, surprised to see familiar furniture and pictures on
the wall. The house was dead silent and covered in a thick layer of dust, but definitely ours.

Weird as it was, I was more interested in finding Doughnut Simon.

By now he'd probably forgotten me. But I could remind him. I could try again. It had to be better than my real life, even if only for a few hours. I let myself outside and crossed the shadowy overgrown lawn.

At the living room window a curtain fluttered, ghostly white, and fell still.

I flattened myself against the trunk of a maple tree, trying to discern any hint of movement. Had my parents come up to check on me and tracked me through the pivot? Was the Consort monitoring me without my knowledge?

Nothing. The curtain hung straight and unmoving as clouds scudded across the sky. The only sounds were the wind in the leaves and Doughnut World's frequency, even stronger than last time.

I exhaled slowly and set out to find Simon.

I tried Grundy's first. There was a half-decent jazz combo playing, but no Simon. I knew where his Original lived, but couldn't quite picture this version hanging out at home on a Saturday night. Why had I thought I'd know him well enough to guess his movements?

In a corner booth I spotted the basketball coaches, boisterous and laughing over a pitcher of beer. Game night. If the coaches were here, the kids were celebrating elsewhere.

Duncan's party. I might have landed in another universe, but a postgame party was a given. And even if Echo Simon wasn't on the basketball team, he moved with the innate confidence of someone who knew he'd be welcomed in.

The wind cut through my coat as I headed toward Duncan's neighborhood. If there was no party, or if Simon wasn't there, I'd end up with hypothermia for nothing. If he was . . . it would be worth it.

My hunch paid off. I spotted the familiar black Jeep at the same time I heard the bass thumping against the windows of a redbrick colonial. I started for the front steps, then stopped. Simon might not be alone. He could have come to the party with Bree, or another girl. He might want to stay with them. It had been so easy to fall into thinking of him as “my” Simon, but that didn't make it true.

I blew on my fingertips, checked my watch. Past midnight. I could wait for a little while. There was time to scope out the situation, if I didn't freeze first.

That's when the rain began. It was thin and nasty and sharp, finding its way down the back of my neck. I eyed the Jeep, looking cozier by the minute, and sent up a silent thanks that Monty's lessons in petty crime weren't limited to pickpocketing.

Pulling out my picks, I set to work, hands aching with cold. A minute later I was inside—half-frozen but out of the wet—and replaying my fight with Eliot.

Two Baroque events in as many days, and he's at the center of both,
he'd said. But Original Simon's frequency was fine. I'd heard it, loud and clear, when we'd touched at the game. If Baroque
events were common during sports, it made sense that the captain of the basketball team would be involved. And there were a million factors that could have triggered the problem with Eliot's map. He was blaming Simon because he was worried about me.