Erica O'Rourke - Dissonance

My dad nodded. “The Major Consort is sending in teams from around the country, and they’ve asked us to coordinate.”

“The Major Consort? That’s huge,” Addie said. “What kind of project?”

“A classified one,” Mom said. “We’re hoping it’s a short-term assignment, but for now, it’s our top priority.”

Which meant I was not.

“There’s no reason your training has to suffer,” my dad put in, seeing my expression. “While we’re handling this, Addie can work with you.”

I slammed my water down. “Are you kidding? She’s as much to blame as I am!”

“I am not!” Addie shouted. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you ignored every word I said.”

“If I’d done what you told me to, we never would have gotten out. You’re mad because you choked, and I had to save your ass.”

“I’m not the one who’s suspended, am I? I don’t want to train her! What about my apprenticeship? I’m supposed to be focusing on my work, not holding her hand!”

“Girls!” My mom pinched the bridge of her nose. “Enough. We know it’s not an ideal situation, but it’s not up for debate.”

“The Consort said you were supposed to teach me,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice. “Not Addie.”

“Technically, they said ‘your family.’ Addie qualifies.”

“Unfortunately,” I sniped.

Addie made a face. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“The Consort agrees this is the best solution for now. In fact, it was Councilman Lattimer who suggested you two work together. It should only be for a few weeks,” my father said.

Monty blew a raspberry, and Mom rolled her eyes. “Dad, it’s a good thing. The councilman must think highly of Addie to give her this kind of responsibility. It’s an honor, really.”

Addie didn’t look honored. “Why am I being punished for Del’s mistake?”

“You were responsible for her during that Walk,” my dad said mildly. “It seems fair you should shoulder a portion of the consequences.”

“Dad, why can’t I tag along with you?” I turned to him in appeal. “I’d learn a ton. Way more than I will with Addie.”

“No can do, kiddo.”

“But . . .”

“I can watch over the pair of them,” Monty said abruptly. “Be good to keep my hand in. And I’ll bet I know some tricks that aren’t in your books, Addie-girl.”

“That’s not really the point of the exercise.” My mom set down her fork and frowned at him, but he was already drifting.

“I should exercise more often. Good for the heart. My heart,” he said, his face softening. He stood up, his napkin dropping to the floor. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Dad, no.” Mom scrambled after him. “Sit down.”

“Rose needs me,” he said. “She’s out there, Winnie. Your mother. I promised I’d find her.”

My mother was many things in our family—the glue, the backbone, the compass—but mostly she was the rock. She made the hard choices and the tough calls. We went to my dad when we scraped a knee, to be fixed with a Band-Aid and a kiss and an oatmeal cookie. We went to Mom when we broke a bone, to make sure we got to the emergency room safely. She moved through the world with such determination, such forcefulness, it was easy to forget that when my grandfather had lost his wife, she’d lost her mother. Her hand went slack on Monty’s arm.

He took advantage of the moment and pulled away, hitching up his khaki pants, hand outstretched to find a nearby pivot. My dad tensed, ready to grab him, but I knew better. Confront Monty, and he’d bolt. Distraction was key.

“Brownies,” I said cheerfully. “There are brownies for dessert. I saw them earlier. And ice cream. You don’t want to miss brownies à la mode, do you?”

He paused. “À la mode.”

“It means with ice cream,” Addie said.

“I know what it means.” He smoothed the wisps of white hair sticking out at odd angles and considered the offer.

“You can have the corner piece,” I wheedled.

Stiffly, like he was doing us a favor, he came back to the table. My mom blew out a breath, and my dad took her hand in his.

Without a word Addie rose and started dishing out dessert. Midway through his brownie, Monty spoke again. “It’s settled, then. I’ll supervise the girls.”

“I don’t need supervision,” said Addie. “I’m the supervisor.”

My parents had one of their wordless conversations—raised eyebrows, pursed lips, the tiniest of head tilts—a duet in a key only they understood. Reluctantly my dad said, “You’d need to keep a close eye on them, Montrose. Especially Del.”

I scowled, but my mom gave a warning shake of her head—and this time the message was perfectly clear. Don’t argue.

The idea of Monty in charge was ludicrous. Most days he couldn’t remember what year it was or where we kept the milk. But he’d definitely be more fun than Addie, whose expression teetered between wounded pride and outrage at the thought of being replaced.

“Fine by me,” I said. “I like spending time with Grandpa.”

Mom looked at Addie. “Well?”

She smiled through clenched teeth. “Sure.”

“Excellent. I’ll let the Consort know.” Mom dusted off her hands, like everything was in perfect order once again.

Monty wandered away from the table, my father close on his heels. Addie flounced upstairs to sulk, and I headed to the attic.

Addie and I had shared a room until I was ten, when my parents had offered up the third-floor attic. I’d moved the same afternoon. It was boiling in summer and freezing in winter, but it was also private. The stairway, narrow and steep, tended to discourage visitors.

The room was an unfinished mishmash, with oddly shaped windows and slanted ceilings. I’d filled it with castoffs and pieces “liberated” from the rest of the house—a bottle-green chaise, a tattered leather chair, an enormous trunk with brass fittings. I’d propped an old door on sawhorses to make a desk, but you could barely see it under the piles of sheet music and maps.

Along the rafters and over the windows, I’d strung origami stars, my own twisting, multicolored galaxy. They jumped as I slammed the door and snatched up my violin.

Nothing took me away from myself like Bach. The music, a dense, exacting flurry of notes, demanded my full attention. The violin had been my grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s before that. The sound poured out, rich and sweet and heartbreaking. It was easy to lose myself in the finger work, to sweep the bow over the strings with the anger I hadn’t been able to show the Consort.

Midway through the second movement, my mom let herself in.

“Very nice,” she said. “But isn’t that section marked largo?”

Of course she’d want me to slow down. I sped up for the last few measures, ending with a flourish. “I’m allowed to improvise, aren’t I? Or is the Consort monitoring my orchestra grade?”

She sighed. “You might not believe this, but we’re looking out for you.”

I concentrated on loosening the bow and tucking it away.

“No one doubts that you’re very talented, but you don’t apply yourself. Walking isn’t fun and games, Del. It requires discipline and practice. It’s the same as your music—you have to know the rules before you can break them.”

I could play the Bach Double backward—and had, on a dare from Eliot. My mom wouldn’t have seen the humor in it. “Monty breaks tons of rules.”

“Look where it’s gotten him. If you need a lesson in why our rules are important, he’s an excellent one.” She lowered her voice, as if he might hear us. “He’s getting worse.”

I plucked at the violin strings, letting the sound travel through me. Underneath, strong as ever, was the frequency of the Key World. Monty had been my first teacher, and I didn’t want to think about his decline. “He’s not that hard to manage, if you’ve got something he wants.”