Her gown was right where she’d left it, draped over the back of a chair. Avery stumbled to the hallway closet where the Andertons kept self-steaming garment bags; she quickly grabbed one and tossed her dress in it, then slipped on her satin heels and muttered under her breath for a hover, already halfway out the door. At the last minute, an unbidden impulse caused her to turn back and grab the melted remains of the candle. There was still a good hour left to burn, and she had a feeling she might need it.
Safe inside the hover, Avery leaned back and closed her eyes, struggling to sort through the events of the last twelve hours. She still felt hurt by her stupid fight with Atlas; but also ashamed of her immature reaction, setting out to flirt with another boy in order to irritate him. No wonder he hadn’t flickered her. He must have seen her laughing and dancing, taking all those shots with Cord, then stumbling home with him at the end of the night.
Her cheeks colored. What did Atlas think of her? For all she knew he might assume that something had actually happened between her and Cord.
Had it, almost?
Avery kept replaying that moment, trying to parse out what it was and what it meant. Had Cord almost kissed her, or was it just the product of her alcohol-soaked, IntoxiCandled mind? Well, she thought firmly, thank god nothing had happened in the end.
The hover raced upstairs, getting ever closer to the thousandth floor. Avery leaned forward, her head in her hands, trying to shut out the world. What would she do when she saw Atlas—storm past him, ignore him, talk to him?
Kiss him and tell him it’ll be okay, no matter what, her mind whispered to her, and she knew that it was true. She’d hated seeing him flirt with Calliope, but in the cold light of day, she knew he was right: it didn’t mean anything, and if it helped divert their parents’ suspicions, then so be it. She loved Atlas, and nothing else really mattered. They would figure it out, she told herself, like they always did.
The hover pulled up to their front door and Avery walked inside, the dress floating alongside her in the garment bag. She started to turn left toward Atlas’s room, but she heard the sound of clanging of pans, and broke into an involuntary smile. She knew she looked like the definition of a walk of shame, wearing a boy’s clothes and holding her silver micro-clutch, but she would explain everything the moment she saw him.
“Atlas?” she called out, walking into the kitchen. “I hope you’re making chili eggs—”
Avery’s words cut off abruptly when she saw who was there, because it wasn’t Atlas at all.
Calliope stood at the stovetop, wearing Atlas’s boxers and T-shirt—a shirt Avery had bought for him, she realized, stunned. Her feet were bare, and her riotous dark waves were piled atop her head, pinned with one of Avery’s favorite clips.
Calliope caught sight of Avery in the refrigerator’s reflective surface and grinned. “Good morning, sunshine. Sorry it’s not Atlas’s chili eggs, but I’m making toast and bacon if you want some.”
Avery couldn’t speak. The world was spinning again and the pain was back; far, far worse than before.
Calliope turned around, holding her hands beneath the UV-cleanser. Her eyes traveled up and down Avery’s attire, and she winked. “Nice outfit. Makes me feel a little less shameful, knowing I’m not the only one.”
“Is that my hair clip?” Avery heard herself ask. She started to walk toward Calliope. Was she really going to pull it out of her hair? she thought wildly, watching her actions as if another person were performing them. Calliope beat her to the punch, tossing the clip on the counter.
“Sorry,” Calliope said carefully, clearly aware she’d done something wrong. “I knocked on your door, but you weren’t there, so I just grabbed it from your counter. I didn’t have any hair bands in my purse.”
Avery grabbed the clip. She had become an enormous well of grief, as if someone had shaved off the edges of her nerve endings and they were dripping raw, liquid pain into her body. Somehow—though it took every last shred of her self-control, though she knew she would pay for it all day long—she managed a tight smile, and nodded at the sizzling bacon.
“It’s fine. And thank you for the offer, but I’m not really hungry.”
RYLIN
THE FOLLOWING WEEK at school, Rylin sat perched on a bench at lunch, her tray balanced precariously on her lap as she took a bite of her truffled chicken sandwich.
Sometimes Rylin ate with a couple of other girls from her English class. They’d asked her once, a few weeks ago, and she’d come to enjoy their company; they spoke in soft voices, and didn’t make any demands of her outside the cafeteria. But today she’d wanted a moment to herself. She picked idly at her sandwich’s orange citrus loaf, letting her mind wander.
School had definitely gotten better. There were still awful parts, of course: Rylin didn’t think she would ever enjoy calculus, with its convoluted equations and funny-looking Greek letters; and she kept getting odd looks on the morning express lift, when she stepped on board in her preppy pleated uniform. Still, she’d grown accustomed to her routine, and at least now she could find her way around campus without help from Cord.
Friday afternoon had quickly become the highlight of Rylin’s week—not because of the weekend, but because of holography class. She was now that student that she and Lux used to make fun of, the one who constantly raised her hand, eager to volunteer information or ask questions. Rylin couldn’t help it; she loved the class. It wasn’t just Xiayne, though he was part of it, full of constant praise and encouragement, and giving her straight As ever since their long editing session after school that day. She’d watched all his films by now—some of them multiple times.
Rylin had found to her surprise that she loved holography. She loved that she could see the direct result of every lesson, how each new technique or idea made her work immediately cleaner and sharper and more impactful. She’d never paid so much attention in a class before. Not even the sight of Cord, shifting restively in the seat in front of her, could ruin it.
And she couldn’t stop thinking that maybe someday, if she got good enough, she could make a holo that would explain her feelings to Cord. Her words had clearly failed her, but wasn’t that what holography was for—to convey the things that words failed to?
Rylin stretched out her legs, curling her toes in the new black flats she’d splurged on, which were a little girly for her taste, but she couldn’t handle the blisters from Chrissa’s shoes. She glanced around at the other kids in the courtyard. A few meters away, some boys were playing a game she’d never seen, where they kicked around a small beanbag with their feet and tried to keep it from hitting the ground. A group of freshman girls—the popular ones, Rylin could tell by their shining hair and unimpressed attitudes—lounged in the nearby grass, pretending not to notice the boys but clearly preening for their benefit.
Across the way, she saw a familiar figure bobbing through the crowd. Rylin immediately sat up straighter and tossed back her head, acting just like those stupid freshman girls. Would she ever be able to see Cord Anderton without feeling a nervous twist in her stomach?
He glanced up and caught her staring. Crap. She tried to look down, to pretend to be reading something on her tablet, anything; but he was coming over—
“Rylin. Thank god I found you, I’ve been looking everywhere.”
She startled to attention as Xiayne slid onto the bench next to her. Cord had halted in his tracks and turned away.
“Hi,” she said cautiously. “Is everything okay?” It wasn’t even a Friday. What was Xiayne doing on campus—and looking for her?
Xiayne grimaced. He was sitting very close, close enough for Rylin to see the stubble breaking through his swarthy skin; the way his lashes fanned out, long and damp around his sage-green eyes.
“My film is a nightmare. The DP just quit, so I’ve had to bump up his assistant, who I’m not sure is ready, but then I don’t have much of a choice. I’ve got barely a week before my star leaves to shoot her next holo,” he complained. “Long story short, I’m in the market for a new filming assistant.”
“That all sounds like a mess. I’m sorry,” Rylin replied.