A Clatter of Jars by Lisa Graff

rise.
    Up.
    Up.
    Up.
    Straight off the shelves, into the air.
    Everyone was busy rehearsing for the Talent show, so they didn’t see it: the jars, floating out the window, clanking against one another. Lily, her thoughts focused,
focused
, at the bridge of her nose, walking backward down the path. The jars, clattering in the dirt as they followed, past the archery ring, through the trees, to the center of the camp, like a long row of glass ducklings.
    No one saw as the jars wove their way to the Camp Atropos fire circle, through the spiral of logs, through the ring of rocks, under the heap of chopped wood, down deep into the ash at the heart of the fire pit where, once the fire was set that evening, the jars, along with the Talent bracelets inside them, would be sure to melt into nothingness.
    Every last jar.
    Well, every last jar save two.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    As Fate would have it, two jars remained in Jo’s office.
    One was the jar that had wedged itself under the filing cabinet the week before, its label firmly affixed, with a green Talent bracelet settled at the bottom.
    The second, with a yellow bracelet inside, was one that, as Fate would have it, Lily had failed to carry off with the others. That jar sat all alone on the very bottom shelf, and the ink on its label was so smeared that it was nearly impossible to read.

Renny
    M ILES HAD BEEN ACTING STR ANGE—STRANGER THAN usual—since the lake.
    â€œWe’re supposed to be at the campfire,” Renny told him, when he’d finished rubbing the lake water out of Miles’s hair. “That’s what it says on the schedule. Friday Night Campfire. Then the slumber party, in the lodge.” Out the window, Renny watched orange sparks light up the darkening sky as campers streamed to the fire circle at the center of the camp.
    But Miles seemed completely uninterested in schedules. “You have to get a jar from Jo’s office.” He picked the key off the dresser beside their bunk and pressed it into Renny’s hand. It felt cold. Sharp. “Jo said.”
    â€œWe can do that later,” Renny told him. Swallowing. “Right now we should go to the campfire.”
    â€œ
You need to get a jar!
” Miles shouted suddenly. He began flicking his fingers.
Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!
    Renny grabbed at his brother’s hands. “Fine,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster. “Fine, Miles, if that’s what you want, we’ll go, okay? But then the campfire.”
    â€œThen the campfire,” Miles agreed.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    There was a single jar sitting on the shelf in Jo’s office, on the very edge of the very bottom row. Miles plucked it up and held it out to Renny, who was still gripping the silver key in the door lock.
    â€œHere,” Miles said. “This is yours now.”
    Renny examined the jar. A yellow Talent bracelet was coiled at the bottom, holding a Mimic of a real Talent. Even if that bracelet would only grant him a Talent for a single year, it was a million times better than the useless bracelet at his ankle, still murky with lake water, dyeing his sock a hazy blue-green. Renny squinted at the smeared ink on the jar’s label, nearly impossible to read. COST , perhaps. Or COAT . All he had to do was slip the bracelet on.
    â€œI don’t need it,” Renny told his brother, pressing his fingers tighter around the key in the lock. “Put it back. Let’s go.”
    Miles didn’t put the jar back. “But it’s
yours
,” he insisted. “Jo said for you to have it, because you pushed me under the water.”
    Renny was certain then that no amount of swallowing would ever dislodge the lump of guilt in his throat. “You heard that?” he said. He searched Miles’s eyes for anger. Disappointment. Betrayal. Something.
    But Miles just looked like Miles.
    â€œIt’s yours,” Miles told him again. “You earned