Dissonance by Erica O’Rourke

small steps, shifting through incrementally different worlds, drawing out the feeling of power and freedom. I listened with my whole body—skin and muscle and blood and bones—my entire being attuned to the music of the universe. Most Walkers said the other worlds were full of noise, but they were wrong. There was beauty in it, if you listened.
    The doughnut shop was closed for the night. The streetlights turned the plate-glass window reflective, and I looked pale and wild-eyed. But I looked happy, too, in a way I often didn’t in the mirror over my dresser.
    A few blocks away I could hear the twang of guitar and the throb of bass. The show at Grundy’s. Simon’s invitation. He might have changed his mind. He might not remember he’d asked me . . . but I wanted him to.
    A light rain started to fall, and I headed toward the music, looking for Simon.
    Simon and trouble.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Direct contact with an Echo will intensify your perception of a world’s frequency and heighten their awareness of you. Therefore, it is essential to limit physical contact with individuals in Echo worlds.
    â€”Chapter Five, “Physics,”
    Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five
    D IM LIGHTING. ALT-COUNTRY band on the cramped stage. The smell of sweat and cheap beer and fresh pizza. The booths were filled with chattering women, biker couples, and Echoes of my classmates, wedged five to a side in booths meant to fit three. I veered to the opposite end of the room, tapped the bartender on the arm, and ordered a rum and Coke. When he asked, I passed over my fake ID—much higher quality than Park World Simon’s—and feigned boredom while he scrutinized it.
    Drink in hand, I eased closer to the stage and leaned against a wooden post. The band was good—exactly the right amount of ache in the singer’s alto, raw but not emo, with the bright, unexpected notes of a mandolin weaving through. I didn’t get to simply appreciate a song that often; some part of my brain kicked in and started analyzing it, as if a frequency might be hidden within the notes.
    I sipped my drink, letting the sugar bolster me and the alcohol relax me, and scanned the crowd. No Simon. Maybe he’d decided not to come. If so, there was an Echo nearby where he’d done the opposite. I could find it if I was willing to put in the effort. Then again, tracking him down across a bunch of random realities was a lot of work for a guy I barely knew—in this universe or any other.
    The glass was sweating. I wiped my hand on my jeans and tried not to feel hurt that he wasn’t here. It was late. It was a school night. The practical thing to do was go home and crash.
    â€œDrummer’s not bad,” Simon said from behind me, so close his breath ruffled my hair.
    Practicality is overrated.
    Pushing back the smile threatening to break loose, I turned. “Most people focus on the guitarist. Or the singer.” I had a vague memory of Original Simon playing drums when we were in junior high. “You play?”
    â€œSometimes.” He braced one arm against the post, silver spike glinting at his wrist. “I was starting to think you stood me up.”
    â€œI didn’t realize this was a date.” I hadn’t even been certain he’d remember me. Then again, it had been less than twelve hours since we’d spoken. Not long enough for him to forget, but plenty of time for my life to be turned inside out. “You never asked me.”
    â€œI didn’t?” The light was too low to read his expression—if he was teasing, or disappointed, or genuinely curious. All I hadto go on was the sound of his voice—a little rough, a little warm. “Serious mistake on my part. I could ask you now.”
    â€œWe’re already here. The timing’s off.” Curious how a different Simon made me different too.
    â€œWhat if we went somewhere else? Somewhere