The Towering Sky Page 9

  “No, I don’t,” she insisted, ducking under his arm and retreating to the opposite side of the elevator. “Besides, Watt, this isn’t something you can hack your way out of.”

  “Sure it is,” Watt said automatically, though he wasn’t actually sure where he would start. “Unless you already hired another hacker? Tell me who it is, so I can sabotage them.” He meant it as a joke, but the delivery was all wrong.

  “I can’t afford to be spending time with you,” Leda said quickly. “It’s too risky—it could spark all my problematic behaviors, and if I spiral out of control again, my parents will send me to boarding school. I don’t want to risk it, okay?” A vein pulsed in her throat.

  “Look, I’m sorry that I’m some kind of human trigger.” Watt sighed. “But you should know that I’m going to keep working on this either way. You’re not the only one who has a lot to lose, if those secrets get out.”

  “I really am sorry. I never wanted you to get involved.” Leda seemed a bit softer. She’d been all sharp angles when he first stepped into the elevator, but now some of those angles were sanded down.

  “I am involved, like it or not,” Watt said, trying to focus on his words and not how maddeningly close she was. “We can work separately on this, or we can combine forces. You know what they say, two brains are better than one.” In this case, maybe three were better than two, if you counted Nadia.

  They reached the 990th-floor landing with a soft click, and the doors hissed open. Leda didn’t get out yet.

  “All right,” she said, as gloriously prideful as ever. “I guess we can work together on this. You can be useful when you want to be.”

  Watt knew that was the most eloquent request for assistance he was likely to get. Leda Cole never revealed vulnerability, and she never asked for help.

  He felt a flush of eager excitement. No matter what she said—no matter the circumstances in which they were seeing each other again—he refused to believe that they were over. He was still Watt Bakradi, and she was still Leda Cole, and they deserved another shot.

  He was going to take advantage of every minute he got to spend with her. Whatever it took, Watt swore, he would win Leda back.

  AVERY

  “THANKS FOR COMING with me,” Avery said softly, as she and Max walked down the high-ceilinged gallery of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  “Of course I came. I’ve missed you,” Max replied, even though he’d seen her only two days ago. He reached up to adjust his skinny linen scarf, which was covered in a scrolling red batik print. “Besides, the point of me staying in New York was to see all the places that matter to you, and this one is clearly high on the list.”

  Avery nodded, a little surprised that Max didn’t realize how shaken and unsettled she felt. He seemed to think that this was just a spontaneous museum outing. But Avery had come here to clear her head. She was still reeling from that unexpected meeting yesterday, and Leda’s revelation that Mariel’s death was now under investigation. Now that her family’s entrance to the roof was closed, the trapdoor in their pantry sealed off, the Met was the only place Avery felt like she could escape.

  The museum rose alongside the bubble of Central Park, its iconic pillars overlooking the diamond of the softball fields and the famous pale-pink ice rink that was always frozen, no matter the season. Supposedly the rink had been meant to change colors, but it froze at this shade of pink the week the park opened—and in that typical New York way, now no one would ever dream of changing it.

  Avery took a deep breath. You could taste the difference in the air, in here: It was completely sterile to protect the art from oxidation or corrosion. The whole entrance to the museum felt oddly like a vacuum chamber, as if you were stepping into space, some grand new universe of artistic beauty.

  “How was your first week?” she asked Max, trying her best to sound normal.

  “It was incredible. Dr. Wilde is an even better lecturer than I expected! She’s actually agreed to read my thesis herself, instead of assigning it to a TA.”

  Avery smiled. “That’s fantastic, Max.”

  “And last night I went to a party in my hallway,” he went on, his eyes dancing. Max remained amused by the way American college students partied in whatever spaces were available to them, their parties spilling out into study rooms and dorm kitchens. “You’re going to love my neighbors, Avery. One of them is a sculpture student named Victoria who specializes in spun-wire.” He stumbled over the phrase, as if scared that he didn’t know what it meant, then declared, “I told her all about you.”

  Avery reached to twine her fingers in his. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

  Max had moved into one of the Columbia dorms on the 628th floor. Avery was secretly glad that he hadn’t asked to stay at the Fullers’ apartment. Her parents would never have allowed it. They had three guest suites, but no one actually used them, not even Avery’s grandparents when they came to visit. The rooms were just additional square footage meant to display Mrs. Fuller’s extensive collection of antiques, each surface carefully arranged with ceramic Staffordshire dogs or terra-cotta Chinese figures or blue-and-white Delft candlesticks. Each room had been featured in Architectural Digest or Glamorous Homes at least once. Besides, Avery had thought, it would be kind of weird having her boyfriend live down the hall from her and her parents.

  She didn’t exactly have a good track record of dating boys who lived on the thousandth floor.

  But to her relief, Max seemed absolutely thrilled to be living in a tiny dorm room. He kept talking about what an authentic, important part of the study abroad experience it was, to be immersed in school life. Already it sounded as if he’d made friends with everyone in his hall, and found the nearest coffee shop and twenty-four-hour diner.

  They headed down the Impressionist wing. Light spilled through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the broad canvases with their loose, spontaneous brushstrokes. Avery had always loved the Impressionists, if only for their manic obsession with color. None of their works had a drop of white or black paint. If you looked closely, you would realize that even the shadows, even the eyelashes, were done in greens or purples or shades of bronze.

  “You okay?” Max asked gently.

  I’m worried about an investigation into the death of a girl I barely knew, because it might uncover my secret relationship with my adopted brother. Oh, and also the fact that I lied about my friend Eris’s death.

  She couldn’t say any of that, of course. Max wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t love her anymore, the moment he knew about her history with Atlas.

  “Stressed about the election?” he guessed, and she almost laughed. In her worry about the police investigation, she’d half forgotten that the mayoral election was next week.

  “I turned in my Oxford application last night. I guess that’s put me on edge,” she offered. Among other things.

  “You’ll get in,” Max assured her.

  Avery nodded, but she still felt nervous. It seemed as if more was riding on this application than just her college plans—because if she got in, then she and Max would probably be together for at least two more years after this one. And who knew what that might mean?

  “How was school today?” Max pressed.

  Avery thought of Leda, who still had a haunted, hunted look about her that made Avery’s heart break. She thought of how empty everything felt without Eris. “You know, typical high school drama,” she evaded.

  Max grinned. “Actually, I don’t know. I went to the Homburg-Schlindle Academy for Boys. Very little room for drama.”

  “No drama!” Avery gasped in mock horror. “How on earth did you entertain yourselves?”

  “Fistfights, mostly.”

  “Right, of course.” She tried unsuccessfully to imagine Max getting into a fight with someone. More likely he’d challenged anyone who bothered him to an epic chess match.

  A pair of girls walked past, probably around fourteen. They were both wearing blouses stitched
with buttons: along the collar, the wrists, even the hemline. Each row had at least one button that didn’t match the others.

  The girls smiled shyly when they saw Avery, then tipped their heads together to whisper, gliding quickly past.

  “You did that!” Max exclaimed in a low voice.

  “I don’t know,” Avery hedged. The whole thing made her feel kind of weird.

  Max just laughed. “You started this button frenzy, you might as well take ownership of it. Though I suppose I am the muse behind it all,” he couldn’t resist adding. “It’s a good thing I have such abysmal fashion sense.”

  “Right,” Avery replied, playing along. “Otherwise where would I get my inspiration?”

  They kept walking down the hallway, past Impressionism and into the early modern portrait galleries. Avery’s eyes skimmed over each canvas in turn, pausing over their familiar compositions. Max pretended to be looking at the paintings, but Avery saw that he was really looking at her.

  “Which is your favorite?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t pick a favorite.”

  “Of course you can,” Max insisted. “Pretend the museum is burning down and you only have time to save one thing. Which is it?”

  For some reason, Avery didn’t like these what-if games. It wasn’t the first time Max had asked this sort of question; he was always trying to summarize his surroundings, organize things into clearly discernable categories and keep them there. He wanted to know Avery’s favorite painting, so if someone asked him about Avery’s art history classes, he could say, Yes, that’s what she studies, and she loves this work of art most of all.

  Art history wasn’t about ranking or maximizing things. It was about thoughtfulness, and appreciation—the search for a cohesive thread among all the wondrous things people had created through the centuries, in an effort to say something, to feel a little bit less alone.

  “Maybe . . . Madame X.” Avery nodded toward the famous portrait of the enigmatic woman in the slinky black gown. There was something subtly fragile about her, as if her real self was nothing like the face she presented to the world.

  “Cool choice. Though she isn’t anywhere near as beautiful as you,” Max said. He had completely missed her point.

  Atlas would have understood, Avery caught herself thinking, and instantly chastised herself for the thought. It wasn’t fair of her to expect Max to know her the way Atlas did. Max had met her less than a year ago, while Atlas had known her most of her life.

  Max reached into his pocket for his tablet, which had started buzzing. He still refused to wear contacts—which was one of the many things Avery loved about him.

  “A couple people from my dorm are seeing a holo tonight,” he told her, looking up. “Want to go?”

  “Sure,” Avery said easily. Sitting in a dark, anonymous theater sounded nice right now.

  As they headed back toward the museum’s main entrance, they had to walk through the antiquities gallery. Its shelves were crowded with countless small broken things, items of jewelry or eating utensils, now reduced to fragments of discolored clay.

  “I never liked this room.” Avery paused before a few shards of something that were labeled, simply, USE UNKNOWN. “People created these things, probably to help themselves survive, and now we don’t even know what they were for.” There was something eerily sad about it all. It made her wonder what people would say about modern devices, centuries in the future—if a scientist would someday excavate her beauty-wand and wonder what its purpose was.

  “What does it matter what these things were for?” Max shrugged. “It’s interesting to study, but it doesn’t have any real impact on the present. The most important thing is to focus on making the world a better place right now, while we’re still in it.”

  Avery was momentarily struck by how uncannily like her dad Max sounded.

  “And, of course, spending time with you. That’s my main focus,” Max added, with a smile that wiped away any hesitations. She leaned up to brush her lips against his.

  “Mine too,” she said emphatically.

  CALLIOPE

  CALLIOPE TWISTED BACK and forth on the circular podium, utterly disgusted with what she saw reflected in the mirror.

  She was wearing what had to be the most appalling bridesmaid’s dress of all time. It was a horrific confection of tulle and satin, with a square neckline and enormous puffed sleeves that tightened at the elbows and extended to the wrists. Layers of tulle were bunched over and over on the voluminous skirt. As if that wasn’t enough, the dress came complete with a cape, which tied around the neck with ribbons.

  The only part of Calliope not covered in all these swaths of fabric was her face. She felt as if she were wearing curtains.

  On the podium next to her stood Livya, sinking underneath the same monstrosity of a dress. She looked pale and washed out, as always, her hair falling in thin listless strands around her heart-shaped face.

  “What do you think, girls?” asked Elise. Calliope didn’t miss the way her mom’s eyes darted anxiously toward Nadav’s mother, Tamar, her future mother-in-law, who was seated in a nearby armchair, her hands clasped primly in her lap. She’d been the one to select these dresses.

  “They’re great,” Calliope said weakly. Honestly, she hadn’t known there was a garment on earth that could make her look this ugly. There was a first time for everything, she supposed.

  “I think they’re divine,” Livya gushed, moving past Elise as if she weren’t even there and heading straight to her grandmother. She planted a kiss on the old lady’s cheek. “Thank you, Boo Boo.”

  Calliope refrained from rolling her eyes at the absurd nickname.

  They were in the wedding boutique at Saks Fifth Avenue, which, perversely enough, was no longer located on Fifth Avenue at all, but on Serra Street, toward the center of the Tower. The fitting room looked like a wedding cake come to life, with its peach velvet settees, white plush carpets, even a tray of little iced petit fours arranged on the sideboard.

  Most striking of all, though, were the mirrors. They were ubiquitous, so that a girl could see herself from every conceivable angle, and perhaps a few inconceivable ones too.

  Normally, being places like this—cool, expensive boutiques full of beautiful things—calmed Calliope. It was something in the proud look of them, the expectant hush as their doors swung open and you saw all those beautiful rich things arranged within. But today her surroundings seemed to be mocking her.

  Livya sank into an armchair next to her grandmother and began tapping furiously at her tablet, her face sour. The dress poufed comically around her, making her look like a human-sized loofah with skinny, protruding arms. Calliope would have laughed at the sight, except that she sort of wanted to cry.

  “Elise,” said Miranda, the bridal sales associate. “Do you think we could make a final decision on color? The superlooms are fast, but I’m getting concerned about timing.”

  The sample dresses that Livya and Calliope were wearing had been spun from smartthreads: the playful, cheap-looking material patented thirty years ago. The final dresses that they wore at the wedding would be real fabric, of course, because who would actually want their bridesmaid dresses to change color? These smartthread models were for sales purposes only.

  No one had asked Livya to move, yet she stood with an audible, resigned groan and stepped back onto the podium alongside Calliope. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, as if to convey how utterly pointless she found this entire exercise.

  “Let’s start with the purples.” Miranda reached for her tablet. A colorful bar on one side depicted all the colors of the rainbow, red bleeding through to yellow and then purple again. As Miranda’s fingers moved slowly down the palette, the fabric of Calliope’s and Livya’s dresses shifted accordingly, deepening from lilac to violet to a dark wine color.

  “I need to see it with the flowers,” Elise said eagerly, turning to a marble console table along the edge of the room. It was littered with
sample bouquets that their florist had sent over, everything from simple all-white arrangements to vast multicolored sprays of foliage. The room smelled pleasantly like a garden.

  They tried various combinations, switching the gowns to gold and navy and even a dark red. A few times Elise began to smile, only for Tamar to emphatically shake her head. Then Elise would give an apologetic shrug and say, “I guess we aren’t quite there yet. Let’s try another?”

  Finally Miranda let out a breath. “Why don’t we take a break?” she suggested. “We should do a fitting on your gown anyway, while you’re here.”

  Tamar cleared her throat bitterly. “And the mother of the groom’s dress too, of course,” Miranda hastened to add.

  “All right.” Tamar rose, stiff-backed and slow. She was wearing an embroidered navy dress with a matching pillbox hat, her curls frozen in an immovable hairsprayed helmet. Elise offered to help her up, but Tamar shooed her away imperiously. When she waved her claw, the jewels on her rings—she had at least one on each finger—flashed ostentatiously.

  When they had all disappeared into their fitting rooms, Calliope crouched down to snatch Miranda’s tablet from where it lay on the nearest table. Her brows lowered in concentration as she scrolled back and forth along the color bar, sending their dresses to fiery red and back again.

  “That’s really irritating.”

  Calliope shot bitterly through a few more colors before lowering the tablet to her side. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. She wasn’t accustomed to Livya talking to her, at least not when they were alone. They never spoke at school, and at home they limited themselves to a stark three-word vocabulary, volleying “heys” across the apartment before retreating to their separate rooms. It was like a silent contest for which of them could speak less.

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You aren’t sorry.” Livya’s eyes widened beneath their colorless lashes. “It’s rude to tell lies. Don’t say you’re sorry if you don’t mean it.”