I nod to the unit leader, and she checks something on her phone and then proceeds to lock up the building. She sets the alarm and locks all the doors and windows to the academy with a nod of her head—she must have telekinesis like Ryan—then she smiles at me and click-clacks in her high heels toward the kitchens. Some of the staff have begun taking down the black bunting that had been spread throughout the hall for Sofía’s memorial service.
I wonder what everyone else in the school thinks happened. All the units are pretty tight-lipped. We hardly ever see other students. Mealtimes are kept small and regulated. There are very few school-wide gatherings, and when there are, we’re told to keep our powers hidden and in check. Maybe they’re afraid people will show off and lose control. Or maybe there’s some other reason for us to be so secretive.
I bet most people thought the memorial service was real.
I wonder if they think I killed her.
It’s my fault, after all, that she’s not here, now.
What have they been told? Do the other unit leaders and teachers know, or does everyone here think I’m a walking tragedy?
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Let them think whatever they want.
My footsteps as I trudge up the stairs are echoed by the unit leader’s. She stays about six or seven steps behind me, but she carefully matches my pace, following me all the way to my unit’s hall. She stands there, staring at me silently, until I’m in my room and the door is shut. Before she leaves, she rattles the handle of my door. It’s not locked, and she doesn’t enter, but the metallic rattle still sounds like a threat to me.
I am reminded of the video cameras that now watch us in the common room. I didn’t think they were added because of me, but now I’m not so sure.
Before I go to bed, I creep around the corners of my room, looking for more blinking red lights hidden in the shadows. I don’t find any more cameras, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
CHAPTER 12
Phoebe
The last notes of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D fill the orchestra room at James Jefferson High, lingering among the motivational posters and laminated pictures of long-dead composers hanging on the walls. Mr. Ramirez bows his head, eyes closed, listening as the music fades to silence. We all wait for him to respond. When he lifts his head, his eyes are alight.
“Bravo!” he shouts. “That! That was exactly it!”
The entire orchestra seems to breathe a sigh of relief. We’ve been practicing the piece for months, and this was the first time everything was just right. When we got about halfway through it, we could feel the tension in the room growing, waiting for someone to mess up. But no one did. We played it perfectly.
There is less than fifteen minutes left of class, so everyone starts packing away their music stands and instruments.
“Good job,” Kasey says as she examines the worn strings on her bow next to me.
“You too,” I say. I’m the first-chair cello, though Kasey sometimes beats me. I think if she challenged me this week, she’d bump me down to second chair. But Kasey never cares about the rank.
“The concert is only one month away,” Mr. Ramirez calls over the excited chatter of the students. “And while this piece is acceptable, we’ve got more work ahead of us. Cellos, don’t forget to practice your suites!”
“Have a good weekend?” Kasey asks as I pack away my cello. “Where were you Friday?”
At a memorial service for some dead girl in my brother’s class. “Eh, nowhere,” I say. “What’d you do?”
Kasey focuses intently on snapping her cello case shut. “Mr. Ramirez wanted me to try out for this summer camp thing.”
“Summer camp?”
“I guess it’s more of a program. For musicians,” Kasey says, still not meeting my eyes. “I told him not to bother with me, that you deserved it more, but he said I should audition.”
“Dude, that’s awesome,” I say. I don’t know why she’s acting so shifty about it. Just because I’m first chair doesn’t really mean I’m better than her. I have the technical side of playing the cello down—I know the notes and when to hit them. But I’m basically following directions. I have no more skill than a cook following a recipe.
But Kasey—she hardly ever looks at the music. She just feels it. The only reason she’s second chair is because she doesn’t bother with Bach. She’s too busy playing the music in her head to practice the symphonies of guys who are long dead.
“Congratulations,” I say again, hoping that she can see I mean it. “You’re amazing. I hope you get in.”
She smiles, relieved. “Thanks,” she says. “I guess I’m going to shoot for Juilliard or something when I graduate. You?”
I snort. “I’m nowhere near your level, but it’s sweet of you to pretend I have talent.”
“You do!” Kasey protests, but she’s wrong. Technical skill isn’t talent. I can’t play without sheet music, and I can only do what the notes tell me to do. Kasey plays a million times better when it’s just her and the cello, and that’s the difference.