Don’t even try to take credit for my behavior, she had replied, smirking. I was breaking rules long before I met you.
She was glad, now, that she had decided to come. City hall took up multiple levels of the Tower, spanning the 432nd to 438th floors. It was a tangled warren of administrative offices and shabby board rooms, the entire thing dominated by an enormous domed foyer at its center, and its crowning glory: a curved observation deck that perched at the top of the dome, looking directly out at the sky.
This must be the very first black-tie function ever held here. The Tower itself was less than two decades old, yet these midTower public spaces seemed to have aged more rapidly than the rest of the structure. There was already something faded and scuffed about city hall, as if it had been lived in too aggressively.
Tonight, though, the entire place was transformed into an enchanted fairyland. Every last centimeter was spangled and tech’d out to perfection: the flagstones of the foyer were covered in crimson carpets, printed in an interlocking F monogram. The walls had been lined in a hologram of waving gold banners, scattered with occasional vid-clips of Pierson Fuller. And flowers, there were so many flowers, piled into perfect globes that hovered over every table. As Calliope moved with Brice through the room, a progression of faces flashed past like lights flickering on and off; all painted with makeup and treated with DNA longevity treatments, all animated by the same weary excitement. It felt a bit like a wedding, as if Mr. Fuller was making a lifelong commitment to something. Probably to his own ambition.
To one side of the room, Calliope saw Avery talking to a group of reporters. She couldn’t help thinking that there was a tempestuous heat to Avery’s beauty tonight—as if beneath her bright-gold exterior, she was coming rapidly untethered.
A photographer walked past and lifted an image-renderer to snap a pic of them, but Calliope quickly ducked aside. She couldn’t afford photographic evidence of her and Brice. She was risking enough just being here.
Though even if Nadav’s friends did see her, Calliope wasn’t sure they would actually recognize her. Wearing this dramatic low-cut gown, her hair tumbling sexily over one shoulder, Calliope looked nothing like the frumpy, morose creature she had been at her mom’s wedding. She felt utterly like herself again.
When she left the apartment earlier, Nadav had been in the kitchen, overseeing the stove as it brewed a pot of soup for Livya. His head had instantly darted up at the sound of Calliope’s footsteps. “Where are you headed?” he’d demanded.
“Volunteering at the hospital,” Calliope said automatically.
“Again?”
“Yes, well, that’s the thing about children. New ones get sick every day,” Calliope had said evenly. Nadav just pursed his lips, ignoring the sarcasm.
She felt a sudden brush of guilt, remembering the way her mom had looked at Nadav during the wedding. Don’t risk everything just because of some boy, she had begged.
Well, Brice wasn’t just some boy.
“Cord is here,” Brice said, interrupting her thoughts. Something in his tone gave Calliope pause; it sounded as if Brice wasn’t all that happy to see his younger brother. Her eyes followed his, to where Cord stood with a beautiful half-Asian girl, her hair pulled into a simple low ponytail. She looked familiar. Hadn’t Calliope seen her at school?
“Should we go say hi?” she offered, but Brice was already edging in the opposite direction.
“Not while he’s with Rylin.”
Rylin! That was definitely her name. “What happened between you and Rylin?” Calliope asked, curious. “Did you hit on her?”
“Worse. I got rid of her,” Brice said bluntly. “I thought she was using Cord for the money, so I broke them up.”
Using him for the money. Calliope shifted uncomfortably. There were dozens of boys who could, quite accurately, make the same complaint about her.
“Anyway,” he went on, “their breakup clearly didn’t stick. Now they’re back together. And I’m the guy who tried to get between them.”
“Rylin might forgive you. You both clearly care about Cord. If you tell her what you just told me, she might understand.”
“Would you forgive me, if you were her?” Brice asked, and he had her there.
“Not at all. I like to hold grudges, though,” Calliope said easily. “Rylin seems like she might be the forgiving type.”
“She might,” Brice agreed, “but then, I’m not really the apologizing type.”
Calliope tilted her head, looking up at him. “Does that mean you won’t apologize to me if you hurt my feelings?”
“I don’t like this hypothetical scenario. Why are you assuming I’ll hurt you?” Brice demanded.
Everyone in a relationship hurts the person they’re with eventually, even if they don’t mean to. But then, she and Brice weren’t technically in a relationship. “Just trying to prepare myself,” Calliope replied, trying to make it sound offhand. She was used to being the one who did the leaving, or the hurting; but then, she wasn’t used to being the one who cared.
“Of course if I hurt you, I would apologize,” Brice said, his eyes warm on her. “Think of yourself as the exception to my no-apology rule. You’re the exception to every rule. You are a goddess, after all.”
He grabbed a pair of champagne flutes and handed one to her as they wandered nearer the dance floor. Calliope took a small sip; it was expensive champagne, the kind that tasted like marzipan and fireworks. The kind that made you want to kiss whomever you were with.
She was glad she’d decided to come to this party, after all.
“Where do you think you’re headed next year?” Brice asked.
“Next year?”
“To college. Are you thinking East Coast? California? Please don’t say Chicago; it’s too cold there,” he added, half teasing.
Calliope felt as if the carpet with its scrolling interlocking Fs had been yanked out from beneath her. She’d never been one for planning the future. She used to joke that she could tell you more about the next five minutes than about the next five years.
But ever since her mom brought it up, Calliope had been toying with the idea of college. She’d even met with one of the college counselors at school. His thoughts on her application had only served to dishearten her.
“I’m not sure where I’ll get in. I’m not very good at standardized tests,” she said vaguely. Not to mention her spotty school record.
“That’s not surprising. You aren’t exactly a standard person,” Brice replied. “Still, I have no doubt that you’re smart. Even if you currently use those smarts for nothing but sneaking into five-star restaurants.”
Her contacts lit up with an incoming ping from her mom, but Calliope shook her head to one side to decline it.
“What do you want to study?” Brice pressed.
“I don’t know. Maybe history or creative writing,” she admitted. She was pretty good at inventing stories. “Why are you so curious?”
Brice stepped a little closer, as if to block her off from the dance floor, to obtain some small measure of privacy. “Because I like you, Calliope. I would like to keep seeing you, no matter where you end up.”
Her mom pinged again. Again Calliope shook her head.
“I would like that,” she told him, her smile growing wider.
She had never met anyone like Brice—had certainly never revealed so much of herself to anyone before. She should have felt nervous about how well he really knew her. It was as if every fragment of truth she had handed him was a bullet, a weapon he could choose to someday use against her; and Calliope simply had to trust that he wouldn’t.
Her contacts lit up a third time, and Calliope felt a cold chill trace down her back.
“Sorry,” she murmured with a little jerk of her head and turned aside to accept the ping. Her heart pounded in her rib cage.
“Hey, sweetie.” Elise’s voice was oddly strained and muffled. Calliope realized with a pang that she was hiding this ping from Nadav. “
Something has happened. It’s Livya.”
Maybe Livya was seriously ill. “Is she in the hospital?”
“No. Although that’s where you are supposed to be, if you recall.” Elise sighed. “You aren’t reading to sick children, are you?”
“Look, Mom, I—”
“I thought I told you no side cons.”
“This isn’t a side con!” Calliope hissed, momentarily forgetting that she was in a public place. She cupped her hand around her mouth to hide her words. “I actually like him, okay?”
Elise pretended not to hear that. “Livya set you up, sweetie. I’m pretty sure she faked being sick to lay a trap for you and see if you would sneak out.”
“Oh my god.” Calliope staggered a step back.
“Please tell me you aren’t at the inauguration ball.”
Calliope couldn’t answer, because she didn’t want to lie to her mom.
“Leave right now,” Elise said after a moment. “I’ll cover for you until you’re home.”
And then she abruptly ended the ping.
Calliope shook her head. She should have seen this coming. She, who could always predict other people’s reactions, who prided herself on her cool levelheadedness—how had she been outwitted by Livya Mizrahi?
“Everything okay?” Brice asked.
Calliope bit her lip. She let her eyes dart quickly around the room, taking it all in—the lights, the glittering gowns, the amphitheater of space filled with people. The echo of music and gossip and delicate martini laughter. And yet, just as she had at the train station last week, Calliope felt irrevocably distant from these people.
I actually like him, she had said to her mom, and it was true. She really liked Brice, more than she had ever allowed herself to like anyone, and she liked the idea of continuing to see him into the future.
But Elise loved Nadav, and Calliope had promised not to screw it up for her.
“I’m so sorry. I have to go,” she whispered, then turned to leave the party as quickly as she could.
AVERY
“I’M PROUD OF my father for everything he’s already done for the city of New York and everything he plans to do.” Avery forced herself to smile, her mouth spitting out the pre-approved sound bytes from her father’s PR team. “I know that his impact on the city will continue to be monumental.”
“And yet you’re planning to move to England?” the reporter pressed. A zetta hovered near Avery’s mouth to capture her response.
“I’m hoping to attend Oxford, if I get in,” Avery said, her teeth still clenched in that smile. She didn’t really see what her college plans had to do with her father’s inauguration. And how did they know about Oxford, anyway? Her application status was supposed to be confidential. One of her friends must have let the rumor get out—or worse, someone on the streets of Oxford had spotted her and recognized her. Which meant that Oxford wasn’t nearly as removed from it all as Avery had hoped.
“New York would be devastated to lose you,” the reporter simpered. She had bronzed skin and jet-black hair that was styled into shining waves. “Speaking of, here’s your brother. Perhaps he can join you to—”
“Will you excuse me?” Avery said smoothly, ducking to one side. Like hell did she want to stand here and be co-interviewed with Atlas. After that interview at the police station this afternoon, she was already at breaking point. She hadn’t told the detectives anything incriminating, but it had still rattled her.
The moment she got back home, Avery had immediately messaged Watt. For some reason she’d wanted to keep it between the two of them, rather than involving Rylin—or Leda. There was no predicting Leda’s erratic behavior in situations like this. Besides, Avery couldn’t shake the sense that Leda was still the one in the greatest danger.
She knew that Watt, no matter what, would have Leda’s best interests at heart.
I don’t think they know anything—do you? she had asked him. After all, the police weren’t really accusing her of anything. It was more as if they were prodding her, fishing for something without fully knowing what it was.
I’m working on it, Watt had said obliquely. I’ll let you know what I find.
Avery didn’t know what he meant by that. She was afraid to ask.
She stalked now through the middle of city hall, which her dad had transformed into a gilded and hologrammed wilderness, filled with a herd of overdressed New Yorkers. Her parents stood near the stage, greeting people, smiling their empty politician smiles.
She glanced around, wondering where Max was, even though a strange part of her felt reluctant to see him. She kept replaying that moment in Oxford—when he gave her the key-chip to the apartment and imagined out loud the life they would build there. If he’d handed her the key to his heart, she couldn’t have felt more guilty or undeserving.
Avery tried to set out looking for Max, but every few feet, someone stopped her. Lila Donnelly, who’d started the marathon on the moon, where everyone ran in weight-additive shoes to simulate Earth’s gravity. Marc de Beauville, one of her father’s greatest donors, who owned the midTower multilevel golf course. Fan PingPing, the Chinese pop star. They were all here, old money and new money, the curious and the bored, the businesspeople and the wide-eyed clusters of friends who had bought a ticket just because they had a weakness for glamorous parties.
She nodded at each of them, murmuring a few words of thanks before swishing past in her gown of gold tulle. It fell in frothy folds from her nipped-in waist, the edge of each tier lined in pale gold sequins and shimmering embroidery. With her hair pinned up in delicate curls and her mom’s five-carat canary diamonds blazing in her ears, Avery knew she looked glittering and expensive. She hated it.
“Avery!” Leda pushed determinedly through the crowd toward her. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Hey, Leda,” Avery managed, her smile still affixed to her face, but it felt a little wobbly. Leda wasn’t fooled.
“What is it?”
“I can’t escape him,” Avery said helplessly. The words fell from her lips before she’d given them thought.
“But why would you want to?” Leda’s eyes narrowed. “Is it the apartment thing?”
Avery’s lips parted. Her mouth felt sandpaper-dry. Her eyes had darted reflexively toward Atlas.
Leda followed her gaze. Avery watched the comprehension dawn on her face, that moment of tacit understanding mingled with shocked disbelief.
“Oh” was all Leda said at first. “I thought you meant Max.”
Which was understandable, because she should have meant Max. If Avery was going to use a vague, antecedent-less him, it should have been her boyfriend she was talking about.
Neither of them spoke Atlas’s name.
“Look, Avery,” Leda said slowly. “You and Max are good together—calm, stable. No drama.” Somehow, the way she pronounced it made it sound as though a world without drama was as dull as it was safe.
“Max and I have drama!” Avery protested. “And sparks and fireworks. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Of course you do,” Leda said, too quickly to be convincing. She heaved a sigh. “You’ve just been so happy lately with Max. I don’t want you to lose that.”
“You seem happy too.” This time Avery’s smile came out more genuine. “Is Watt here tonight?”
She didn’t miss the telltale way that Leda’s cheeks flushed at the mention of him. “He was supposed to be here, but he couldn’t make it at the last minute. Something urgent came up,” Leda said, and shrugged. “He told me not to worry.”
Avery nodded. “I’m glad that you two are . . . you know.”
“Yeah.” Leda’s eyes skimmed over the crowded room. “Can you believe that we’re here? Senior year, at your dad’s inauguration?”
Avery knew the feeling. Time kept slipping through her hands, too quickly for her to snatch it. “If only we could go back, do things differently. Fix all our mistakes.”
“I wish,” Leda agreed. �
�But I think the only thing to do is keep going forward, the best we can.”
Maybe Leda was right. Maybe the secret to growing up was turning away from the ugliest parts of yourself. Pasting a smile on your face, and pretending that it—the kiss, the confession, the night you watched your best friend die—never happened.
Avery wondered if maybe she should tell Leda that the police had questioned her today. She didn’t want her to worry or spin out of control again. But maybe it was foolish to hide it from her. Maybe Leda had a right to know.
Avery started to open her mouth, uncertain how to bring it up, just as Max appeared at her side.
“Here you are,” he exclaimed, dropping a kiss on Avery’s brow. He looked crisply handsome in his tux.
“I was just going to go grab some dessert,” Leda announced, taking her cue to leave. She shot Avery a meaningful look before swishing away. Avery watched her go, the exaggerated V of the back of her dress drawing attention to her tiny frame, the stark black-and-white pattern of her skirts.
“Sorry. I was doing interviews.” Avery willed herself to seem normal, to refrain from looking in Atlas’s direction. Because even now she knew exactly where he was. She kept trying not to, but she’d been following his movements all night out of the corner of her eye with that silent pulsing radar that operates just under the surface of one’s mind.
She knew she shouldn’t be thinking this way. She was with Max now—she loved Max. It was just that Atlas had been her first love, and when he was near her like this, all their secret history seemed to cloud over her head and suck the very air from the ballroom.
“No more interviews. I get you to myself from now on.” Max reached eagerly for Avery’s hand. The warmth of his skin on hers felt reassuring.
For a while she managed it. She moved through the room with Max, kept up a stream of small talk, chatting about all the things they were going to do in Oxford. When the band struck up a slow song, she let him spin her effortlessly over the dance floor, her feet moving through the steps with no input from her brain. She accepted a flute of champagne, but it tasted like nothing at all.
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