The Towering Sky

by Katharine McGee

  “And you think it’s right now? Cord, I’m dating someone else!”

  “I know that! Am I wrong, or is there something still between us?”

  “You’re wrong,” Rylin said, her breath coming in fast, frantic bursts. “There’s nothing between us.”

  Cord looked pointedly down at the tablet, where Rylin’s bio-lines were roiling and fluctuating, colored a bright, erratic red.

  Rylin said nothing. She just ripped the patches from her body and ran toward the door. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to interpret those spiking, wild lines.

  They meant that she had lied, when she said there was nothing between her and Cord.

  Later that evening, Rylin sat at her kitchen table, her head in her hands. Chrissa had volleyball practice, which meant that Rylin was alone with an uneaten plate of spaghetti and her self-recriminatory thoughts. What the hell had she been thinking, acting that way with Cord, letting him almost kiss her? And why had the tablet marked her words as a lie, when she felt certain that she meant them?

  She wondered if she had been lying to herself. If, on some level, she believed that there was still something between her and Cord.

  Rylin was so lost in thought that she almost didn’t hear the knocking at her front door.

  “Hey,” Hiral said when she opened the door. “Are you busy?”

  “Not really.” Rylin stepped inside, and he trailed along after her.

  “I just wanted to say how great this morning was.”

  “I know. It was great,” Rylin said quickly. She reached up to touch her necklace, the one Hiral had gotten her at Element 12 last week. It felt impossibly heavy on her skin, like a broken promise. This morning, when they’d been curled in bed—before that weird make-up lab and that heated moment with Cord—felt impossibly distant.

  Hiral let out a breath. “I wanted to talk to you about next year.” From the way he said it, halting and uncertain, Rylin thought she could guess what this was about.

  She took a step forward, closing her hands around his. “You’re worried about NYU, aren’t you? You think that if I get into this holography program, I’ll get all wrapped up in it and won’t have any time for you.” She winced, realizing that it was already close to the truth, now that she had to cut class just to see him. “Hiral, I promise that won’t happen.”

  “I know, Ry. And I’m so proud of you for applying to college. But . . .” He paused. “I just wondered—you haven’t even submitted your NYU application yet, have you?”

  “No.” Rylin wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “Maybe we should go away instead, after you graduate high school. We could leave New York, like we used to talk about! Go to South America—or maybe Southeast Asia, somewhere far away and low-tech. Where we can be together with just the sunshine and the clean air and each other, like we always wanted.”

  Was that really what she’d said she wanted? Rylin barely remembered the things she and Hiral used to talk about, years ago. She tried to imagine doing what Hiral said—leaving New York, getting out of the city and starting over—and drew a blank.

  So much had happened this past year to change her. Rylin had discovered new depths within herself, new goals, because of Berkeley and holography . . . and Cord. She had learned to let herself actually hope for things again, which she hadn’t done since before her mom died. Because if you didn’t hope, or care, you weren’t in danger of being hurt.

  But hoping for things also magnified your joy when they actually came true.

  “Hiral, I’m glad you’re thinking about the future—”

  “Because you never expected me to?”

  Rylin winced. She hadn’t meant to sound condescending.

  “I’m sorry.” Hiral reached below her chin to tip it up so that Rylin was looking into his eyes. “All I want is a future with you. But being in New York is tough for me, because of everything that’s happened. Because of who I used to be.”

  There was a current of significance to his words that made Rylin’s stomach drop. “What’s going on, Hiral? Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “No,” Hiral said too quickly.

  Rylin looked directly into his warm brown eyes, the eyes she thought she knew so well. She didn’t need a biosensor to tell her that he was lying.

  “What about you, Ry?” he asked, turning her own question on her. “Is there something that you want to tell me?”

  Rylin wondered if Hiral had guessed about Cord—if he could see her guilt written there on her face. Maybe she should confess everything, clear the air between them of secrets.

  “No,” she whispered instead.

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Cord. Whatever was bothering him, Hiral clearly had enough to worry about as it was. Her moment with Cord was nothing, just an almost-kiss. There was really nothing to tell.

  But deep down, Rylin knew that was another lie to be added to her ever-growing tally.

  CALLIOPE

  CALLIOPE HAD BEEN to a lot of weddings for an eighteen-year-old. Dozens, really, all over the globe, in connection with some con or another. She thought fondly of the year that she and Elise had run wedding cons almost exclusively. “People tend to let their guard down at weddings,” her mom had explained with palpable excitement. “Emotions run high, everyone drinks too much, and especially among the super wealthy, they try to outdo each other with over-the-top jewelry.” It made weddings a great place for some high-class pickpocketing.

  Today, though, Elise was subdued. She’d barely spoken through their interminable hair and makeup appointments, through all the time they spent hooking and fastening her into her enormous white dress, pushing each tiny silk-covered button patiently through its matching loop. Calliope wondered if she was having second thoughts. If she regretted seeing this con all the way through.

  They were standing now in the Temple Brith Shalom, up on the 918th floor. An enormous chuppah rose overhead: a floral canopy, with roses twining up its sides to spill over the top in glorious profusion. Calliope knew that the flowers would all be donated to the hospital once the wedding was over. Practically everything at this wedding was marked for donation—the roses, the leftover food; even Elise’s dress was going to a drive for underprivileged brides. Calliope secretly hoped that the leftover booze would be donated to high schoolers with strict parents—the kids who didn’t have a liquor cabinet to raid for their parties.

  Under the chuppah, Elise and Nadav stood before a plump rabbi, who held a hand toward them in silent blessing. Calliope stood to one side with Livya, each of them wearing their enormous tiered bridesmaid dress and holding a spray of white flowers. Hundreds of faces were lined up in the pews of the synagogue, their expectant smiles blurring indistinguishably together. Calliope kept glancing out there, trying unsuccessfully to find Brice in that sea of people. She hadn’t been able to see him since their date at the chocolate shop; their entire household had been on wedding-stress lockdown all week. But it hadn’t stopped her from messaging him whenever she knew Livya wasn’t watching.

  At the thought of Brice—of the way he’d kissed her, warm and certain and tasting of chocolate—a secret smile played around her mouth. Livya noticed it and shot her a dark look. Calliope quickly lowered her head, trying to arrange her features into a more pious expression.

  “Welcome. We are gathered here today to witness as Nadav and Elise take the first steps of their new life together,” the rabbi intoned. He wasn’t even using a mike-bot, Calliope realized, yet his booming voice projected throughout the temple. Very old-school.

  “The love that they share is a love for the ages, a love built on selflessness. Nadav and Elise were first brought together through their shared love of philanthropy. They each put the needs of others before their own needs.”

  How lovely, Calliope thought ruefully. If only it were true.

  “Before they step into the chuppah, I would like to invite Nadav and Elise to participate in the ceremony of the bede
ken, or veiling, in which the groom covers the bride’s face. This is to signify that his love is for her inner beauty, and not her outer appearance.”

  Livya coughed under her breath, just once. Calliope pretended not to hear.

  Nadav tentatively lifted the lace veil over Elise’s head. It fluttered in opaque folds before her. Calliope felt an odd stab of panic, seeing her mom faceless like that. It could have been anyone getting married up there.

  “And now the hakafoth, or circling. The bride will walk around the groom seven times as a symbol of the new family circle that she is creating with him.”

  Calliope watched as the ghostly form of her mother began to loop around the edges of the chuppah’s platform, her skirts swishing behind her. Nadav was beaming with a bright, eager joy.

  A new family circle. Calliope stole a glance at Livya. The other girl’s upper lip was curled into a sneer, her nostrils flaring, the type of face you make when you smell something rancid.

  “And now, let us extend a blessing to this beloved couple,” the rabbi intoned, before launching into a traditional Jewish prayer in Hebrew. Everyone seemed to be reciting the words; Calliope pretended to mumble along.

  She couldn’t help thinking of the last wedding she’d been to—at a family estate in Udaipur, with gold-plated invitations and thousands of candles hovering in the air as if by magic, the scent of them heavy in the air. Now that wedding had been fun. Calliope remembered drifting around the enormous grounds, a flower twined in her hair, pretending to be first one person and then another, turning her various accents on and off as needed, like a faucet. There really was nothing like the thrill of anonymity. Of stepping into a party as a blank slate and letting the situation dictate who you might become.

  As she stood here now, staring out at the sea of faces watching her, all she could think was how surreal it all felt.

  She was dimly aware of her mom slipping a ring on Nadav’s finger and reciting the words of the marriage vow: “With this ring, you are my husband, and I love you as my soul.” Then Nadav was saying the same thing, slipping an enormous pavé band onto Elise’s finger; and they were kissing, and the temple had erupted in applause.

  “One last tradition! The breaking of the glass,” the rabbi proclaimed, holding up a hand for silence. An assistant handed the rabbi a wineglass wrapped in velvet—the old-fashioned kind of glass, which could break, not flexiglass. “The breaking of the glass is a reminder that marriage can hold sorrow as well as joy. It represents the couple’s commitment to stand by each other forever, even during the difficult times.”

  Calliope felt a shiver of premonition. Forever was a long time for anyone to promise. And she and Elise had broken so many of their promises before.

  Elise and Nadav set the glass on the base of the chuppah and each placed a foot over it. Then, at the same time, they both put their weight on their heels, shattering it into countless tiny shards.

  “Calliope! I’ve been looking for you.”

  Calliope turned around slowly, taking a few steps away from the dance floor. They were finally at the reception, at the Museum of Natural History, where she had been waiting with an eager, half-painful sort of anticipation for Brice to find her.

  “At least, I think it’s you. Are you in there, beneath that fluffy mushroom cloud of a dress?” he added, and made a show of squinting at her. He hadn’t shaved, in blatant disregard for black-tie etiquette, but the shadow of dark stubble looked good on him. Calliope found her eyes dragging along his jawline, wishing she could reach out and touch it.

  “I didn’t really have much choice. I was . . . talked into this dress. Very forcibly,” she told him.

  “I’d rather talk you out of it.”

  “Once you do, we can burn it afterward.”

  “Don’t do that! Where else will we find a flammable camping tent?”

  As she laughed appreciatively, Brice put an arm on her elbow and steered her wordlessly toward the dance floor.

  The museum’s famous holographic whale glided in lazy circles above them. On the stage, an eighteen-piece band played soft jazz music. A trail of antique iron candelabras led out onto the terrace, where heat lamps floated like miniature suns.

  Calliope knew that she should step away. She’d felt Livya’s gaze on her all night, just daring her to make one false move, one mistake that would blow her cover. Livya would never even talk to a boy like Brice, let alone dance with him.

  “Has the wedding been as utterly boring as you expected?” he asked as they moved toward the middle of the dance floor. He danced the way he talked, his movements bold and confident.

  “Not anymore,” Calliope murmured, and smiled. “I’m glad you came, Brice.”

  “So am I.” His hands skimmed lower, to play with the enormous bow sewn onto the back of Calliope’s dress.

  “Stop it!” she whispered, smacking his hands away. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

  “I hope I do. When most people say trouble, they’re usually talking about something exciting,” Brice replied, though he resettled his palms much higher.

  “I know,” Calliope said helplessly. “But I’m not supposed to be . . .”

  “Dancing?” Brice tried to spin her, and the rustling folds of her dress almost caused him to trip. He let out a laugh. “Whoever designed this bridesmaid dress didn’t want you to dance, that’s for sure.”

  The music crescendoed louder, as the band suddenly launched into one of those wild top-forty songs that everyone loved. Calliope risked a glance at Nadav, who was talking to someone she didn’t recognize. His jaw had tightened; he’d probably told the band not to play music like this, yet they were doing it anyway. Near him, Livya stood like a pale, thundering column, her judgmental gaze scouring the dance floor.

  Calliope knew that she couldn’t join in, at least, not the way she wanted to. Because the girl she was supposed to be—sweet, modest Calliope Brown—wouldn’t dance to music like this, her hair flying and boobs bouncing. Not that you would even notice her boobs bouncing right now, buried as they were beneath a million flounces of fabric.

  “Come on!” Brice exclaimed, jumping up and down along with everyone else. Calliope wondered, with a sneaking suspicion, if he’d been the one to request this song—maybe even bribed the band to play it. Because he suspected that it would break her out of her rigid, forced role.

  And he was right.

  She let her head tilt back, her hair falling from her updo to hang loose around her face, and let herself dance. She danced as if she were alone, unapologetically and unabashedly, smiling so wide that her jaw hurt. Brice took her hands and jumped alongside her, both of them shouting the words to the song—

  “Calliope!”

  Livya was pushing through the dance floor toward her. “Your mom is looking for you. She’s ready to cut the cake.”

  Calliope instantly stopped jumping. She took a quick, even breath and reached up to tuck her stray hair behind her ears. “Thanks for coming to get me,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  She shot an apologetic look at Brice, who nodded in understanding. “Bring me back a slice,” he replied, with a touch of mischief.

  Calliope noticed that Livya pointedly refused to look in Brice’s direction. She just turned back toward the front of the room, where Elise was standing next to an enormous tiered cake.

  “Calliope,” the other girl said as they walked, “I know you’re new here and can’t be expected to know everything about everyone.” Try me, Calliope thought, I bet I know fifty times what you know. “But Brice Anderton is bad news.”

  Good thing you aren’t the one he was flirting with. “Bad news?” Calliope repeated, all innocence.

  “I just want you to be careful. A nice girl like you should stay far away from boys like that. Boys with reputations.”

  This was the part where Calliope should back down. But part of her felt sharply resentful. Who was Livya to say what she could or couldn’t do? “He doesn’t seem that bad to me,” she pr
otested.

  Livya gave a smug smile. “I’m just looking out for you. After you disappeared the other night—”

  “Disappeared?” Calliope asked blankly.

  “I checked with your calculus professor, and she said that there wasn’t any review session that evening. Where did you really go?” Livya pressed.

  Calliope didn’t answer. All the bright, breathless joy she had felt with Brice seemed to vacuum away, leaving nothing but a dull sense of anger.

  Livya laced her fingers deliberately in Calliope’s. To all the onlookers, it probably looked sweet, that the two girls were holding hands. But Livya’s nails were pressing into the soft flesh of Calliope’s palm like a row of tiny claws.

  Calliope had never hated a role so much as she did now—god, not even that time she’d had to work as a nurse and wash out bedpans to try to sneak her mom into that Belgian hospital. At least then she’d been able to say what she wanted.

  She wished she could break out in screams, tear her hand violently from Livya’s. Instead she forced herself to swallow it back. This isn’t real, she assured herself. I’m not really this cold, unfeeling person. I’m just playing a part. It isn’t real.

  “Thank you for the advice,” she said woodenly.

  “Of course. I’m your stepsister, Calliope. I’m family now,” Livya simpered, that ugly smile still pasted on her face. “And I would do anything to protect my family.”

  Calliope couldn’t let a threat like that go unanswered. “So would I,” she replied and smiled right back at her.

  AVERY

  “THANKS AGAIN FOR tonight,” Avery told Max, lingering on the landing to her family’s private elevator. She wasn’t quite ready to go inside.

  She didn’t want to risk seeing Atlas.

  Avery still couldn’t believe that he had moved back into their apartment. He had unpacked in his old room and was heading off to work every day with their dad, slipping nonchalantly back into his old life as if no time at all had passed since he left for Dubai. As if nothing had changed.