Akratic Paracusia Disorder: from the ancient Greek akrasia “lacking command over oneself” and para + acusia “beyond hearing.” A psychiatric disorder characterized by persistent arational auditory hallucinations expressed as a single voice. The voice, known colloquially as “the Doubt,” is commonly heard by healthy prepubescent children and believed to coincide with the rapid synaptic growth of the frontal cortex that occurs in early adolescence. The postpubescent presence of the voice, however, indicates a predisposition for Akratic Paracusia Disorder, or APD. Diagnosis is based on observed behavior and the patient’s reported experiences.
Although the specific cause of the disorder is unknown, factors that increase the risk of developing the disorder include a family history of APD or extended periods of high stress, emotional changes, or isolation from one’s peers. If caught early, APD can be treated with antipsychotic medication. Without pharmaceutical intervention, the akratic brain quickly degenerates, resulting in self-destructive behavior and, eventually, dementia.
Our teacher stepped into my sightline.
“Any questions?” he asked pointedly, looking directly at me. I gave my head a tiny shake, lowering my tablet onto my lap. He nodded and moved on. I closed out of Panopticon and pulled up my history syllabus, but I still couldn’t concentrate. My vision blurred and all I could see were the words predisposition and degenerate and dementia over and over on the page.
I’d spent so much time worrying about Beck’s mental health. Should I have been nervous about my own? Half an hour after resolving to ignore the Doubt, I’d done exactly what it’d told me to do. That’s not why I did it, I reminded myself. I had perfectly rational reasons for picking APD as my topic. Still, the fact that I was hearing the voice at all had me completely unhinged. My mind was jumpy and frantic, like a frog caught in a jar. Third period passed in a blur of words I didn’t hear. I had to get this under control, fast.
I wasn’t hungry, but I went to lunch anyway, trailing behind a group of girls from my history class who seemed to know one another from summer camp. Someone had opened the dining hall windows, and the noise from inside reverberated off the courtyard walls.
Hershey waved me over when I walked in. She was at the salad bar, heaping lettuce onto a dark metal plate. From the smile on her face, it seemed the morning’s foul mood had lifted.
“I am obsessed with these plates,” she said when I walked up.
I reached for one. It was so cold it made my fingers throb. I turned it over in my hands, wondering what it was made of, and saw a thick, shimmery, uppercase G etched into its surface. My eyes flicked to the plate dispenser and saw another G there. Gnosis hadn’t just donated the classroom gadgets; they’d stocked the dining hall too.
Hershey had moved from the lettuce to the cucumbers. I followed along behind her, mechanically dropping toppings onto my plate. The produce on the salad bar was bright and colorful and fresh, certified organic and sourced from a nearby farm, but I wasn’t hungry for it. The Doubt had stolen my appetite.
“You think he’s single?” I heard Hershey ask. I followed her gaze. Rudd had just emerged from the hot-food line.
“He’s a teacher.”
“He’s not my teacher,” Hershey replied, nudging me with her hip. “And he’s not wearing a ring.”
She waggled her eyebrows and headed to the pasta bar while I looked for a place to sit. Back home, I never ate in the lunchroom. Beck and I always spent our free period off campus, opting out of the social hierarchy. Standing there alone with my tray, I remembered why. I shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. There weren’t any empty tables.
“C’mon,” Hershey said behind me, sauntering past me with her tray.
We sat at a table by the window with two girls from Hershey’s section, Rachel and Isabel, and the three of them gossiped about the other members of their section and their faculty adviser’s fashion sense while I picked at my salad.
“Ugh, you’re so good,” I heard Isabel say. She had pale blond hair and wore glasses that I’m pretty sure cost more than my whole wardrobe. “I suck at food,” she explained, gesturing at the half-eaten cheeseburger on her place, wedged between a pile of French fries and a mountain of mac and cheese. “I’m eleven pounds over Lux’s recommended weight,” she said. “Which I know I should loathe and feel motivated to do something about, but I just don’t care that much, you know? I like the way I look. And the way fries taste.” She eyed my salad. “Meanwhile, I’ll bet you picked that without even asking Lux. Which is why you’re, like, half my size.”
I was about to tell her that I actually hated salad when I heard Hershey mutter, “Help, I think I just fell asleep,” under her breath.
“Hey, girls.” Liam smiled affably as he slid into an empty seat next to me. “How’s the first day going?”
“Swell,” replied Hershey, managing to sound both bored and sarcastic. Liam was undeterred.
“Who are your advisers?” he asked. “I’ll give you the dirt.”
“The dirt?”
Liam smiled conspiratorially. “You’d be surprised. Some of our faculty—”
“Showing these young women the ropes, Liam?”
Liam straightened his shoulders at the sound of the dean’s voice, sitting taller in his seat. Dean Atwater had come up behind us. Hershey smirked. She’d obviously seen him coming and hadn’t said anything.
“Trying my best,” said Liam easily, his eyes on Hershey.
“Not that this one needs your help,” Dean Atwater said. I glanced at Hershey, expecting some clever response, but she was staring openly at me. So were the other girls. I looked up at Dean Atwater. He was looking at me, too. “You’re our only Hepta this year,” he said when I met his gaze.
Hepta. It was the Greek prefix for the number seven. I’d looked it up in the student handbook when I saw it in my acceptance letter, in a box labeled “academic designation.” It meant I had a natural aptitude for all seven liberal arts subjects. I’d just assumed it was a common thing at Theden.
“Our class didn’t have one,” Liam said, not even attempting to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Neither did the class before,” Dean Atwater added. “Which makes Rory quite exceptional.” He put his hand on my shoulder. Hershey’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what to say. I kept my face neutral, but my insides soared. Quite exceptional. Here. At Theden. Dean Atwater gave me a knowing smile. “You didn’t let history deter you. I commend you for that.”
He gave my shoulder a squeeze and walked off.
“Wow,” said Isabel, peering at me through her navy frames. “My older brother was a Hexa, and my dad acted like that was a big deal.” She and the other girl had been ignoring me before, but now they regarded me with a mix of curiosity and reverence. Hershey’s gaze was sharper than that. She was stuck on the history comment, trying to figure out what it meant.
So was I.
“Yeah, most Theden kids are Pentas,” Liam said, a slight edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “An aptitude for five.” I guessed by his attitude that Liam was a Hexa. An aptitude for six.
The table was quiet for a few seconds. All eyes still on me.
Then Hershey pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’ll see you guys later,” she said, then turned and sauntered out. Liam watched her go.
The other girl, Rachel, rolled her eyes at Hershey’s retreating figure. “Envy is so public school,” she said. “I, for one, think it’s cool that you’re a Hepta.” Her smile seemed genuine, so I returned it.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand what it means, or why it—”
Liam cut me off. “It means you were born for this.”
“Born for what?” I asked.
He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “For greatness,” he said.
I left lunch even more determined to silence the Doubt. If I was a Hepta, then surely my brain was capable of overriding whatever
little synaptic misfire was causing me to hear it in the first place.
“I need caffeine,” I told Lux as I made my way across the courtyard after my last class. The fact that it was the first day of school hadn’t stopped my teachers from piling on the homework.
“The coffee cart in the dining hall is open until nine,” came Lux’s reply. Instantly its recommendations popped on screen, a vanilla cappuccino at the top of the list. But the line for the coffee cart already was spilling out onto the dining hall steps. I slipped my phone in my bag and started toward it, then stopped. I could get downtown and back in the time it would take to wait for my drink. Plus, I’d avoid having to make small talk with the perfectly nice but painfully chatty girls from my history class who were clustered at the end of the line.
I set off for River City Beans, the place Lux had recommended the day before. What I really wanted was that matcha concoction I’d had at Paradiso, but there was no way I was showing up there two days in a row. Or giving North the satisfaction of ordering his drink.
I skipped the cemetery this time, taking the street route instead, through a quiet residential neighborhood and across a natural footbridge that traversed the narrow part of the river. The wind picked up, rustling the trees, and I shivered, wishing I’d brought a sweater. As I turned down Main Street, the sun disappeared behind a blue-black cloud. There were several more rolling in across the mountains, darkening the sky. It rained all the time in Seattle, but we didn’t get thunderstorms like this.
I was looking over my shoulder at the clouds as I reached for the door handle at River City Beans and gave it a tug. The door didn’t budge.
CLOSED ON MONDAYS read the sign on the window.
So much for trusting yesterday’s advice.
For a second I debated heading back to campus before the storm, but as the sky lit up with lightning, I decided against it. Paradiso was just two blocks down, and I could tell from here that its lights were on. I’d wait it out there.
As I pushed open the door, I saw North working the espresso machine. At the jingle of the bell, he looked up. My eyes fell to my feet, feeling silly for being there, for coming alone.
“Hey,” North called. “Couldn’t stay away?” When I lifted my gaze to meet his, he smiled. His whole face changed when he did. His eyes were dancing a little, and there was no trace of yesterday’s smirkiness.
“Something like that,” I replied, as thunder rumbled behind me. I shivered and stepped further inside.
“Vanilla cappuccino?” North teased, already reaching for the canister of matcha. He had an earbud in his ear, connected by a wire to a white matchbook-size device clipped to the belt loop of his jeans. I’d seen pictures of old MP3 players and guessed that’s what it was.
“What’re you listening to?” I asked.
“Cardamon’s Couch,” replied North over the hiss of the steamer. “They’re a local band. He slipped the bud out of his ear and held it out for me. I had to lean over the counter a little to get it up to my ear. “My friend Nick is on mandolin. His brother’s the steel guitar.”
It took me a second to orient myself in the song, which had an unusual chord structure and a jarringly despondent tone. But then it all came together, all at once: the soulful lyrics, the haunting melody, the guttural steel guitar, and the feverish mandolin. There were other sounds too, sounds I couldn’t place, eerie rumbles and clangs and whines. I put my palm over the earbud and closed my eyes, letting the music drown everything else out. When the chorus ended, I handed the earbud back to North.
“They’re awesome,” I said, pulling out my handheld and typing in the name. “You said Cardamon’s Couch, right? I want to put them on my playlist.”
The band’s artist profile page popped up on my screen. They had no user rankings and a sales ranking in the seven digits. “Oh,” I said, jumping to the obvious explanation for their obscurity. “They’re new.”
North shook his head. “Nope. Third album.”
I scrolled down and saw that he was right. Their first was released four years before. “I don’t get it,” I said, puzzled. “Why is nobody listening to them? They’re different, but they’re not that different. And a lot closer to the stuff I like than most of what Lux recommends.”
“Lux doesn’t care what you like,” North pointed out. “Lux cares about what you’ll buy.”
“But aren’t those the same thing?”
“Hardly. You buy stuff you don’t like all the time. You just don’t realize it because you’re too busy telling yourself you love it to justify the fact that you bought it. Hey, can you snap?”
I’d been bracing for another lesson on the perils of app-assisted living, so the question threw me. “What?”
“Can you snap?” he repeated. “Your fingers.” He snapped his.
“Can’t everybody snap?” I asked him.
“You’d be surprised,” he replied, pouring soy milk into a metal beaker. He nodded at my hand. “Let me hear yours.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Now, snap.”
I snapped. He grinned. “Now that,” he said, “is an excellent snap.” He flicked on the steamer.
“And why, exactly, are you so interested in my snapping skills?” I asked as I touched my handheld to the register’s scanner to pay for my drink. It didn’t beep, so I tried again, waving my Gemini a little in front of the sensor. Still no beep.
“It’s on me,” North said over the hiss of the steamer. “Well, as long as you take it to go.”
“You’re bribing me to leave?”
He flicked a switch and the hissing stopped. “Nope. I’m bribing you to come with me.”
My stomach fluttered just a little. “Come with you where?”
He glanced past me out the cafe’s bay window. A girl with a shaved head and a Paradiso T-shirt was quickly turning the hand crank to close it as lightning flickered menacingly on the other side. “You’ll see,” North said mysteriously, pouring milk into a paper cup with circular precision. With a few flicks of his wrist, he drew a perfect leaf in the foam. My eyes slid up his forearm to the words tattooed there. Only one line was legible at this angle. Who is the third who walks always beside you? There was no attribution, nothing to indicate whether it was something he had written or a line he’d taken from somewhere else.
“It’s T. S. Eliot,” North said. My head jerked up.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s tattooed on my forearm,” North said, handing me my drink. “It’s meant to be read. But not right now, because we have to go.” He snapped a lid onto my cup.
“It’s about to start raining,” I pointed out.
“So we should hurry,” he said, giving his apron strings a tug. The girl who’d just been at the window had joined him behind the counter. North handed her his apron.
“You better hustle,” she told him. “It’s already raining on the mountain.”
“Just in time.” His eyes were bright with excitement. “Wait here,” he instructed me. “I’ll be right back.” Without pausing for my reply, he ducked into the kitchen.
“How do you know North?” the girl asked when he was gone.
“I don’t,” I said. “Uh, do you know where he’s going?”
“Do you have the key to the bottom cabinet?” North had reemerged with a backpack on one shoulder and a hoodie over his arm. The girl nodded, then slipped a key off her key ring and tossed it to him. He caught it easily. “Hand me your bag,” he told me.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I have homework to do.”
“We’ll be gone less than an hour,” North said, lifting my bag off my shoulder. “Your stuff will be fine.” I glanced at my Gemini, peeking out from my bag’s side pocket. “Unless, of course, you can’t go without your leash . . .” He looked at me, eyebrows raised, baiting me. I opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t going wherever he wanted to take me and I didn’t care if that made me lame. But he cut me off.
“I’m meeting the guys from Cardamon’s Couch to record some music,” he explained in a low voice. “And we need someone who can snap. Another friend of ours was supposed to do it, but she got called into work. We were gonna just do it without, but then you came in, and you’re such a stellar snapper. . . .” Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder. He looked past me, out the window. “Look, no big deal if you don’t want to come,” he said, sliding his arm through the other strap of his backpack. “I get that you barely know me. But I’ve got to get going, so . . .” He wasn’t going to try to convince me.
I looked over my shoulder at the darkening sky, wavering. He was right, I barely knew him. And I had homework to do. But that song I’d heard was really good. And I was curious. About the band. About him.
I met his gaze. “How much does this snapping gig pay?”
He grinned. “Free matcha for life.”
I handed him my bag, then looked at the girl with the shaved head. “I know your loyalty is probably to him, but if I’m not back in ninety minutes, call the police.”
7
A CEILING OF HEAVY STORM CLOUDS had settled over the valley. With each crack of thunder, I expected them to burst open, but the rain held off.
“Where are we going?” I called to North as we crossed into the woods, having to shout a little over the rustling trees. My stomach twisted in nervous little knots. I wasn’t good at spontaneity. Or surprises.
“The cemetery,” he replied, stopping to help me down the hill.
“The cemetery?”
“I’ll explain when we get inside,” he said, lifting my cup from my hands. I went down the hill sideways, careful not to slip, and waited for him at the chain-link fence Hershey and I had climbed over the day before. North stooped down next to me and reached under a raised part at the bottom of the fence, setting my cup on the other side. The way the grass was matted, I knew he’d done this before.
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