“Maybe some of your teeth will solve this new Disappearance, too,” the voice threatens, followed by the sound of scuffling. I drop my bag in the dirt and start running, my heart pumping between rage and fear, my fingers curling into fists as I turn the corner.
But Eliza beats me there. She flies out from the side door of the gymnasium and reaches our brothers first. Yanks hers, hard, by the elbow. When he turns, I recognize him from the Harvest Fair.
“Yow!” he whines, and I stop short.
“Walt,” Eliza says in a voice that could wither a stone. “He’s a baby compared to you. At least pick someone who can put up a good fight. Without a worthy opponent, you’re nothing more than a bully.”
She lets go of his arm roughly. “You’re a Patton,” she says with disgust. She sniffs. “That’s beneath you.”
She turns away, and when she notices me standing there, she glares at me with an intensity that could melt glass. But I’m grateful that she defended Miles, even if she did it in the most insulting way possible. And—?I wonder vaguely—?did she just admit that she sees me as her equal?
She stalks away, calling to Walt over her shoulder, “And you’ll be lucky if I don’t rat on you to Mother for being such a little pig.”
Walt follows after her, chuffing. He glares at each of us in turn and kicks plumes of dust into the air to curl back on us. It settles along my teeth as grit.
George brushes off his schoolbag. “He’s a peach,” he mutters.
Miles doesn’t try to shield himself from the dust cloud. He bends to examine the stones studding the dirt at his feet, and the dust collects in his hair.
He wouldn’t want me to fuss over him. So I stand still, a safe distance away from him. “You okay?” I say, and when he nods, I thrust my hands into the pockets of my coat. Finally Mrs. Cliffton pulls around the bend.
“Sorry!” she calls to us, rolling down the window. “I got caught up in a phone conversation I could not end for my life.” She pinks when she sees George, and I know who must have been on the other end of the telephone line.
George either doesn’t pick up on this or doesn’t care.
“Could George come over to study?” I ask Mrs. Cliffton.
“Only if he agrees to stay for dinner, too.”
“Thank you,” George says. He lowers his voice as we walk to the car. “Who would have thought today’s knight in shining armor would be Eliza?” He looks carefully at Miles, as if gauging whether he’s truly gotten away unscathed.
Miles looks small and innocent when he climbs into the front seat without saying a word. But I am all too familiar with the set of his jaw as he squints out the window, rubbing the stones smooth between his fingers.
I know my brother. And I think they’ve all underestimated him.
At home, George and I spread our books out on the kitchen table near the warmth of the oven. Genevieve is rubbing a rainbow of spices into the chicken she’s preparing, trading out glass pans of au gratin potatoes and green beans for the loaves of bread she’s baked fresh for dinner. She clucks her tongue and fusses like a hen, complaining that we’re in her way, that we prattle on worse than two old women, but she keeps a steady stream of cookies and sandwiches appearing on our plates.
“Do you think Beas will be all right?” I ask George, cupping the crumbs into a line on my plate.
“She will,” he says, his mouth full. “Give her a few more days.”
But I know this Disappearance has cut her deeply. The absence of music is like a necklace that has snapped, scattering its collateral damage like wayward beads. I want to collect them all again—?the dancing and singing, records and concerts and balls—?and find a way to give them back to her.
“So what do people think is happening?” I ask.
“Theories abound,” George says. “That it’s some sort of curse. That it’s a change in brain or sensory function—?something passed down through families as a genealogical trait. We’ve explored the idea of it being something in the air or water or soil. That we were all having a psychotic break. Or maybe,” George muses, squinting, “maybe it’s just something random and unfortunate, like being struck with a disease.”
“George—” I hesitate, still seeing Walt’s attack on Miles. “Why do people keep targeting me and Miles when there are so many other possible Catalysts?”
I’ve seen the Council book, I think. I know about the others.
“Let me ask you this,” George says. “Why do you think Eliza’s so determined to be Miss Sterling everything? Have you ever noticed that?” He twiddles a pencil between his fingers. “Why do you think my mother is always in the middle of everyone’s business? The thing is, Aila, that your mother left. She got the chance to get out, and she took it. And people feel like she deserted Sterling, and that only proved her guilt.” His face softens. “Anyone else who could be a Catalyst is doing whatever they can to show they’re the opposite of what she did.”
I bunch my skirt in my fists under the table.
We’re interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. We gather our things and meet Dr. Cliffton and Will in the foyer.
“Hello, George,” Dr. Cliffton says with surprise. I cringe as he and Will pause at the sight of George and me standing side by side, as if trying to determine exactly what’s going on between us.
