“Hawaii,” Will says, his eyes lightening. “I wonder what it’s like there.”
Miles glares at me. “That letter came weeks ago.”
He bangs his spoon down and leaves the table. I flinch at the distant sound of his door slamming.
“Sorry,” I mutter. He and his moods, just like Mother’s. I stand to follow him, but Mrs. Cliffton says, “Perhaps I should go,” and folds her napkin on the table.
Will turns his attention to George. “Are you doing something for the Sisters Tournament?” he asks, interrupting his father mid-sentence. I pass him the dish of latticed pear tart, and he thrusts it at George without even looking at it.
“Variant Innovation,” George says, his mouth full. He shovels food onto his fork. He’s been talking so much he’s barely touched it. “You’re playing ball?”
Will gives a short nod. “So what did you invent?”
George swallows. “Really I haven’t had much time to work on it. This,” he says, gesturing toward Dr. Cliffton’s library, “seems more important.”
“Yes,” Will says, “I suppose it does.” He abruptly pushes out his chair and leaves the table.
Then it is just me, eating pear tart, silently listening to George and Dr. Cliffton, who don’t seem to notice that everyone else has left. But I understand why the Variant consumes them. I feel it, too—?as though everyone’s attention has turned toward the Clifftons’ house in a spotlight of expectation.
Snow falls quietly beyond the window, blanketing Sterling.
We’ve been back at school for only three days when Mrs. Cliffton draws me aside an hour before dinner. She’s smiling, but there is something in the tightness around her mouth that causes me to tense.
“Aila!” Her voice is bright, but she twirls her wedding ring around on her finger like it is circling a drain. “Can I speak with you? Somewhere private?”
Fear steals my voice. I nod, and lead Mrs. Cliffton to my room.
Mrs. Cliffton closes the door behind us. “What I need to say is a little difficult.”
I sit down on the edge of my bed. “What is it?” My mouth tastes like paper.
Father. Please don’t let it be about Father.
“I met with Miles’s teacher today,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “I’m afraid that he has been . . . causing some trouble at school.”
“Oh,” I breathe, my panic falling from me like a blanket. “This is about Miles.” I take a deep breath to slow my pounding heart, and my alarm shifts to annoyance. “What kind of trouble?”
“Well . . .” Mrs. Cliffton hesitates. Her hair corkscrews wildly away from her face, and I notice the fine lines branching out from the corners of her eyes. “A classmate’s missing shell collection was found in Miles’s desk. He was disinvited to someone’s house. And today he started a fight with another boy, though the teacher was unsure exactly what caused it.”
“I see.” Heat spreads across my face. “I’m truly sorry that he’s causing trouble.” I suddenly want to place my hand on top of Mrs. Cliffton’s, to apologize. Do something to show her my embarrassment and sincerity. Instead I keep them clasped in my lap. “I’ll talk to him,” I say.
“I know this has been a challenging time, with so many changes. And he’s still so young,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “I want to do what I can to help him. But Aila—” She breaks off, as if pained. “If he were asked to leave, there simply aren’t any other schools in Sterling for him to attend.”
“I understand,” I say, suddenly wondering how much influence the Clifftons must have wielded to get Miles and me to Sterling against the Council’s wishes.
But even the Clifftons’ clout must run out at some point.
“I felt it was only fair to tell you. I hope that was the right thing to do.”
“It was,” I insist. “Thank you. I will speak to him.”
No, I will wring his neck.
I find Miles in the sunroom, surrounded by paper, sketching with his Variant pencils.
“Miles.” My voice is quiet. And dangerous.
He looks up at me through golden lashes with such scorn, as if he knows what is coming. His hands are swimming in the oversize folds of William’s gloves again, and he can barely hold the pencil. The picture appearing on the paper is our house in Gardner. I grit my teeth against the words I want to say. Everything that I can’t take back, that is dangerously close to exploding out anyway.
