The dissonance, p.2
The Dissonance, page 2
“And if this goes well and you end up rich and famous, maybe let me wet my beak a little, all right?” She rubs her thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for Pay up, which prompts another round of good-natured laughter. Athena forces a smile at her own joke.
Garrett appears in the classroom doorway—tall, black-haired, in jeans, T-shirt, and a sports coat despite the weather. He looks like the white Hollywood leading man version of a college professor. He sees what’s happening, holds up a hand in apology, and backs out of sight. Athena turns toward the whiteboard but freezes as she catches her reflection in a darkened window: sleeves of her button-down shirt rolled up, brown hair barely contained by a scrunchie, Coke-bottle glasses in need of a good wipe-down. She’s never felt more like a middle-aged schoolmarm. She swallows a sigh as she faces the class.
“I don’t know why I started turning around,” she says. “I have nothing else to write. All this sex talk has me flustered, I guess. Thank you all for coming. I mean, thank you for attending. Attending.”
It’s a weak joke, but it earns a laugh and mild applause. Most of the crowd disperses, but a few students hang back to ask questions. Athena does her best to answer while shepherding everyone downstairs and out the front door. Her barista, Danni, does the same with the last of the coffee drinkers. After Athena locks the front door and flips the sign to “CLOSED,” she leaves Danni to clean up and returns upstairs to find Garrett in the classroom, studying the whiteboard.
“I don’t recognize any of this,” he says.
“It’s Wiccan, not Dissonant.”
Athena has known Garrett since she was fifteen years old, when they met at a conference of Dissonants. He used to be a straight-up asshole, but in early middle age he’s mellowed into a likable blowhard. He’s from a Dissonant family, one of those rare lines where the talent passes reliably from generation to generation. Like most old Dissonant families, his is very wealthy. He doesn’t have to work, but he does anyway, traveling the world seeking and trading Dissonant texts and artifacts. Most of what he obtains, he sells to affluent collectors, but he offers smaller finds to shops like Athena’s. She sometimes wonders if he visits her so often out of a sense of pity, or if maybe there’s something more behind his frequent appearances. His visits always feel fraught with possibility, although she’s never quite sure if the feeling is one-sided or not. Every time he visits, she inches closer to inviting him back to her place.
Garrett points to the board. “Does it work?”
“Am I selling snake oil, you mean?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes you did. And yes, the ritual works, but not in the way you’re thinking.” She walks past him and wipes the board with an eraser. “It’s not a Dissonant command line. More like meditation. Directing your energies toward a goal.”
“Sounds hippie-dippie,” he says.
“To a snob, sure,” she says. “It’s like prayer. Hospital patients who pray recover faster than patients who don’t. It’s the layperson’s method of drawing power from the universe, or maybe the mind manifesting what it wants by directing its own strengths through some imagined external force.” She sets the eraser down.
“Sex magic,” Garrett says, his tone more considering.
“Try it sometime,” Athena says.
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“Depends how you like your sex.” She doesn’t wait for his reaction, but heads downstairs. After she bids Danni good night and watches to make sure the girl gets to her car okay, she and Garrett sit at one of the café tables, drinking beer instead of coffee. Garrett regales her with the story of his most recent adventure, something about a family of cannibals on Mount Nebo in Arkansas. She half-listens with a mix of jealousy and boredom. Garrett is a person impressed with his own experiences, and Athena hates herself a little for pretending to be impressed as well. It’s good business—if Garrett suspects she has a crush, he’ll underestimate or feel sorry for her, and give her a better price—but it’s more than that. This obnoxious blowhard also reminds her of another obnoxious blowhard she knew as a kid. One whom she liked much better.
By the time Garrett’s finished his second beer and third anecdote, Athena can’t keep her curiosity in check any longer. She drops the façade of polite interest and asks, “So what do you have for me?”
Garrett looks a little startled at the abrupt change in her manner, but rolls with it. He lifts his briefcase onto the table and unclasps it. He removes a gold disc the circumference of a small dinner plate, but thick and solid like a barbell weight. Intricate designs are etched on the surface, making it look a bit like a bronzed circuit board.
“The cannibals were using this as a beer coaster,” he says.
He cups his hands around the disc. Warm light shines from the designs on the surface—diffuse at first, and then coalescing into a swirling mass of colors, which then solidify into a three-dimensional image of a creature that could be an otherworldly woman. Her silvery skin shines like the moon, her eyes are solid black orbs, and her dark hair floats around her like she’s underwater. Gills ripple on her neck. Her black eyes make it difficult to read her expression, but Athena thinks the creature looks sad. Her right arm bears a dark birthmark in the shape of a spade.
“It’s a Dissonant painting,” Garrett says. “A creature called—”
“An undine,” Athena says. “A cosmic elemental.” She scolds herself for interrupting, and for letting on she knows as much as she does.
“You know your stuff,” he says, sounding impressed.
Athena chooses her next words with more care. “I thought the Dissonant community considered undine mythical. Part of the ‘Many Worlds’ heresy.”
“They are,” Garrett says. “Which is why I’m bringing this to you and not to a more upscale dealer. They’d consider it in bad taste. I thought I could count on your—and your clients’—discretion.”
He strokes the edge of the disc, and the image zooms in on the undine’s face. She looks familiar to Athena, like something from a dream.
“She seems unhappy,” Athena says.
“Because she knows she’s not real,” Garrett says. It’s a joke, but Athena can’t fake a laugh for him. She’s too exhausted after an evening of playing “teacher,” and anyway her curiosity has taken over now. Once she’s curious about something, it’s hard to be anything else. She puts her hands on the disc and swipes a few times, to examine the image from multiple angles.
“Who’s the artist?”
“If you were painting heretical images, would you sign your work? If I had to guess based on the design, I’d say it was done in the late ’70s or early ’80s, though.”
“I’ll take it,” Athena says. “Usual terms.” Meaning consignment. Fifty-fifty split on the proceeds. Garrett sets a minimum price, and Athena will negotiate anything on top of that.
“Cheers,” he says. They clink the necks of their beer bottles and drain the remains.
After Garrett excuses himself to the restroom, Athena finishes cleanup. She’s debating whether or not to finally take the plunge and invite Garrett back to her apartment when she overhears him talking in the bathroom. The walls in the old house are thin, and in the after-hours quiet, she can hear every word. The polite thing to do would be to make a lot of noise to bury his, or just leave. Instead, Athena stops tying up a trash bag to eavesdrop.
“No, the meeting went well,” he says. “She’s good. I doubt it’ll take more than a few weeks to sell.” A pause. “No, you’re thinking of the guy in Austin. Whatshisname. This is the woman in Ashland. The one I met as a kid? Yeah, the cute, thick one. She really knew her shit back then, but then something happened to her whole coven, and after that she gave it all up for some reason. Doesn’t practice anymore. Yeah.” Another pause. “I dunno. Maybe? Fingers crossed. I’ll text you and let you know how it goes.”
Athena resumes garbage duties as the toilet flush roars. When she returns from the dumpster out back, Garrett is back in the café. He smiles at her, but the expression falters when he sees her face.
“Something wrong?” he says.
“No,” she says. “Long day. I’m beat.”
His face falls a little, and she feels a little stab of triumph. He was hoping she would finally ask him over, too. He’s probably used to being invited wherever he wants. She almost feels sorry for him. Almost.
“Sure,” he says, recovering quickly. “Same here. I’ll get out of your hair.”
She’s walking him into the front room, past the display case and cash register, when she feels the tremor. Her first thought is that someone is driving past the store, blasting their bass. Only, unlike a bass tremor, which passes and fades, this one grows. The building begins to shake around her. The portrait disc—the painting of the undine—bounces on the table in the café. Garrett grabs her arm. She assumes he’s trying to steady her, but he sways and, as he pulls her down to the floor, she realizes he was using her to keep his own footing. The wooden floor hurts when she hits it, and she feels every one of her thirty-seven years. She covers her head with her hands, because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in an earthquake? Behind her she hears the portrait disc fall off the table and bang to the floor. But that, she notices, is the only unusual sound aside from the rumble of the quake. There’s no shattering of glass, or clatter of pretty rocks falling out of their baskets, or glass jars of herbs shattering on the floor. When the rumble stops, and Athena sits up, everything in the entryway sits where it should—products on shelves, pictures straight on the walls. Like nothing happened.
“What the hell was that?” Garrett says. “Some kind of earthquake?”
“Maybe,” she says. “But—” She gestures around the room at the lack of destruction. “You ever experienced anything like this before?”
“No,” he says. “That was a first. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Her heart and mind are both racing. What could have caused this? What does it mean that only she and Garrett and the portrait were affected?
In the ensuing silence, Athena’s phone dings from its hiding place behind the counter.
Owen
The morning after Hal Isaac and Athena Watts experience their personal earthquakes, Owen Gilliland steps into the bathroom of his father’s trailer in Wellspring, Alabama, sees himself in the mirror, and swears.
When he went to bed last night, he’d hoped he wouldn’t look so bad in the morning. But the morning has come, and Owen’s face has puffed up with a massive, impossible-to-hide black eye.
This leaves him with three options: he can call in sick; he can skip school without calling in; or he can go like this. None of these sounds appealing, but the first two sound worse than the third. If Owen calls in, he’ll have to stay home with his father. The man’s currently snoring through a hangover on the couch, but he’ll wake up, and Owen doesn’t want to be there when that happens.
There is a fourth option. Owen could pack a bag and leave. Sure. He’s eighteen, and has a few hundred dollars in the bank. He’s old enough to quit school and try his luck somewhere else. A big city where gay kids are commonplace and safe(ish). It could be an adventure. He’d have to sleep in his car until he found a place to live, but as long as he was careful with his money, he could make it, right?
This fantasy—of peace, of being able to breathe—carries him through his morning routine and all the way through his drive to Wellspring High, but it dissipates as he climbs from his car and hears Monica call his name. He fights a cringe as she jogs over to him, a look of concern on her blotchy red face.
“Owen,” she says. She reaches for his cheek, but withdraws when he pulls away. “What happened?”
Last night, Owen’s father, Bill Gilliland, barged into his son’s bedroom without knocking, and got an eyeful of his son jerking off to a video of one man blowing another. Bill stood for a moment, processing the sight through a beery haze, and gave Owen almost enough time to shut the laptop and pull up his pants. Owen had his zipper up by the time his father crossed the room and punched him.
It could’ve been worse. The old man didn’t yell, or lecture, or issue more physical discipline. He didn’t ask any questions, or make any comments. After the punch, he left and shut Owen’s door behind himself. Within an hour he was snoring on the living room couch. There’s even a good chance that, when Bill wakes up, he won’t remember the moment at all, and Owen will remain safely closeted to his father. The old man probably won’t even ask about the black eye.
“Dad got drunk and I got in his way,” Owen says to Monica, as they cross the parking lot toward the front doors of the school. He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but he doesn’t look at her when he says it.
To her credit, Monica doesn’t poke. She leaves the subject be and they walk in companionable silence to Economics. This is why she’s his best friend. She knows who he is. She keeps his secrets like they’re her own.
As the day goes on, a few other kids ask about the black eye, but none of Owen’s teachers say anything. It’s a small town. Most of them have known Bill Gilliland all their lives, and none of them wants to fuck with the man. Owen is torn between sympathy and outrage. They’re the grown-ups. Aren’t they supposed to do something?
By lunchtime, Owen’s feeling almost normal. He and Monica have a booth in the cafeteria all to themselves, and sit across from one another, absorbed in their homework, until Lucy Cushing approaches the table. Lucy is one of the kids who wears all black every day and listens to nothing but metal. She’s dating Owen’s crush, Cole White, the de facto king of the Wellspring High goths. Owen has been in honors classes with Cole since grade school.
“What’s with your face?” Lucy says.
“He got in a badass fight,” Monica says, without looking up from her precalculus textbook. “What’s your excuse?”
Lucy smirks, acknowledging the point scored. “Are you two busy tomorrow night?”
Monica’s head snaps up, and she answers before Owen can: “We are not.”
“Do you feel like getting into some trouble?”
“Depends on the trouble.”
“Midnight ritual at the cemetery,” Lucy says. “We need two more people.” She faces Owen now. “Cole thought you might be into it.”
Across the cafeteria, all the kids at the goth table stare at Owen. Most look skeptical, and who can blame them? Nothing about Owen or Monica screams midnight ritual. But Cole, skinny and pale, stringy black hair in a ponytail, blue eyes bright behind his glasses, wears the same face he wears in English class when he argues with Mrs. Clanton. If Owen had to name it, he would call the expression amused contempt. It always creates a little tug behind Owen’s breastbone, and it warms his face now.
“We’re in,” Monica says.
“Great,” Lucy says. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow around eleven-thirty. Wear black, okay?”
They exchange numbers and Lucy returns to the goth table. Owen scowls at Monica. “What the hell?”
“You have objections?” Monica says.
He has plenty. Monica agreed to this adventure without asking what sort of ritual they’re attempting. Owen knows fuck-all about the occult, but he assumes nothing aboveboard happens in a graveyard after dark.
Before he can say any of this, he looks at the goth table again. Cole gives him a smile and a thumbs-up, and his cheeks warm. What is the worst that can happen? They’re all of them just high school kids, led by an honors student, for fuck’s sake. It’ll be a bit of mischief, maybe a touch of petty vandalism, and they’ll all go home high on the adrenaline.
“No,” Owen says. “No objections.”
“That’s right. Now say ‘Thank you, Monica.’ ”
“Thank you, Monica.”
Erin
The day after Owen Gilliland accepts an invitation to a midnight ritual, Erin Porter is running late to her job in Iowa City. The parking deck closest to her job is so packed she has to park on the roof, and when she gets out of the car, she’s still two blocks away and five minutes late. She can’t afford to wait for the elevator. She sprints down the stairs and between pedestrians on the sidewalk, only slowing when the High Ground Café comes into view.
She stops, wrestles her blond hair back into a semblance of a bun, and walks through the front door, trying to look casual as she maneuvers around a long line of grad students and TAs. From behind the register, Erin’s boss, Manny, gives her an impressive frown. He’s twenty-six, recently promoted to manager, and treats his new position with deathly seriousness. She hurries into the kitchen to throw on her apron and nametag, washes her hands, and steps back into the café proper.
“You want me to take the register or make drinks?” she says.
“Make drinks,” Manny says.
Erin might have a punctuality problem, but once she’s at work, she’s fast and accurate. She and Manny deplete the mid-afternoon line in under twenty minutes, sending the serious-looking intellectuals to their stools and booths with caffeinated drinks and baked goods.
When the third barista, Cindy, gets back from her break, Manny asks Erin to see him in his office—a closet in the stock area, with a tiny desk and a single chair. Manny takes the chair and Erin has to stand. As he studies her, she fights the urge to cross her arms. She won’t show him how uncomfortable this makes her.
“Why are you back here, Erin?” he says.
Because you’re an asshole. “Because I was late.” She looks him in the eye. She’s ten years older than he is. This little creep won’t cow her.
“Because you were late.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is this job important to you?”
“Sure.” Rage tightens her jaw. She can’t stand being talked to like a child.
“Times are tough. Do you know how many applications get dropped off every day, ‘just in case’?”
