Dissonance by Erica O’Rourke

my backpack, my mom was sitting at the kitchen table. A glass jar of buttons stood at her elbow and one of Monty’s sweaters lay in her lap. “The school called.”
    â€œI know.” I’d been sitting in the dean’s office when he dialed. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
    â€œThere’d better not be a next time,” she replied, and snipped a loose thread. “Have a seat.”
    I dropped into my chair. “You heard from the Consort?”
    â€œThey want to see you tonight.” She tugged at the button and made a small, satisfied noise. “Daddy and I will take you in.”
    The last thing I wanted was an hour-long lecture in the car. I glanced at the teapot, squat and fire-engine red, the same coloras the little girl’s balloon. My throat tightened, but I said, “I’m going with Eliot.”
    â€œHe can ride with us. We need to be there.”
    â€œYou don’t need to. You’ve already turned me in, Mom. Isn’t that enough?”
    â€œThat’s not—” She broke off as Monty wandered in, clutching the sports section of the newspaper.
    â€œI’m cold,” he complained.
    â€œPerfect timing,” Mom replied with forced cheer, and helped him into the sweater. He must have given her a rough time today—the more difficult he was, the more upbeat she got, as if she could reverse his decline solely through willpower. “Honestly, Dad, I don’t know how you manage to lose so many buttons.”
    Monty winked at me and put his finger to his lips. I stifled a laugh, despite my mood.
    â€œGood as new, and here’s my best girl in the bargain.” He gave me a whiskery kiss on the cheek. “Have you been out Walking? Did you see Rose?”
    â€œI was at school, Grandpa.”
    â€œIt’s late. She should be home by now,” he said, and swiped a handful of buttons from the jar. “We should look for her.”
    â€œHow about a snack?” Mom said. She packed up the sewing kit with exaggerated care, like the precise arrangement of threads and needles would somehow make everything else fall into place.
    He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “A snack?”
    â€œI’ll fix you something,” I said quickly. When Monty losttime, distraction was the only way to stop him from taking off. “How about granola? With honey on top?”
    He scratched his chin, considering, and then sat as if he was doing us a favor. My mom exhaled. “I’m going to finish up some work. Del, we’re leaving in an hour.”
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œHave you been out Walking?” Monty asked again when she left. “Did you see Rose?”
    â€œNope. School, remember?” He did this a lot, asking the same questions over and over, as if the answer would change.
    â€œYou’re in trouble,” he said. “I heard them talking.”
    â€œYep.” I kept my tone even and my face hidden behind the pantry door. “I . . . made a mistake. When I was Walking with Addie.”
    He made a harrumphing noise. “Nothing’s done . . .”
    I was not in the mood for rhymes. Not with so much at stake. “I cleaved a world, Grandpa. It doesn’t get any more done.” I spoke more softly. “It was an accident. I know they don’t believe me, but it was.”
    Monty didn’t say anything, and I dug through the shelves for the giant mason jar of granola. “You know what I don’t understand? If Echoes are such a threat, why am I in trouble for cleaving one?”
    The air around me quivered. As quietly as I could, so as not to disturb the chord, I backed out of the pantry and turned my head toward the table.
    â€œDamn it, Grandpa!”
    Monty was gone, the pivot point he’d used trembling faintly. If I hurried, I might be able to catch him before my mom realized he’d wandered off. In a way, I admired how neatly he’d