Adagio had never thought much about being a music student. Sure, when she was younger, it was possible she could get picked on for it, or be the only one in her class, or one of very few in her grade. Certainly she knew the standard of being, and was aware these norms emphasized an image -- an ideal, if you will -- perhaps different than herself. But she liked that image too, and thus could not fault others for liking it, for following it. And despite not looking like the images she saw, she still felt they somehow included her, if not explicitly, then by the weight of affection of years of living among a place, a people -- the bond of shared classes, of shared hallways, of shared favorite Village restaurants: surely that bond was not so frail to have been sustained by politeness. Even if Adagio was different than most everyone else, she could still be part of the places and systems that raised her. Something bigger than herself. Something safe.
Then came the tension.
The tension, it was -- hard to describe. Now, when Adagio met the eyes of someone outside her major, she did not know if they harbored a default dislike of her, or perhaps a wary apathy, or else a tense distance in their mind. Now, whenever she spoke, her identity came to the forefront of her mind. She knew that people might have an idea of her without ever speaking to her. Many times she could even guess at the thoughts they must be having.
Worst of all, she could not fault them, because if she were not born exactly herself there is no saying she would not be thinking them too.
In due time, perhaps at the end of the world, the people of Port Alms might finally come to see, as one, that this was no way to live -- indeed, turning against one another does not make a life.
But today was not the end of the world, and that easily the people could be forgiven for their affectionate misguidings, their singular perspectives, their unflippable confidences about shakable truths. That easily the world did not change today because too many people were sure about too many things. That easily the stars in the sky glittered, forever trapped in time, and that easily the earth may as well be too.
Adagio did not care for the feeling one bit. Specifically, if you must know, she hated it. She hated the way the eyes of everyday people glazed over headlines on the news, how the headlines could say, The Sky Is Falling! or Children Are Dying! End Times Are Near! The Plague Never Left! and the people will murmur to each other how sad, how peculiar -- and miss the same train to work.
Yet -- how could they do anything but?
Sometimes Adagio thought she had the courage to be who she really was -- to be the person to stand up and wave her hands in front of their glazed eyes and make them see. But then she would look back down, or stand, or blink -- and the feeling would vanish.
If she had told a friend how she felt, she would have discovered that a friend felt the same way. But she did not, and neither did they -- and so like ships in the nights passed each other without each discovering they were not alone in their human experience.
In this singular way, perhaps it was a blessing that the first Trip arrived when it did.
* * *
The narrator of the Great Fate Machine, a senior girl, was the act selected to perform at the first quarter's funding game. Going on my resume, the girl had grinned when she returned to class the day the office called her down to tell her. Adagio heard it from Saachi, who probably heard it from her ears all over the school. Saachi was always passing on information -- Adagio never asked who her informant was.
The Spera School walked down to Towers Theater. The thousand students filled the thousand seats, and after they leaned back, leaned forward, leaned sideways, rest their arm on the armrest and took it off again, the show began.
The senior girl gave her monologue. It was an inspiring short story about the head chef of the Great Fate Kitchen -- or something, Adagio wasn't paying attention. She was, like the rest of the school, following the green light jumping from seat to seat all over the theater. The light dipped from the balcony to the ground seating -- the ground sections gasped -- the light jumped from the ground seats to the mezzanine -- the mezzanine exclaimed -- Adagio thought it was all rather dramatic until the light jumped just next to her -- and she gasped loudly.
It humbled her.
Next moment the senior girl said thank you, and bowed. A grand total of not one person was staring at her, because every single person was staring at the stopped green light.
The girl in the illuminated seat a few rows up from Adagio stood slowly. At the silence in the theater she looked uncertainly to the side of the stage to Dr. Amy. At Dr. Amy's watchful gaze she looked down to her friend beside her, a girl with silky black hair.
When still not one person in the theater seemed to move the girl glanced backward over her shoulder -- and Adagio saw she had deep brown skin, and extremely familiar features --
Gretta.
Adagio's heart sank. In normal times Adagio liked Gretta. Gretta was kind, and smart, and a good Hope anchor.
But theirs were not normal times, no -- theirs were unprecedented.
Others recognized Gretta too, and a wave of cries and calls pulsed through the theater -- communications majors rejoiced, making their approval for Gretta known by their whoops and shouts. The other majors, stunned for a moment before remembering they had voices too, began to jeer. Funny how fast it happened -- teenagers once divided by the system, for a moment united against it. All of a sudden it seemed to Adagio like the whole theater was yelling in some form or another at Gretta, the poor girl, who's eyes were growing wider by the second, and telling her what to do, who to choose.
Adagio snapped to her senses: she felt for Gretta. Choosers couldn't be winners -- the Great Fate Machine had taught her that.
Dr. Amy stepped into the spotlight. She lifted a hand, and fifty seconds later the theater finally settled. More or less. More less.
"What's your name, sweetie?"
Gretta's voice did not shake. It was more than more than half of the theater could've had said about them, and Adagio's respect grew.
"Gretta, based on the portion of revenue brought in by each major, let us find out together what department your seat, C-4R, was assigned to."
Towers Theater looked to the screen.
The letters emerged one by one from the Spera emerald green background:
C...
Towers Theater erupted. A communications girl in front of Adagio burst into tears and draped herself in the arms of her friend, a boy in the front row jumped to his feet and pumped a fist in the air, and all around him communications majors celebrated as if they had just discovered the New World, if not for the glory then for the food -- and the promised sleep, and the sheer, sheer relief of crawling upon a shore, any shore, after weeks at sea.
Adagio might understand, if she was not currently grappling with a sudden sharp hate. A new sharp fear. Now that it was impossible, she could admit to herself that a part of her did not believe music could be risk, that as the largest it would not be the first major chosen.
"Communications," Gretta answered into the microphone.
Dr. Amy thanked Gretta and entered her choice into the Trip board.
"Congratulations, Communications. You are saved."
* * *
Pouring into the sunlight, students filled the courtyard, the cafeteria, the deck. The ducks in the rain lake this lunch had a particular appetite, which was just as well because the students didn't. Laying down picnic blankets from the office everyone chose spots in the grass on the banks of the lake to lay in the light, tossing their grapes and blueberries and watermelon bites in the general direction of the lake in between rants. Everyone wanted a go -- everyone had something to say, and for once everyone agreed.
By the end of lunch that day the majors of the Spera School had arrived at one unanimous opinion.
We must save ourselves.
It was so close, yet -- they meant themselves. Their own major.
Nobody noticed the Accord missing from the courtyard.
* * *
For most of the ascent Adagio sensed only darkness.
At the top of four flights of stairs Adagio found a tattered gray runner carpeting a narrow passageway forking halfway down its length into more passages. Wooden side tables, stacked chairs, and a thick layer of dust furnished one of the darker passages – it was clear no one had gone down it in a particularly long time.
Claire crept ahead, beyond one passageway lined with empty bookshelves and another piled with tattered music stand parts towards a row of peeling leather executive's chairs along the outermost catwalk walkway directly facing the stage. Someone in the leather chair closest turned at their approaching footsteps --
Saachi, who told them the boys would be here soon.
As lunches unwrapped, Adagio wondered aloud if Gretta could have chosen any major.
Yes, said Saachi. But how would that have looked, if the right of being chosen had gone to another major, and Gretta still chose her own? It meant safety for Gretta -- it justified her, the screen showing Communications.
"What are the odds of that? A communications seat being chosen with a communications student in it."
Saachi and Claire exchanged a glance.
"More likely than you think," Claire muttered darkly.
"Communications brings in the most money," Saachi informed Adagio wearily.
Adagio reeled. How was that possible? Communications didn't have any shows. They didn't perform. They didn't sell. What do they sell -- tickets to what? All they had was the daily morning news, The Hope, and the monthly student publication, The Dream, and the annual yearbook...
Saachi looked up grimly.
"They do, Adagio. They sell the system."
Adagio didn't understand.
"Look. You either bid, or do the bidding. Feel me?"
"Yeah," said Hudson from behind, pulling up chairs next to Saachi for him and Dean. The theater below them was quiet. Adagio thought how strange it might be if someone were to walk in and happen to look up, and see five students sitting along the catwalk fifty feet above the audience.
Dean was staring at Claire. "It makes sense," he said thoughtfully. "Communications was the only major established without their own building. They're housed in administration."
Saachi nodded approvingly. "Brushed up on the Spera Scroll? You finally read about each major's founding, notable achievements through the decades --"
"-- and selected state and national awards? Yes ma'am."
Hudson looked up from his lunch. "Yeah -- and remember when Dale told us he was the one who started keeping the Scroll? And now it's part of the school?"
"Wait," said Adagio, "you've met Mr. Spera?"
Saachi nodded, surprised.
"He's not mythological, love," Saachi shrugged. "A number of us have."
Claire raised her eyebrows. "Not me," Claire said.
"Me either," said Dean.
"Really? He's in Three Village, sometimes. He likes The Past, says they have the best mocha this side of the tracks."
"I thought you said that," Claire pouted. "That's why I say it."
Saachi smiled, and glanced over the railing down at Towers stage.
Over Claire's shoulder Dean passed Claire a bag of chips from the lunch line. She turned to him, confused, and he met her eyes and gave a nod. Adagio saw words pass between them without a sound, between Dean's clear and sure gaze and Claire's wide one, and saw a change in her eyes -- a permission given -- as she accepted, and did not roll her eyes.
Claire turned back, and biting back a stupid grin Dean lifted his eyes to his big brother's. Adagio looked curtly away. Adagio did not have a brother and would never know what it's like, but the moment did not belong to her.
When she looked up she saw Saachi watching her keenly.
"Adagio, have you ever read the Spera Scroll?"
* * *
The media center was in the middle of campus halfway up the hill. Bookshelves of novels and tomes and literature lined the walls. Tables filled the floor. Adagio spotted three computer labs, seven study rooms, a printer and a help desk. There were groups of students sitting at the tables eating, and their chatter carried and mixed into a lively calm. Pamphlets of upcoming school shows laid on a front table and along one wall a shelf carried current and past editions of The Dream, propped open to colorful spreads. Saachi led them past the shelf towards an encased display Adagio had never noticed.
The Spera Scroll was aged and yellowed, bound at the spine, and composed of less than a dozen pages. As Saachi lifted the encasing and turned the cover page, lilting cursive danced across the large parchment. It was beautiful, old handwriting, the kind a fallen nation's laws might've been drafted in. The pages held newspaper clippings and what looked like ticket stubs from the very first shows of each major --
"Here," said Saachi, pointing and reading from a page. "'By an agreement between the Port Alms School District and Mr. Dale Spera, communication arts was the first major established at the Spera School. In more ways than one, it is the original art.'"
Claire skimmed down the page. "Here's a picture from the ribbon cutting! The caption under says 'Dale Spera Welcomes The Seven Majors'."
Adagio looked. It was a vintage photograph of a young Mr. Spera shaking hands with a stout man, the lights of cameras flashing like old Hollywood. Mr. Spera and the man stood at the top of the flight of stairs in front of the white administration building. Adagio could see the flagpole in the corner. Mr. Spera looked familiar, somehow, but Adagio couldn't put her finger on where she'd seen his face before. The train, maybe? An old pamphlet?
"Flip ahead," Adagio suggested, "maybe the Scroll will introduce them too."
Saachi flipped -- but the Scroll's pages changed.
After documenting the first five years of the school, the pages became clean and new, the first of them somehow stitched with the thin jagged edge of the last of the yellowed pages. Saachi flipped back, then back again, but nothing was stuck together -- only, abruptly, past and future.
"It looks torn," Claire observed, tracing the line between them with a black nail. "Like it ripped."
Saachi frowned. "Mr. Spera kept the Scroll in his personal library. It was only moved to the media center a few years ago."
"Did something happen seven years after Spera was founded?"
Saachi chewed her lip, brows furrowed. Claire traced her fingertip down the first new page. "Towers Theater was built around then, I think." Claire flipped to an image of the ribbon-cutting in front of the north face of the theater. This time it wasn't Mr. Spera shaking hands with the mayor. "That's Lydia's grandfather," Claire tapped the new man's face decisively. "That's Richard Towers."
Saachi raised her brows.
"What? I've met him. He stays at Lydia's parents' estate."
Adagio had heard about the Towers estate -- indeed the Towers fortune. What wouldn't Adagio give to see Lydia's generational mansion? As Adagio dreamed of old money Claire skimmed through to the end of the Scroll. But there was no more mention of any seven majors.
"Claire," said Saachi, exchanging a glance with Adagio, "I think we need you to pull some strings."