Rifts on the other Earths open and close randomly. They don’t stay active like ours but flicker off and on, possibly opening once and never again. Scientists theorize that the Earths closest to ours have more frequent Rift activity, as the dark matter in the universe is drawn to these invisible fissures made by our experiment and strike like lightning. But they don’t really know. They can’t know anything for sure because no one goes back through The Rift. Ezra will never go back. The Roones are stuck here, too. The one exception is that Karekins keep coming, though no one can figure out how or why. It’s such bullshit—all of it. I am so drained from today that I just want to sit here and try to think about nothing for a while.
But I pull myself up from the couch and make my way into the kitchen. We rotate cooking duties in the house. Nike is pretty far from Battle Ground. Sometimes my mom is in the car for two hours a day. Since it’s my fault we’re even in Battle Ground to begin with, I don’t mind picking up some of the slack. My brother, Abel, is three years younger than me and has just started high school. He is useless in the kitchen, so he’s exempt. Cooking is one of the few things he can’t do. He’s one of those people who seem to excel at everything they try. He’s a natural athlete, he’s artistic like my dad, he gets straight As—but I rarely see him doing much work. He’s already over six feet tall and very handsome. He looks Scandinavian, but dark haired, like my dad. Actually, the first time I went to Stockholm to see my grandparents, I saw that most people have brown hair, which surprised me at first. That and the fact that they are insanely good-looking. Like, every random person just walking down the street could be a model. It’s weird. I would be jealous of Abel, but honestly, if he had been average, like me, he might have been chosen to be a Citadel. I am so glad that he’s not one; I can get past the fact that he is so friggin’ good at everything.
I begin to cook sausage in an old Le Creuset pot that my mom has had since before she and my dad were married. I start boiling water for the pasta. I cut up the smooth-skinned peppers with an efficiency that belies my skill with knives. Even as I do these mundane things, I think, I am a killer. Not really a murderer, because it’s all in the name of defense, of my life and the lives of those in Battle Ground and beyond. But a killer just the same. Sure, the way ARC says it, everything sounds quite reasonable. Heroic, even.
Then why don’t I feel like a hero?
Each life I take takes a little something from me. I feel impossibly old for my seventeen years. I am not an innocent. I think about Ezra’s hands when he waved them in front of me, thanking me for not restraining him. Where do you even go from there? Is that any kind of beginning to a romance? I roll my eyes. I can’t have a romance with Ezra and there are so many reasons why that come tumbling into my thought process, they are beyond counting. I put the peppers into the pot and add some garlic as my mom walks through the front door. I hear her kick off her shoes and the thump of her bag on the formal dining room table.
“That smells good,” my mom says. “Pasta?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply. I look at her and smile quickly. Her pale blond hair falls loose to her shoulders. She is wearing jeans, a cotton button-down blouse, and sneakers. Since she works at Nike, her clothes are sporty and comfortable, but somehow she always manages to look chic. She layers necklaces, winds scarves brilliantly around her neck, stacks leather and gold bracelets on her wrists, has big chunky belts, and even the cut of her jeans—slouchy but fitted—is elegant. I can attribute this only to her being European. A cultural thing—not genetic—because no one would accuse me of being stylish. I rarely think about what I wear. More often than not it’s yoga pants and boxy T-shirts with Converse sneakers in the summer and boots in the winter. In a way, my sartorial choices are great, because the rules are clear: We are not to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves. I think I’ve worn makeup maybe twice in my life. I’m sure this must be somewhat disappointing to my fashion-conscious mother, but to her credit she never says anything. She takes a look at me and opens her mouth to say something but closes it. How could she not want a normal daughter who rambles on about boys and clothes and teachers at school? Instead she got me: a kid who talks as little as possible and keeps her mother at arm’s length.
I am a good girl. She says that a lot. “Ryn, you’re such a good girl …” She tries to be validating, because that’s what I am. That is all I can offer my parents. I am good. I do not sneak out at night, I don’t water down their liquor, I don’t come home smelling like weed, I don’t break my curfew, I don’t date. For a while there, my parents thought I was gay. They sat me down and quite sweetly said they would love me no matter what and that if I liked girls, I should just tell them, get everything out in the open. “I’m not gay,” I said softly. “I’m shy.”
The thing is, I am not shy. I’m quiet only because I hate that every other word out of my mouth is an untruth. I probably should have just said I was asexual … which is pretty much what my job requires of me anyway. Besides, that’s a thing now. It would have given them something to research and they would stop smirking at each other every time Boone or Henry comes over … and then frown when it’s clear nothing is happening between me and either of them.
It’s almost like my parents would welcome me having sex. I think they’d breathe a sigh of relief even as they grounded me. And it hurts sometimes that I can’t even give them that.
“Dinner in fifteen,” I say, and go back to stirring the peppers. I am always hyperaware of my body language. I know how to close myself off, how to disinvite a conversation with a slight turn of my chin, a shuffle backward, a drawing in of my shoulder blades as if they were wings that needed hiding. I try not to be dismissive, but I know that’s what she sees. We both hear Abel come in, and my mom—with some relief—walks to the door to greet him. He’s been at football practice. I pretend I don’t know his schedule, like I couldn’t give a shit. The truth is I know where Abel is almost every minute of the day. I know where everyone in my family is, because if trouble that can’t be contained comes through The Rift, I might need to get to them quickly.
I put the pasta bowls on the kitchen table and neatly set a folded paper towel and a fork beside each one. I fill up a carafe with ice water and lay out four glasses. My family arrives from their separate corners of the house and everyone sits in their chairs. The conversation bounces lightly between them … and mostly off of me.
“We just got a prototype of a running jacket that I designed and I’m really excited about it,” Mom gushes. “I know you don’t run, Ryn, but it’s supercute. It would look great on you. You could use it as a light coat when the weather gets cooler.” I run, on average, about twenty miles a day—not that my family would know. When I tell my parents I hate working out, this is not exactly a lie. I don’t love exercising, but I don’t exactly have much choice, either. “I’ll order you one when it goes to market—if it goes to market. But I’m sure it will; everyone seems really positive about it at work.”
“That’s great, V,” my dad says, and gives her a broad smile.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say politely.
“So,” my dad begins, “how’s varsity looking?”
Abel’s mouth is full of food. I have never seen anyone eat as much as Abel does, not even Henry and he’s way bigger than my brother. Abel begins to nod his head as he swallows. “It’s good. I think it’s there if I want, only I’ll probably be benched most of the season. Greg Casiano is a great QB, and I’m just a freshman. I don’t think I’ll get much field time. Maybe I should just do JV so I can really play.” Abel takes another mouthful.
“I don’t know …” Dad ponders, lifting his thumb and index finger to his chin as if to stroke an imaginary beard. “Playing varsity all four years of high school looks great on a college application.”
Abel shrugs. He’s fourteen. He’s not thinking about college. He just wants to get out there and have some fun. I get it, and I think my mom does, too, but she doesn’t say anything. I know she will bring this up to my dad later, when they are alone. I also know what’s coming next.
“Speaking of college,” my dad says, turning his eyes to me. I groan inwardly but keep my face passive. “I hope you’re