Ten Thousand Skies Above You
Page 14

I remember Lieutenant Markov, bloodied and weak, dying in the Russian snow. “That depends on where he is. He could be somewhere dangerous; Conley would do that. You know he would.”
My parents exchange a look, and Dad sighs. “We’ll give it one week. If we can’t make substantive progress on finding Paul ourselves in that time, then—well, then we’ll consider it.”
“Consider it?” How can they do this? I step away from them, hurt and confused.
“Enough of this,” Mom says sharply. “You know how much we love Paul. We loved him even before you did, if you’ll recall. We aren’t standing our ground because we don’t want to get him back as soon as possible. We’re doing this because the price of cooperating with Conley is too high.”
My father adds, “Conley has his hooks into Paul already. That doesn’t mean we should hand you over too.”
I close my eyes tightly until the wave of anger passes. “Dad—”
“This discussion is over.” Mom heads toward the rainbow table. “If we’re going to save Paul, we need to get started.”
Dad follows her, as does Theo. But when Theo walks past me, our eyes meet, and I realize he knows what I’m thinking. I expect him to rat me out to my parents—that’s what the Triadverse’s Theo would do. Instead, he sits down at the table, pretending he doesn’t understand what’s about to happen.
They work until almost midnight. By that point I’m lying in bed, twisted up in the sheets, unable to sleep. All I can think about is the last time Paul and I were alone together before Theo collapsed—the last moment our lives seemed normal.
We lay together on the narrow twin bed in his dorm room, my head pillowed on his chest. Soft classical music played from his phone deck, almost covering the noise from other grad students down the hall. His dorm room is as stark as any other cheap student housing, plus Paul isn’t the kind of guy who would fix it up even if he had the money. He owns this utilitarian navy-blue bedspread, and there’s only one piece of decoration on the walls.
Hanging above us that night was my portrait of Paul. Not the one I’m painting now, but the first one I ever attempted. I cut it to ribbons when I thought Paul had betrayed us and killed my father. To my surprise, Paul insisted on keeping it just as it is. It reminds me how close I came to losing you, he said. That’s the kind of thing I’d want to forget, but that he always wants to remember. At least he let me patch it up.
Paul stroked my hair, his fingers untangling my curls. It’s the gentlest, most comforting touch in the world. “I heard from a few more universities today, about my postdoc.”
One of the weird things about being a scientist is that you have to get multiple college degrees—and even after you get your PhD, you remain a student for another year or two, usually at a different college than the one you studied at before. The point of the whole postdoc thing? I have no idea. It’s a hoop they all have to jump through.
It would drive me crazy that Paul has to leave, if I weren’t headed to college myself in January. “Which ones?”
“Oxford made an offer; so did Stanford. I expect to hear from Cambridge and CERN soon.”
This is information that would make most people jump for joy. Paul takes it in stride, but my stomach knots. “Nothing from Harvard or MIT? Or maybe Princeton?”
“Not yet. MIT is a possibility, but—professors at Harvard and Princeton are skeptics.”
About Mom and Dad’s work, he meant. Those are the professors trying to tear them down, the ones who don’t believe us about what happened in December. “Okay, so, we think about MIT.”
His gray eyes met mine. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I’ll still be yours.”
I kissed him softly, enjoying the way we were tangled together, the soft sound of his jeans against mine as we shifted to get closer. “But I’d like it if you could be mine, like, every weekend. Not just at Christmas and spring break.”
What with all the craziness of December, I’d deferred starting college until next January. The Rhode Island School of Design had agreed to that; they preserved my scholarship and everything. January is when Paul’s likely to start his postdoc. If he goes to MIT, we won’t be far apart at all.
Paul said, “Are you still unwilling to apply to any schools besides RISD?”
“RISD’s the best in the country for art restoration.”
“What about fine art?” His thumb brushed along the line of my cheekbone. “Forget taking care of other people’s paintings. Create your own.”
“See, this is how I know you’re a genius in physics but not economics. Ever heard the phrase ‘starving artist’?”
“I doubt you would starve, as both your parents and I are gainfully employed.” Paul went from adorably literal to practical. “If you could study art anywhere in the world—to be an artist—where would you go? I’ve heard Josie tell you to think about the University of Chicago—”
“Not Chicago.” The words came out too easily, for something so hard for me to admit. “I mean, that’s a great school, but if I could go anywhere? I’d pick the Ruskin School of Fine Art, at Oxford.”
“Why Ruskin?”
“They teach everything there.” I couldn’t keep the envy from my voice. “You study anatomy as in-depth as medical students do, so you understand what’s under the skin of the people you’re trying to paint or sculpt. They have professors who teach just about every technique, ancient or modern or experimental. They’re better than anyone.”
“So go there,” said Paul the genius who has the world’s top physics departments fighting over him.
“I’d never get in. Remember, I haven’t even been to high school, really.” The downside of homeschooling: Colleges find it tougher to evaluate you. RISD got with the program, but a foreign university would probably find my record harder to assess.
Paul shook his head. “You’d get in when they saw your work. Oxford would admit you immediately.”
Would they? We both glanced up at the shredded portrait of Paul; his eyes stare from the portrait as intensely as in real life. Yet I couldn’t imagine the professors at the single best art school in the world would understand this painting in the same way. “The important thing is getting you into the right postdoc. I know that. You’re doing groundbreaking research. I’m just painting.”
“I’m just solving formulae. You’re creating works of art that might be meaningful long after my scientific work seems mundane.”
I laughed. “Not likely.”
“But possible. Your dreams are as important as anyone else’s. Your future is as important as mine. I’m willing to make compromises, if that’s what it takes for us to remain together—but we shouldn’t compromise before we even start.”
“It’s different for me,” I said. “I’m not brilliant like the rest of you.”
“You have no particular aptitude for science. But there are many kinds of intelligence. I’d never want to take your career as an artist away from you, any more than you would take my research from me.” Propping himself on one elbow, Paul looked down at me, almost grave. “Stop measuring yourself against us. It’s not the right scale. You have your own gifts, your own talents. Show the world everything you’re capable of, Marguerite. You don’t even see how amazing you are.”