Page 22 of The Art of Exiley

It’s nice to know that Mom hasn’t always had it all figured out. Maybe her rebellious phase was how she ended up marrying a directionless musician like my father.

“Come, read with me,” Grandfather says.

Reading with Grandfather is a daily ritual. My dad used to play music for me every night until I fell asleep, and when he left, I couldn’t sleep for a week. Grandfather started reading to me instead. Every single night, until I started reading to him. I miss my dad a lot, but it’s never hurt too much because Grandfather has always been there in his place. But now I might lose him, too.

If Grandfather sees my eyes filling with tears, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just passes me his newspaper.

Grandfather subscribes to at least ten different newspapers local and foreign, and he reads every single one. He says it’s important to be aware of what’s happening around the world. That generally means knowing about how bad things are and how helpless I am to change any of it, so I’d much rather ignore it all.

As predicted, the headlines are grim. An increase in deaths of homeless people over the winter months, refugees dying from a pandemic, a famous scientist gone missing and presumed dead.

As I read, Grandfather’s eyelids droop, and soon he’s asleep. At least he looks comfortable. I use my sleeve to wipe my cheeks as tear stains gather on the newsprint.

I hate feeling helpless.

Sal, Grandfather’s housekeeper who is basically part of the family, comes in holding a package. I discard the newspaper and get up to give her a hug.

“Welcome back,” she whispers so as not to wake Grandfather.

“Hi, Sal.” I hug her, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender and jasmine.

“This just arrived for you in the mail.” She presses the parcel into my hands. It’s wrapped in thick brown paper, and in loopy script it says,Application to the Genesis Institute.

As I take it, my heartbeat quickens.

Maybe I don’t have to be helpless anymore.

Michael told me I have healing abilities. The Makers have advanced medicine. Could their knowledge help Grandfather?

When Kor had said we could use Maker knowledge to help our world, that had been inspiring but theoretical.

This is personal.

Once Sal is out of the room and I see that Grandfather is still sleeping soundly, I tear open the package with trembling hands.

Inside is a cube. It’s about the same size as the music box my father gave me, which I’ve kept on my nightstand since I was a child. The music box turns out to be an apt comparison, because when I turn the cube in my hands, it plays a range of musical tones. Each wall of the cube is made of a different material. One side is clear like glass, one is wood, one is an ambery resin, one is clay-ish—similar to what Michael’s pigeon is made of—one is some kind of metal, and the last side is silk.

Each wall plays a different music note when pressed. I shake the box but don’t hear anything inside. I hold it up to the light and try to look through the glass-like wall but see nothing. I think it’s a puzzle.

Of course, a straightforward application would be too much to ask ofthis mystery school. Straightforward, like the city college applications burning a hole in my desk drawer upstairs.

I lift the cube, shake it, and press each side, creating a tune from the different sounds. Maybe there’s a musical code that needs to be played to unlock it? Nothing I try works. I don’t even know if opening the box is the goal.

I’ve had enough of everyone being cryptic. I’m overcome with the urge to just throw the thing out the window and see what happens when it crashes on the pavement, but I restrain myself.

I use a pen and try to wedge the tip between the walls of the cube, but it doesn’t fit. I look around the room for something else I can try. My grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine is in the corner, nothing more than decoration these days. I go to it and rifle through the drawers. There are spools of thread, thimbles, and countless loose buttons. There, in the back corner, I find what I’m looking for: a pincushion impaled with multiple pins and needles.

I sit in the window seat with a sewing needle and try to rip it through the silk side of the cube—which emits a loud, discordant note until I release it—but the fabric is surprisingly strong. I poke the needle into a crack where the walls of the box meet, and I’m able to insert the point in about a centimeter, but then it refuses to budge. I push against the needle, trying to pry the sides of the box apart, but the needle springs loose and stabs my thumb.

Ouch.

That was dumb. A single dot of blood wells up from the pinprick and drips onto the wood side of the box. I immediately try to wipe it away, but the wood wall pops open.

Did my blood just open the box?

I’m not sure it matters considering that, apparently, the box is empty. Ilook inside, examining the reverse sides of the six different walls. There’s nothing there. I try playing the music notes, but now that the box is open, they don’t work. Frustration bubbles up within me. If there’s another step to this puzzle, I will scream.

My brewing tantrum is interrupted as my phone buzzes, and my temper recedes, replaced by trepidation when I see that it’s an email from the Genesis Institute admissions office. I tap the message open to a letterhead with a logo of an androgynous figure, clearly based on theVitruvian Man—da Vinci’s drawing of one human body superimposed on top of another, four arms, four legs, in supposedly perfect proportions. The email reads:

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