PA R T
T H R E E
Smithereens UNDERWATER, ALICE WAS NO DEAFER than anyone else. Velvet
silence. Liquid light. What she could see of the world was a broad-brimmed plate; she wore it like a hat. A hat decorated with scraggly pines, run around with ribbons of cloud, pinned with skewers of sunlight. Yet for all that, it had no weight. She jostled her hips this way and that way, as if doing a hootchy-kootchy dance, and the world wheeled overhead in perfect balance. Then she shot up for air with a whoosh. The world clicked back into place. The shallows of the lake were churned by a hundred splashing, shrieking girls. Their screams knotted together into a big ache in Alice’s brain. The counsellors—nuns in training, mostly, though stylish in pedal pushers and culottes—paced the dock, blowing whistles whenever anyone’s life was threatened by too much watery exuberance. ‘Fabia Lanahan! Stop 63