“Just thinking.”
He open his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, I say, “I saw you.”
He looks at me, confused.
“I saw you earlier this week, watching me with Rosemarie and Jenny on the porch. Why were you spying on me?”
“I didn’t mean to spy on you,” he says.
“Don’t do that.” But I mean more than just “Don’t spy on me.” I mean, “Don’t give me false hope about my future over bowls of cereal.” I mean, “Don’t pretend that something’s not wrong.” I mean, “Don’t treat me like you treat Mom and Dad.”
I mean, don’t.
“It’s weird,” I say.
“What is?”
“When you’re gone.” I’m still not looking at him. If it was daytime, I don’t think I could say all this. But I’m so tired, and I can’t spend my life pretending, like Mom and Dad do. “It’s different. And now that you’re back. It’s all different.”
I wonder what Bo thinks life is like here when he’s gone. Does he think we all just hit the pause button and wait for him to return? No, we keep living—but no one hesitates outside his room, questioning whether it’s worth it to reach out or better to keep the silence. No one’s on edge, wondering what mood he’ll be in. No one hides. I get home and Mom asks me about my day at school, listening to my stories without being preoccupied about what she could be doing to help Bo. Dad sits in the living room and watches sports because he wants to, not because he’s trying to pretend there’s nothing wrong. There’s life-with-Bo, and there’s life-without-Bo, and they’re entirely different, and I’m getting whiplash trying to live them both.
“It’s getting cold,” Bo says, interrupting my thoughts.
“So go inside.”
Bo stands and heads back to the house. I wish I knew how to connect with him. He’s my brother; we should be close. We shouldn’t just be going through the motions, awkwardly trying to find something—anything—that we have in common.
I jump up and run over to him. We walk back toward the house in silence.
When we reach the door, he stops, staring at the lock. It stands out in shiny gold tones against the brushed nickel trim. Dad replaced it last week, before he went to pick Bo up from Berkshire Academy.
“I wish you didn’t have to go away again,” I say, staring at the lock. Maybe we could find some sort of identity as a family if Bo were here for more than just a weekend.
“I have to,” Bo says. “For your safety. I have to learn control.”
I blink, surprised that he’s so self-aware. “That was . . .” I start, not sure if it’s worth bringing up. “That was the most scared I ever was,” I say in a quiet voice. “The night before they took you to that school for the first time. You had a fight with Dad. Do you remember?”
Bo nods, but he looks confused.
“Mom came into my bedroom while you were arguing. I was reading in bed, and I had my music cranked up really loud. I haven’t been able to listen to that song since then. ‘The Remedy,’” I add. “By Jason Mraz.” I want him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. “Anyway, Mom came in, and she just locked my door from the inside and then left again.”
“Why were you so scared?” Bo asks.
“I was scared because a mother shouldn’t have to lock one child in a room to protect her from the other.”
CHAPTER 50
My blood turns to ice water.
Phoebe looks up at me, and I see the truth in her eyes. That moment changed who she was, and it’s my fault, and I didn’t even know it. I’ve never thought of myself as someone to be afraid of. Sure, I know that learning to control my power is key, that the whole point of going to Berkshire was to be in control so I wouldn’t hurt someone. And I know that, despite it all, I still have hurt people. It’s my fault Phoebe broke her arm when we were young, and it’s my fault Sofía’s trapped in the past. But that night before I left for the academy, that fight with Dad hadn’t been about me controlling my powers. It had just been us, fighting like usual: He was angry at me for being a freak, and I was angry . . . I was just angry.
The thing is, that was just a normal fight. Just words. Shouted words, yeah, but words. I had no idea that it scared Mom and Phoebe. I never once thought about Pheebs hiding behind her locked door while I yelled at Dad. I thought she was too wrapped up in her own life to notice mine, even when it was loud.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Phoebe’s shoulder lifts in a half shrug.
“You’re here now,” she says, as if that’s enough.
“I’ll be going away again soon.” I’ve felt it all day, the pull of the timestream, dragging me back to where I’m supposed to be. I think, if I let myself, I could float back to my own time and place as easily as drifting on the current of the ocean.
I consider going back inside to find my parents. To apologize or say . . . something. But I don’t want to. I’m not sure how to look my mom in the eye after what Phoebe just told me.
“Yeah,” Phoebe says. “Break is almost over for me too.”
“Break?”
“Spring break,” Phoebe says. Her eyes search my face. “That’s why you’re home—for spring break. Dad’s driving you back up tomorrow.”
“Driving . . .” My head is throbbing. Driving? Spring break? No—I’m here because I slipped through the timestream.
“Do you like it?” Phoebe asks.
“The Berk? Yeah. It’s good.” My mind is reeling. This is spring break? But I didn’t drive here; the timestream dumped me here.
“Bo?”
“Yeah?”
“I . . . I’m glad you’re getting help. I was . . . I didn’t think that school would change anything, but, I’m glad you’re getting help.”
“Thanks.”
“I know Berkshire Academy must be horrible. But it’s . . . it’s for your health. They’re going to make you better again.”
“I’m not sick!” I say, staring at my sister. “What the hell have they been telling you?”
“Sorry!” She raises both her hands and steps back, hitting the side of the house. “I didn’t mean to say you were sick, just that Berkshire—it’s, um . . . it’s good, right? It’s helping?” When I nod, she adds, “I’m glad. Of that. That’s all. And you’re happy? Even without that girl? Sofía?”
My hands clench into fists. “Look, Pheebs, you know my power. You know I can save her.”
“Power?”
“Remember the Titanic? When we were kids?”
“I remember playing the game on the tire swing in the front yard.”
I shake my head violently—no. We weren’t playing. We were there. “You know,” I say, grabbing Phoebe’s shoulders. “You know. You know what I can do.”
“You’re scaring me,” Phoebe says in a very, very, very small voice.
I let go of her as if she were made of fire. “Tell me you know,” I demand.
“I know,” she says, but I don’t think she does.
“I can save Sofía,” I say urgently. “Tell me you know I can save Sofía.”
“But Bo,” she says, her eyes wide and reflecting the starlight above us. “Sofía is . . . she’s dead, Bo.”
I shake my head back and forth, my brain rattling around inside, clattering against my skull. “No, she’s not!” I say, and Phoebe flinches from my raised voice, cowering against the house. “Sorry. It was an accident. But don’t worry, I’ll save her. That’s why I’m at Berkshire. To control my powers, so that I can save her.”
Phoebe’s head cocks, and there’s confusion in her eyes and something else. Sympathy? “Oh, Bo,” she says, her voice cracking.
A curtain near the door shifts—our father has noticed us outside, a frown on his face, and the curtain swishes closed again. In moments, he’ll be at the door.
I g
rab Phoebe by her shoulders, whirling her around to face me. Her face pales, her eyes widen. “What have they told you?” I snarl. “About Berkshire? About me?”
“You know why you’re there,” she says, but as her eyes drink in my face, she adds, “Right?”
“Why?” I demand. “You tell me. Why am I at Berkshire?”
“You’re . . . you’re sick. They haven’t found a full diagnosis yet, but I’ve been researching on the Internet. The doctor you see, Dr. Franklin, he mentioned a dissociative disorder, but I think it’s more complex than that—” She pauses, seeing the rage building on my face. “Berkshire Academy is designed specifically for teens with mental issues. They said it was a specialized environment, that they could help you better than the special ed programs at school, that they can treat you better . . .”
Already, I can feel the timestream pulling me further and further away. Phoebe is slipping through my fingers, evaporating before my eyes.
“It’s all a lie!” I shout with all my might, flinging the words across time and space. “It’s a lie! I’m not sick! Don’t let them tell you that! You know the truth!”
Despite the fact that I’m shouting, my words are nearly whispers. Phoebe’s face blanches, and she grabs at me. Our hands slide away from each other, as if we were both made of water.
“I’m not sick!” I scream, but Phoebe can’t hear me anymore.
CHAPTER 51
My eyes open, but I can’t see anything. My vision is blurry, and my head feels fuzzy. I’m in my room at the Berk, the painted walls covered with scraps of art I drew or posters from home, my closet an odd mirror to the one I have at home—everything that wasn’t there is here. I shift in the bed. I’m not wearing my clothes; I’m wearing an odd sort of medical robe. There’s a bandage around my elbow and a Band-Aid on the top of my hand.
“Wake up, asshole.”
My attention focuses on the doorway. “Ryan,” I mutter.
“Man, you are really messed up.”
“Huh?” I strain against the fatigue, trying to focus on Ryan’s face.
But when I look again, he’s not there.
I struggle to sit up, but it’s like I’ve been buried under sand. There’s movement by the door again, but this time I see Dr. Rivers and Mr. Minh. I thought they had gone. They cluck their tongues as they walk by, almost comically, their movements long and swinging. I rub my eyes, not sure if I really even saw them. I’m left, however, with a rising sense of dread filling my stomach. Real or not, I know I can’t trust those people.
Wait. What am I saying? It does matter if they’re real. It matters if I’m just . . .
Hallucinating.
Had I even been home at all? My shift to my parents’ world was sudden—maybe the timestream threw me back here violently, far more violently than it ever has before.
I try to call up the timestream. Maybe it has answers. But I cannot control my power—I can barely focus enough to stay awake.
And then I can’t even do that anymore.
• • •
I wake up to the sensation of someone sitting at the foot of my bed. I keep my eyes shut. I’m tired. But then I smell lemons and lavender, the same scent as Sofía’s shampoo, and I shoot up in bed.
She’s here.
“How . . . ?” I start, shocked.
Sofía smiles. “You came here in your sleep,” she says. And then she frowns. “If you’re randomly showing up places while you’re asleep . . . You’re losing control, aren’t you?”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know anymore.”
“You’re losing control,” she says firmly, “and you need to wake up.”
“Bo?”
I open my eyes. The fuzziness is gone, but the grogginess remains. The Doctor sits in a stiff-backed chair by my bed.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You were briefly treated at a local facility, and then your parents sent you back here.”
That doesn’t really answer my question at all.
“Bo,” Dr. Franklin says in a kind voice. “I want to be honest with you, and I want you to be honest with me.”
I nod as I peel the bandage off the back of my hand. There’s a puncture mark over my vein.
“Can you tell me why you’re at Berkshire Academy?”
Because I can control time. And you can heal. And we have powers, powers normal people wouldn’t understand.
“Because I’m not normal,” I say.
“You are normal,” Dr. Franklin says immediately. “But can you be more specific about your reason for being at Berkshire?”
I can tell him what he wants to hear. “I’m crazy.”
Dr. Franklin shakes his head. “You’re not. But you do have some needs that have to be addressed. We’ve changed your medication again. Are you feeling any negative side effects?”
“I don’t know,” I say. My eyes slide over to the window, to the sunlight slicing through the iron bars in front of the glass. “Where are Dr. Rivers and Mr. Minh?”
“They’re gone,” Dr. Franklin says, sighing. He sounds frustrated, angry, but I’m not sure if it’s at me or at the situation. “Bo, we’re going to increase the frequency of your therapy sessions,” he continues after a moment. “Your lessons are on hold until we can get you the right balance of medication and therapy.”
He reaches over and puts his hand over mine. “I’m concerned about you, Bo. And I’m concerned that you’re not processing what happened to Sofía.”
Sofía was just here, I think. She was here, and I saw her. I felt her. She was real.
As real as he is.
Before I can think about it, I yank my hand away from the bed and rake my fingernails over the back of his, clawing him and scraping his skin away. I watch the red welts rise up on his wrist.
“That hurt, Bo,” Dr. Franklin says, jerking away and staring down at his hand. “Why would you do that?”
“To see if you can heal.”
“Of course I can heal,” Dr. Franklin says, exasperated. “But we’ve talked about this before, in group, remember? You can’t just break something to see if it can be fixed. Destruction for destruction’s sake is not an appropriate release of your feelings.”
That’s not what I meant, and he should know that, at least on some level. The welts should be gone now, not pricking red with blood. Even if his mind has forgotten his powers, his body should still be able to fix the damage done.
Unless . . .
Unless it’s true. We don’t have powers. We never did.
And maybe I don’t need powers. I could live with that.
But I can’t live without Sofía, and no powers means no Sofía.
Over Dr. Franklin’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of someone in the shadows. As I stare, the figure moves into the light, standing in the center of my doorway.
Carlos Estrada stares at me silently, water streaming down his body and soaking the carpet.
And my heart leaps with joy, even if this means that time is still leaking around me. Because if I can see Carlos, it means that my powers are real, and if my powers are real, I can still save Sofía.
When I look up again, though, it’s not Carlos in the doorway.
It’s Ryan.
He’s watching me with narrowed eyes and a grim smile. The Doctor, noticing where my gaze is, turns around. “Go to your own room, Ryan,” he says. “Or the common room. Bo and I are having a private conversation.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ryan drawls. He steps backward, but he keeps his eyes on me for as long as possible.
CHAPTER 52
The Doctor gave me drugs to help me sleep but nothing to help me stay awake after. And even though it’s dark and I actually want to sleep now, I can’t.
Especially with that music playing.
It’s haunting and melodi
c, and I know immediately that it’s a cello; my sister practiced enough when we were growing up that I can recognize a cello anywhere. But who has a cello at the Berk?
I creep down the hallway, following the sound of the music. At first I think it’s coming from the common room, but it’s deserted.
There’s a light in Sofía’s room.
My heart thuds in my chest. I must be traveling in my sleep again. Sofía’s door is cracked, and when I push it all the way open, I’m greeted by the sight of her. Her room is exactly as I remember it, covered in various shades of pink with a plushy rug over the floor and posters on the wall—a boy-band group, an art print by Frida Kahlo, and a calligraphic rendition of a Shakespearean quote: “To thine own self be true.”
“Sofía?”
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a cello between her legs. Her whole body moves as she glides the bow over the strings, the rich, deep notes filling her tiny room.
“I didn’t know you could play the cello,” I say. I didn’t know she had a cello. It’s kind of a big instrument to hide in here.
“This is a fugue,” she says, her voice melding in and out of the music.
“A fugue,” I repeat.
“A repetition of a short melody,” she says. I listen for a moment, and I can pick out the strain of music repeating over and over, the sounds as intricately woven together as the strings of the timestream. “In a good fugue,” Sofía continues, “there are layers. You play one melody”—a short burst of music erupts from the cello—“and that melody is not only repeated, but developed. It evolves. It changes. It’s the same melody, but different.” She continues playing, and I hear the subtle changes. I can still recognize the original melody, but it’s bigger now, deeper.
“Sofía,” I say. “How did I get here?”
“The key to a fugue is not in the way things are the same,” she says, “but in how they become different.”
“Why do you have a cello?” I ask. Panic is rising in my voice. Something’s not right. “When did you become an expert on fugues?”
“This is a fugue,” Sofía says, her voice soft. “A repetition of a short melody. In a good fugue, there are layers. You play one melody, and that melody is not only repeated, but developed. It evolves. It changes. It’s the same melody, but different.”