A World Without You (18 page)

Phoebe

Dr. Franklin sits behind his desk,
his dark face slightly illuminated by the glow of the computer screen in front of him.

“So, Phoebe, your mom wanted me to talk to you for a bit.” He leans forward, holding his palms together and pressing his lips against his index fingers.

“About Bo?” Even I'm surprised by the antagonism in my voice. Of course he wants to talk about Bo.

“About whatever you feel like talking about.”

I try not to roll my eyes. I don't know how Bo can stand it here. I hate the mere concept of therapy. What's with people who think you can talk your way out of any problem? Some problems are bigger than words. And some problems don't need to be discussed at all.

“Why don't you tell me about school?” Dr. Franklin suggests.

I shrug. “It's school.”

“What are your best subjects? You're a junior, right? Do you have your eye on any colleges?”

I force a smile on my face. I hate that everyone asks me this. “I don't care where I go, as long as they have a good study-abroad program.”

“So you want to travel?”

“I want to escape.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Thankfully, Dr. Franklin doesn't say anything more about it. Instead, he moves on to a new subject. “How is school different for you now than when Bo was at James Jefferson High?”

I shrug again. “It's not, really. We had different classes. We were in different grades. Most people didn't even know we were related.” The most time we spent together was when he'd drive me to school when I was a freshman—a condition of his having his own car. After he wrecked the car and I got my own driver's license, we didn't even have that connection.

“You two are very different,” Dr. Franklin concedes. “But I think, in some ways, you're pretty similar. You're both very guarded, for example.”

I keep my face from scowling. I hate that Mom set me up for this awkward conversation, and I wish Dr. Franklin would just get to the point, whatever that may be.

“How about at home?” Dr. Franklin presses. “Are things good there?”

“They're quieter,” I concede. Except when they're not. Like when Dad takes away Bo's door.

“Quieter?”

“Since Bo's been gone.”

Dr. Franklin, sensing potential, leans in. “In what ways?”

I let my eyes drift from Dr. Franklin. It's easier to talk when I look above him, at the burgundy-and-cream valances draped over the windows that overlook the ocean.

“Bo was a lot angrier before he came here,” I say. “I don't know if even he realized it. He always seems like two people to me; most of the time he's really chill, but if one little thing goes wrong, it's like he loses control.”

“Control is something we talk a lot about here at Berkshire,” Dr. Franklin adds gently, trying not to break the flow of my words.

“Yeah, well, he definitely didn't have it before. When we were kids, he broke my arm.” I don't know why I've been thinking about that moment so much. Probably because of Bo's texts.

When we were little, we used to pretend that we were on the Titanic. It was a silly game, born of my obsession with the movie after I dug it out of Mom's collection, but Bo never minded playing with me because he liked the inevitable fate of the ship. We used the tire swing out in the front yard. I'd climb on top of it, and Bo would push me around, pretending the swing was the ship. When I fell off, the ship “sank.” It was fun, until the time I broke my arm after landing funny. I laid there on the ground, crying and screaming for help, but Bo just stood over me with a dead look in his eyes as the tire swing rocked back and forth, empty. He didn't show any emotion at all. It was like he wasn't even there.

That was the first time I knew something was wrong with him.

Dr. Franklin sits up straighter, and the movement forces my gaze from the window back to him. “I wasn't aware he hurt you,” he says.

“It was an accident. We were playing on the tire swing, and he spun me too hard, and I fell funny.”

“I don't think Bo ever means to hurt anyone.”

I don't answer.

Dr. Franklin notices. “Phoebe?” he says. “Do you think Bo would intentionally hurt someone?”

I don't meet his eyes. “I don't think so, not now.”

“But before he came to the academy?”

I twist my fingers together. “Maybe.” When Dr. Franklin doesn't speak, I find my words filling the silence, almost unwillingly. “Like, okay, I don't think he'd be, like, a serial killer or anything. Nothing like that. But . . . I remember when he was a freshman, and he had so much trouble fitting in. There were these jerks in school, right, because there are always jerks in school, the kind who pick on you if you're even a tiny bit different. And Bo was more than a tiny bit different, you know?”

Dr. Franklin nods his head.

“I was just . . .” I struggle to find the right words. “I was really glad that my dad didn't have any guns in the house, that my mom always insisted on that. But I wondered when he would go to his friend Lee's house, and if Lee's dad had a gun, if maybe that's all it would take for Bo to . . . you know.”

“You think Bo might have shot someone at school?” Dr. Franklin asks, his voice lowering a notch.

“No! No,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “That would take a lot of planning and, you know, rage, and . . . Bo isn't really
violent
,” I say. “I don't think he'd
actually
do something. But if the opportunity was there . . .” I swallow, hard. “I don't know. I mean, he didn't. I just think . . . maybe he could have. Maybe. And if he ever did, he probably wouldn't have even
meant to do it. There are just times when he's not himself.” I take a deep breath. “How horrible am I, to think that my own brother might do something like that?”

“How horrible for you to have lived with that fear,” Dr. Franklin says.

He doesn't understand. It's not like that. Bo isn't a bad person. “It's just that he would . . . flip, so easily, between calm and angry, and there were moments when those two feelings would collide.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the calm and the rage became one thing for him,” I say. “That was when it was scary. When he was both really calm and cold but also full of rage.”

“Did you see that often?”

The doctor's pen scratches across his notepad. I wish I hadn't said anything. Bo's different now; Berkshire Academy has helped him to be different. He had only been so full of anger because he saw the world in such a different way. Most people look at the world in black and white, even if they say they don't. You like someone or you don't; you agree with an opinion or you don't. Bo was never like that, never. He always saw things from a different angle. Like an artist who sees the shapes and colors and shading of an object, but who doesn't always see the object itself. That's how Bo looked at the world. He looked at it as a chance, not a done deal. He would get angry when things couldn't change, when people
wouldn't
change, even if they could.

That's why he butted heads with Dad so much. Dad is an immovable force. He goes in one direction, straight ahead. He can't handle a kid who doesn't do that, who sees so many
different paths, some of them going sideways or backward. Who doesn't accept that things are the way they are.

Bo never really liked school—at least not until Berkshire Academy—and that was usually what he and Dad fought about. Bo would stay in bed as long as possible, until Dad started waking him up by dumping ice water on him, something that always ended with shouting.

“I don't see the point,” Bo would yell at him, sweeping ice cubes from his bed.

“The point,” Dad snarled, “is to get a diploma. And then go to college. And then get a job.” He said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world, just like two and two equals four.

“But I don't want any of that!” Bo protested.

And Dad never, ever believed him. Because not wanting diploma-college-job was like not wanting to eat, not wanting to breathe, not wanting to
live
.

“My grandmother understood him,” I say without meaning to actually speak the words aloud. But now that they hang in the air between us, I keep talking. “My grandmother understood Bo better than anyone. She could always calm him.” I'm careful with my words now, careful not to say how jealous that made me.

Adults lie. They lie about how they love children equally. They never do. They love children
differently
, and the difference is so broad that equality is not even in the picture. My parents, for example, love me for my obedience. They love me for my academics and my ambition and the possibilities of what I could do and be in the future. They love Bo for who he is now, for the quiet, calm moments, and they hold on to that, not sure if it will continue.

Grandma loved Bo in an absolute and whole way. She accepted him entirely, but I grew to distrust her unconditional love. Because my grandmother never loved me that way. She loved me because I never gave her a reason not to. I had been the behaved, well-mannered child who was respectful and kind, but I was very aware that my grandmother's attitude toward me was based on those actions. Bo, on the other hand, could do or be anything, and Grandma loved him just the same.

Maybe more.

“When she died, that's when Bo's problems got worse,” I say now. “That's how he ended up here.”

“Bo has talked about his grandmother a few times. He considers her home his ‘safe place.'”

He would. I never liked going to that house. It was old and dark and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. But Bo loved it.

“Thank you,” Dr. Franklin says. “You've been really helpful. Bo has had some troubles here lately, and I've struggled to connect with him. I thought I'd established trust with him, but he seems to be closing himself off from me more and more.”

I raise an eyebrow. It doesn't seem like using me to rat on him would make Bo trust the doctor more, but I'm not the professional.

“But I also want you to know that I'm here for you too,” Dr. Franklin adds. He slides his card across the desk toward me. “I want you to feel free to talk to me at any time.”

“I'm not like Bo,” I say immediately. “I don't have his same problem.”

Dr. Franklin hesitates.

“Do I?” I ask. “Is it genetic or something? Is there a chance that I'll—”

“No, no, I didn't mean to imply that,” Dr. Franklin says quickly. “I mean, there
is
a prevalence for this sort of thing to happen in families, but not necessarily. I've worked with your mother, and we can't confirm that any of your relatives have had similar issues to Bo's.”

“But it's possible.”

“It's . . . possible,” he concedes.

I shift in my seat. I've never had any of the same symptoms as Bo, so maybe I'm safe. Or maybe his same set of gifts and curses lies inside me, even now, curled like a snake in winter, ready to rise. If not me, perhaps my children will be like Bo, slinking from mood to mood, time to time, leaving me behind just as Bo has done.

I have built a safe haven for myself in normalcy, but it's terribly lonely here.

“We need to talk,”
Ryan whispers to me. His breath smells like mustard. “I just overheard some of the staff talking about ‘official letters' that are being sent out to families during spring break.”

Family Day butts up against spring break—in fact, most parents take their kids home after the luncheon. Even though Ryan's shuttle to the airport won't pick him up until tomorrow morning, I saw his bags were already packed and waiting by his bedroom door.

“So?” I ask, my eyes still on the staircase that leads to the Doctor's office, where Phoebe is.

“So, official letters mean official shit. The government goons are getting ready to go; the letters probably include their verdict on all this bull.” When I don't answer, Ryan adds, “I'm worried they're going to shut the school down. Haven't you noticed the way the teachers have been acting?”

I watch as the weather outside the window swirls rapidly,
from hurricane winds to a bright sunny day to flurries of snow. I clench my eyes shut, and when I look again, there's nothing but the gray overcast sky.

“Berkshire can't close,” I say under my breath. “I need it now more than ever.”

“
Exactly
, you idiot. If it closes, I'm off to military school, and who knows what they'll do with you. I actually
like
this place. I'm not going to let them mess it all up just because of what happened to Sofía.”

“I know,” I say, turning my full attention to him. “If I could just save her, they would have to go.”

“Well, that's not going to happen.” Ryan's distracted, his voice dismissing my words.

“What”—I take a deep breath—“are you saying?”

Something in my voice causes Ryan to pause, and when he turns toward me again, there's something unrecognizable in his eyes. Is it fear? “Sorry, dude, I mean, I'm sure you can save her, it's just . . .” He struggles for words.

I release my breath. “Nah, man, I get it. My powers are out of whack. I just thought . . . I thought maybe the officials were somehow getting to you too. Everyone's been so
different
since they arrived . . .”

Ryan smirks. “They're not getting to me,” he says. “I'm in full control.” He turns again, eyeing a huddle of teachers clustered near the door, their heads bent close together, whispering.

“Full control of what?” Gwen's voice is pitched lower than normal as she approaches us. She shoves herself beside me, using her body to force me to take a step away from Ryan. “What are you talking about?” she says aggressively.

“Nothing. Move along.” Ryan waves his hand, dismissing her.

Gwen turns to me. “Bo,” she says, her voice much softer. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” I say.

“What's Ryan been telling you?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Her frown deepens. Past her shoulder, I can see Ryan's face is turning angry. He's never really liked Gwen, and the way she interrupted him . . . he's not a very patient guy.

“Look, Gwen,” I say, pulling her aside. “Everything's going to be okay. I know Ryan's not your favorite, but I have to work with him right now—”

“Why?” Her voice slices through my words like a knife. “Why do you have to work with that asshole? You know he's just using you, right? I don't know how or why, but that's all Ryan does—he uses people.”

“Now that's not very nice,” Ryan says. His voice is idle, almost bored, but it doesn't mask the fury building behind his eyes.

“Well, it's true,” Gwen snaps, not bothering to turn around and look at him. “Bo, whatever he's trying to drag you into—”

“Gwen, it's okay,” I say, trying to placate her. Some of the teachers near the door are looking our way. “Look, I know you don't understand what's going on. It's not your fault. The officials—”

“God, there's not some weird conspiracy against you!” Gwen's voice is growing desperate. “The officials aren't doing anything but investigating Sofía's death.”

“And trying to shut down this school,” Ryan growls.

“Well, maybe it
should
be shut down!”

The teachers by the door shoot Gwen a look. It's Family
Day. There are people watching. Gwen nods at them so they don't try to separate us, and she continues in a lower voice, “Maybe if the Doctor had a better idea of what's going on, maybe if he was more willing to drug us up or whatever, maybe Sofía wouldn't have died.”

Gwen can't help that she doesn't understand. She's too deep in the officials' illusion.

“Don't worry,” I tell her. “I know you don't understand, but we're going to make it all okay.”

“You're not,” Gwen says bluntly. “And the school will shut down anyway.”

“I will
not
let that happen,” Ryan says in a fierce, low voice. Behind him, a painting of Berkshire Academy when it first opened trembles on the wall. He can't control his telepathy when he's emotional.

“Whatever.” Gwen glares at him, and when she turns to face me, the sympathy in her eyes from before is gone, replaced by anger and impatience. “I tried. There's no getting through to you.”

She storms off, heading in the direction of her mom. And even though Gwen's forgotten about her powers, I see sparks trickling from her balled-up fists.

“So the first thing we have to do,” Ryan says, “is confirm that all records are destroyed.
If
Gwen's right and the school is definitely doomed, at least we can make sure that we're not sent somewhere worse.”

I see movement at the top of the stairs. I jerk my head around, expecting to see Phoebe, but instead, at the top of the landing is a soaking wet boy staring at me through clumps of dripping hair. “Be right back,” I tell Ryan. Ignoring his protests,
I creep up the stairs toward the drowned Carlos Estrada. I move slowly, as if I were approaching a deer in the wild.

“Hey,” I say in a low voice.

Carlos Estrada doesn't move, but his red-rimmed eyes flick to me.

“Why . . . why are you here? Why am I seeing you?”

Carlos opens his mouth. Water pours from it, and he makes a gurgling sound.

“Do you know . . . can you speak to Sofía?” I ask.

And then he's gone.

“Who are you talking to?” a small voice says from the top step.

I turn. Ryan, who followed me, is staring at me like I'm nuts, but Harold is with him, and he just looks curious.

I go to Harold immediately. Everyone always ignores Harold. But there's no one that I want to talk to more right now.

“So you didn't see . . . ?” I jerk my head toward the empty space in the hallway where Carlos Estrada had been dripping water all over the carpet.

Harold shakes his head. He hadn't seen him.

That means I'm not seeing ghosts—although Carlos Estrada was certainly dead. No, I'm seeing people from the past. I'm seeing Carlos Estrada in the moment just before he died, pulling him from the pool as his lungs filled with water. If he had been saved, if someone had noticed in time and dragged him from the water and given him CPR and saved his life, would Carlos Estrada have sputtered out an impossible tale about swallowing water and then ending up in the lush hallway of a beautiful academy, with a boy talking to him, quizzing him about Sofía?

If I grab hold of Carlos next time I see him, will I be pulled into his present, at the quinceañera where Sofía was, underwater but in the same time as her? Would I bob up to the surface and surprise a fifteen-year-old version of my girlfriend? I'm going to try that. Next time I see him, I'm going to try that.

A giggle of relief escapes my lips. It hardly matters. What matters is that I'm
not
seeing ghosts, not like Harold does.

Sure, that means rather than going crazy or being haunted, I'm in a world where the timestream is cracking around me, and it's possible that the entire space-time continuum is shattering at my feet like broken glass, but it also means that as I crash through time, I will see Sofía, and that's enough for me.

“Thanks,” I say to Harold. I turn on my heel, heading toward the dorms. I want to try the timestream again. The Doctor always says that it's our emotions that lead to a lack of control, and I am hoping that it's been my doubts that have affected my ability to travel in time. The more I questioned whether I
could
save Sofía, the more erratic the timestream became. Intent matters. Maybe confidence does too.

Dr. Franklin's office door swings open as I pass, and Phoebe practically collides into me. “Bo!” the Doctor says, surprised. “I didn't know you were there!”

I glare at him, at Phoebe as she leaves, walking hurriedly to the stairs and back to our parents without meeting my eyes. What was that about? What did he tell her? What did
she
tell him?

“Come into my office,” Dr. Franklin says, holding the door open.