A World Without You (3 page)

Phoebe

“Where has that boy gone off to?”
Dad asks. He scowls at the dispersing crowd.

Mom looks at me like I'm keeping Bo's location a secret, but I just shrug. He stormed off before the memorial service was over. How am I supposed to know where he went?

A tall black man with a thin mustache and old-fashioned waves in his hair approaches us. He holds out his hand for my dad to shake, and Mom greets him with a smile.

“I'm Dr. Franklin,” he tells me. “I'm your brother's psychiatrist.”

A muscle twitches in my dad's jaw at that last word, but he doesn't say anything
.

“Do you know where Bo went?” Mom asks the doctor.

Dr. Franklin frowns. “He's been greatly affected by Sofía's death,” he says. He glances up; the paper lanterns are still visible, tiny specks of light in the fading sky. “They were close,” he adds, looking back down at my mom.

“She was so young,” my mother says. “It's tragic.” Her voice drops a notch. “Depression?”

Dr. Franklin's lips press together as if he's holding back a frown. “She was very sick. We're still reeling from what happened. Sofía had seemed to adjust well to our program . . .” His voice trails off, and his eyes lose focus.

When Dr. Franklin called the house to tell us that one of Bo's fellow students passed away, he hadn't mentioned that she'd committed suicide. A Google search and some newspaper articles covering the incident revealed that. But the details were limited: T
ROUBLED
T
EEN
, 17,
F
OUND
D
EAD
ON
C
AM
PUS
IN
P
RESUMED
S
UIC
IDE
;
A
UTOPSY
R
EVEALS
I
NTENTIONAL
O
VERDOSE
OF
P
RESCRIPTIO
N
D
RUGS.

Bo had never mentioned Sofía before, but we all still nod knowingly when Dr. Franklin tells us they were close. After all, Bo was one of the four kids who lit lanterns. We figured he knew her well. Still, he never talked about her. Not at home.

Not that I'm surprised. It's not like any of us really talk about anything when Bo's home.

There's an awkward silence, and Mom shifts nervously.

“I'm sure Bo's just inside, getting a plate with his friends,” Dr. Franklin says.

Dad grunts like he no longer cares where Bo is. “So, how 'bout them Patriots?”

“I'm more of a basketball fan,” Dr. Franklin replies.

Dad scowls.

Dr. Franklin turns his attention to me. “And you're Bo's little sister?”

“Phoebe,” I say, holding out my hand. His grip is firm, almost too strong.

“Your brother's a great kid,” Dr. Franklin says.

I raise my eyebrows but don't say anything. Before Bo came to the Berkshire Academy for Children with Exceptional Needs, he and I attended the same high school, and I can guarantee that none of our teachers would have called him a “great kid.” Usually late and always inattentive, he barely passed any class other than history. Most of the teachers didn't even know we were related, but the ones who did were always shocked.

“Why don't we go inside?” Dr. Franklin says. He leads us all toward the big glass doors. Mom and Dad walk up to the main hall as if they're as comfortable here as they are at home. I trail behind, and the doctor slows his pace to walk beside me.

“This is your first time on campus.” The doctor says it like a statement, but I guess it's a question.

I nod.

When my parents moved Bo to the academy, they didn't let me join them. I wanted to go, but Dad was insistent. I don't know if he was shielding me from the image of Bo at the school or if he didn't want me interacting with the other kids there, but either way, I stayed home. Now, when Dad drives to Berkshire to pick Bo up on the weekends, he goes alone.

I'd always pictured the Berkshire Academy like the asylums in horror movies: concrete walls, straightjackets, cold white tile everywhere. But this place is brick and . . . nice. The garden is perfectly landscaped, not a single leaf out of place. Pebbled paths meander through the plants, and I can hear the ocean over the sounds of people mingling. Ivy climbs up the wall, drooping elegantly over the bricks. Berkshire is like a rich old person's home. Except for the bars on some of the windows.

Inside, everything gleams, from the rich mahogany-paneled walls to the crystal chandeliers sparkling on the ceiling. Oil paintings—of the island, of the school, of past directors—look down on us. Dad veers to the right, joining the line for dinner, but Mom lingers beside me. “Go ahead,” Dr. Franklin tells her. He turns to me. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want to go find your brother?”

I shrug.

“Why don't I give you a tour?”

“Okay.” I don't really want a tour. I want to leave. I'm discovering that I'd rather not know the details of where my brother spends his weeks, that I prefer ignorance. Seeing this place, these people . . . it all makes Bo's situation that much more real.

But I go with Dr. Franklin as he leads me down the austere hallway with its tall ceilings and uncomfortable-looking furniture. The carpets spread out over the hardwood floors are thick and soft, and they perfectly match the long, elegant drapes that cascade over the clear glass windows that stretch floor to ceiling in the front hall. “This is our group common area,” the doctor says. “We'll have Family Day set up here in a few weeks. Are you coming to that?”

“I don't know,” I say.

“I'm sure Bo would appreciate you being there.”

I really doubt Bo would care one way or another.

Dr. Franklin stops at the bottom of a grand staircase that sweeps up to the second-floor landing. “All the floors above are divided by units; there's an office for each psychiatrist, a common room, classrooms, and living quarters. Bo's unit is on the second floor, near the library.”

“Nice setup.” I peer up the stairs, but all I see is more mahogany.

The doctor takes a step up, but I hesitate. I don't really want to see more of the academy. I'm fine here on the main floor, letting the lush red carpets and heavy curtains leave me with the impression that my brother lives in an opulent mansion rather than a school for uncontrollable, borderline-crazy kids. I don't want to see the bars on his window.

“I get the impression that you're uncomfortable,” Dr. Franklin says, his eyes locked on me.

I shrug.

“Think of Berkshire as any other school,” Dr. Franklin continues. “It's smaller, sure—”

“It doesn't look smaller,” I say.

“Well, there are only about fifty students here, divided into ten units,” Dr. Franklin says. “So it's smaller in that regard. Having fewer students lets us pay closer attention than the faculty at a traditional high school. Bo's unit only has five”—he catches himself—“four students. Every session with me, every class, every meal, has no more than those three other students with Bo. Each unit is insular, so it's almost like we have ten mini-schools rather than one big one. The units become like a family.”

The doctor pauses when he sees my face. He mistakes my look for one of confusion and tries to explain again. “At your high school, you move from classroom to classroom, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Here, we do the opposite. The students stay in one classroom, and our teachers go to them, shifting between units.”

“So Bo has the same classmates all day? Every day?”

Dr. Franklin nods. “Isn't that nice?” he says, as if it's me he
has to convince. I remember now that this was a selling point for my parents when they were considering the school. They liked that he'd have limited interaction with others, as well as “highly individualized attention.”

“It is if you like the people in your class,” I say. “Kind of sucks if you don't.”

I want to add that Bo doesn't need this “unit family,” that he has us, but then I realize: These kids probably know Bo much better than I ever have or ever will.

I shift on my feet. I'm not sure what to say, and Dr. Franklin seems to have run out of things to explain to me. He and I are two separate pieces of my brother's world, and our interaction feels like oil and water. I don't like small talk to begin with, but everything about this day has been so weird. I left my own school early to drive straight here, where I had to spend the rest of my Friday afternoon attending the memorial service for a girl I never met and then be given a tour of my brother's boarding school by the guy who prescribes him antipsychotic drugs. And it's all coming to a pinpoint of weirdness right here and now, surrounded by a thin veneer of small talk.

I catch my mother's eye across the room, and she must see the desperation on my face, because she leaves her plate of cheese and crackers and makes her way over to us at the bottom of the staircase. When she reaches us, she strokes my ponytail like I'm a pet, but I don't mind. Now she can work to fill the empty silences instead of me.

“I haven't seen Bo here, have you?” Mom asks.

Dr. Franklin frowns. “Perhaps he's in his room.”

Mom's fingers twitch, tugging a bit on my hair. I pull away, but she sticks close to me. “We should probably go soon.”

“As I was telling you earlier, Bo was rather close to Sofía before her passing,” Dr. Franklin says. “I'd like you to consider leaving him here on the weekends for the time being. I don't think it would be wise to interrupt his therapy.”

“Oh no,” she says. “I would hate that.”

“Hate what?” Dad asks, approaching us while holding a plate loaded with chips and dip, cheese, and slices of salami.

“He wants to keep Bo here,” Mom says, her voice pitching a notch higher.

Dad's face immediately darkens. “Do we have to?” he asks the doctor aggressively.

Dr. Franklin's eyes widen, just a touch. “Well, no,” he says. “But I would like to continue his therapy, and I feel like he needs a little extra focus.”

“And why is that?” It's so strange to see Dad like this, trying to pick a fight with a man wearing tweed while holding a plate of charcuterie. “He's not locked up in some crazy house, we can bring him home.” Dad says this more to himself than to Dr. Franklin.

“Of course you can,” Dr. Franklin says. “This is in no way mandatory. It's just that Sofía's death has greatly affected him, and—”

“Didn't look affected,” Dad says, his tone harsh. “He didn't even stay for the whole service. Where is that boy, anyway? I thought you ran a tight ship here, Doc, but you don't even know where Bo is, do you?”

“I think he just needed a moment to collect himself,” Dr. Franklin says.

The doctor seems like someone who's pretty good at keeping his emotions under control, but I can see that he's not used
to being questioned the way that Dad's grilling him now. But I also wish Dad would just shut up.

“Bo's a good boy,” Mom says, taking a tiny step closer to Dad, her arm barely brushing against his. “If there's something wrong, he'd tell us. I'm sure he's okay.”

Okay?
Okay?
Some girl in his class just died, and he couldn't even keep it together long enough to stay for her whole memorial service. He's clearly
not
okay. I shake my head in disgust.

Ever since it became clear that Bo needed help, it's like Dad thinks he can argue his way out of Bo being sick, and Mom thinks she can pretend her way into a different reality. They've stuck Bo in this school that looks like a mansion instead of an asylum, and that's fine, but at least don't pretend it's anything else. And certainly don't pretend it's
okay
.
Okay
is so far out of our vocabulary right now that it's practically a foreign word.

Dr. Franklin holds his hands out, palms up, as if he's pleading with my parents to see his side. “Regardless, I do think it's best that Bo stay here
this
weekend, at least. The memorial was just today, and there will be some changes in the school over the next few weeks that I'd like to help prepare him for.”

“Changes?” Mom asks.

“We're having an . . . inspection of the school. Simply routine, but with any change comes some adjustment, and . . .”

“Fine, fine, we leave the boy here this weekend,” Dad says. “You know, I wouldn't have driven all this way for some ceremony and paper lanterns if I'd known we weren't bringing Bo back with us.”

“But—” Mom starts to protest.

“We'll get him next weekend, right, Doc?” Dad says.

“How about I call you next Thursday?” the doctor responds.

“How about I just pick him up on Friday.” Dad turns around and strides off, dumping his plate in the garbage can by the front door.

Mom's stroking my hair even more aggressively now, so hard that my head is pulled back. I shift away from her.

“And how are you?” Dr. Franklin asks me, his eyes kind. “I know we're giving a lot of attention to Bo right now, but how are you doing?”

Both he and Mom stare at me, waiting for an answer.

“I'm . . . okay,” I say finally.

My parents and sister
are walking out of the towering front doors of the academy when Gwen and I reach the bottom of the steps.

“There you are,” Dr. Franklin says, following behind them.

“I'll go get my stuff,” I say. I glance at Dad. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were in a rush.”

“No rush,” Dad says. “You're staying here.”

Gwen bounds up the steps and disappears inside, but I'm frozen in place. “I'm staying?”

Mom nods. “Just this weekend, okay, sweetie? We'll bring you home next weekend. Is that all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” I say. My mind is already churning. This isn't just fine, it's
great
. I need time to work on saving Sofía, and going home will just get in the way of that. Who knows when I'll get a chance like this again. Every weekend my parents drive up here to pick me up and take me home for “family time,” something my mother hates to relinquish.

Phoebe walks a pace behind my parents as they head to their car, which is parked in the circular driveway right in front of the academy. As Mom hugs me and Dad grunts goodbye, Phoebe stands to the side, her eyes dancing over the sign in front of the school, made of brick and gleaming bronze: T
HE
B
ERKSHIRE
A
CA
DEMY FOR
C
HILDREN WI
TH
E
XCEPTIONAL
N
EEDS
.

Part of me wants to pull my sister aside and tell her that the sign is just a front. It's not like we can advertise what the school really is, what all of us can really do. Dr. Franklin and the rest of the unit advisors all have powers too, and they know how important secrecy is. It sort of sucks, though, the way Phoebe thinks I belong on the short bus.

Or maybe she knows the truth. I can't tell—not with her—and I'm too exhausted to try. Especially today, after watching a memorial service for someone who's not dead.

After trying to save Sofía again. After failing. Again.

“Next weekend,” my mom whispers, pulling away from her tight hug. “You're okay staying here until then?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” I say.

My parents and sister get into the Buick, and my family is gone before I head back inside.

“Tomorrow I'd like to have an extra session with you,” the Doctor says, holding the door open for me.

“Of course,” I answer. Another session would definitely help. Even though Dr. Franklin can't control time like me, he says my emotions are causing the block, making it so I always snap back to the present when I try to reach Sofía. So if a “feelings” session with him can help me regain control of my power, I'm all for it.

When I first came to the Berk, I had no idea that so much of learning to control my powers would come from inside my head. Most of the first week was even spent in psychoanalysis. The Doctor assured me that every student goes through such rounds, to make sure they are “suitable for the special environment afforded at Berkshire Academy.”

As I head upstairs, I calculate how much time I can focus on saving Sofía. We had a day off with the fake memorial service, but classes resume Monday. I may be able to negotiate some extra time from some of my teachers, though. Our classes are small and tailored to each of our strengths, paced individually. I'm several lessons behind Ryan in math, but I'm already in a different textbook from everyone else in history. Maybe a little “independent study” during that class would allow me some time to work on saving Sofía.

When we reach my floor, the Doctor tells me goodnight and reminds me of lights-out, even though it's a few hours away. He heads down a different hallway, going to the back stairs that lead all the way up to the top floor, where the staff live. It's kind of weird to think that so many people live in this one house. The way the mansion is divided and our schedules are made, I only ever see the other students here in passing. The only people I really talk to are Harold, Gwen, Ryan, Sofía, and our teachers as they rotate from unit to unit. We stay in our one big classroom all day, being served history and math and science, with a sprinkle of how-to-control-your-powers and a dash of try-not-to-explode-everything.

I haven't had control of my powers . . . ever, really. I'm like someone who never had a real driving lesson but figured out the basics on a flat road on a sunny day. I've occasionally been
able to steer my time travel, but when it really matters, like with Sofía, I'm behind the wheel in the mountains with ice and fog. I keep skidding off the road, crashing into trees.

It's not going to stop me from trying, though. I was so close earlier today. Sofía was
right there
.

As soon as I'm in my room, I grab my notebook off my desk and flip it to the pages I've been using to record my efforts to save my girlfriend.

Here's what I know: Sofía Muniz, a Latina girl with an accent, dressed in modern clothing, is trapped in the very white, very strict, very conservative world of Puritan colonial Massachusetts, 1692. She also has a habit of turning invisible, and she isn't always able to control when it happens, so I'm sure the Puritans are going to think that's a swell party trick that has nothing to do with the devil. And I put her there, and I can't save her. Every time I get close, I get thrown back to the present—without her.

My eyes scan down the list. I've tried to go back to 1692. I've tried to go back to just before we left. I quickly add a few notes about today—the closest I've come to actually seeing her again.

Something was different about today.
I didn't intend to go back to the day she disappeared, but there I was. If I can figure out how I got there, re-create whatever it was I did to end up there . . .

No time like the present to try. I close my eyes, calling up the timestream.

I can feel rather than see all of time stretching out around me. The timestream is made of strings extending out, swirling
around as if they're resting on top of water. There are hard knots at certain points—the points where I am not allowed to go.

Woven through the strings is one bright red thread—Sofía's life.

My fingers hover over it, careful not to touch it and pull myself into her past. Not yet, anyway. I can pick out the pattern of her past—her home in Austin, her family, her friends, the Berk. Me. Her string twirls around mine like an embrace.

And then it shoots backward, violently and sharply, directly into 1692. That spot in history looks like a black hole, far darker than any other spot in the timestream. The end of Sofía's string is somewhere in there, disappearing into the void.

Beyond my reach.

I extend my hand toward that spot anyway, hoping that my fingers can feel what my eyes cannot see. I strain to get closer, and sharp pains shoot across my skin like electric bursts. I grit my teeth, ball my hand into a fist, and punch at the inky black vortex.

Bright, vivid flashes erupt into my mind's eye, speeding from one image to the next so violently that I cannot retain anything more than fragments: an ear with a diamond earring, a tree with new green leaves, the sound of crashing waves, the taste of vomit, the roofline of a house, the smell of smoke, a horse's whinnying, the feel of another hand in mine, the fingers slipping from my grasp. I cry out in frustration, groping blindly into the darkness, but the timestream repels my presence, pushing against me.

Time is fighting me, and I pull back before I lose what little control over the timestream I have. My arms flail wildly,
and my fingers brush a thick string, red and blue and green and brown all wrapped together, and I see a flash of another moment in time, one I didn't intend to revisit.

My first lesson with Dr. Franklin.

Even though we all have different powers, the Doctor guides us in the basics of controlling them. The same principles apply. This has always been the point of Berkshire: to give students the control they need to blend with society. He's not training us to be superheroes or anything like that. We're not going out into the world to wear capes and masks. The Doctor just wants us to go out into the world without breaking it.

When I travel in time, I physically go into the past, but I didn't pull myself into this moment, I just brushed against it. Rather than inserting myself into the past, I see it like a movie playing in my mind.

We all sit in blue plastic chairs around the Doc's desk. Each of us is wearing a nametag, the kind that are stickers that say: H
ELLO, MY NAME IS . . .
Harold has printed his name in such small letters that I can't read them. Gwen, on the other hand, used a glitter pen to make her name sparkle. Sofía wrote with a Sharpie, careful to add the accent mark over the
í
. She lifted the pen up with a flourish of her wrist, then looked around guiltily, as if such extravagance was something to be ashamed of.

“Now that we know each other's names,” the Doctor says, “let's introduce our powers. Harold?”

Dr. Franklin turns to Harold first. Later, he would learn not to do that, to let others' voices fill the room before seeking out Harold's quiet words. Even so, Harold rises to the occasion. “I speak to ghosts.” His voice is almost a whisper.

“And do they speak back?” Ryan says in a mocking voice. The Doctor shoots him a look.

“Yes,” Harold says simply.

“Well,
I
can do something useful,” Ryan says. He flicks his hand up, and the blue plastic chairs we're all sitting in start to float. Harold squeaks and grips the sides of his chair to keep from toppling off. Gwen kicks her feet out, swinging around.

“Thank you,” Dr. Franklin says, and from the tone of his voice, it's clear he means
That's enough.
Ryan casually waves his hand, and the chairs crash back down. Sofía's off balance and almost falls; the past-me grabs her arm and catches her.

She goes completely invisible.

I jerk my arm back, shocked, but the Doc just gives her a nod and a smile. I wait for her to return to visibility, but she doesn't.

“My turn,” Gwen says, and she lights her hair on fire, shaking the sparks out like glitter.

Everyone turns to look at me.

“I can move through time,” I say lamely. “I mean, back in time. To the past.”

Everyone waits for me to show my power. “Come on,” Ryan says impatiently.

I close my eyes. I try to do something cool.

Nothing happens.

From my vantage point in the timestream, I cringe. I wanted so much to impress everyone else, but I had even less control of my powers then than I do now. So it's little wonder that when Dr. Franklin says, “We'll work on it” in that patronizing tone, I flipped from nervous to angry. I saw red—literally, I
saw the world as if there were a red film over everything, and it reminded me of the bloody pond. My brain was spinning, and suddenly I was in the past, back at my grandmother's house in the mountains. It was run-down, with asbestos tiles on the outside walls and threadbare carpet inside that smelled of dust and old cigarette smoke, and it was my most favorite place in the whole world. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in her front yard, under the pecan tree, with snow falling all around. I could hear the crunch of the snow shifting under my feet, and when I stepped forward, I could taste the coldness in the air.

Now, as an observer of this moment, I see what everyone else saw. One moment I was there, the next I was gone. Ryan gets up and waves his hand in the empty space where I had been sitting. “This is cooler than your trick,” he tells Sofía, who had finally returned to visibility.

“Go back to your chair,” Dr. Franklin says. “You don't know when he'll—”

I burst back into existence, my arms swinging. “I'm sorry!” I shout as the Doctor steps back. The slip in time was fast and disorientating, and I hadn't meant to land a punch on Dr. Franklin's face when I returned.

The Doctor just rubs his cheek, though, and suddenly the redness disappears.

“This is something we'll all work on,” he says. “Control.”

I can feel the timestream slipping away from me, the moment fading. My eyes shoot to Sofía, and I beg time to let me have one last glimpse of her. Even though I know she can't see me in this memory, her face tilts just as I turn to her, giving the illusion that she's looking right at me. Her lips part to say
something, and my heart surges; it feels as if she's speaking to me, impossibly, through time and space.

I blink, and all I see is my desk and the open notebook in front of me.

But I cannot get the vision of Sofía's desperate eyes out of my mind.