A World Without You

by Beth Revis

  Three weeks ago, Harold was possessed by a malevolent spirit he’d been trying to talk into leaving him alone. He attacked Dr. Franklin. The Doc wasn’t hurt, of course—he healed himself in seconds—but I guess the director decided to add more security after that.

  To be honest, I’m just relieved that the cameras weren’t installed because of my screw-up.

  “It’s probably just a precaution,” I say. I can’t help but wonder, though, how the director expects cameras to keep us safe.

  “Sure,” Ryan says, his tone flat. “Yeah, that’s probably all it is.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunday.

  The last day of the weekend. Tomorrow, classes start again. And next weekend, I’m stuck going to my parents’ house. I have to make today count.

  All right, fine, let’s approach this scientifically. I grab my notebook from my desk and make a list:

  What I’ve Done Already:

  • Tried to go into the past where Sofía is. Can’t get there. Utterly blocked. Powers don’t work.

  • Tried to go to a few minutes before I sent Sofía to the past to stop myself. Didn’t work. Timestream blocks me from my own timeline.

  • Tried to go into the past and warn Sofía not to go with me to the 1600s. Can’t get there.

  Underneath the pitiful list, I add in big, bold, underlined letters: INTENT MATTERS.

  Now let’s try something completely different:

  Attempt 1: Go back to my own past and leave myself clues to not get Sofía stuck in the first place.

  I pick another weekend when I wasn’t at Berkshire, so I can be sure not to meet my past self. But rather than go see Sofía, I stay in my room. I keep my mind as clear as possible, grab a piece of paper from my desk, and write a huge warning note to myself. I expect time to snap me back to the present, but it doesn’t. I write the note, leave it on my bed, and return.

  But it obviously doesn’t work, because Sofía’s still gone and the past hasn’t changed.

  I don’t remember getting any notes in the past either, so what happened?

  I carefully make a mark in my calendar, noting which day I traveled to. When I turn around, my eyes fall on my bed. When I was younger, I used to hide things from my nosy little sister between the box spring and mattress of my bed. I check, and sure enough, my note is there, but I don’t know why or how.

  I want to go back, I want to try again, but each weekend I travel back to creates a little divot in the timestream. The more I go back in failed attempts to leave notes, the more I run the risk of creating tangles and knots in the strings of time. If I don’t play my cards right, I’ll ruin my chances.

  The universe doesn’t want me to save Sofía.

  Attempt 2: Brute force.

  Sofía’s vivid red string is easy to spot amid the myriad of grays and taupes and sage greens and pale blues of the other strings that represent the Berk at various different times. A lump rises in my throat as I look closely at the weave, at the way Sofía’s string knots up with mine, just before it shoots off into the black hole of 1692.

  The red string whirls into darkness. Trying to grab it just as it disappears into the void is crazy, like trying to grab a live electrical wire thrashing on the ground.

  I do it anyway.

  The string cuts into my skin—it feels like I’m trying to climb a mountain with a thread instead of a rope. The swirling vortex at the point in time and place where Sofía is threatens to throw me aside, but I don’t let go. I can feel time around me, building like pressure from all sides, wanting to expel me. I strain against the forces of time trying to keep me out. Strings start to unravel, and they whip against my hand, lashing my skin.

  I grit my teeth and pull harder. The string feels like barbed wire crackling with electricity. No, I think to myself, just that word, just no.

  But I have to give up anyway. I can’t hold on. The strings of time slip through my fingers, swirling back around the vortex where Sofía is trapped.

  I go for a walk. I pace the grounds of Berkshire, from the brick steps to the sick kids’ camp to the green gate blocking the boardwalk and back again. I stand in front of the burned-out brick chimney, the only link between where I am now and where Sofía is in the past. I stare at it. I argue with the blackened bricks. I argue with time. I argue with myself.

  There has to be a way.

  I wish I understood more about my powers. I wish I could say, “I want to be at this place, in this time,” and go right back to that specific moment. Instead, I’m always sort of guessing, and everything is a little random, a little uncontrollable. It’s like swimming in the ocean. You can point to a spot out in the distance where the waves aren’t cresting yet, and then you can swim and swim, but you’re probably not going to end up at the exact spot you were pointing to. The ocean’s just too big, and the current is always moving.

  By the time I make it back to Berkshire, it’s almost dark. The giant lights around the brick facade are already glaring down at me, accusing me of breaking curfew. But when I slip past the big wooden doors inside the main hallway, it’s mostly deserted. I half expected Dr. Franklin to be waiting on me, scowling, but instead, I’m face-to-face with one of the other unit leaders. She works with the older students, the ones who normally would have graduated by now but whose powers are either so odd or so uncontrollable that they’re remaining at the academy.

  “Bo,” she says, nodding at me. I’m surprised she knows my name, but then I realize that the Doc probably told her to wait up for me specifically. Since Sofía’s disappearance, he’s been watching me more closely. I think he thinks I’m depressed, but I’m not. I’m just angry. At myself, at my powers, at the whole situation.

  I nod to the unit leader, and she checks something on her phone and then proceeds to lock up the building. She sets the alarm and locks all the doors and windows to the academy with a nod of her head—she must have telekinesis like Ryan—then she smiles at me and click-clacks in her high heels toward the kitchens. Some of the staff have begun taking down the black bunting that had been spread throughout the hall for Sofía’s memorial service.

  I wonder what everyone else in the school thinks happened. All the units are pretty tight-lipped. We hardly ever see other students. Mealtimes are kept small and regulated. There are very few school-wide gatherings, and when there are, we’re told to keep our powers hidden and in check. Maybe they’re afraid people will show off and lose control. Or maybe there’s some other reason for us to be so secretive.

  I bet most people thought the memorial service was real.

  I wonder if they think I killed her.

  It’s my fault, after all, that she’s not here, now.

  What have they been told? Do the other unit leaders and teachers know, or does everyone here think I’m a walking tragedy?

  I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Let them think whatever they want.

  My footsteps as I trudge up the stairs are echoed by the unit leader’s. She stays about six or seven steps behind me, but she carefully matches my pace, following me all the way to my unit’s hall. She stands there, staring at me silently, until I’m in my room and the door is shut. Before she leaves, she rattles the handle of my door. It’s not locked, and she doesn’t enter, but the metallic rattle still sounds like a threat to me.

  I am reminded of the video cameras that now watch us in the common room. I didn’t think they were added because of me, but now I’m not so sure.

  Before I go to bed, I creep around the corners of my room, looking for more blinking red lights hidden in the shadows. I don’t find any more cameras, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

  CHAPTER 12

  Phoebe

  The last notes of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D fill the orchestra room at James Jefferson High, lingering among the motivational posters and laminated pictures of long-dead comp
osers hanging on the walls. Mr. Ramirez bows his head, eyes closed, listening as the music fades to silence. We all wait for him to respond. When he lifts his head, his eyes are alight.

  “Bravo!” he shouts. “That! That was exactly it!”

  The entire orchestra seems to breathe a sigh of relief. We’ve been practicing the piece for months, and this was the first time everything was just right. When we got about halfway through it, we could feel the tension in the room growing, waiting for someone to mess up. But no one did. We played it perfectly.

  There is less than fifteen minutes left of class, so everyone starts packing away their music stands and instruments.

  “Good job,” Kasey says as she examines the worn strings on her bow next to me.

  “You too,” I say. I’m the first-chair cello, though Kasey sometimes beats me. I think if she challenged me this week, she’d bump me down to second chair. But Kasey never cares about the rank.

  “The concert is only one month away,” Mr. Ramirez calls over the excited chatter of the students. “And while this piece is acceptable, we’ve got more work ahead of us. Cellos, don’t forget to practice your suites!”

  “Have a good weekend?” Kasey asks as I pack away my cello. “Where were you Friday?”

  At a memorial service for some dead girl in my brother’s class. “Eh, nowhere,” I say. “What’d you do?”

  Kasey focuses intently on snapping her cello case shut. “Mr. Ramirez wanted me to try out for this summer camp thing.”

  “Summer camp?”

  “I guess it’s more of a program. For musicians,” Kasey says, still not meeting my eyes. “I told him not to bother with me, that you deserved it more, but he said I should audition.”

  “Dude, that’s awesome,” I say. I don’t know why she’s acting so shifty about it. Just because I’m first chair doesn’t really mean I’m better than her. I have the technical side of playing the cello down—I know the notes and when to hit them. But I’m basically following directions. I have no more skill than a cook following a recipe.

  But Kasey—she hardly ever looks at the music. She just feels it. The only reason she’s second chair is because she doesn’t bother with Bach. She’s too busy playing the music in her head to practice the symphonies of guys who are long dead.

  “Congratulations,” I say again, hoping that she can see I mean it. “You’re amazing. I hope you get in.”

  She smiles, relieved. “Thanks,” she says. “I guess I’m going to shoot for Juilliard or something when I graduate. You?”

  I snort. “I’m nowhere near your level, but it’s sweet of you to pretend I have talent.”

  “You do!” Kasey protests, but she’s wrong. Technical skill isn’t talent. I can’t play without sheet music, and I can only do what the notes tell me to do. Kasey plays a million times better when it’s just her and the cello, and that’s the difference.

  “Besides,” I add, “I don’t think I’m going to keep playing once I get to college.” I only signed up for orchestra because I wanted to look well-rounded for colleges, and marching band required too much extra work. They play at every game; we play two concerts a year.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Rosemarie and Jenny are planning to grab ice cream after my orchestra practice is over and want me to hurry up.

  “You should keep playing; you’re really good!” Kasey says. She lugs her cello over her shoulder.

  I shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to major in music,” I say.

  “What are you going to major in?”

  I readjust my own cello’s strap. I wish people would quit asking me that. I’m not like Kasey. I don’t have a talent. I don’t have this burning passion to dedicate myself to one thing. Kasey’s going to be the next Yo-Yo Ma and spend her whole life in music, and I doubt she has ever even stopped to think about how lucky she is—not just because she has talent, but because she knows exactly what she wants to do with it.

  I mean, I guess I have some talents. But I don’t have passion, not the way she does.

  Kasey stays behind to tell Mr. Ramirez how she did at her summer program audition, and I head to my locker. I know my brother thinks I’m weird for liking school, but I do. High school is simple. I know the way things work. Just like playing the notes to Bach on the cello, I can play the teachers and the classes. It’s easy to see just how to act, how to be, how to get by in high school. I understand the patterns.

  I had talked to Jenny and Rosemarie at the beginning of the school year about how Bo was going to be attending a different school than me, but they didn’t ask any follow-up questions, and I didn’t supply any additional information. Part of me wanted to confess everything to them, to tell them that things are a mess and I can’t make them right and please, please, please just listen.

  But a larger part of me prefers to escape here every day. I go to school, and I pretend like everything’s okay, like I’m an only child, like I live in a world without Bo. People joke with me, and I do my schoolwork, and during those hours, from eight to three, nothing’s wrong. If I tell anyone about Bo, they’ll treat me different. I don’t want sympathy. I want to pretend that I’m just Phoebe. Just Phoebe. Not Phoebe, sister of Bo. Not Phoebe who can do nothing more than watch as everything falls apart around her. Just Phoebe, the junior orchestra geek who participates in too many clubs and doesn’t take her eye off the prize: Graduation. College. Escape. I like that Phoebe.

  But that Phoebe always goes home.

  CHAPTER 13

  The next morning, I’m summoned to Dr. Franklin’s office before breakfast is over. I snatch an apple before I leave the common room, where the breakfast buffet is spread out. The others watch me go, no doubt wondering why the Doctor couldn’t wait the fifteen minutes until the start of our group session.

  “Bo,” he says warmly, standing up as I enter his office.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickle. I remember the dull, metallic noise of my doorknob being rattled last night by the unit leader who was waiting for me.

  He sighs. “Friday was a rough day for all of us. I wanted to see how you were doing now that you’ve had some time to process and sort out your feelings.”

  I shrug. That day had been rough because he made it rough. I was forced to spend the entire day “mourning” Sofía when I could have been figuring out how to save her. I know we had to make it feel real for the staff who aren’t in on the academy’s true purpose, but it was still a waste. A pointless day that made everyone sad for no reason at all.

  And it made me feel like a failure. Like Dr. Franklin and everyone else had already given up on me. On Sofía.

  “I just wish I could have stopped it,” I say. It would be so simple if I could just go back in time and stop myself from losing her. But time’s not simple.

  “It’s not your fault, you know,” Dr. Franklin says.

  I shoot him an exasperated look. We both know it’s entirely my fault. If I hadn’t taken her back, she wouldn’t be stuck in the past. But all I say is, “It’s okay.”

  The Doctor frowns. “Sometimes we redirect our emotions because we’re scared of them,” he says slowly. “In times like these, it’s important to remember that it’s natural to grieve.”

  “Grieve?” I ask. “I’m not going to grieve. I’m going to save her.”

  The Doctor stands up and moves closer to me, his hand trailing across the wooden surface of his desk. His fingers tap on the edge of his desk, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming. I glance down at where he’s tapping and see a small video camera on a tabletop tripod. The camera’s not new; Dr. Franklin has recorded our sessions before. But this time, the light is blinking. It’s recording. In the past, he’d tape us so that we could watch ourselves using our powers and learn from our mistakes. But I’m not using my power right now . . .

  “Bo, I’m not su
re you’ve fully processed what happened to Sofía,” Dr. Franklin says. “It’s . . . not about saving her. You can’t save her. You know that, right?”

  I rear back violently. “Why would you say that?” I ask. “I can! I will. You just have to trust me. You have to give me a chance.”

  “Bo.” The Doctor leaves the desk and stands in front of me, positioning himself between me and the camera. I search his face for answers, but I don’t understand the look he’s giving me. Concern and worry and . . . something else. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something with his eyes, but I’m not Ryan—I can’t peek inside his mind and understand the thoughts he hides there.

  “Bo,” he repeats. “You have to understand this. You have to face the truth. Sofía is gone.”

  “Not forever,” I protest weakly.

  “Forever. She’s gone. She’s dead. You can’t bring her back.”

  Bile rises in my throat. I shove Dr. Franklin away so hard that he collides with the desk. The camera shakes unevenly on its mount. I want to scream at him not to give up on me. I know I can still save her. But the word he used—dead—it rattles me. He knows the truth. He knows she’s not dead. He knows she’s stuck in the past. So why would he lie? Is this a test? Does he want to see if I can keep control of my power under stress? My mind churns. What does he want from me?

  I don’t realize I’ve started pacing until the Doctor grabs my shoulders to stop me. He gently pries my fingers away from my scalp, where I’d been clutching my hair so hard that a headache is beginning to bubble to the surface. I look down at my hands, at my curling fingers, and I force myself to take a deep breath, to let my muscles relax. That’s my problem—that’s always been my problem. When things go wrong, I freak.

  He doesn’t let go of me. His eyes lock on mine until he has my full focus.

  “You’re losing control,” he says, the words reverberating through my head.

  Control. This has always been about control. And my lack of it.