A World Without You (4 page)

Phoebe

“Adventure time!”
my mother yells as she flings open my bedroom door.

I shoot up in bed. “What time is it?” I ask, but I'm not even sure I actually spoke the words aloud. It sounded more like
wharmzit.

“It's seven in the morning on this beautiful Saturday,” my mom says in a singsongy voice. “Now get up, because we are going on an adventure!”

I rub sleep out of my eyes as I start to really wake up. An adventure? Mom used to do this all the time during summer breaks when Bo and I were kids. She'd make these huge, elaborate plans and keep them totally secret from us, bursting into our rooms one random morning shouting, “Adventure!” She'd bundle us up with whatever we needed for the day and not tell us where we were going until we arrived at our destination. Sometimes it was a simple trip into the city for a duck tour of the harbor or to see a museum. Once, she packed our suitcases
in the night and drove us to the airport, and it wasn't until we'd landed in Orlando that we realized we were going to Disney World.

Dad rarely went on these adventures—he had to work—but he was there for the overnight ones, and those were always the best. I look around now, but there's no suitcase in the hallway, and besides, I'd notice now if Mom were sneaking clothes to pack away. I fall back against my pillows.

Mom sits down on the bed. “I thought we could go to Faneuil Hall,” she says more gently. “Hit the market, maybe get dinner in the city. A girl date.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Let me get dressed.”

I throw on some clothes and head downstairs. Dad's home, but his office door is firmly closed. He's apparently not invited on this adventure.

• • •

We go to Bickford's for breakfast, and Mom talks about her plans for renovating the house after “the nest is finally empty.” She pretends to be mad when I tell her I'd rather see the latest reboot of
Spider-Man
with my friends instead of her, even though we both know the only movies she goes to are rom-coms and anything from Disney. We make plans to get pedicures after my next report card if I make all
A
s, which is inevitable.

“I just can't remember the last time we had an adventure day!” Mom says gleefully as we get back in the car and head toward the highway.

I glance at her, but she looks sincere. Still—really? She really can't remember the last time we did a surprise adventure day? Because I remember. It was the summer before Bo started high school, and I was looking forward to having the middle school
all to myself. Mom had burst into our rooms on a Tuesday, and she piled us into the car, stating only that we were going to get the best meal of our lives. We drove north along the coast, and in a few hours she parked outside a lobster boat cruise in Portland, Maine.

But we never made it on the cruise. Her intent had been for us to ride in the boat, pull up some lobster traps, and eat the freshest lobster we'd ever had for dinner, bringing home an extra one for Dad.

But Bo had refused to go on the water.

It was so weird. He'd been on boats before. He used to love fishing. But he completely flipped out at the harbor, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack and absolutely refusing to take one step onto the wood gangway. When Mom tried to talk to him, it was as if she were speaking to someone who'd gone deaf. The boat left without us, and we ate lunch at some random seafood restaurant before Mom drove us back, never mentioning Bo's meltdown again.

We never went on another “adventure” after that.

Faneuil Hall is packed. The weather's finally starting to warm up, and everyone is walking around as if they've been a prisoner of winter and can taste freedom in the air. The spaces between the market buildings are lined with kiosks and carts, a mix of crafts and clothes, snacks and souvenirs for sale. A living statue bends at the waist and offers a fake flower to Mom, trying to draw her closer. We start at the North Market building, and Mom buys me a pair of blue cat-eye sunglasses as I try to convince her to buy a pair of heart-shaped ones made of red plastic. She spends far too long trying on shoes and pushing
me to join her, but even though my friend Jenny calls me a freak for it, I just don't really care about what's on my feet.

“So,” Mom says as we head toward a small boutique selling sundresses. Her voice drops an octave as she imitates Dad. “How 'bout them Patriots?”

I can't help but laugh. Most people use the weather as small talk. Dad uses football. It doesn't matter that the Super Bowl happened almost two months ago; there's always next year's season to talk about.

Mom bumps my shoulder. “Come on, baby girl, tell me what's up.”

“Nothing's ‘up,'” I laugh, taking a dress off the rack and holding it against my shoulders even though I know I'd never wear it.

“School going well?”

I put the dress back. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, AP's harder this year.”

“You're doing great, you know that?” Mom's voice is softer now, more serious. “I don't say that enough, but you are.”

I shrug. “I need a scholarship.”

Mom doesn't bother trying to deny it. Without a scholarship, my options are going into debt by taking out a student loan or spending a few years at a community college before transferring to a university, but neither is an appealing choice. I want to escape. I want to get as far away as possible. I don't even know where. I just want to be in a place where no one really knows me. Everyone from home already has an idea of who I am. I want to define myself on my own terms.

“I really want to go out of state,” I say.

Mom frowns. “We'll see.”

I sigh and turn away from the store. Shopping doesn't sound that great anymore. What's a new dress compared to a new life?

Mom jogs to catch up with me when she notices I've walked away. “So what are you thinking of majoring in?” she asks. “Any plans?”

No!
I want to scream. No. I'm doing everything I know how to do—piling up AP courses and studying for the SATs while selecting extracurriculars that will look good on applications. But I have no idea what to do
after
all this work pays off. I don't have a major picked out, much less a college. I only hope that everything I'm doing means I get to get out of here. I don't care where. I just want to
go
.

“I don't know,” I say.

Mom bites her lip, her face falling like she has to tell me my puppy died or something. “But sweetie, you're going to have to decide soon.”

“I don't
know
,” I say, much harsher than I intended. “I have time.”

“Well, if you need to talk it out, or help with applications or anything, you know you can ask me or your father.”

“Okay,” I say noncommittally.

Mom strokes my hair. “I really am so proud of you,” she says. “You're so self-reliant. I never have to worry about you.” There's a slight emphasis on the last word.

When we enter Quincy Market, Mom comes up with the perfect idea for lunch: We each have to eat at least three different things from three different places. I kick it off with a pizza bagel, and she grabs Starbucks, which I say is lame since we
both know she was going to get Starbucks anyway. I get a scone from a bakeshop, and she picks up some fudge at the coffee place next to it. For the main course, I call dibs on the mac-and-cheese stand, ordering a large bowl of gooey goodness.

“Oh, come
on
,” she says as I dig my spoon into the bowl. “I'm going to order some too.”

“You said three different things,” I say, “from three different places.” I lick my spoon.

Mom sticks her tongue out, but she's grinning as she leads me over to a pushcart and orders some roasted nuts.

“Not as good as mac and cheese,” I say mockingly.

Mom scowls at me, but she laughs as she pulls me toward the ice cream shop.

“No more, I'm stuffed!” I say in false protest.

“You need to learn how to play the game,” Mom says. “Order light so there's room for dessert.”

I try not to get anything, but Mom orders me a cookies-and-cream cone anyway. I really am full, but it's kind of nice to know she remembers my favorite flavor.

“That's gross, by the way,” I tell her as she licks a blueberry-flavored scoop of ice cream.

“I will never understand how a child of mine could not like berries.”

“I like strawberries.”

“They don't count.”

After a while, we finally head home. The backseat of the car is loaded with bags—Mom went a little crazy at the candle store—and we're both full of ice cream and happiness. I start telling her all the things I always mean to tell her but somehow never do, like how I'm worried I won't be friends with Jenny
and Rosemarie after high school because Rosemarie wants to stay here and I want to travel and Jenny is probably going to get a marine biology degree and move to California.

It's not like Mom gives me any life-changing advice on the ride home or anything. She mostly just listens. I may be the self-reliant kid in the family, but it's nice to pretend for at least one car ride that I don't have to be.

It's not until we're almost home that I realize: This is what life would be like all the time without Bo. I grow silent and stare out the window as Mom turns onto our street, my thoughts lingering on what the cost of such a life would be.

I spend most of the weekend
camped out in my room, examining the timestream for a way to save Sofía. To travel, I have to select moments along a string of time and pull myself into that time. To reach Sofía, I need to wrap my finger around the end of her red string—but that thread disappears into the vortex that covers Pear Island in 1692. I can see part of her string, but not the end, not where she is.

But . . . what if instead of trying to reach Sofía, I brought
her
to
me
? If I pulled the middle section of the thread, could I pull her out of the past and back to the present?

I find Sofía's red thread, my hand shaking as I reach for it. Once I touch the string, I'll have flashes of memories. Pull too hard, and I'll transport myself back to that time. But if I tug just a little and let go quickly, maybe I can loosen Sofía's thread and pull it out of the swirling black hole engulfing 1692. It won't matter that I can't go to her if I can make her come back to me.

I take a deep breath. I have to move quickly; I'll waste precious time if I let myself get sucked into the past.

I try not to think about the irony of a time traveler worried about wasting time.

I zero in on a moment in time, a portion of the string. Before I can doubt myself, I snatch the string, yanking it back and letting go as quickly as possible. I see it pucker and then—

—I
see
the past. I'm used to pulling myself physically through time, but this is different: I stay where I am, watching as the past plays out in my mind like a movie.

A session early in the year. Dr. Franklin was trying to make a game of us getting to know one another better. He'd shout out something like “If you were born before August, stand up, and if you were born in August or later, stay sitting!” or “If you'd rather go to the beach for vacation, hop up and down, but if you'd rather spend your vacation in the mountains, wave your arms.” Ryan pretended like the whole thing was stupid, but everyone else had fun.

I see the Doctor now, grinning at us. It's been a while since I've seen him smile.

“If you're the oldest in your family,” he says, “stand up. If you're the youngest, sit on the floor. If you're a middle child, jump up and down. And if you're an only child, stand on your chair!”

The me in this vision jumps up, looking around, eager to see what everyone else did. Ryan deigns to get up, then turns the chair around and stands on it, sighing as if it takes too much effort. Gwen plops on the floor, and Harold—little, quiet Harold—starts jumping around. Laughter breaks out in the room; none of us had seen him act so silly before.

But none of us had seen Sofía look quite that sad before either. She hadn't known how to answer because she used to be a middle child, and now she was an only child. I had merely a moment to register the deep sorrow etched into her face before she turned transparent and disappeared from sight.

I shake my head, hard, trying to clear it from the vision. Glancing at the timestream, I see that my plan has worked, at least a little. Sofía's string is looser and has moved slightly within the pattern of the timestream. But this small victory is tinged a little by melancholy—I can't help but remember how long it took Sofía to talk about her family with the group, and longer still for her to say anything more personal than their names to me in private.

The week of her family's funeral, Sofía stayed invisible and silent. Her father stayed drunk and not silent. He was angry, so angry because he'd lost his wife and daughters, but he didn't understand that even though Sofía was alive, he'd lost her too.

I'm glad Sofía lived at the academy and not with him.

Lives.
Not lived.
Lives.

I force myself to push the memories aside. There's work to do.

I select another point in the timestream where I can pluck up the red string. I brace myself, ready for the memory, as I pinch the string and yank it back as quickly as I can. I hear Gwen and Sofía's voices before I see the common room on the day Harold turned sixteen—which shocked us all because he still looked about twelve. His birthday was on a weekend, and though Gwen and I usually go home on weekends, we decided to stay because Gwen wanted to throw him a party.

Gwen, Sofía, Ryan, and I sit around the big table; Harold stands off to the side chatting with his ghosts.

“His favorite books are the Harry Potter series,” Sofía says in a hushed voice.

“I can work with that,” Gwen says. “Maybe we can make up a letter from Hogwarts and slip it under his door.”

“Lame,” Ryan drawls.

Gwen rolls her eyes at him. “Then what do you suggest?”

Ryan leans back lazily. “Hey, Harold,” he calls. “Want to play Quidditch?”

Harold's whole face lights up.

The vision fades from my mind, but I'm left smiling, remembering what happened next. Ryan had been right—if we had powers, why not use them? Sofía scrounged up four brooms while Gwen found some volleyballs in the beach supply closet, and Harold, Ryan, and I went to the courtyard. Ryan used his telekinesis to make us fly on the brooms—or, more accurately, float in place or slowly move backward, since he still didn't have much control of his ability. With a little effort we got an actual Quidditch game going. Sort of. Either way, it was hilarious and fun.

When the Doctor came out to see what we were all doing, Ryan floated his gold fountain pen from his front pocket and used it as the Snitch. I think he made sure that Harold got it; Ryan wasn't so much of a dick back then. Ryan was still Ryan, though, so he made sure the ball we were using hit Harold as soon as he snatched the pen from the air. Harold collapsed onto the soft grass below, laughing his brains out.

As the vision fades, the timestream comes into sharper focus. Sofía's string is a little closer, but it's not enough. The end is still trapped in the dark spot swirling over 1692. I work
quickly and select another moment along the string, striking like a cobra as I snatch it, tugging it from the weave.

Ryan, Harold, and I are hanging out by the marsh. Harold's wearing shorts; this is still at the end of summer. When Ryan starts to talk, I realize that this memory is from one of the first few days at Berkshire, when everyone was still moving in, before classes had even started.

“I've been to three of these before,” Ryan says, gathering rocks into a little pile. He starts throwing them into the marsh, aiming for the birds.

“Three?” I ask.

“Schools like this.” I didn't know other schools like Berkshire even existed.

“You?” he asks.

“My first.”

“Me too,” Harold says in a small voice, his eyes unfocused, as if he were speaking to someone other than us. “Berkshire. I like the name of it. Sounds like a place where hobbits would live.”

“This place does look pretty cool,” Ryan admits. “It's nicer than the last place I was at. That joint was like a prison.”

“Look.” Harold points down the path, toward the academy and the black van pulling into the circular drive.

“They're in our class,” Ryan says. He chuckles; he'd almost hit a magpie with that last stone he threw.

I see the shorter girl first, and right away, I can tell she's the kind of girl who loves attention. It's Gwen, wearing sparkly clips in her black hair—the tips of which are dyed red—and a shirt so low-cut I can see her cleavage all the way from where
I'm standing. She's showing off her power too, sparking little fires in the palms of her hands like it's no big deal.

And just when I start to look away, I see Sofía.

And then I don't.

I almost shove Ryan in the marsh to get him to shut up about the stupid birds for two seconds as I lean forward, trying to find her again. She'd been visible for just a second, but that second was enough—she's burned into my mind. Gwen's the type of girl who demands to be noticed, but Sofía's just the opposite. She likes silent places and shadows and watching from the sidelines. She
doesn't
want me—or anyone, really—to notice her . . . so of course I notice her even more.

The memory blinks out of my mind in a flash. Seeing her like that, for the first time, reminded my heart of all the reasons why I fell in love with her in the first place. A weird, painful lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. I have to control my emotions, or I'll lose control of the timestream.

It looks like one more good tug will pull the end of Sofía's string from 1692. I'm not sure what this is doing to her in the past—does she feel me manipulating time around her in an effort to bring her home? But it's the only thing I can think to do.

I reach out and pluck at the red string again, already bracing for the memory that will overtake me.

Gwen bounces with excitement. “It's almost time!” she cries, pulling Sofía behind her as she leads us all outside. Dr. Franklin looks almost excited as her. We're heading to the beach well past lights-out, but he got special permission for us to view a NASA rocket shooting off from somewhere in Virginia but visible all the way up here. Gwen's not a science
nerd, but she's obsessed with firepower, and she begged for the chance to watch the rocket fly by on its way to space.

The night is beyond freezing. I'm wearing my puffy coat and a hoodie and two shirts under that, and it's
still
cold.

Beside me, I notice Sofía shivering, so I pull off my hoodie and offer it to her. This was before we were, you know, a thing or whatever, but she accepts the hoodie and pulls it over her head, the sleeves dangling off her wrists. The whole thing is comically large on her, and she flaps the arms around herself.

“Thanks,” she says, still twisting so the sleeves of the hoodie thwack her back.

And I don't know what to say because I'm an idiot, so I just sort of stand there and grin.

“T-minus five minutes!” Gwen shouts, glancing at her cell phone. She and Dr. Franklin stand excitedly on the beach. Harold's chattering to one of his ghosts, and Ryan's playing on his cell phone, not really caring.

Sofía and I step back from the group. Not far enough to draw attention, but enough so that we feel like we're a little bit alone.

“Thanks,” she says again.

“No problem,” I say, zipping up my coat.

“No, I mean . . . for being nice,” she says. “Not just now, but just . . . in general.”

She looks up at me, and I'm so flustered that I don't know what to say or do. As I stare at her, her pupils go transparent. That was the first time I noticed it, but I noticed it every time after. Sofía's eyes always went invisible before anything else. It wasn't like her pupils suddenly disappeared and showed her
brains or whatever, it was like they became this sort of laser-focused, pinpointed reflection of the world.

And because behind her is the ocean and the sky, that's what fills her eyes.

I just keep staring, and her eyes sparkle with it all—all the stars, and then all the stars again, reflected in the waves. The transparency spreads into her irises. Moonlight dances on her eyelashes.

I grab her hand.

“Don't go,” I say.

So she blinks, and the stars are gone, and she is back.

A crackle of lightning bursts behind me, and I turn to see Gwen sparking up, the strands of her hair electrified, little licks of flame sizzling on her skin.

“Tone it down a notch,” Ryan complains.

“It's almost here!” Gwen shouts, ignoring him.

Sofía moves closer to me. And while everyone else's eyes are on the rocket, my lips are on hers.