A World Without You(12)

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.





CHAPTER 7




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.