A World Without You(65)

But sometimes . . . sometimes they forget I’m here. When they look directly at me, they see and accept my presence. But if I stick to the walls and shadows, if I avoid their gaze, it’s like I’m as invisible as Sofía can be.

I don’t think I’m really here. I’m only half here, only made real when they remember I exist.

Or maybe I am here, and they can tell that something is wrong. My family is extraordinarily good at ignoring problems, especially when I’m the problem.

Or maybe I’ve fallen into a reality where this—me, forgotten and powerless—is normal.

Dad came into my room one day—remarkably easy to do when you only have to sweep aside a curtain—and took my laptop. He just took it. I was in the middle of using it, and he just lifted it out of my grasp and walked away. I’m not sure if that was during one of the moments when he could see me or not.

But before he took my laptop, I did as much reading on time travel as I could. I latched onto the idea of string theory, maybe because the timestream looks like strings to me. Each string of time leads me to a different place, a different time. But in string theory, the idea is that each string leads you to a different reality.

I’ve tried to call up the timestream.

I can’t.

Maybe that’s where I am now, in a reality where my powers don’t work. Or maybe my last experience, when I cycled through different times so fast I could barely breathe, has put my powers on a temporary hold.

Time, as always, will tell.

I don’t really know what to do here. This house—this family—doesn’t fit me anymore. It’s not even like a pair of jeans that are a few inches too short; it’s like someone gave me a baby’s onesie and told me to try to wear it.

My parents keep finding excuses to look in my room. Dad lingers in the hallway behind my curtained door, his feet pointed toward me, sometimes shuffling forward as if he wants to come in. Mom comes up with reasons to enter, laundry, a snack, something. At least she knocks on the wall before pushing aside my curtain, but if they’re not going to trust me with a doorknob, I don’t see how knocking makes much of a difference.

I keep trying to go back to the island and Berkshire. Or just back in time. I’m trying to go anywhere, really. I can feel the timestream like an itch underneath my skin, but I can’t reach it, no matter how often I try to call it.

What if I’ve lost my power for good?

No. I refuse to believe that. Losing my power means losing Sofía.

Forever.

And I cannot live in a world without her.

I’ll find a way back to the timestream.

To her.

? ? ?

Phoebe’s been acting weird. She pretty much goes out with friends or stays locked up in her room all the time, but there’s something off about her.

I don’t know why my parents can’t see it, but when I look at Pheebs, it’s obvious that something’s not right. There’s some worry eating her away, something that she won’t put into words, and maybe she can’t. She hides it, she’s always hiding it behind a bright pink lip-glossed smile, but there’s something . . .

It reminds me of the way there was something wrong with Sofía. I didn’t notice with her, but I do with Phoebe.

I tried to talk to Phoebe, but the words all came out wrong, and she laughed at me and went back to her room. That’s all this damn house is, a bunch of shut doors. Except mine.

Maybe that’s why time threw me back here. Maybe in addition to everything else that’s wrong in my life, my home is crumbling, but all my family does is smile and shut their eyes.





CHAPTER 43


Phoebe



Bo moves like a wild animal, scratching at the walls of the house.

I hear him creeping down the hallway moments before Mom shouts at us that dinner’s ready. I pass him on the stairs—he’s pressed against the railing as if my touch would poison him, but he watches me as I descend, not moving again until I’m off the final step.

Mom has poured every ounce of her homemaker instinct into setting the table. Fresh white and blue hydrangeas are clustered in the center of the table, flanked on each side by a pair of unlit candles. Just before Mom whips the flowers off the table to make room for the roast chicken, though, I realize they’re fake. Expensive, realistic fakes, but still. Fake.

Doesn’t she understand that the only thing that gives the candles purpose is burning them? That what makes flowers beautiful is the fact that they eventually die?

“Rosemary chicken!” Mom proclaims, as if this is a triumph.

“Looks good.” Dad snaps the paper to make it lie flat.

I slump in my chair, waiting to be served. Dad carves the chicken, dropping a piece on everyone’s plate. Mom passes around baked macaroni and cheese and a bowl of green beans flecked with something red.

Bo stands behind his chair. Mom looks at him, her mouth open to speak, but then she pushes away from the table abruptly, muttering that it’d be better to use the slotted spoon for the green beans rather than the one she has sticking out of the dish. Bo leans over his chair, filling up his plate unceremoniously. He doesn’t pass bowls or the platter of chicken; he just reaches over the table. As soon as he has what he wants, he picks up his plate silently and returns to his room, not saying a word.

Mom comes back from the kitchen and opens her mouth to call Bo back to the table.