A World Without You(74)

“Why were you so scared?” Bo asks.

“I was scared because a mother shouldn’t have to lock one child in a room to protect her from the other.”





CHAPTER 50




My blood turns to ice water.

Phoebe looks up at me, and I see the truth in her eyes. That moment changed who she was, and it’s my fault, and I didn’t even know it. I’ve never thought of myself as someone to be afraid of. Sure, I know that learning to control my power is key, that the whole point of going to Berkshire was to be in control so I wouldn’t hurt someone. And I know that, despite it all, I still have hurt people. It’s my fault Phoebe broke her arm when we were young, and it’s my fault Sofía’s trapped in the past. But that night before I left for the academy, that fight with Dad hadn’t been about me controlling my powers. It had just been us, fighting like usual: He was angry at me for being a freak, and I was angry . . . I was just angry.

The thing is, that was just a normal fight. Just words. Shouted words, yeah, but words. I had no idea that it scared Mom and Phoebe. I never once thought about Pheebs hiding behind her locked door while I yelled at Dad. I thought she was too wrapped up in her own life to notice mine, even when it was loud.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Phoebe’s shoulder lifts in a half shrug.

“You’re here now,” she says, as if that’s enough.

“I’ll be going away again soon.” I’ve felt it all day, the pull of the timestream, dragging me back to where I’m supposed to be. I think, if I let myself, I could float back to my own time and place as easily as drifting on the current of the ocean.

I consider going back inside to find my parents. To apologize or say . . . something. But I don’t want to. I’m not sure how to look my mom in the eye after what Phoebe just told me.

“Yeah,” Phoebe says. “Break is almost over for me too.”

“Break?”

“Spring break,” Phoebe says. Her eyes search my face. “That’s why you’re home—for spring break. Dad’s driving you back up tomorrow.”

“Driving . . .” My head is throbbing. Driving? Spring break? No—I’m here because I slipped through the timestream.

“Do you like it?” Phoebe asks.

“The Berk? Yeah. It’s good.” My mind is reeling. This is spring break? But I didn’t drive here; the timestream dumped me here.

“Bo?”

“Yeah?”

“I . . . I’m glad you’re getting help. I was . . . I didn’t think that school would change anything, but, I’m glad you’re getting help.”

“Thanks.”

“I know Berkshire Academy must be horrible. But it’s . . . it’s for your health. They’re going to make you better again.”

“I’m not sick!” I say, staring at my sister. “What the hell have they been telling you?”

“Sorry!” She raises both her hands and steps back, hitting the side of the house. “I didn’t mean to say you were sick, just that Berkshire—it’s, um . . . it’s good, right? It’s helping?” When I nod, she adds, “I’m glad. Of that. That’s all. And you’re happy? Even without that girl? Sofía?”

My hands clench into fists. “Look, Pheebs, you know my power. You know I can save her.”

“Power?”

“Remember the Titanic? When we were kids?”

“I remember playing the game on the tire swing in the front yard.”

I shake my head violently—no. We weren’t playing. We were there. “You know,” I say, grabbing Phoebe’s shoulders. “You know. You know what I can do.”

“You’re scaring me,” Phoebe says in a very, very, very small voice.

I let go of her as if she were made of fire. “Tell me you know,” I demand.

“I know,” she says, but I don’t think she does.

“I can save Sofía,” I say urgently. “Tell me you know I can save Sofía.”

“But Bo,” she says, her eyes wide and reflecting the starlight above us. “Sofía is . . . she’s dead, Bo.”

I shake my head back and forth, my brain rattling around inside, clattering against my skull. “No, she’s not!” I say, and Phoebe flinches from my raised voice, cowering against the house. “Sorry. It was an accident. But don’t worry, I’ll save her. That’s why I’m at Berkshire. To control my powers, so that I can save her.”

Phoebe’s head cocks, and there’s confusion in her eyes and something else. Sympathy? “Oh, Bo,” she says, her voice cracking.

A curtain near the door shifts—our father has noticed us outside, a frown on his face, and the curtain swishes closed again. In moments, he’ll be at the door.

I grab Phoebe by her shoulders, whirling her around to face me. Her face pales, her eyes widen. “What have they told you?” I snarl. “About Berkshire? About me?”

“You know why you’re there,” she says, but as her eyes drink in my face, she adds, “Right?”

“Why?” I demand. “You tell me. Why am I at Berkshire?”

“You’re . . . you’re sick. They haven’t found a full diagnosis yet, but I’ve been researching on the Internet. The doctor you see, Dr. Franklin, he mentioned a dissociative disorder, but I think it’s more complex than that—” She pauses, seeing the rage building on my face. “Berkshire Academy is designed specifically for teens with mental issues. They said it was a specialized environment, that they could help you better than the special ed programs at school, that they can treat you better . . .”