by Beth Revis
“And do they speak back?” Ryan says in a mocking voice. The Doctor shoots him a look.
“Yes,” Harold says simply.
“Well, I can do something useful,” Ryan says. He flicks his hand up, and the blue plastic chairs we’re all sitting in start to float. Harold squeaks and grips the sides of his chair to keep from toppling off. Gwen kicks her feet out, swinging around.
“Thank you,” Dr. Franklin says, and from the tone of his voice, it’s clear he means That’s enough. Ryan casually waves his hand, and the chairs crash back down. Sofía’s off balance and almost falls; the past-me grabs her arm and catches her.
She goes completely invisible.
I jerk my arm back, shocked, but the Doc just gives her a nod and a smile. I wait for her to return to visibility, but she doesn’t.
“My turn,” Gwen says, and she lights her hair on fire, shaking the sparks out like glitter.
Everyone turns to look at me.
“I can move through time,” I say lamely. “I mean, back in time. To the past.”
Everyone waits for me to show my power. “Come on,” Ryan says impatiently.
I close my eyes. I try to do something cool.
Nothing happens.
From my vantage point in the timestream, I cringe. I wanted so much to impress everyone else, but I had even less control of my powers then than I do now. So it’s little wonder that when Dr. Franklin says, “We’ll work on it” in that patronizing tone, I flipped from nervous to angry. I saw red—literally, I saw the world as if there were a red film over everything, and it reminded me of the bloody pond. My brain was spinning, and suddenly I was in the past, back at my grandmother’s house in the mountains. It was run-down, with asbestos tiles on the outside walls and threadbare carpet inside that smelled of dust and old cigarette smoke, and it was my most favorite place in the whole world. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in her front yard, under the pecan tree, with snow falling all around. I could hear the crunch of the snow shifting under my feet, and when I stepped forward, I could taste the coldness in the air.
Now, as an observer of this moment, I see what everyone else saw. One moment I was there, the next I was gone. Ryan gets up and waves his hand in the empty space where I had been sitting. “This is cooler than your trick,” he tells Sofía, who had finally returned to visibility.
“Go back to your chair,” Dr. Franklin says. “You don’t know when he’ll—”
I burst back into existence, my arms swinging. “I’m sorry!” I shout as the Doctor steps back. The slip in time was fast and disorientating, and I hadn’t meant to land a punch on Dr. Franklin’s face when I returned.
The Doctor just rubs his cheek, though, and suddenly the redness disappears.
“This is something we’ll all work on,” he says. “Control.”
I can feel the timestream slipping away from me, the moment fading. My eyes shoot to Sofía, and I beg time to let me have one last glimpse of her. Even though I know she can’t see me in this memory, her face tilts just as I turn to her, giving the illusion that she’s looking right at me. Her lips part to say something, and my heart surges; it feels as if she’s speaking to me, impossibly, through time and space.
I blink, and all I see is my desk and the open notebook in front of me.
But I cannot get the vision of Sofía’s desperate eyes out of my mind.
CHAPTER 6
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 As, 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.
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.
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 sli
ghtly 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.