by Beth Revis
I flip the notebook open, curious to see what Bo’s thoughts on the videos are, but it quickly becomes apparent that he wasn’t taking notes at all. The pages are chaos: brief snippets of ideas, reflections on people he knows or little stories about history, nonsensical lists scratched through. I try to read a few pages, but I can barely make the words out, much less make sense of them. Attempt 1 is written at the top of one page, but everything under it is scribbled out. Another page has a different list of “attempts,” all crossed out with the word FAILURE written in caps.
Another entry is just the words I’m sorry written over and over again, each one methodically scratched through.
I touch the apology page, my fingers dancing over the bumps made from the grooves of each letter.
Each page becomes more and more chaotic, more panic-ridden. I don’t understand and I’m scared jump out at me from one of the pages. I read the passage—the words are all in English, but they don’t make any sense.
None of it makes sense.
It’s like a visual representation of Bo’s mind. It starts out organized, but descends into something unrecognizable.
None of us can understand him, I think.
Soon enough, the ink-stained pages give way to nothing—more than three-quarters of the book is empty. Still, I turn the blank pages, one by one. In a weird way, seeing them gives me some peace. They’re not riotously scribbled in. They’re calm. They’re the quiet without the storm.
If I could choose, I think I would give him the blank pages instead of the black ones.
My hand pauses, hovering over a crisp, clean, empty page.
If the ink on the first pages represents Bo’s mind, what do the blank pages mean? And what kind of person am I to prefer them?
I told Bo’s psychiatrist that I was horrible for thinking that Bo might do something terrible if given the opportunity. But that’s not really horrible. That’s just fear. No, I’m horrible for what I’m thinking right now.
For wondering if we would all be happier with the blank pages.
I close the book and brush my fingertips across the mottled cover. My hand is shaking when I pull it back. I slam it on the book, then sweep it off the desk with a roar of frustration and bitterness and sorrow and rage. Black ink or blank pages, who am I to say one is better than the other? Who am I to want to choose for him? Who am I to wish I could?
Who am I at all?
CHAPTER 59
Harold is the only one in the library. He sits in front of a small table, a huge book spread open across the surface, but he’s not reading from it. He’s deep in conversation with himself.
I sit down across from him. His eyes do not flash with recognition, and I doubt he’s even aware that I’m here.
After a while, Harold quits muttering. His gaze shifts down to the book, then up to me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hi.”
We sit there awkwardly.
“Well?” Harold finally says. “Aren’t you going to make fun of me?”
I lean back. “Have I done that before?” I ask, genuinely unsure of the answer.
Harold shakes his head. “No. But you’re hanging out with Ryan now.”
“Not really.”
“More than before.”
“Before what?”
Harold shrugs. “Before Sofía.”
That was because Sofía didn’t like Ryan.
“Do you know what happened to Sofía?” I ask. I’m not sure what I believe. Do I get to choose what I believe?
Harold is quiet for a while, and then he stares at me with clear, eerie eyes. “She’s gone,” he says simply.
“Yeah, but . . . how?” My heart races. I promise myself that whatever Harold says, I’ll believe. Maybe he has powers or maybe he’s just crazy, but either way, he’s no liar.
“Does it matter?” Harold asks. “She’s gone. She’s not here.”
My chest caves in and my shoulders slump. Maybe the only reason I was willing to believe whatever he said was because I knew he wouldn’t say anything.
The door to the library slams open. “Can you believe this bullshit?” Ryan’s voice calls out, full of rage. “Bo, I saw you come in here. Where are you? Have you seen this shit? I can’t believe they’re going to do this to us!”
I stand up, giving away my location, and Ryan marches over to me. He slams a piece of paper on top of the open book on Harold’s desk. Harold scoots his chair back and scurries to the corner.
“What’s going on? Calm down, man,” I say, staring at Ryan’s face. He’s practically purple with anger.
Ryan thrusts the paper at me. “Read,” he orders.
Dear Parents and Guardians,
We regret to inform you that, after a complicated and in-depth evaluation of our school, the board of directors has decided that the best course of action for our students is that we close at the end of the semester. We are happy to provide references for all students to similar schools, and, of course, we suggest that all students continue their treatments while at home over the summer. Full school and medical records as well as a more detailed report of the situation will be forwarded to you before June 10.
Sincerely,
The Board of Directors of the Berkshire Academy for Children with Exceptional Needs
“They’re shutting us down!” Ryan growls.
My eyes linger on the page, dancing from letter to letter, not comprehending the words they create.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Ryan snatches the letter back. “My parents have already picked out my next hellhole.”
“Hellhole,” Harold repeats, quietly, from the corner.
“Shut up!” Ryan whirls around. Before I can move, before Harold can run away, Ryan grabs him by the collar and yanks him to the book supply closet. He throws Harold inside, flipping the old antique key in the lock and tossing it on the ground. He kicks it violently, the key skidding toward the shelves.
Anger issues.
“What’s going to happen to me now?” Ryan says, turning on his heel toward me as if Harold didn’t even exist anymore.
Narcissism.
“Let Harold out,” I say, trying to make my tone placating.
“Forget that loser—he’s one of the reasons why this school is closing.” His eyes narrow. “And you’re another one.”
Sociopathic tendencies.
I bend down and pick up the iron key from the ground. It’s for one of those old-fashioned locks that can be opened from either side. I think about sliding the key under the door for Harold, but I’m worried what Ryan will do. I can hear Harold in the book closet, quietly conversing with his ghosts. He’s fine—and probably far safer beyond Ryan’s reach. I slip the key into my own pocket instead, promising to come back for Harold after this all blows over.
“Stupid Sofía offs herself, that brings the officials. Harold’s batshit crazy, and so are you, and when they see just how bad you nut jobs are, they close the school.” Ryan punches the end of a shelf, knocking several books to the floor. “After everything I did to stop this from happening . . .”
He kicks a book down the aisle, the pages fluttering open as the cover skitters across the floor. “I bet it was Harold. You keep your crazy under wraps, but Harold is just nuts all over the damn place! No wonder we’re being shut down. This place isn’t equipped to handle such insane losers.”
Ryan jerks around, heading to the door that keeps Harold locked inside the book closet, but I grab him, spinning him toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
Fortunately, I’m able to distract Ryan. I’m not sure what would happen if he made his way back to Harold, but I definitely don’t want to find out.
• • •
I’m walking ahead of Ryan while he raves like a lunatic, and without really meaning to, I lead him
to Sofía’s old room. All I was thinking about was the need to calm Ryan down, to quell the rage swirling inside him like a hurricane, and to me, Sofía means peace.
Gwen is already inside the room, using a Zippo to burn another mark for Sofía’s absence. I count the black streaks in the flipped-over mattress, the number of days since Sofía’s been gone.
Since Sofía died.
If Gwen had powers, she wouldn’t need a Zippo. If I had powers, no one would need to count down the days since Sofía’s death, because they would all know I could alter time and bring her back. If Ryan had powers, Berkshire wouldn’t actually be closing.
But we are all powerless.
The truth sinks in me like a stone.
We are all powerless.
“What are you doing here?” Ryan sneers as soon as he sees Gwen. The sharp scent of the burnt mattress fills the room.
“What are you doing here?” Gwen throws the question right back at him, but there’s fear in her voice. She glances behind her, at the wall. Ryan’s in the doorway; I’m near the mattress. There’s no escape for her, and she knows it. She flicks the Zippo in her hand, the flame jumping up then dying with a click! of the flip-top.
“Get out,” I say not unkindly, moving aside so she can escape.
But Ryan doesn’t move. “I said, what are you doing here?” His voice is cold.
“I have a right to be here,” she says. “Go away.”
But he doesn’t move. Ryan just stands in the doorway, challenging Gwen to magically move through him.
I shift nervously. Ryan’s all spit and rage; he wants a fight. He wants to destroy—something, someone. I’ve never seen anyone look so dead inside. The only thing Ryan wants to do is spread the hate boiling inside him.
“Listen, man, so what if the Berk closes?” I say, trying to bring some level of logic to Ryan. “It’s not that big a deal. There are other schools.”
“This school is mine,” Ryan snarls. “And I won’t let them take it away from me.”
“Well, this room isn’t yours, so get out!” Gwen shouts at him, her voice cracking over the words.
“It is. This whole building. Everyone in it.”
“This is Sofía’s room!” Gwen yells at him.
“Sofía’s dead.” Ryan says the words maliciously, violently, like he wants nothing more than to kill Gwen with the sound of his voice.
But the words don’t stab at Gwen. They don’t eat her alive like a monster. She has already accepted Sofía’s death. She has been nothing but the silent counter of the days since Sofía’s been gone.
I’m the one who hears Ryan’s words like a saw through my brain. I’m the one who loses my breath, gutted at the way Ryan can say them, like there was never any question of her death.
• • •
I’m the one who snaps.
CHAPTER 60
You’re scaring me. The words are Gwen’s, but I don’t know who she said them to.
I am standing in the middle of Sofía’s room. The walls move like liquid.
No, those are just shadows. From the flames. The flames on her bed.
Sofía’s mattress is on fire.
All around us is a raging inferno, climbing the walls and making the paint bubble.
The door swings, the movement from the air making the flames sway. Ryan just left.
Gwen’s in the corner, crouched against the floor. There’s blood on her lips and tears in her eyes. She looks utterly powerless, and then I realize: There is nothing of the flame inside of her. Whether Gwen has powers or not, she’s always had fire inside. Now—nothing. My eyes scan the room. The Zippo lighter is in the center of the mattress, melting through the burning cloth.
Did Ryan do this?
I reach for Gwen. She flinches.
Did I do this?
Gwen struggles to stand on her own. “Bo?” she asks, hesitating, as if she’s not sure I’m going to respond. As if she’s not sure I’m me.
I nod at her.
“We have to go,” she says.
I open my mouth to protest.
“I can’t control it, Bo,” Gwen says sympathetically. “We have to go.”
“But.”
“You really thought we were, like, special, didn’t you?”
I stare at the flames. I try to pull them back through time. You can kill a fire if you take away the oxygen; I want to take away the time it took to burn.
“I get it,” Gwen says. “If I could choose my own reality, I’d choose the one where I had powers. Where I had Sofía.”
I look at the bed again. The fire has spread. It’s in the walls now.
Sofía told me a story once, about how there was a family that had wolves in the walls. They hid behind the drywall and ate the family up at night, all because no one believed the little girl when she said there were wolves in the walls. It was a picture book for children.
• • •
I am alone in the room. Smoke boils on the ceiling.
Where did Gwen go?
When did Gwen go?
• • •
I’m losing time.
• • •
It’s always about time.
• • •
Ringing. Screaming. An alarm.
• • •
I step out of Sofía’s room, coughing, choking for air. I have to get out of here. I’ll die if I don’t. I’ll die like Sofía died.
No. Not like Sofía. Sofía died in the cold.
No. NO. Sofía’s not dead.
Smoke billows down the hallway; the flames have spread to other rooms.
• • •
You can’t control fire.
I close my eyes and think of the timestream. If I could just go back—just a little jump, just a few minutes ago, I could stop the fire from starting.
You can’t control time.
• • •
I throw my arm in front of my face, and I stumble-run down the hallway toward the stairs. As I pass a window, I see people fleeing, escaping the burning building. There’s a thumping sound, and sobbing, and it’s coming from the walls. Wolves in the walls. One of them knows my name.
The fire has jumped the hall, spreading over the wood paneling of the ceiling. Ashes and embers fall like rain. The carpet singes and smokes, black holes ringed with red, burning my bare feet as I run.
The fire alarm is going off. Sprinklers too.
But it’s all too late. Nothing will stop this fire. It will burn until there’s nothing left to burn.
I skid to the landing, barely stopping myself from tumbling down the steps into the foyer. People are streaming out the door—the cooks, the nurses, the other teachers. And I see the Doctor there, standing in front, waving his arm as if that’ll make people move faster.
The entire world around me dances in light and heat.
“COME ON!” Dr. Franklin shouts, and I race down the stairs. He pushes me through the massive front door. One of the other unit leaders, Ms. Grantham, stops me from falling, and she doesn’t let go of my wrist, pulling me down after her with a viselike grip on my arm. “Go to your unit,” she yells at me when we reach the driveway, already running toward her own cluster of students, who’ve gathered in their designated fire area.
I run to Gwen and Ryan, still choking from the burnt air. Smoke billows from the windows and open doors, just like in the house where I saw Sofía trapped when I was falling through time.
That never happened, my brain tells me, but I don’t believe it.
Gwen clutches her arms around her chest as tears stream down her face, her mouth gulping at air. Ryan grabs my arm as soon as he’s close enough and pulls me to the side.
“Don’t you dare tell one damn person what just happened,” he snarls at me.
“About the fire?�
� I say stupidly, not sure how to react to his vicious tone.
“Don’t be a dumbass,” Ryan says, his voice still low and menacing. “I don’t care how much of a schizo freak you are, don’t you dare even think of telling anyone what we did. You hear me? We didn’t do anything.” His hand squeezes tighter around my arm.
Behind me, the walls of Berkshire howl like wolves, baying to the flames rather than the moon.
Dr. Franklin rushes up to us. “Have any of you seen Harold?” he asks, breathless, panic in his voice.
And that’s when I understand what Ryan meant.
We left Harold. We left him locked in the closet.
To die.
CHAPTER 61
Ryan drops my arm, and the blood tingles back to my fingers. Immediately, my hand goes to my pocket, to the old iron key that rests inside it. I don’t pull it out, but I feel it, and I know that Harold’s salvation lies in the palm of my hand.
I didn’t even think of him.
I let him die. Ryan locked him inside, but I could have unlocked the door. I could have freed him. But I didn’t. Because I forgot. Because I’m that selfish. Because in the end, when the flames licked at my heels, I thought of only my own escape.
I drop to my knees, staring up at the burning building. I can hear sirens blaring down the island—the fire trucks are coming.
It’s too late. I passed the library. I saw the wooden walls catch flame. The room is filled with old books, musty tomes of paper that will ignite with just a spark.
There’s movement by the big front door, still wide open though all the students—all but Harold—are safe outside.
A boy stands there, steaming. His body is drenched in water, but the fire sizzles on his skin, wrapping him in misty clouds. But I can still tell who it is. Carlos Estrada.
“No,” I whisper.
He nods. Yes.
If I’m seeing Carlos, then maybe all hope is not lost. Carlos comes from another time, slipping from the pool that killed him through the timestream to me. He is proof that the timestream is real, that my powers are real. I stand up shakily, the iron key in my fist. I stare, hard, at the burning walls of the academy.