A World Without You (7 page)

Phoebe

The last notes of Bach's
Toccata and Fugue in D fill the orchestra room at James Jefferson High, lingering among the motivational posters and laminated pictures of long-dead composers hanging on the walls. Mr. Ramirez bows his head, eyes closed, listening as the music fades to silence. We all wait for him to respond. When he lifts his head, his eyes are alight.

“Bravo!” he shouts. “That! That was exactly it!”

The entire orchestra seems to breathe a sigh of relief. We've been practicing the piece for months, and this was the first time everything was just right. When we got about halfway through it, we could feel the tension in the room growing, waiting for someone to mess up. But no one did. We played it perfectly.

There is less than fifteen minutes left of class, so everyone starts packing away their music stands and instruments.

“Good job,” Kasey says as she examines the worn strings on her bow next to me.

“You too,” I say. I'm the first-chair cello, though Kasey
sometimes beats me. I think if she challenged me this week, she'd bump me down to second chair. But Kasey never cares about the rank.

“The concert is only one month away,” Mr. Ramirez calls over the excited chatter of the students. “And while this piece is acceptable, we've got more work ahead of us. Cellos, don't forget to practice your suites!”

“Have a good weekend?” Kasey asks as I pack away my cello. “Where were you Friday?”

At a memorial service for some dead girl in my brother's class. “Eh, nowhere,” I say. “What'd you do?”

Kasey focuses intently on snapping her cello case shut. “Mr. Ramirez wanted me to try out for this summer camp thing.”

“Summer camp?”

“I guess it's more of a program. For musicians,” Kasey says, still not meeting my eyes. “I told him not to bother with me, that you deserved it more, but he said I should audition.”

“Dude, that's awesome,” I say. I don't know why she's acting so shifty about it. Just because I'm first chair doesn't really mean I'm better than her. I have the technical side of playing the cello down—I know the notes and when to hit them. But I'm basically following directions. I have no more skill than a cook following a recipe.

But Kasey—she hardly ever looks at the music. She just
feels
it. The only reason she's second chair is because she doesn't bother with Bach. She's too busy playing the music in her head to practice the symphonies of guys who are long dead.

“Congratulations,” I say again, hoping that she can see I mean it. “You're amazing. I hope you get in.”

She smiles, relieved. “Thanks,” she says. “I guess I'm going to shoot for Juilliard or something when I graduate. You?”

I snort. “I'm nowhere near your level, but it's sweet of you to pretend I have talent.”

“You do!” Kasey protests, but she's wrong. Technical skill isn't talent. I can't play without sheet music, and I can only do what the notes tell me to do. Kasey plays a million times better when it's just her and the cello, and that's the difference.

“Besides,” I add, “I don't think I'm going to keep playing once I get to college.” I only signed up for orchestra because I wanted to look well-rounded for colleges, and marching band required too much extra work. They play at every game; we play two concerts a year.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Rosemarie and Jenny are planning to grab ice cream after my orchestra practice is over and want me to hurry up.

“You should keep playing; you're really good!” Kasey says. She lugs her cello over her shoulder.

I shrug. “It's not like I'm going to major in music,” I say.

“What are you going to major in?”

I readjust my own cello's strap. I wish people would quit asking me that. I'm not like Kasey. I don't have a talent. I don't have this burning passion to dedicate myself to one thing. Kasey's going to be the next Yo-Yo Ma and spend her whole life in music, and I doubt she has ever even stopped to think about how lucky she is—not just because she has talent, but because she knows exactly what she wants to do with it.

I mean, I guess I have some talents. But I don't have passion, not the way she does.

Kasey stays behind to tell Mr. Ramirez how she did at her summer program audition, and I head to my locker. I know my brother thinks I'm weird for liking school, but I do. High school is simple. I know the way things work. Just like playing the notes to Bach on the cello, I can play the teachers and the classes. It's easy to see just how to act, how to be, how to get by in high school. I understand the patterns.

I had talked to Jenny and Rosemarie at the beginning of the school year about how Bo was going to be attending a different school than me, but they didn't ask any follow-up questions, and I didn't supply any additional information. Part of me wanted to confess everything to them, to tell them that things are a mess and I can't make them right and please, please, please just listen.

But a larger part of me prefers to escape here every day. I go to school, and I pretend like everything's okay, like I'm an only child, like I live in a world without Bo. People joke with me, and I do my schoolwork, and during those hours, from eight to three, nothing's wrong. If I tell anyone about Bo, they'll treat me different. I don't want sympathy. I want to pretend that I'm just Phoebe.
Just
Phoebe. Not Phoebe, sister of Bo. Not Phoebe who can do nothing more than watch as everything falls apart around her. Just Phoebe, the junior orchestra geek who participates in too many clubs and doesn't take her eye off the prize: Graduation. College. Escape. I like that Phoebe.

But that Phoebe always goes home.

The next morning,
I'm summoned to Dr. Franklin's office before breakfast is over. I snatch an apple before I leave the common room, where the breakfast buffet is spread out. The others watch me go, no doubt wondering why the Doctor couldn't wait the fifteen minutes until the start of our group session.

“Bo,” he says warmly, standing up as I enter his office.

“What's going on?” I ask. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickle. I remember the dull, metallic noise of my doorknob being rattled last night by the unit leader who was waiting for me.

He sighs. “Friday was a rough day for all of us. I wanted to see how you were doing now that you've had some time to process and sort out your feelings.”

I shrug. That day had been rough because he
made
it rough. I was forced to spend the entire day “mourning” Sofía when I could have been figuring out how to save her. I know we had to make it feel real for the staff who aren't in on the academy's
true purpose, but it was still a waste. A pointless day that made everyone sad for no reason at all.

And it made me feel like a failure. Like Dr. Franklin and everyone else had already given up on me. On Sofía.

“I just wish I could have stopped it,” I say. It would be so
simple
if I could just go back in time and stop myself from losing her. But time's not simple.

“It's not your fault, you know,” Dr. Franklin says.

I shoot him an exasperated look. We both know it's
entirely
my fault. If I hadn't taken her back, she wouldn't be stuck in the past. But all I say is, “It's okay.”

The Doctor frowns. “Sometimes we redirect our emotions because we're scared of them,” he says slowly. “In times like these, it's important to remember that it's natural to grieve.”

“Grieve?” I ask. “I'm not going to grieve. I'm going to save her.”

The Doctor stands up and moves closer to me, his hand trailing across the wooden surface of his desk. His fingers tap on the edge of his desk, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming. I glance down at where he's tapping and see a small video camera on a tabletop tripod. The camera's not new; Dr. Franklin has recorded our sessions before. But this time, the light is blinking. It's recording. In the past, he'd tape us so that we could watch ourselves using our powers and learn from our mistakes. But I'm not using my power right now . . .

“Bo, I'm not sure you've fully processed what happened to Sofía,” Dr. Franklin says. “It's . . . not about saving her. You
can't
save her. You know that, right?”

I rear back violently. “Why would you say that?” I ask. “I can! I
will
. You just have to trust me. You have to give me a chance.”

“Bo.” The Doctor leaves the desk and stands in front of me, positioning himself between me and the camera. I search his face for answers, but I don't understand the look he's giving me. Concern and worry and . . . something else. It's like he's trying to tell me something with his eyes, but I'm not Ryan—I can't peek inside his mind and understand the thoughts he hides there.

“Bo,” he repeats. “You have to understand this. You have to face the truth. Sofía is gone.”

“Not forever,” I protest weakly.

“Forever. She's gone. She's dead. You can't bring her back.”

Bile rises in my throat. I shove Dr. Franklin away so hard that he collides with the desk. The camera shakes unevenly on its mount. I want to scream at him not to give up on me. I know I can still save her. But the word he used—
dead
—it rattles me. He knows the truth. He knows she's not dead. He knows she's stuck in the past. So why would he lie? Is this a test? Does he want to see if I can keep control of my power under stress? My mind churns. What does he want from me?

I don't realize I've started pacing until the Doctor grabs my shoulders to stop me. He gently pries my fingers away from my scalp, where I'd been clutching my hair so hard that a headache is beginning to bubble to the surface. I look down at my hands, at my curling fingers, and I force myself to take a deep breath, to let my muscles relax. That's my problem—that's always been my problem. When things go wrong, I freak.

He doesn't let go of me. His eyes lock on mine until he has my full focus.

“You're losing control,” he says, the words reverberating through my head.

Control
. This has always been about control. And my lack of it.

My eyes fall to the blinking light of the camera on the Doctor's desk. Before I can ask why he's recording us, the door to the Doctor's office opens. Ryan steps inside without looking at us. “Oh,” he says casually when he deigns to notice us. “Want me to wait outside?” He doesn't move toward the door.

Dr. Franklin steps back from me. “No, it's fine. It's almost time to start.”

As Dr. Franklin moves to the other side of his desk, Gwen enters, followed by Harold. We all take our usual seats in a semicircle around the Doc's desk. Ryan tries to get my attention, but my eyes are glued to the camera. Why is it on? What is the Doctor hoping to capture on film?

The Doctor starts speaking, but I can't focus on him. It's clear that today we're going to be talking about our feelings—about Sofía—rather than about our powers.

A knock at the door interrupts the Doctor before he can get really started. Ms. Temple, the history tutor, peeks her head inside the door. “Your guests have arrived,” she tells the Doctor and then steps back out into the hallway. Dr. Franklin moves immediately to the door, speaking softly to whoever else is out there. Beside me, Gwen grows warm, sparks crackling on her clothing. She's on edge.

“Told you,” Ryan says under his breath. Harold squeaks nervously.

“Told you what?” I ask Ryan, turning in my seat to face him.

“At breakfast,” Gwen says, her voice low, “he said—”

The office door opens fully, and Dr. Franklin leads two people inside: a white woman with dyed auburn hair frizzy at
the ends and a heavyset Asian man. The man has a large, worn briefcase in tan leather that doesn't match his black suit, and the woman carries a satchel that seems to be weighted heavily with papers.

“This is everyone?” the man asks Dr. Franklin. He nods.

The woman turns to us, holding her arm out, indicating that the Doctor can sit down with his students. It's strange to see him treated like one of us.

“Hello, all,” the woman says warmly, a bright smile on her face. I give Gwen and Ryan a side-eyed glance. Gwen keeps rubbing her hands together, probably trying to hide the fire crackling under her skin. The Doctor reaches over, patting her back as if to assure her that all is well. Ryan's jaw is hard, and I think he's grinding his teeth.

“We hope to get to know each of you over the next few weeks,” the woman continues. Her voice is sticky sweet. I dislike her immediately.

“Why are you here?” Ryan asks aggressively. The Doctor shoots him a look.

“Right now, we're just going to get to know you,” the woman says, a false smile plastered across her face.

“That's not an answer,” Gwen says.

“Gwen.” Dr. Franklin's voice holds a stern, disapproving note.

“We're investigating what happened to Ms. Sofía Muniz,” the man says. He doesn't move from his spot leaning against Dr. Franklin's desk, and he barely glances at the group. “And we're examining Berkshire Academy as a whole while we're at it.” At this, he stares directly at the Doctor.

Rather than be intimidated, Dr. Franklin stands, reaches into his pocket, and hands the man a USB drive. “The files you
requested. For some reason, the master files were all corrupt, and I wasn't able to salvage them, but I had a separate backup here.”

“Thanks,” the man says, slipping the drive into his pocket. “I'll review them later. They include both video and audio?”

The Doctor nods and takes his seat beside Gwen again.

My eyes dart to the camera on the Doc's desk, and suddenly everything makes sense. The Berk is under investigation. The state doesn't know what we really do here. To outsiders, it must seem as if Sofía really is dead and gone. And dead students mean government investigations. The Doctor couldn't warn me, not really, but he tried. That's why he called me into his office earlier today. He was warning me to pretend. We have to hide our powers and make these officials believe that Sofía is really gone.

I knew—of course I knew—that Sofía couldn't be gone for long before people outside Berkshire took notice, and there's only so much Dr. Franklin can do. He can't pretend forever that Sofía's okay when she's clearly missing, and he probably couldn't explain what actually happened to her. Still, does the government really need to come spy on us?

“My name is Amelia Rivers,” the woman continues brightly. “And this is Carl Minh. We'll be talking to you individually later, but we just wanted to introduce ourselves since we'll be around. And if you have anything to tell us, please feel free to flag us down.”

“Dr. Rivers and Mr. Minh will be staying here at Berkshire, on the sixth floor with the other staff members,” Dr. Franklin says, standing up. “And they'll be sitting in on some of our sessions together. Please pretend like they're not here; they're just
observing our methods and our classes. And when they ask you questions about what happened to Sofía, I want you to be honest. We have nothing to hide; no one's to blame here.”

The camera light blinks on and off, on and off.

“We'll be deciding that,” Mr. Minh says, dropping a small notepad into his briefcase and snapping it shut. “Just be honest, kids. As honest as you can be, anyway.” He casts a suspicious look among the group, then walks past the semicircle of chairs and toward the door. “Amelia?” he calls back over his shoulder, and his colleague hurries to follow him.

“This is bullshit,” Ryan says as soon as the door closes behind Mr. Minh.

“Ryan,” Dr. Franklin says in a cautioning voice.

“They're from the government,” Gwen says. “That can't be good.”

“Everyone knows Sofía's”—Ryan stops suddenly, looking right at me—“death, it was no one's fault.” But there's doubt in his voice.

The Doctor stands. “Like the officials said, just be honest.” He moves to his desk, behind the camera.

I stare at the lens. That USB drive that the Doctor gave to Mr. Minh . . . he had said something about audio and video. The feed from all the cameras and tape recorders the Doctor uses must be on that USB.

My stomach drops.
They'll see our powers.
None of us has ever made an effort to hide our powers at the Berk—the
point
of the academy was to train us how to use our powers, to understand and master them. At least one of us has used powers in practically every session with the Doctor. Even the regular education teachers are powered themselves, or are related
to people with powers, and they were all vetted by the academy as safe. None of them blinked an eye when Gwen lost her temper and spontaneously combusted, or when Ryan turned his homework in by floating it across the room, or when I slipped in and out of history during history lessons. We only had to hide from the waitstaff, and if that didn't work, I think Dr. Franklin or some of the other unit leaders had some failsafe methods to protect us, ways to make the staff forget anything they saw.

But these government people . . .

What the hell was Dr. Franklin thinking? He just
handed
them video evidence of our powers.

Maybe the videos have been edited. Or maybe the Doctor was going to use Ryan or one of the other telepaths to alter the officials' memories after the investigation.

Or maybe the Doctor is working with them.

I shake my head to dispel the nasty thought rising within me. The Doc had given me as much warning as he could, and he had made sure to establish the lie that Sofía's dead, not trapped in the past.

Berkshire is about learning to control our powers so we can be safe in the outside world. Powers like ours could be easily exploited, used by the highest bidder as weapons or tools. But that isn't the point of Berkshire. The academy is about education, not training. It's independent. Not a part of any government or group.

At least, that's what I thought.

“There's no point,” Harold says. It's so rare for Harold to say something to the living that all of us just pause, waiting for him to continue.

“What do you mean?” the Doctor asks.

“There's no point in them investigating Sofía's disappearance,” Harold says. “They'll find nothing. Nothing at all.”

“They might,” Dr. Franklin says. “They're not here to do anything but help.”

“They can't find her. No point.”

“Well, obviously there's no point,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes.

“The witches took Sofía,” Harold continues, ignoring him. “They took her and hid her, and there's no escape. No escape. The witches have her.”