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.
When the Doctor came out to see what we were all doing, Ryan floated his gold fountain pen from his front pocket and used it as the Snitch. I think he made sure that Harold got it; Ryan wasn’t so much of a dick back then. Ryan was still Ryan, though, so he made sure the ball we were using hit Harold as soon as he snatched the pen from the air. Harold collapsed onto the soft grass below, laughing his brains out.
As the vision fades, the timestream comes into sharper focus. Sofía’s string is a little closer, but it’s not enough. The end is still trapped in the dark spot swirling over 1692. I work quickly and select another moment along the string, striking like a cobra as I snatch it, tugging it from the weave.
Ryan, Harold, and I are hanging out by the marsh. Harold’s wearing shorts; this is still at the end of summer. When Ryan starts to talk, I realize that this memory is from one of the first few days at Berkshire, when everyone was still moving in, before classes had even started.
“I’ve been to three of these before,” Ryan says, gathering rocks into a little pile. He starts throwing them into the marsh, aiming for the birds.
“Three?” I ask.
“Schools like this.” I didn’t know other schools like Berkshire even existed.
“You?” he asks.
“My first.”
“Me too,” Harold says in a small voice, his eyes unfocused, as if he were speaking to someone other than us. “Berkshire. I like the name of it. Sounds like a place where hobbits would live.”
“This place does look pretty cool,” Ryan admits. “It’s nicer than the last place I was at. That joint was like a prison.”
“Look.” Harold points down the path, toward the academy and the black van pulling into the circular drive.
“They’re in our class,” Ryan says. He chuckles; he’d almost hit a magpie with that last stone he threw.
I see the shorter girl first, and right away, I can tell she’s the kind of girl who loves attention. It’s Gwen, wearing sparkly clips in her black hair—the tips of which are dyed red—and a shirt so low-cut I can see her cleavage all the way from where I’m standing. She’s showing off her power too, sparking little fires in the palms of her hands like it’s no big deal.
And just when I start to look away, I see Sofía.
And then I don’t.
I almost shove Ryan in the marsh to get him to shut up about the stupid birds for two seconds as I lean forward, trying to find her again. She’d been visible for just a second, but that second was enough—she’s burned into my mind. Gwen’s the type of girl who demands to be noticed, but Sofía’s just the opposite. She likes silent places and shadows and watching from the sidelines. She doesn’t want me—or anyone, really—to notice her . . . so of course I notice her even more.
The memory blinks out of my mind in a flash. Seeing her like that, for the first time, reminded my heart of all the reasons why I fell in love with her in the first place. A weird, painful lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. I have to control my emotions, or I’ll lose control of the timestream.
It looks like one more good tug will pull the end of Sofía’s string from 1692. I’m not sure what this is doing to her in the past—does she feel me manipulating time around her in an effort to bring her home? But it’s the only thing I can think to do.