This is progress. My control has been weakening, but I wanted to see Sofía, and I did. Figuring out the intent thing brings me one step closer to saving her.
I turn to go back to my room, but I realize that it would actually be nice to have a distraction from all that’s going on. I push open the common room door. For a moment, I see it the way it was on October 3, with Sofía at the table, and a smile plays at my lips. But I blink, and it’s today, and Sofía’s not here.
Ryan has the chess set out on the table, and as I step inside the room, a white bishop knocks over a black pawn of its own volition. Ryan picks up the fallen pawn, twisting it in his fingers as he stares at the board, and a black rook slides forward to take the bishop. Gwen cranks up the volume of the television across the room, ignoring everyone but the zombies she’s shooting. Harold must be in bed already.
As upset as I am, I still like this place. Berkshire is a far cry from the old, rambling farmhouse where I grew up. Maybe that’s why this room wraps around me like a warm blanket. That house, with its two and a half acres and pond and willow trees, is just a little too . . . provincial for me. Provincial. That’s an SAT word my sister would love. But it fits. Even though the house isn’t in the middle of nowhere, it’s far from all my friends and within walking distance of exactly nothing. Somehow, all that space cages me in. Everything in the Berk is wrapped up in brick and contained together. It’s nice.
As much as I love the academy, though, it’s still a school, and the only place where Sofía and I can really just chill is the common room. It’s where we eat, where we take breaks, where we hang out. Sofía first opened up to me in this room, over by the wing chairs. She was sitting on the floor, behind the chairs, reading a book and sort of fading in and out of visibility. If it hadn’t been for the book, I don’t think I would have noticed her.
I told her that she was reading my favorite book, but that was a lie. I’d never read it—I just wanted to talk to her. She started to tell me what she liked about it, but I was super distracted by the way she slowly turned visible, her hair illuminating gold then copper then rich brown.
I think she suspected that I didn’t know the book. I mean, I knew of the book—it had been an option for ninth-grade reading, something about gangs in the ’50s or whatever—but I’d never read it, which didn’t take her long to realize. “It’s about death,” she said. “And it’s about living after someone you love dies. And . . .” She paused, and in that moment she became completely, 100 percent visible. “And it’s about not being afraid of being alone. Because in the end, we’re all alone.”
“Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
Books meant a lot to Sofía, and she was always reading. I didn’t have many books that I liked, and I didn’t really have anything eloquent that I could say to impress her, but I kind of regret not talking to her about the few books I did love. She was showing me a part of her when she told me about what book she was reading. I should have told her about a book that meant something to me the way that book meant something to her, because I can think of no better way to meet a girl than to see her through the eyes of the story she loves best.
I scowl. I don’t like the way I keep thinking about Sofía, in memories and regrets as if she’s gone for good. I step further into the room, torn between playing a video game with Gwen (I’d likely lose) or chess with Ryan (I’d definitely lose). But then I see Harold in the corner. I guess he didn’t go to bed after all.
Harold sits as far away from everyone else as possible, his wing chair shifted so it’s almost completely facing the wall. I can still see his mouth moving, though, and I can tell he’s talking to spirits that only he can see.
When it comes to our powers, no one has it worse than Harold. He sees and speaks to spirits and ghosts, but they tell him what they want to tell him, not anything he wants to hear. He can’t command them. He can’t do anything useful with them. He’s just sort of stuck, forever listening to a bunch of dead people he can’t shut up.
Maybe it’s just the suckiness of this weekend, but a dark fear rises in my throat. I can’t stop thinking about the black-hole feeling of where Sofía was supposed to be in the timestream. I stride across the room, scattering the chess pieces Ryan had floating beside the board. “Hey!” Ryan says indignantly, waving his hand and bringing all the chess pieces back to his side.
I start to drag another chair across from Harold, but it’s heavy and loud, so I just plop down on the floor at his feet instead.
“Hello,” Harold whispers, his eyes at a spot about a foot above my head. I’m not sure if he is talking to me or to a spirit I can’t see. When I don’t answer, Harold’s gaze drifts down to mine, an expectant and curious glint to his eyes.
“Hi,” I say.