It was also the class that gave me the confidence to experiment more, to show off my powers for Sofía, to take her with me . . . and then leave her in the past.
After the Doctor’s lecture, Ryan had asked if it was possible to learn powers if you weren’t born with them. He was fascinated by Lincoln and wanted to be an audiopath too—I guess telekinesis and telepathy weren’t enough for him. Ryan had tried to convince Harold he was a girl, not a guy, and when it didn’t work, he instead made his chair float around the room, just out of reach of the Doctor, causing all of us to laugh ourselves silly. Dr. Franklin had to end the group session early.
I unpause the video. Everything I see on-screen—where we’re sitting, what we’re wearing, our facial expressions—it’s all just as I remember it. But as the video plays, it’s all slightly . . . different. The Doc is talking about Van Gogh and the others, but he’s not talking about their powers. I hear the word depressed, I hear bipolar.
And Ryan doesn’t use his powers to make the chair dance. Instead, he calls Harold a little girl and mocks him when he starts crying. When Dr. Franklin reprimands Ryan, he turns violent, picking up a chair and throwing it at the Doctor. One of the chair legs hits the Doctor’s temple, and blood spurts from his head as he collapses on the floor. The girls get up, screaming, and Harold cries harder. The me on the video just sits there, staring, a smile playing on my face.
“This didn’t happen,” I mutter, staring at the screen. None of this happened.
Dr. Franklin doesn’t move. Blood leaks down his face like tears, and it takes him several moments before his eyes open again. He touches the wound and winces.
None of this happened. None of it. Ryan made the chair float, he didn’t throw it. It was something fun and funny, not violent and mean. I don’t recognize the Ryan on the screen, his face scrunched in rage, his eyes flashing, his chest heaving. The Ryan I know is always in control—of himself and usually of others. This person is volatile and evil and totally, entirely chaotic.
I clutch my head, my fingers yanking at my hair. This didn’t happen. I was there. I know what happened, and it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t any of this.
Static crackles across the screen.
I lean closer, looking intently at each figure. At Ryan’s unrecognizably furious face. At Harold, rocking back and forth in his seat. At me and my hollow gaze.
At Sofía.
And as I watch, Sofía’s back stiffens. She turns in her seat, and it looks as if she is staring through the screen, directly at me. I have the sound turned low so my parents can’t hear Ryan cursing and shouting, but when Sofía opens her mouth to speak, her words ring out, filling my room.
“Bo,” she says. “None of this is real.”
CHAPTER 22
I stare at the screen.
It had looked like—no, that’s impossible. Had the Sofía on the screen looked through the camera and given me a message?
I rewind the video and start it again at the moment Ryan flips out and throws the chair. I keep my eyes on Sofía the whole time.
She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t speak to me.
But I know what I saw.
What’s going on? The video just keeps playing.
I watch the next video, my eyes on Sofía, waiting for her to speak to me again. This recording is of the day Gwen opened up about her fire power. Discovering the power was traumatic for her—she was young, and her dad reached over to grab her hand, and a fireball in Gwen’s palm burned his skin. He still has a scar.
But in the video, Gwen’s story is different. “I got the lighter from Dad’s dresser,” she says. “I was fascinated with flicking it on and off, on and off . . . I didn’t mean to set the mail on fire. I didn’t mean for Dad to touch it and get burned.”
The Doc leans forward, meeting her eyes. “Gwen, you knew the paper would burn. You intended to set that fire.”
Gwen’s voice is small. “Yes, but I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“That didn’t happen!” I yell at my computer. “That’s not how any of it happened.”
But the computer doesn’t answer me. Sofía doesn’t answer me. The video just keeps playing, showing me a weird parallel version of reality.
The next video plays. The Doctor’s talking to me about control, just like he always does. On that day, he asked me to go back in time, to show everyone what it was like. Ryan was making fun of me, calling me worthless, so I went to Times Square on New Year’s Eve of the year he and I were born, and I brought back a pair of those stupid glasses that have the year where the eyeholes are, and I tossed them to him.
The snide tone of Ryan’s voice. The bitter cold of New York, so freezing that my skin burned. The trashy, shiny confetti that fell from the sky when the ball dropped. The cheap glasses. I remember it. I can see it, smell it, taste it.