“I think my jar is broken. Or I think I don’t have a jar, just the darkness.”
I have no clue what to say to that.
“Sofía had the darkness in her too.”
“No she didn’t,” I say, the words coming out angry and loud. The rain is falling harder now, and my feet are sinking in the mud.
Harold cocks his head. He doesn’t seem defensive, just curious about my response. “She did,” he said. “We talked about it. She was my friend. My only friend here.”
“I’m your friend,” I say, but I know it’s not really true. I’ve been nice to him, at least nicer than Ryan has, but that doesn’t mean we’re friends.
“I feel the darkness inside me like a creature curled up in my chest, breathing smoke and fire. It is always there. It weighs on me. It’s not contained by anything but my own skin. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about these things in front of the officials,” I say warily. “Let’s keep this between us, buddy.”
“Only Sofía was willing to talk about the darkness,” Harold says. “That’s why she was my friend. You have it too, you know.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“The darkness, I mean. You have it. But yours is in a jar, and sometimes the lid is on, and sometimes it isn’t.” Harold turns and starts strolling back to the Berk as the rain beats down harder on us. “Gwen hates her jar. She keeps the lid on as tight as she can. Ryan’s the opposite. I think he smashed his jar on purpose. He loves the darkness.”
“You know,” I say, “you’re really weird.”
“Yes,” Harold replies. “That’s what they all say.” There is quiet defeat in his voice, and acceptance.
“Even the voices you talk to?” I cringe. That was a low blow and a jerk thing to say.
“Yes,” Harold says, completely serious.
As we start up the steps to Berkshire, I grab Harold’s arm. “I’m sorry, dude,” I say. “I could have been more of a friend to you. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life that I just ignore you, and that’s not cool.”
Harold doesn’t really show any emotion. He just looks at me. “The voices I hear—they’re not all bad. You’re not all bad either.”
“Thanks, man.” We start back up. “So where do those voices come from, anyway?”
“The darkness.”
“Even the good ones?”
“Even those.”
Ryan is waiting for us inside the foyer. “God, you idiots look awful,” he says.
Harold ignores him, walking up the stairs and straight back to his room. Ryan grabs my arm. “Listen, man. The officials are packing up. They’re leaving in a few days, before break, at least. Don’t screw this up, okay? Try to keep the crazy to a minimum. Harold’s bad enough.”
“I can’t wait until spring break,” I say.
“I can.” Ryan looks angry at the thought of going back home. He might not be looking forward to the break, but I need it. I need to get away from here. Everything’s cracking up. I’m cracking up. I need to get away from the officials. They’re pulling at reality like it’s clay they can shape in their hands, and I can’t keep up with their version of truth.
“How are you holding up?” I ask Ryan.
“Eh.”
“I mean, with your powers. Are you having trouble holding on to them here too?”
Ryan tosses a pen into the air, and it falls back down into his hand, gravity working perfectly. “You tell me,” he says. So, yes. His telekinesis, at least, is off.
He stares at me curiously, his eyes losing focus as he considers the implications of what I’ve said. There’s a flicker of movement behind him, and my attention shifts over Ryan’s left shoulder to the second-floor landing.
Someone is standing in the middle of the landing, dripping water all over the plush red carpet. This boy isn’t wet like Harold and I are—our clothes sticking to us, puddles on the floor. No, this boy is soaking, water streaming off him, making rivulets in the carpet. His hair hangs in clumps, and water pours from his arms as if he has two hoses hidden under his shirtsleeves.
“Who . . . ?” I start to ask.
Ryan notices the look on my face and turns, trying to find out what I’m seeing.
The boy on the landing looks right at me, and I can see the red lines in his eyes, as if he’s been crying. His skin is brown, his hair is black, his eyes a golden hazel color. He looks . . . familiar, and yet I know I’ve never seen him before in my life, past or present.
“What are you . . . ?” Ryan starts to ask. “Oh shit.” He grabs me and pulls me under the stairs, out of sight.
A moment later, I hear voices—the officials.
“I’m not saying Dr. Franklin is incompetent,” Dr. Rivers says. “I just think he’s in over his head with these students.”