“You’re the only thing I’m certain of,” I whisper.
She opens her mouth, but instead of words, water pours out. It dribbles down her chin, a waterfall over her neck, rivulets across her chest. I reach out and grab her, but my fingers puncture her arm as if her skin were a water balloon, bright blue liquid that stinks of chlorine erupting from her body. “Sofía!” I cry, reaching for her again. My hand brushes against her hair, and every dark brown strand turns invisible, then reflective, like the surface of a pool. Her body grows translucent, liquid, melting away until there’s nothing left of her but a puddle at my feet.
? ? ?
Ryan comes to get me in my bedroom an hour after lights-out. I don’t know how he gets around the door locks, but he does. Further proof that the locks—like the iron bars—are just part of his illusion.
“Ready?” Ryan asks in a low voice.
I stare at the water stain on my floor, its edges creating an odd, circular shape in the hardwood.
I nod my head.
The door to Dr. Franklin’s office is locked, but Ryan somehow got his hands on a key. We creep into the darkened room.
It looks strange here without the Doctor, without people at all. The chairs are shadowed tombstones, all circled up around an empty space, signifying nothing.
Ryan turns on the lights.
“We’re looking for permanent records. The Doctor’s notes. Anything that could incriminate me or land me in a worse school when this one closes.”
“Which notes?” I move over to Dr. Franklin’s desk, where a pile of papers sits in disarray. I’m not really paying attention to Ryan. I’m here for my own reasons. I need proof. After seeing Sofía melt away, I have to know what reality is—outside of the illusion Ryan has created. I don’t want to live a lie . . . but I also don’t want to live in a world without her.
I just want the truth. Maybe I can find that here.
Ryan shrugs. “I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it. All schools keep records. What I need is a clean start.” He grins maliciously. “So if you see something with my name on it, tell me. I can’t have a bad record if I don’t have a record at all.”
When I look out the window, sunlight glitters for a second. I blink, and the moon replaces it. All around me, the timestream is still cracking. I need help. I just don’t know who can help me.
I sit down at the Doc’s desk, riffling through the papers there. They’re all notes written in his nearly illegible handwriting. Words I don’t know are circled or crossed through.
Water drips onto the paper.
I look up. Ryan has moved on to the second drawer of the Doc’s filing cabinet, scanning its contents quickly. But Carlos Estrada stands across from me, pointing down at one of Dr. Franklin’s desk drawers.
I bend down, yanking on the heavy drawer. It’s full of more files, and I almost slam it shut again. But then I see my name. And Ryan’s name. And Gwen’s and Harold’s. My hand shakes, and I notice that only one file is red, a bright swath of color hidden among the manila folders.
Sofía Muniz.
I pull out all of our files in one armful, spreading them across the desk.
I reach for Sofía’s file first, but a wet hand slams across the folder. I look up. Carlos Estrada shakes his head silently.
“Why?” I demand.
“What?” Ryan asks, not turning from the filing cabinet.
“Nothing,” I say.
Carlos Estrada removes his hand, leaving behind a big wet stain soaking into the red file folder. He is still shaking his head no as I shift Sofía’s folder to the side. I blindly pick another one from the desk.
Gwendoline Benson.
I flip the folder open. Glued to the right side is a sheet of information about Gwen—a small picture of her, generic and square, her parents’ names, her address, her dad’s address, a list of pills. I had no idea that Gwen was on so much medication. I read the names of the drugs silently in my head, stumbling over the long, unpronounceable words.
On the left-hand side of the folder is a list of notes in the Doctor’s scratchy handwriting. Across the top, typed in bold letters, is one word:
Diagnosis.