In one corner of the dresser there’s a huge marble made of black-and-red glass, so large that it barely fits in my palm. It’s on a little clear plastic stand, and when I move it, I can see the stand’s footprints in the dust on the dresser.
I gave this to Bo for his birthday last year, just before he left for Berkshire. I stare down at it in my hand. I had bought it for him because I had no idea what else to get him. He had no reason to want a huge round marble, but it looked kind of cool—at least I thought so when I saw it in that little shop at Quincy Market. He had seemed happy with it, rolling it across the table and letting the colors flash. He had thanked me, and though I never knew if it was sincere or not, I had hoped it was.
I slide the marble into my own pocket now, wondering if he’ll ever notice it’s missing. I leave the little plastic stand behind as a clue.
On top of Bo’s desk is a notebook with a broken USB drive awkwardly sticking out of the pages—the same drive that I used to watch videos of Bo’s class.
I flip the notebook open, curious to see what Bo’s thoughts on the videos are, but it quickly becomes apparent that he wasn’t taking notes at all. The pages are chaos: brief snippets of ideas, reflections on people he knows or little stories about history, nonsensical lists scratched through. I try to read a few pages, but I can barely make the words out, much less make sense of them. Attempt 1 is written at the top of one page, but everything under it is scribbled out. Another page has a different list of “attempts,” all crossed out with the word FAILURE written in caps.
Another entry is just the words I’m sorry written over and over again, each one methodically scratched through.
I touch the apology page, my fingers dancing over the bumps made from the grooves of each letter.
Each page becomes more and more chaotic, more panic-ridden. I don’t understand and I’m scared jump out at me from one of the pages. I read the passage—the words are all in English, but they don’t make any sense.
None of it makes sense.
It’s like a visual representation of Bo’s mind. It starts out organized, but descends into something unrecognizable.
None of us can understand him, I think.
Soon enough, the ink-stained pages give way to nothing—more than three-quarters of the book is empty. Still, I turn the blank pages, one by one. In a weird way, seeing them gives me some peace. They’re not riotously scribbled in. They’re calm. They’re the quiet without the storm.
If I could choose, I think I would give him the blank pages instead of the black ones.
My hand pauses, hovering over a crisp, clean, empty page.
If the ink on the first pages represents Bo’s mind, what do the blank pages mean? And what kind of person am I to prefer them?
I told Bo’s psychiatrist that I was horrible for thinking that Bo might do something terrible if given the opportunity. But that’s not really horrible. That’s just fear. No, I’m horrible for what I’m thinking right now.
For wondering if we would all be happier with the blank pages.
I close the book and brush my fingertips across the mottled cover. My hand is shaking when I pull it back. I slam it on the book, then sweep it off the desk with a roar of frustration and bitterness and sorrow and rage. Black ink or blank pages, who am I to say one is better than the other? Who am I to want to choose for him? Who am I to wish I could?
Who am I at all?
CHAPTER 59
Harold is the only one in the library. He sits in front of a small table, a huge book spread open across the surface, but he’s not reading from it. He’s deep in conversation with himself.
I sit down across from him. His eyes do not flash with recognition, and I doubt he’s even aware that I’m here.
After a while, Harold quits muttering. His gaze shifts down to the book, then up to me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hi.”
We sit there awkwardly.
“Well?” Harold finally says. “Aren’t you going to make fun of me?”
I lean back. “Have I done that before?” I ask, genuinely unsure of the answer.
Harold shakes his head. “No. But you’re hanging out with Ryan now.”
“Not really.”
“More than before.”
“Before what?”
Harold shrugs. “Before Sofía.”
That was because Sofía didn’t like Ryan.
“Do you know what happened to Sofía?” I ask. I’m not sure what I believe. Do I get to choose what I believe?
Harold is quiet for a while, and then he stares at me with clear, eerie eyes. “She’s gone,” he says simply.
“Yeah, but . . . how?” My heart races. I promise myself that whatever Harold says, I’ll believe. Maybe he has powers or maybe he’s just crazy, but either way, he’s no liar.
“Does it matter?” Harold asks. “She’s gone. She’s not here.”
My chest caves in and my shoulders slump. Maybe the only reason I was willing to believe whatever he said was because I knew he wouldn’t say anything.