A World Without You (14 page)

Even though I last saw
this movie when I was ten and Phoebe forced me to watch it with her on her birthday, I still remember most of the story: guy, girl, forbidden love, ship sinks. It's all more than a little predictable, but I still pull Sofía closer to me as Rose tells Jack she'll never let him go.

“It just sucks so much for her,” Sofía says, and I keep myself from laughing at her glistening eyes.

“For
her
? He's the one who dies.”

Sofía shakes her head. “I think death is easier than guilt sometimes.” The movie's not over, but she leans up on the beanbag, away from me. “You're not really here, are you?”

I cock my head. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you leave with your dad earlier. You were wearing different clothes. Your hair is a little longer now than it was just a few hours ago.” She grins lopsidedly. “You're out of time, aren't you?”

I kiss her nose. “Yeah. I'm from the fuuuuture.” I waggle my fingers at her, and she giggles.

But then her face sobers. “That's twice now,” she says. “At least twice.” When I don't answer her, she adds, “Christmas too. You came to see me then. And now you're here. There's no reason for you to come back in time just to watch a stupid movie with me. Something's wrong.”

You're stuck in the past, and I'm starting to lose track of what's real and what's not because there are some shady government officials at the Berk who may be playing with my perception of reality, and I don't know how to save you, much less the rest of the school.

“Everything's fine,” I say.

Sofía frowns. “It's not. Just tell me. Maybe I can help.”

Time doesn't work that way. My intent matters. If I tell Sofía too much, I'll get snapped back to the present.

“I just came back to see you.” As soon as I say the words, I know they are the wrong ones.

“Me? What happened to me?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I just . . . I'm still trying to figure out my powers, and I ended up here, and I thought, why not chill for a little?”

Sofía cocks an eyebrow, but she drops the subject. “So how are things going with your powers?” she asks.

I shrug. “Still learning.”

“You can stay put longer,” she says. “It's been more than two hours, and you're still here.”

I wish I could stay here forever, but I know I can't. Lights-out is only a couple of hours away, and every second with Sofía is stolen from a past I don't really have a right to claim.

“Have you ever jumped to another point in the past from the past?” Sofía asks as the credits begin to roll. She turns the volume down.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, could you take me from here to the Titanic? The ship, I mean.”

“I . . . I don't see why I couldn't,” I say. Usually when I'm in another time, I start to feel the pull of my own timeline, like a rubber band tugging to bring me back home. But I don't feel that here. Sofía's more my home than any point in time. With her, I could go anywhere.

A wicked grin smears across her face. “Let's do it, then,” she says. “Let's go to the ship. Just for a second. Let's see what it's like.”

“I think we'd stick out a bit,” I say, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans.

“I'll make us invisible,” Sofía responds. “I don't care if they can see us, I just want to see the ship.”

I nod. “Give me a second,” I say, closing my eyes and focusing on the timestream.

I've tried to go to the Titanic before. Phoebe used to make me play with her while I pushed her on the tire swing and she screamed out that she was king of the world. I didn't get my powers until high school, but I remembered playing pretend with her so vividly that it felt real. So of course one of the first places I tried to go after I got my powers was to the ship. I had gone with the intention of warning people about the icebergs, though, so time pulled me back. I was blocked from there, never able to return.

But my intentions are different now. I just want to see the
ship, to stand on the deck and see the stars over the frigid sea and maybe spot the iceberg but say nothing. I know now that this is a moment in time that cannot be changed.

I scan the timestream, looking for the moment in April 1912 when the vast ship disappeared in a sea that was far vaster than it.

“Ready?” I say, reaching blindly for Sofía's hand.

Sofía's fingers slip through mine, and she grips me tightly. “Ready,” she whispers.

I glance at her and watch the timestream wrap around her the way it does me. The strings move like ripples in water, easily gliding over her body. It's clear she can't see what I can, but I wonder if she feels the threads of her own present and future and past wrapping around her, if she can feel the red thread that connects us together, or the way it cuts off abruptly in 1692.

She turns and smiles at me.

I squeeze her hand and reach out with my other one for the dark spot in the timestream indicating the night the Titanic sank. The strings are so cold they burn my skin, but I don't let go, feeling the familiar tug at my navel as I'm pulled into the past.

At first I see only darkness and pinpricks of lights—
stars
, I think, but no, it's more than that, it's the lights of the ship, glittering in the lonely sea. Sofía's grip on my hand tightens as the sound of the hull slicing through the waves fills our ears and the wooden boards of the ship's deck solidify under our feet.

As soon as the cold air hits our skin, Sofía turns us both invisible. I hadn't realized that her powers had grown so much stronger—it's not like we talked about our powers on dates—but it gives me some comfort to know that she probably has the strength to stay hidden and safe in Salem.

I feel her body scoot closer to mine. I want to let go of her hand so that I can wrap my arm around her shoulders, but I settle with dropping my chin on the top of her head.

“It's freezing out here!” she whispers.

“That's the only thing you can think of?” I ask, smiling. I pull her across the smooth wooden deck of the ship, turning her around so that, rather than the dark waves of the ocean, Sofía can see the lit-up, glorious ship we're on. She gasps, and I can feel her head tilting back, leaning as far as she can to drink in the exterior of the ship.

“It's gorgeous,” she breathes.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her to the railing.

With the bright lights behind us, we can see the endless sky and stars. There are few people out here this late at night, just some well-dressed men talking in low voices and a few workers. I reach out for the timestream and feel that it's close to midnight.

Close to the moment we'll hit the iceberg.

Sofía's twisted around, holding my hand awkwardly to keep us invisible, her back to the railing and her eyes still on the enormous ship. But I face the other way, squinting into the dark, trying to find the iceberg. The sky is moonless, and I can see nothing but the sparkle of stars and reflected lights from the ship on the waves immediately in front of us. A bell rings, and the ship changes course, enough to make us lose our footing. Sofía's hand clutches mine in a death grip.

The men who'd been talking stand up, shake each other's hands, and then walk together away from the deck, toward the cabins. As soon as they're out of sight, Sofía lets go of my hand.

“Someone could see,” I say as we both become visible again.

“Anyone who sees us now won't be able to tell,” Sofía replies.

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Anyone who sees us now would be a worker, someone low on the totem pole, someone who wouldn't merit a spot in the lifeboats.

In the distance, we can still hear signs of life—voices carrying over the still night air, children laughing and running on the promenade—but we're alone on the deck, entirely alone with the stars and the smell of wood oil and the cold, crisp air.

Sofía rubs her hands up and down her arms. “I knew it would be cold,” she says, “but this is ridiculous.”

“Want to go inside?” I ask. Invisible, we could slip into the beautiful rooms, stare at the opulence that's about to sink into oblivion.

She shakes her head. “I thought I wanted to see it all, but those men . . . I don't want to see any people,” she says.

I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. “Want to go?” I ask, already bringing up the timestream.

The sound of children playing and running grows louder, and Sofía's distracted, turning out of my embrace. “Why are there children out here this late at night?” she asks.

“They're coming this way,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Quick—”

Without another word, she washes us both in invisibility. I can hear the children's voices better now—a girl and a boy—and they're coming closer. There are other sounds—shouting from adults, a bell ringing—

And then the ship slams into the iceberg.

The impact is near the side of the ship,
violent enough to make Sofía lose her footing, but I still have a hold on her and keep her from crashing to the deck. Ice skitters across the smooth deck, and Sofía bends down to touch it, her fingers glazing over the cold surface. The nearby children scream, and I can feel a surge of power like static electricity pulse from Sofía's hand into mine, maintaining our invisibility.

“This is it,” she says.

A chunk of ice slams across the deck where we are, almost hitting us, and I jerk Sofía back. The kids we'd been hearing race forward, using the ice as a soccer ball. “Look!” the little girl says. “Look at me!” She rears back to kick the ice again but slips, slamming first into the metal rail and then onto the hard wooden deck.

“Pheebs!” the boy shouts, running over to her.

No. No. No. That's impossible.

“They look . . . modern,” Sofía whispers to me.

The girl is crying, clutching her arm. The boy drops to his knees in front of her, grabs her good hand—

And they disappear.

The shock of it snaps inside me like the timestream pulling me back. It's violent and harsh and painful, and I'm so glad I already have Sofía wrapped up in my arms. When we open our eyes, we're on the floor of the common room, breathing deeply, the world spinning around us.

“What just happened?” Sofía says, still wheezing and trying to catch her breath.

“That was me.”

“What?” she gasps. Her eyes are wild, and I wonder if she feels the pain of being snapped back into the normal time as much as I do. I'm just glad time brought me back here, with her in the past, rather than throwing me all the way back to my own present.

“That was me,” I repeat. “That kid. The girl is—was—is my sister, Phoebe.”

“What? How?”

I stand up. I want to pace, but the world is still spinning too much for me to try that. “That was me,” I say once more. “Phoebe was really into the
Titanic
. We'd play outside and pretend to be on the ship, but I didn't realize I
actually
took her there. But I did. I must have had my powers when I was younger and just . . . didn't realize it? I must have blocked it out? I thought we were pretending . . .”

“That's some good imagination.”

“Did that ever happen to you?” I ask. “Did you have your powers when you were little too?”

“I was always
very
good at hide-and-seek.”

I run my fingers through my hair. I don't remember this happening, but at the same time, I
do
.

The lights in the common room flicker.

“It's time to go,” Sofía says, and the way she looks at me makes me realize she isn't just talking about lights-out. It's time for me to leave, to go back to my own time. The time without her.

She stands up and walks over to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face in my chest.

“Something bad happened, didn't it?” she whispers.

I nod, unable to speak.

She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the lips. Not anything passionate, but a sort of sad, slight pressure on my lips that's gone too quickly.

“If I could control reality, this would be my life all the time. One magical moment with you after another,” she says, leaning into me.

“Me too,” I say, my voice cracking.

“Whatever happened, this was worth it,” Sofía says. “And remember what I said before.”

The lights flicker again. Last warning.

“What you said before?” I ask.

She kisses me again, quicker this time, already twirling away from me, toward the door. I blink, and I see the threads of time weaving in and out, and I can feel the tether pulling me back to my own timeline, away from here, now, her.

She doesn't look back as she leaves me behind, alone, as time swallows me up and deposits me where I started.

Phoebe

I try not to look too hard
at myself in the mirror. I never really figured out makeup, and I feel most at home in T-shirts and jeans, but I like to look nice.
Put together
, my grandmother would call it, although she wouldn't say it about me now. Put together to Grandma was a button-down blouse and a skirt, not a navy blue T-shirt with an elephant on the front and jeans that are ragged at the bottom because my short legs have walked the hem off.

There was always something wrong with me, at least in Grandma's eyes. It's not like she hated me. But I would sit with my legs too sprawled, or I talked too much, or my hair was too short. Always something little, some point of contention that proved I wasn't good enough.

Bo, on the other hand, was her golden child. “He needs more love,” she'd say, as if an extra hug and piles of compliments would make him better. Maybe they did. He was always happy around her.

I turn away from the mirror and open my jewelry box. It's ancient, something I've had forever, made of heavy, paper-covered cardboard in shades of pink and purple. And even though it's worthless, this box contains all my greatest treasures. When I open it, a little plastic ballerina spins halfheartedly. It's supposed to play music too, but it's long since lost its song.

At the bottom of the box, underneath the little silver ring my first boyfriend gave me and the monogrammed necklace I got for my sweet sixteen, is a blue velvet box. The hinges creak when I open it. I remove the folded-up paper that's on the top without reading it. I know what it says.
Given to me by Joseph on our wedding day
. Grandma started doing that a year or two before she died, writing down the reason why the things she still had were significant. When she passed away, Mom and I went through her house, and we kept finding little notes like this. Some of them referenced people we didn't know—
Bought this when I went with Lauren to Connecticut
—and some of them told us of a past we hadn't known she'd lived—
Mother gave me this when I broke my wrist, 1962
. I loved discovering the hidden secrets behind the objects I had thought were junk. A paper fan was a souvenir from her brother when he went to Hawaii; a cheap plastic beaded necklace was the first thing I had ever given her, curled up beside her gold and diamonds. Mom, however, quickly grew tired of the little notes and eventually started throwing away things without reading them.

“They make you hang on to a past that isn't yours,” she said, pointing to the pile of Grandma's things that I'd squirreled away.

Grandma had given me the little blue box before she died, even though she'd already labeled it for after her death. I was in
middle school, staying overnight at her house, and I was furious. My parents were taking Bo to a special concert in the city as a reward for passing all his classes at the end of eighth grade. Not acing—passing. Here I was with near-perfect scores, and I didn't get a concert.

“Your brother worked harder than you,” Grandma told me as we watched old episodes of
Law & Order
on her crappy TV.

“I still did better than him,” I said sullenly.

“It's not about that,” Grandma said, shaking her head. “I'm going to give you something.” She left the living room, and I could hear her rooting around in her dresser all the way through the commercial break before she came back, the blue velvet box in her hand. She placed it in my palm, then sat down on the couch beside me, watching as I lifted the lid.

The diamond earrings inside sparkled.

“I want you to have these,” Grandma said.

“For my report card?” I lifted the box closer to my face, imagining the diamonds glittering in my ears.

“No,” Grandma said. I looked up at her. “I want you to have these because everyone should have something that makes them feel special.”

The memory makes me smile, and on a whim, I pluck the earrings from the satiny card that holds them and put them on. They're large, and they sparkle like ice crystals when I turn my head. I sweep my hair up into a ponytail to make sure their glitter isn't hidden.

Sometimes, growing up with Bo, I feel like I'm invisible. How can my family notice me when they have to spend all their time watching him? These earrings remind me that I'm more than a shadow.

When I get downstairs, Mom already has a bowl and a box of cereal waiting for me.

“What're you wearing?” she asks.

I look down at the white elephant printed on my shirt, not understanding her meaning.

“Are those your grandmother's earrings?” There's a hint of accusation in her voice.

I nod.

“Phoebe,” she says, leveling me with a look, “those are for special occasions only.”

“They don't have to be,” I say.

She purses her lips at me.

“They're
mine
,” I say.

“Go.” She points up the stairs.

There's no point arguing. I trudge upstairs, taking the earrings out and leaving them in the blue velvet box in my room.

Mom has been strict about the “special occasion” rule since Grandma gave the earrings to me. The only time I've ever worn them was at her funeral.