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was only fourteen,” she said, starting to turn invisible around the edges.
    I pulled her down onto one of the benches on the edge of the boardwalk. It overlooked a shallow part of the marsh where the ground was dry enough to grow coneflowers and goldenrod. “I’m still here,” I whispered in her ear, and I kept my arm around her until she was fully visible again.
    â€œI just really enjoyed being a sister,” she said. She snuggled deeper into my arm; it was starting to get dark and cold. “It was like being in this exclusive club, and we were the only members.”
    â€œThey sound pretty amazing,” I said.
    â€œTell me about your sister.”
    I shrugged, and even though the moment was nice, I got up and started walking back to the academy. “Nothing to say,” I told her.
    I was never really able to explain to Sofía what my family was like. For her, family was this unbreakable bond of trust and loyalty and love, and that sounds nice and all, but that’s not what it’s like in my home. That’s not to say we didn’t have those things. I’m certain if I needed my family, they’d be there. It’s just that they weren’t there otherwise.
    Take Phoebe. You’d almost think we weren’t related. We look nothing alike. We act nothing alike. We share no friends. We are as different as two people can possibly be.
    Sofía doesn’t really know how to live in a world where she’snot a sister. But Phoebe’s the exact opposite. She just doesn’t think in terms of us being brother and sister. I’m just a guy who grew up with her, and we happen to share the same parents.
    She was always like that, even when we were kids. She did her thing, and I did mine.
    By the time I started high school and Phoebe was in middle school, there were cracks in our family. I don’t think I noticed it at the time. It’s only now, here, away from them, that I can see them.
    Mom always talked about going back to work one day, maybe when I got to middle school. But that day came and went, and she never did. Instead, she grew increasingly . . . hover-y. When Pheebs and I were little, Mom didn’t really seem to care what we did with our days, as long as we were quiet and let her do her crafts in peace. But the older we got, the nosier she got. She nagged me for details about friends I’d go out with, what I wanted to do with the day, with the weekend, with my whole damn life. After I got my powers, it just got worse.
    Dad lived his job. He came home every night at the same time, but he was never really there. “Lots of work is good,” he’d insist, locking the door to his office.
    And Phoebe . . . she just sort of . . . she spun around so fast. She’s like one of those ballerinas in the cheap music box she got for her seventh birthday. She’d spin from school to clubs to cello lessons to friends’ houses, and sometimes she’d spin through the house, but she never seemed to notice anything or anyone.
    And I, somehow, never really seemed to notice her.
    When Pheebs entered high school, I was a sophomore. One day when I was walking down the hall, preoccupied and notreally paying attention, I bumped into a girl in a bright blue sweater, her hair done up in braids, shiny pink gloss perfectly applied to her lips.
    â€œSorry,” I mumbled, already moving away when I realized—
    It was Phoebe.
    She had somehow become a stranger to me. There was a moment there, brief but true, when she had legitimately been a person I did not know or recognize. Somehow while I was retreating to my room and listening to music and taking notes on history, she was spin-spin-spinning away from us all. Somehow in all this time, she had become a different person than the one I had known, a stranger.
    Someone I could pass by without recognizing.

CHAPTER 9
    I am so sick of memories I don’t really want to have. I