“Can I go upstairs? I’m feeling a bit tired.”

“Sure, champ,” Dad says. I’m sure he and Mom want to talk about me visiting the McIntyres’. Surviving cancer gives me some leeway, but the rope isn’t endless.

I take the steps two at a time, close my door behind me, and take a deep breath for what feels like the first time since I got in the car with Isobel. The world just needs to slow down for a moment.

I change into my pajamas for the night and flop into bed.

Twenty minutes after dozing off, I feel my phone vibrate. A text appears from Claire.

617-555-1431. Blake’s phone number. When you’re ready.

“When I’m ready,” I repeat. When is anyone ready to learn how to time travel? How do you wrap your head around that? And I’m pretty sure Blake is not keen on teaching me.

That doesn’t matter. Right now, the only thing I need to focus on is getting sleep, going back to my normal routine, and figuring out how I’m going to be myself, when I haven’t felt like myself in almost a year—most of all now.

Problems for future Andre.

* * *

Headmistress Welchbacher has silvery hair that she pulls back into a bun and sharp features that make her bone structure look modelesque, which I can’t help but notice as she examines my file for a good three minutes with her bright blue eyes. The only sound is the metronome on her desk ticking back and forth.

There are three certainties in the world: death, taxes, and that Headmistress Welchbacher and I greatly dislike each other.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s racist—that’s a bold claim. But she’s never liked me. Maybe because I started out as a scholarship kid here. Or maybe because my mom beat out her best friend for PTA president. Who knows, really. There are lots of possible explanations for why she turns her nose up at me, takes longer to answer my family’s emails, and does half a dozen other small things that no one else notices.

But the way she reads my file, slower than need be, and doesn’t even say hello or ask how I’m feeling when I enter always sets me off.

“So, you’re feeling better?” she finally asks, after five minutes of me sitting there, listening to the obnoxious sound of the metronome on top of her desk. I wonder how many music students here have PTSD from that constant sound.

“Yes, Headmistress Welchbacher, thanks for asking.” I know she only did it as a formality, but maybe thanking her will make her feel guilty.

“Good, good. Now…” She pulls out a second file—thicker, but just as organized as everything else in this room. It’s almost more sterile than a hospital. “About your graduation…”