“Does Egypt look like Arizona?” Charlotte asks.
“Possibly? I’ve never been there either,” I answer.
“You haven’t been to Arizona?” they say together.
“No, I—”
“Was Egypt dangerous? Did you wear a hijab and cover your face?” Emma asks.
“Do you mean a burka? A hijab only covers your hair and your ears; a burka covers the face too, including the eyes; a niqab covers the face but not the eyes, and you know, a chador doesn’t cover the face at all, only the head and body. But Egypt is secular so women aren’t forced to veil, unless they choose to, and actually …”
I trail off, realizing I’m talking as fast as Charlotte.
“So, what are you doing in Waterford?” Charlotte asks quizzically.
“My parents retired,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Are you both from here?”
Emma puts her hand over her heart. “I am,” she laughs, “but Charlotte was the new girl. Until you showed up.”
Charlotte opens a bag of cookies. “Except I’m from Seattle. Not, like, Africa.”
“Oh, good,” I say quietly, “I’m not the only one.”
“No, you are. I moved here in seventh grade.” Charlotte pushes a cookie to me. “What was it like growing up in Africa?”
“I didn’t grow up in Africa,” I clarify.
“Where did you grow up?”
Trying to be polite, I take the cookie. “Everywhere. Lebanon. Belgium. Uzbekistan.”
“Uzbekistan?” Emma laughs, “I’ve never even heard of Uzbekistan.”
Charlotte watches me, wide-eyed. “Why did you live in all those places?”
“We didn’t live there permanently. Sometimes we’d only travel for a few weeks, or days, at a time.” Their mouths open, but I press on, hoping to steer the conversation away from where I know it’s headed.
“My father works for the State Department,” I say, reciting the line I’ve shared since I was seven. “He facilitates NGOs in developing countries, sometimes in active war zones—hot spots. He travels a lot. He never stops moving. We never stopped moving.”
Charlotte sighs. “I’m jealous. My mom’s Korean, my dad’s Dominican, and I’ve never left America. I wish I spent my life vacationing all over the world and—”
“No!” I say hastily. “I mean … it wasn’t … vacation.” I’ve dropped my cookie and hurriedly scoop the crumbs from the table onto a white napkin. “We traveled because we had to. I would have much rather stayed in one place like Nairobi or Beirut or Waterford and never have gone to Kabul … Grozny … Crimea …”
… Tunis …
I feel it coming on. I close my eyes to make it stop.
I have to get out of here. Abruptly, I stand. My chair topples over, clattering to the floor. I scramble to set it upright. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, “I have to get to class.”
Charlotte opens her mouth, but I dart from the cafeteria and sprint down the hallway, through the east wing and up the main staircase until I reach the landing. I collapse against the railing.
My fingers curl around the bar, steeling my body.
Count, I tell myself. Count to ten in Russian, Mandarin … Count backward in Arabic from one hundred.
When this strategy doesn’t work, I plot the fastest route back to the house—down the stairs, past the office, out the front doors, 30 degrees northeast across the front lawn, cut west across Fourth Avenue, and turn left onto Edgewood Drive.
Distraction works.
Seconds later, the tension in my chest releases.
My mother says I should allow the flashbacks to come, that the more I recall them, the more I can control them. But the truth is, they control me. When they come, my limbs stiffen, my body immobilizes—like I’m trapped in a nightmare and my legs won’t move.
Leaning my forehead against the window, I breathe slowly, how I learned in Varanasi—in for three, hold for three, out for three.
How did I think today would go? That I would suddenly be able to turn it off like a switch? That I could simply prevent being triggered?
Everything is supposed to be different in Waterford, but I don’t feel any different. I don’t want it to take time. I’ve had time. I want it to be different now. I want to be normal now.
I stand on the landing, midway between the first and second floors, where the windows overlook the front lawn of the school. Focusing on the shadows cascading between the cloud cover, I concentrate on counting the ocher hemlock trees circling the perimeter of the front lawn.
Exhaling slowly, I release the railing. I tell myself to return to the cafeteria. Finish lunch. Finish out the day.
The slightest pressure on my forearm causes me to spin.
“Sophia!” Emma gasps.
I look down. My hand is clutched around her wrist. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I uncoil my fingers instantly. “I’m sorry—”
“Did we say something wrong?” Emma asks, nonchalantly shaking out her wrist. “You ran off so fast—”
“Not at all.” I attempt a smile. Behind her, students hurry up the stairs. I glance at my watch—class starts in seventy seconds. “I didn’t want to be late.”
“What’s your next class? I’ll walk you.” Emma seems genuinely concerned.
I retrieve my schedule, showing her I have Calculus II—second floor, fourth classroom west of the staircase.
Emma looks between me and the schedule. “Lucky girl, you’re with all the seniors.” As I follow Emma, passing students watch me with unfiltered curiosity.
Charlotte meets us at the top balcony. “Do you want to come over tonight, Sophia? We’re going to make mudslides.”
“Mudslides?” I ask, imagining the dry protein pies the Red Cross delivers to displaced people after natural disasters, months after the foreign aid stops.
Charlotte grins. “The most delicious food ever. Do you want to come?”
The warning bell rings.
“Tonight?” I ask. Is she being nice? Is this normal? Am I supposed to say yes?
“It’s Friday,” Charlotte says, applying a nude lip gloss. “Don’t Egyptians have weekends?”
“Kind of, I mean, it’s different in Egypt. Sunday is the beginning of the workweek, so technically the weekend starts on Thursday night and goes through Saturday night, so it’s not exactly the same although …”
Emma and Charlotte both look at me like I’m speaking Finnish.
“Friday. Right, sure, thanks. I’ll check with my parents first.”
“Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.” Charlotte holds out her hand.
“I don’t have …” I look around at everyone else tucking away phones while scurrying into classrooms, “… an American number yet. Tell me your address.”
The tardy bell rings. Charlotte squints at me like I’m pranking her.
“I’ll remember,” I tell her.
“Fine. 124 Woodland Star Circle—I’m at the mouth of Silver Canyon, okay?”
A lanky boy standing at the classroom entrance looks over at us. “Door’s closing in five, four, three—”
“She’s coming!” Emma says, pushing my back toward the door, laughing.
The calculus teacher, Mr. Krenshaw, is a musty old man wearing a tweed coat with suede patches on the elbows. “Who are you?” he barks at me.
“Sophia Hepworth.” I pass him my schedule.
“You’re late.” He inspects the paper. “You’re a junior. You shouldn’t be in this class,” he says gruffly.
“I took a test.”
He peers at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His hair is long and gray and looks like wool. “When?”
Scanning the classroom, I notice everyone is either chatting or playing on their phones. I recognize many of them by now. Waterford High only has 403 students—404 including me.
“In August,” I reply.
“Where?” Mr. Krenshaw persists. “The district office?”
“In Tunisia,” I answer, f
eeling hot sweat burst onto my skin.
Mr. Krenshaw stares at me impatiently. “Tunisia?” He emphasizes the word, like I’m joking. A few kids in the front row look over.
“Yes, sir, in Tunis.” I push my nails into my palms to stop the shaking. “I took a test at the embassy. I take it every year to ensure I’m keeping—”
“What were you doing in Tunis?” he interrupts.
“My father’s job.”
“What kind of job? Military, Peace Corps?”
“He’s a diplomat.”
Mr. Krenshaw stares at me skeptically.
“He monitors NGOs throughout the world,” I add.
He clicks his tongue. “School started two months ago. Calc II is for seniors who’ve completed my Calc I.” He points at a wall of textbooks. “The midterm is in a few weeks, and you’ve missed valuable time already.”
Mr. Krenshaw removes his glasses and tosses them on the desk. “Keep up or I fail you.”
CHAPTER 5
I barely recognize the brick two-story house I left this morning. During the six hours I was at school, my parents tackled the overgrown weeds, mowed the lawn, cleaned and scrubbed the porch, and repainted the front door a soft blue gray.
Your new home, my mother said last night.
Home? Not yet.
A damp wind stirs the trees, blowing rusty-orange leaves across the pavement. I find my father in an unattached garage behind the house. A single light bulb dangles above his head, lighting up the makeshift table—two sawhorses supporting a piece of plywood.
I sneak up behind him. Then, loudly I exclaim, “Shiny!”
His shoulders twitch. He looks over at me and grins. “Every time you see the tiger—”
“—the tiger has long been watching you,” I finish. “And you didn’t see me.”
He chuckles, “I did not. You’re not quite a tiger, but you’re becoming a dangerous … bobcat.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“How was it today?” he asks.
“Fine.” I shrug.
I sit on an upended bucket beside the makeshift table. Placed horizontally on it are two Stöckli skis—sleek and silver with neon racing stripes.
“If you’d like, I’ll get a pair for you too.” He drizzles hot wax onto a ski, waits for it to harden, and then runs the scraper down the edge.
Looking away, I brush off the memories—the burning in my quads, dry wind chapping my lips, prickly mountain air on my bare cheeks, frozen toes.
I clear my throat. “Dad—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Sophia,” he interrupts, “and I respect that. But when you are ready, so am I.”
I fiddle with a clasp on one of the ski boots. “Um, thanks. But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
My father squints at me. “Oh?”
“Two girls I met today, Emma and Charlotte, invited me over to watch a movie and eat mudslides—it’s an American thing—and I wanted to see if—”
“Of course, you may go.”
“Really? Because I don’t have to—”
“Sophia, I trust—”
“I know you trust me, but maybe I should bring my—”
“I trust it here, Sophia, in Waterford.” My father bends down to clean the scraper. “But I need to ask you a question.” His voice lowers; it grates the inside of my ears, warning me, “… about Tunis. I need to be certain you saw his face.” He stops his movement with the hot wax drizzling over the top of the ski.
My heart starts thumping. My airway is constricting, stealing my voice, so I nod.
He persists, “So you know—”
“Yes,” I interject, wanting to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “I knew from the moment he entered the house. From the moment he breathed, like his lungs didn’t work properly, and the uneven sound of his boots …”
Like a swift-moving current, the memories of the past few days flood toward me. Gripping the edge of the bucket, there is nothing I can do to stop them.
I was alone in the safe house when I heard the knob turn. By the time I ducked behind the fridge in the windowless kitchen, the door creaked open. I heard his footsteps—his boots thudding unevenly along the mosaic-tile floor. Clutching my pistol, I listened to him draw closer—unable to rack because of the sound. Even loaded, I’d only have a split second between the time he saw me and the time it would take to aim and fire.
First, he went to the side of the flat where two mattresses were wedged into the corner. Could I make a break for it? There was only one door to the apartment, and two windows. Even if I reached a window, we were on the fifth floor—the fire escape was down the hall.
He kicked over the mattresses, before turning back toward the kitchen. I had seconds before he would see me. I slunk farther into the shadows. Then, right before he stepped into the kitchen—pop!
He slumped to the ground, dead the instant my father’s bullet penetrated the back of his head.
Just like that it was over.
Eighteen months of running, hiding, chasing, fearing—over.
Now I am returning to “normalcy” like it never happened. Like it’s easy to make friends. Easy to forget how I lived every minute of the past eighteen months in fear that they would find us.
That he would find me.
Panting, I catch my father’s gaze. He stands motionless, watching me, waiting for it to pass.
I grit my teeth to block the rest from coming.
Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of remembering Tunis.
It isn’t hiding in that safe house, barely forty-eight hours ago, that chills my bones and fills me with panic—it is remembering what happened before Tunis.
It is fear that if I remember any of it, I will relive all of it.
Catching the wind, the light bulb sways and flickers off. Then it rocks back into place and lights up again, illuminating my father’s face. He’s always been so good at concealing his emotions. I fluctuate between despising him for it and envying him.
He resumes skimming the hard wax off the ski edges, but his eyes remain on mine.
“Yes, Dad, I saw his face,” I say quietly.
“Your mother asked me to check with you, make sure you understand he’s gone. That you understand what this means.”
Nodding, I stand and set the glossy ski boot upright. “It means I can go out for mudslides.”
CHAPTER 6
In the late afternoon light, beneath an awning of evergreen needles, the trail is awash in a silky mist.
I find the entrance marked by a wooden post adjacent to a tan clapboard house where pockets of brambles and quaking aspens merge into spindly pines and wild birch trees.
According to the map my father spread out on the kitchen counter, this indiscernible path of dirt dividing dense foliage is a shortcut to Charlotte’s.
Although I’m running three hundred meters parallel to the road, a vast wilderness seems to separate me from civilization.
Out of habit, I look behind me as I run deeper into the forest. No one is there, but I’m not used to being alone, to having this freedom. I inhale deeply. Waterford smells of autumn—pine needles, burning leaves, and damp forest.
Storm clouds hover above the thick canopy of intertwining pine branches. It starts to drizzle—I gather my hair under the hood of my new windbreaker.
Quickening my pace, I curve around a bend in the trail, jump over a gnarly tree root, and skid to a halt.
Stifling a cry, I grasp a pine bough to keep my balance. Seriously?
My father didn’t warn me? Wolves in the Carpathians. Lions in the Serengeti. He forgot grizzlies in Montana.
Instinctively, I run my hand over the waistband of my leggings—but I know my FN 5-7 is at home, tucked beneath my pillow where my parents insist I keep it.
The bear’s backside is three feet wide; its head is the size of a boulder. Sniffing and grunting, it is so close I can see clumps of mud caked into its russet fur.
With
an enormous paw, the bear whacks a tree limb, snapping it in half.
Although rain falls steadily, pattering onto the dirt in an acoustic rhythm, I hear something in the distance, getting closer.
I listen harder, gauging direction. I glance left, then right.
Heavy breathing. Fast. Too fast. Erratic. Multiple. Unsynchronized.
Beside me, a thicket of trees stirs. Two furry brown shapes tumble out of the dense forest undergrowth and scamper onto the path, loping toward the grizzly.
At this moment, three facts about North American grizzly bears come to mind: they are a subspecies of Siberian brown bear; they can run fifteen meters in one second; a grizzly with two cubs is as dangerous as a pack of hyenas.
I need to move. Immediately.
I start backing away. Spattering raindrops muffle the sound of my footsteps. Each step creates more distance between me and the grizzly. Two meters. Three.
Crack! I snap a branch.
The grizzly whips her head around. Her amber eyes meet mine. A plume of air rises from her nose.
I take another step back.
Wrong move.
She rears onto her hind legs. A low, threatening snarl tears from her mouth.
Thud! Landing on all four legs, she leaps forward.
Rapidly, she narrows the distance between us.
Bending my knees, I extend one arm toward the ground. My fingers fumble along the mud and pebbles until they clasp a jagged stone, barely the size of my palm. If I can somehow … hit her in the eye …
But she is charging me at full speed, ferocious growls ripping from her throat.
I try to recall my father teaching me how to fend off a grizzly attack, any method I can use to prevent her from killing me.
Frantically, I drop to the ground, fold my arms over the back of my head, and curl my knees into my chest. Play dead. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Don’t run. Don’t fight back.
A guttural growl nearly ruptures my eardrum. She pins me down.
I cover my neck with my forearms.
Huffing and grunting, she swats my back, violently rolling me over.
My skull hits the dirt.
She strikes my thigh fiercely with her paw. I strangle the shriek in my throat.
She is going to maul me. Tear off my limbs. Rip me apart. I have to fight back.
Girl from Nowhere Page 2