Turning out of the field, Emma approaches the intersection perched atop a short hill, icy in the sleet. She stops. Yet, when she starts again, the Jeep stalls.
We roll back. Charlotte gasps. Emma brakes. Quickly, she restarts the ignition. Again, it stalls. “Come on,” Emma moans, tossing her auburn hair off her face. “I hate this old Jeep.”
Battered pickup trucks and SUVs queue behind us. At our bumper, Ryan Rice blares his horn. Tate is beside him, with Abigail Montgomery on his lap, chuckling.
“Put it in first. Let out the clutch slower, and give it a little more gas,” I advise from the front seat. Emma tries, but stalls a third time. We slip back a meter before she brakes.
Tate yells out his window, “You almost hit us!”
“Hurry!” Charlotte urges frantically. Sleet slashes the windshield.
Emma goes so pale I worry she might pass out. It feels like half of Waterford High is now behind us, honking, waiting to exit the field.
“Is that car a little too much for you girls?” Tate taunts out the window.
His condescension irks me. Over my shoulder, I see him laughing.
“Switch places with me,” I say to Emma.
“What?” Emma asks, turning the key a fifth time. Her hands are shaking. Charlotte covers her face with one of her fairy wings.
“Put the parking brake on and switch with me,” I say.
Emma cranes her neck to see the cars behind us.
“Do it,” I order.
Emma pulls the emergency brake and clambers across my lap. I wriggle under her into the driver’s seat.
“You said you couldn’t drive!” Charlotte says, terrified.
Putting in the clutch, I turn on the ignition and ease the stick into first. “Did I?”
With the parking brake on, I rev the engine, release both brakes, and accelerate past the stop sign.
Ahead, a row of cars snakes around the backside of the barn, blocking our route. In the rearview mirror, I check the distance between Ryan and us—150 meters. I slam on the brake, shift into reverse, and throttle up.
“Sophia, what are you doing?” Emma squeals.
We move backward at a clip. Up to speed, I yank the emergency brake and palm the steering wheel left, popping the stick from reverse into first. We rotate 180 degrees. I throttle again, getting traction as I shift into first. The slick road gives me too much angle, so I adjust the wheel, then pull down into second gear, accelerating. As we speed past Ryan and Tate, Charlotte blows them a kiss.
“What was that?” Emma shrills from the passenger seat.
“ ‘Escape and evade.’ ” I shrug. “It’s easier in a Lancia or a Fiat—”
“What exactly are we trying to escape and evade?” Emma grips her seat belt.
“Tate?” I suggest.
Charlotte throws her head back, laughing, “Did you see his face?”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Creamery on Main Street. I spot a parking place and make a tight U-turn.
“We won’t fit,” warns Emma.
Reversing, I palm the wheel right, then spin it left.
“It’s too small! Sophia!”
I glide in centimeters from the curb. Unbuckling, I turn off the engine, take out the keys, and hand them to Emma.
“You don’t have a license yet,” she reprimands me.
Slipping my wings off my shoulders, I climb out of the car. Charlotte waits for me on the brick sidewalk, smirking. “Fast and furious.”
Emma pockets the keys. “We are not going to tell my parents about this.”
I lift an eyebrow. “About what?”
CHAPTER 11
By the following Monday, the excitement of the holiday is still buzzing on my skin. America is both weird and exhilarating and finally, I’m starting to acclimate.
Yet the general anxiety I feel walking into Calc II each afternoon is compounded today when Krenshaw divides us into groups and puts Aksel in mine.
We push our desks together. I sit beside a pretty girl named Priyanka, and Aksel sits down beside Cole—who does not stop talking—and somehow we make it through three assignments speaking only about derivatives.
However, with ten minutes remaining, Priyanka and Cole go to check our work with Krenshaw, leaving Aksel and me alone at the table.
Unable to explain the sudden queasiness in my stomach, I look down at my work like my vocal cords have been snipped.
Aksel drums the table. He bends over and makes a citation. He crosses, then uncrosses his ankles. Then he leans slightly forward.
“So how are you liking Waterford?” he asks in an even, polite tone.
I stare up at him. “I liked the dance,” I say truthfully. “Did you?”
“Sure,” he answers. His deep voice is both familiar and intimidating. “It’s always fun.”
“So are you from Waterford too?” I ask. He looks so Montana, yet there is this air of luxurious indifference—otherness—about Aksel I can’t put my finger on.
Aksel wrinkles his forehead, watching me in a way that makes my heart leap into my throat. “I suppose so,” he says casually. Carefully.
“Were you born here?” I prod, remembering Mr. Steen’s French questions my first day of school.
Aksel doesn’t answer right away, which is odd because it’s a simple question.
“No,” Aksel finally says, angling back in his chair.
“Where were you born?” I ask.
Over Aksel’s shoulder, Priyanka gives me a thumbs-up from Krenshaw’s desk.
When I look back at Aksel, his expression has shifted.
Why do I get the impression he is trying to read me?
His eyebrows knit together. “Germany, actually,” he says coolly.
For several seconds we stare at each other in silence.
I am confused. He looks confused.
Which doesn’t make any sense.
What did I do?
Cole and Priyanka sit back down. Priyanka drops a paper onto the center of our conjoined desks. “We got a perfect score so Krenshaw added another assignment,” she says through gritted teeth.
For the rest of class, I resist looking at Aksel, though I’m certain I see him cast a furtive glance in my direction.
When the bell rings, we reach the door at the same time. Aksel steps left. I step right.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning away down the hall, avoiding him altogether.
Considering my feelings about Aksel hinge on suspicion, I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me. So why do I? Because he seems suspicious of me too?
I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it—more to him.
“Sophia!” Charlotte snaps her fingers. “Are you coming?!”
Her face is exuberant. We’ve been studying inside Waterford Bakery, which smells of warm bread and hazelnuts, for hours.
Fifty beds in eighteen months, and my first month in Waterford has exhausted me.
Autumn passed too quickly. By mid-November, snow replaced rain. Each morning, fresh snow dusts the town like powdered sugar, accumulating quickly along the roadsides.
Now, I pry my eyes away from the hypnotically falling snow.
Emma has divided art history flash cards into neat piles on the table in the center of our quaint window nook.
Charlotte is waving Night Watch in front of my face. “Didn’t you hear? Mrs. Bernhardt is taking a group of art history students to Europe next summer!” Her voice rises until she’s practically shouting. “Are you coming?”
Outside, wind churns the snow in swirling gusts across the windowpane.
Europe isn’t touring art museums and architecture. Europe is reality—my reality.
… Shouting … blinding flash of light … Yves Saint Laurent cologne …
It comes on so fast.
Charlotte continues rapidly, “We need someone who speaks the language …”
… running … blood …
“… to show us around … the shopping and cafés, the
museums and châteaus!”
I’ve gone weeks without being triggered. I can hold it back.
… breathe in for three … out for three …
“You can be our translator!” Emma adds enthusiastically through a bite of apple tart.
“Interpreter,” I correct her, distracting myself. “Translators handle documents.”
“What’s it like?” Charlotte asks wistfully, peeling off a golden layer of almond croissant. “Like, the Parthenon. In person.”
Marble columns. Heat. The sea. A scent of olives in the breeze. I can do this. Easily.
“Sunny,” I reply, swallowing the rest of my hot chocolate. “With the way the ruins are perched on the hill, you can stand among the fragmented columns and look out across the Saronic Gulf and see hundreds of rocky islands floating in turquoise—”
“Noooo!” Charlotte groans. “The one with the hole and Raphael is buried—”
“You mean the Pantheon, in Rome?”
“Yes!” Charlotte giggles, “That one.”
I laugh. “Inside the Pantheon, when it rains, it comes blasting through the hole in the roof and hits the stone floor with a sound like an orchestra. The first time I visited, my father asked me to count the number of tourists who entered and exited the roped-in chapel within one minute. I was off by two, so he made me do it again.”
Emma screws up her face. “Why would he tell you to do that?”
My cheeks redden. I said that aloud?
“Gelato,” I improvise. “It was a game. He bribed me.” I talk faster. “Listen. When you exit the Pantheon, cross the piazza northwest, take your fifth right, walk past the fountain, and turn left into a narrow cobblestone alley. Eighty meters down is a yellow door with glass panes. Behind it is Cremeria Monteforte, which has the most incredible flavors: chocolate-orange … lemon-fig … pistachio-hazelnut … lavender-honey—”
“Lavender ice cream?” Charlotte wrinkles her nose in distaste.
“You’d like it!” I laugh, “and you will love Europe.”
Emma picks up her phone. “I’m going to be late for the meet!” she squeals. She crams her notes into her bag, shovels the last of her pastry into her mouth, and licks her fingers. “Wish me luck!”
Two hours later, Charlotte and I make our way to Fish Market—Waterford High’s aptly named natatorium. The meet has started, and it’s already crowded; the air is dense and muggy. At the top of the bleachers, I sit down beside Charlotte, who sits beside Mason.
Below us in the swimming pool, bodies skim across the water like Arctic seals.
“No swim team this year?” Charlotte asks Mason, who eats the remainder of her half-eaten croissant in one bite.
“Only one Jensen twin is getting a scholarship, and it won’t be me.” Mason grins.
Tate McCormick squishes down beside us.
“Why don’t they swim in bikinis?” Tate snickers. “I’d come to watch that!”
“You are watching,” Charlotte points out.
“Hydrodynamics,” I say at the same time. “Loose fabric drags, causing friction, slowing the swimmer …”
Tate stares at me, open-mouthed.
Booooom! The starting horn blares. Everyone seated in the bleachers screams. My whole body tenses. Noise. Shouting. People.
Now is not the time. Now is not the place. Bodies press into me on either side, hot and sticky. The air gets heavier … sweating … footsteps …
Blurry images shift into focus, prompting a tidal wave of memories.
My fingertips grip the bleacher. I close my eyes.
… Breathe … Count …
I push my trembling lips tight, resisting.
But it is too loud. Too hot. Too muggy. Too crowded.
No matter how hard I resist, it still feels as though I am in a nightmare, unable to run, unable to move. My defenses are weak.
“Sophia?”
I open my eyes. Charlotte’s hand is on my arm. She is watching me anxiously. Her eyes are wide with concern. Like I am fragile. Mysterious. Dangerous.
I am pale, sweating. It’s obvious—something is wrong with me.
Weeks of progress are rapidly deteriorating.
… It’s coming on again … l have to make it stop …
Cramped bodies are closing in around me. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“I need water.” Standing, I step backward, collide into a man’s knees, and then hasten down the bleachers.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right. Students barricade the double doors. Throngs of sophomores linger in the lobby. There’s no way out. I reach the water fountain and lean up against the brick wall. Focus. Push it back.
I squeeze my eyes and press my palms flat against the wall. I recite the elevations of South American capitals. The populations of African countries. When neither tactic works, I recite the series of numbers my father makes me memorize: 14-36-53 … 55-65-96—
Booooom! Another horn blares. Fresh, cold air sweeps in through the open doors. The crowd thins. I watch the swimmers dive into the water and glide beneath the surface—one is far ahead of the others, only breaking the surface for air halfway across the pool.
I push my hands against the brick wall behind me. I trace my fingertips in the grooves, counting. I fight off the sensations: oxygen burning in my lungs … heat searing my throat … I wonder if I can hold my breath longer than the swimmer flip-turning at the wall of the pool and gaining another two body lengths on the swimmer in lane four.
Now I hear my mother’s voice. Remember, Sophia, so you control them—so the memories don’t control you …
I had been practicing with my father for months. After he spent the day at the embassy, he would come home and we’d walk to the swimming pool.
He instructed me how to do the simpler strokes first—Australian crawl and breaststroke—streamlining the technique to fit my narrow build, teaching me to float on my back, faceup, if I got tired and needed to rest. Then he taught me the harder strokes—butterfly and backstroke. Once I’d learned those, he taught me speed. If there’s a shark, you only have to swim faster than the person behind you, he always said with a wink.
After I could tie him in a hundred-meter sprint, he taught me to hold my breath. Count rhythmically. Release my mind of fear and simply count to 120. One steady beat after the next. No bubbles. Never bubbles.
At first, I could only stay below for thirty seconds before I would inevitably claw toward the surface, gasping for air. My father never pushed too hard, and I enjoyed the thrill of being like him. One weekend, my parents chartered a ketch to sail off the coast of Djibouti for a few days. In the late afternoon of our second day, I was reading Bonjour Tristesse in the stern when I saw my father checking the radar constantly.
He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. He shouted something down to my mother.
Moments later, my mother emerged from the cabin, holding a Galil sniper rifle and spitting ammo wrapping from her teeth.
“Ninety seconds,” he told her.
Hammering bullets into the Galil’s chamber, she propped it next to the helm. Then she unclipped a Beretta from a thigh holster underneath her white linen skirt.
My father moved for me. Gripping my arm, we dashed from midship to bow. “Sophia, you need to go below,” he said.
“Belowdecks?” I asked, frightened, glancing back at my mother.
“Below the surface, Sophia. Into the water. It’s warm. Hold tight to the anchor chain and hold your breath. Count, honey. Count to one hundred. That’s it. But don’t break the surface—they can’t see you, Sophia. Do you understand? No bubbles. You have to stay hidden, and that’s the only place! Now go!”
While he said this, I heard a boat cruising toward us. Its engine idled a few seconds before bumping into the fiberglass hull on the starboard side. An anchor was thrown over—it landed on the deck, meters from where we crouched, concealed under a cover of the mainsail.
My father took my wrist. “Go now, Sophia! Do n
ot break the surface until I come for you,” he whispered, scrambling away.
Gunfire erupted. Raspy voices shouted. I wanted to return to the cabin and stay beside my parents. Instead, I crawled to the front of the boat and slid over the edge.
Huddling near the anchor at the bow, I hunched over and watched through a scupper—four armed men with bandannas covering their faces leaped onto our ketch.
Once they boarded, I followed orders. I slid into the ocean, took several deep breaths of air, then submerged, using the anchor chain to descend three meters underwater.
At first, I floated idly beneath the surface. After seventy seconds, I grew anxious. With every passing second, I gripped the chain tighter, swaying with the formidable current, trying to not let go. It was dark all around me and so deep I heard nothing from the surface. I felt only the pulsing of my heart and the aching burn of my lungs.
But my father had told me to wait.
So I held there, suspended between the black abyss beneath and the danger above. I pressed my lips together so they wouldn’t open. I clung to the anchor chain because that was my link to survival.
The next thing I remember was an arm fastening around my waist. He pulled me to the surface. Choking out water, I gasped for air. My father swam us to the stern, grabbed hold of the ladder, and, in one motion, pulled me out of the water.
“Is she hurt, Kent?” my mother cried, dropping onto the deck.
My father placed both hands on my heaving shoulders and smiled at me. “No,” he said softly, “she did great.”
Then he hugged me so tightly I thought my lungs would collapse.
Over his shoulder I saw four bloodied bodies floating in the water.
Facedown.
CHAPTER 12
An outbreak of cheers, compounded by an earsplitting buzzer, brings me back to Waterford.
Catching my breath, I look up at the board. Did I miss Emma’s race?
I walk forward through the lobby, squishing through the bodies toward the bleachers. I am scanning the crowd for Charlotte and Mason, when my gaze locks on somebody else instead.
Across the pool deck, Aksel stands out like a Vilebrequin ad on a Paris billboard. He’s drying his wet hair with a towel. He has warmup pants on, but no shirt, exposing an enormous, muscular chest. I scan the scoreboard—was he racing?
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