When I look back at him, his eyes catch mine.
An embarrassed flush extends across my body.
Several thoughts cross my mind in rapid succession: Do I look away? Do I smile and wave? Do I walk over and congratulate him? Why is it always such a game between us?
With a vague nod of his head, Aksel turns away from me, tosses the towel into a bin near the bleachers, and ducks into the locker room. I can’t decide which bothers me most: Aksel turning away from me, or the fact that I didn’t turn away from him first.
While the flashback is gone, the sensations linger—my legs ache, my vision is foggy.
I still need air.
Maneuvering back through the crowd choking the entrance, I head outside.
It is a dark, clear night. Constellations of stars sparkle above.
I decide to walk toward Charlotte’s Pathfinder at the periphery of the lot to wait.
Halfway there, I feel it.
My parents firmly believe in a “hex” sense—Greek for sixth.
If you don’t want to be noticed, keep your head down, because if you look at someone long enough, they’ll sense you looking at them and will look in your direction. Wave-particle duality, my father says.
This is what I sense now—quantum physics.
My eyes sweep the darkness.
At first, I see nothing. Then I notice a few rows back is a red truck with rust crusted around the wheel wells. Someone is alone inside it. Shadow obscures the man’s face, yet a dim phone light casts a glow over the car’s interior, illuminating his eyes—fixated on me.
The base of my neck tingles.
I have nothing to fear in Waterford.
I’m on edge because of the flashback, is all.
Nonetheless, the reflection of light in his eyes reveals he is still watching me.
Instinctively, I reverse. I back toward the nearest entrance—crowds, safety.
However, when I look back at the truck—it’s empty.
I halt.
A bracing cold spreads down my spine and into my limbs.
Nearby, a car door opens, then slams shut.
My heart starts pounding.
Startled, my eyes skim the tranquil parking lot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement from the direction of the truck.
A shadowy figure moves between cars—in and out of my vision.
… darkness … blinding flash of light …
I whip my head side to side, listening. Straining my ears.
His gait is slow. Arrhythmic. Unfamiliar.
My fingertips slide to my waistband.
Ahead, I hear the footsteps approaching—heavy boots—accompanied by ragged breathing.
… Wheezing … running … His voice …
The footsteps near.
… boots … sweating …
I thumb open and lock my Ladybug.
Pivoting forward, I transition into a run—Bam!
I collide into something—someone—so firm I bounce backward.
Aksel catches me swiftly, steadying me. He immediately glances over my shoulder, before returning his confused gaze to mine.
Looking down at his chest, he frowns.
The tip of my Ladybug is up against his abdomen.
My left hand is coiled around his wrist in a steel grip.
Heat scorches my cheeks.
Rapidly, I retract my blade.
Hastily, I uncoil my hand from his wrist and drop it quickly at my side.
Aksel’s face is flushed. He is holding a swim duffel in his left hand, glaring at me.
My heart pounds like it’s going to leap into my throat. If he is expecting an explanation, I don’t have one. In only one world is this normal—mine. With trembling fingers, I fold the knife back into my waistband. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer.
Aksel’s eyes flick to my waistband. “Are you okay?” he asks. His tone is clipped. His eyes are still boring down on me. Stunned. Accusing.
Craning my neck, I look behind me. No one is there.
“Fine,” I say. “There was … someone … I thought …”
Am I seeing things?
Aksel glances over my shoulder again. Behind him, the swim team is trailing out of the locker rooms. Farther down, a crowd is exiting Fish Market.
I’ve missed the whole meet.
I push my tongue against the back of my teeth to keep my lips from quivering.
Why has all my progress come crashing down—and why does Aksel have to see it?
Aksel doesn’t lift his eyes from mine. His brow furrows, but the anger in his voice has subsided. He actually sounds concerned. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Sure,” I answer casually. My hands remain clenched into fists.
We stare at each other in agitated silence. I notice that Aksel is as tense as I am, his posture rigid, defensive. He’s like a mirror, reflecting my own fear and confusion. His gaze is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It’s as though his eyes are drilling through me again, trying to read me, solve me.
Yet, though he seems affronted, even concerned, he does not seem all that surprised I just pulled a knife on him.
I should have recognized it earlier: The patterns, the tells. Controlled expression. Maintaining distance. Aksel is hiding something.
“Sophia!” Charlotte calls my name.
Deftly, Aksel returns to his composed mask of civility. “See you around,” he says under his breath.
Beside me, he unlocks an olive-green ’97 Land Rover Defender. A half meter of snow is piled on the roof, much more than is on the ground—how far up Eagle Pass does he live?
Aksel steps into the driver’s seat, the line of his jaw clenched tight.
I bite my lip to prevent the tears. I’m not adjusting to life in Waterford. I am anxious—skeptical of nearly everything, and everyone.
Actually, I’m paranoid. I’ve been paranoid since we left Tunisia. I’ve been paranoid for eighteen months, and no amount of time living in Waterford can change that.
In the distance, I see the old red truck, rusty, with a broken taillight, turn out of the parking lot.
Reaching me, Charlotte’s eyes flit between me and the Defender driving off. She whistles under her breath, “Never Have I Ever …”
When I arrive home, my parents are in the study. I pour myself a cup of rooibos tea and walk to the living room, still thinking about Aksel and what happened outside Fish Market.
It’s exhausting: being suspicious, and experiencing a flashback, and trying to act normal …
I stop short when I see it. I stare, incredulous. They kept it?
It is an antique, nineteenth-century Érard; its black and white keys glisten in the moonlight streaking through the window behind it. Glossy in some parts, most of the color has been buffed away and its patina is now several shades of golden brown. However, its worn surface is deceiving; the inside is completely restored and plays beautifully. Or did.
Like a moon circling a planet, I feel a gravitational pull but keep my distance. After orbiting a moment, I move toward it. Memories, desires, fears all yank at one another in their own lunar tug-of-war.
My heartbeat quickens. My fingers twitch.
I trace my finger along a high F-sharp, careful not to press down.
Hesitantly, I sit. Despite my conflicted emotions, I feel the crescendo building, spreading throughout my limbs; I see the conductor in his black tuxedo, gold-leafed hall, gowns and tuxedos, the bright lights on the stage, my classmates huddled nearby. The melody resonates in my mind, vibrating down my spine into the tips of my fingers.
My hands reach forward. My fingers spread out like a peacock, poising carefully around middle C. I touch the smooth surface of the lacquered keys.
Sophia, you’re going to play, my mother said. I’ve ordered a gown for you to wear. We’ll fly to Vienna for the weekend and be back in Istanbul for school on Monday.
I stare at my hands—the pale color of my fingers against the black and i
vory of the keys—tapping out a simple Chopin melody.
She had no way of knowing it would be the last time.
I hit a D instead of a C. The chord echoes egregiously in the room.
Like a snail curling up in its shell, my fingers roll beneath my palms. I stand, backing away from the piano like it’s poison. I’m not ready. I’m not even close.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I ensure the window lock is secure. I crawl into the soft, lavender-smelling sheets and rest my head against the headboard. I lift my pillow to check my FN 5-7.
It’s gone.
My fingers fumble along the empty sheet. Panic creeps up my arms. Scrambling to my knees, I push aside the quilt. I tear the sheet off the mattress. I shove my hand into the crack between the mattress and the headboard.
Lying flat on my stomach, I push my hand farther down, stretching my fingers.
My forefinger slides around the pistol. I secure my thumb around the grip. Roughly, I tug. Scraping the back of my hand against the headboard, I dislodge it.
Panting, I back up against the headboard. I unclip the magazine, check the rounds, and snap it back in. I stare at my scratched hand, holding the weapon I’m not supposed to need.
What am I doing here? I want to scream.
Why is this so hard? What is the point of trying to make Waterford feel like home? Trying to feel like I belong?
Can I ever be like Charlotte and Emma? Can I ever go to Europe for “fun”?
Why can’t I brush aside my instinct that Aksel is hiding something from me?
I know it’s irrational to hold him accountable for my convoluted emotions, so why can’t I get him out of my mind? Because he thinks I don’t belong in Waterford? And deep down I wonder if he is right?
Devastated, I tug my knees to my chest.
How has my fortitude to become normal in Waterford already collapsed?
Across the room, my eyes settle on Katarina—her porcelain lips are painted such that she looks cheerful one moment, melancholy the next.
My mother set her on the floral chair in the corner of my bedroom weeks ago. She must have thought I’d want her nearby.
I can’t decide whether I do or don’t.
CHAPTER 13
“Miss Hepworth!” Krenshaw barks as the bell rings the following day.
I stuff my textbook into my backpack and approach Krenshaw at his desk, “Yes, sir?”
“You failed,” he says gruffly, returning my midterm exam.
One glance reveals that my efforts to catch up and prove I can fit in at an American high school have been eviscerated with four pages of paper.
“This is not good enough,” Krenshaw scolds me. “I expect every student to put in effort and hard work—”
“I have been!” I fire back.
“I recommend dropping you to Calculus I,” he tells me.
“I know that material, sir, and I’ll do better on the final,” I promise. “But how can I adequately prep for an exam you give a week early?”
His orange padded chair squeaks as he leans back. “I do the same thing every year, with every exam,” he says dismissively.
“I didn’t know that, sir,” I say. “It’s not fair—”
“Fair?” He sits upright. “Perhaps living in Waterford will teach you life isn’t fair.” He stretches his arm across his desk and clasps his fingers. The sleeves of his tweed jacket are too short for his arms; his wrists are covered in spindly gray hairs.
“You’ve had it easy,” he drawls condescendingly. “This transition—leaving behind glamorous cities for a simple mountain life—must be hard …”
He leans across the desk. “However, mathematics is not subjective. You’ll need to become less entitled and work much harder if you intend to pass.”
Entitled?
He doesn’t know me—at all. Nevertheless, fiery tears pool in the rims of my eyes.
“You have until the end of the semester or you fail and drop to Calc I.”
On the brink of screaming at Krenshaw, I grab my backpack and head to Art History, but halfway down the hall I turn.
I descend the main staircase, push out the front doors, vector 30 degrees northeast across the front lawn, cut around the snowy field, and cross Fourth Avenue.
Ten minutes later, I reach home.
“Mom? Dad?” I call out. The house is empty.
A brass light on the piano illuminates Chopin sheet music, taunting me. Tearing the music in half, I throw it into the trash.
On the kitchen counter beside a bowl of apples is a note: Fresh powder. Home at 16:40. Smørbrød in the fridge.
Crumpling the note in my fist, I storm through the glass double doors into the den.
I observe the impeccably tidy room—folk art displays, antique swords, books seamlessly straight on the shelves.
There is a leather Eames chair in the corner, two pine tables used as desks, and dozens of silver frames scattered among the shelves—photographs of me in Petra, Abu Simbel, Dubrovnik, Samarkand, Ürgenç; standing atop a medieval rampart at Calatrava; dressed in a shimmering, corseted ball gown for a diplomatic gala in Stockholm. I reach for the nearest photograph—the Serengeti. My favorite trip we ever took.
In the foreground, brittle, yellow savanna is visible, crumbling in the sun. I am seated between my parents in the back of a battered blue Toyota, wearing a school uniform, and laughing.
Slipping from my grip, the frame clatters onto my father’s desk.
I miss my former life.
I definitely don’t miss my former life.
But how can this new life be hard too?
Would I really rather leave than stay?
I have to get out of here.
Cold air pierces my lungs.
I head north, away from the center of town.
Waterford is idyllic and charming. For the first time in years, I have friends again—so why am I vexed? Afraid I might never “get over it”? Might never stop being triggered? Never stop fearing threats when none exist?
Has my past eroded my ability to move forward?
The steady rhythm of my feet comforts me. I rehearse the series of numbers—calmly this time—as both a pacesetter and a distraction.
I turn east toward Charlotte’s, halting at the base of Silver Canyon. Her driveway is ahead, though she’ll still be at school.
But somebody else lives this way. I shouldn’t, but curiosity overpowers judgment.
Impulsively, I divert at the fork, veering straight into a steep, rock-walled canyon.
Fluffy snowflakes fall lightly, blowing horizontal in Eagle Pass.
On one side of the canyon, steep granite fissures are laced with miniature waterfalls, frozen solid. On the other side, the woods taper into a rushing, turquoise ravine that eventually estuaries into Waterford Lake.
Eagle Pass narrows until the road becomes one lane masquerading as two. Soon, I switch to the shoulder on the north side of the road, etched into the mountain. Here, the icy road is scattered with blue granules; salt residue provides traction to run safely.
Occasionally, I hear a quiet muffled sound behind me, like a radiator purring. Twice, I turn around. But it’s only the rushing water. I am simply hearing things—every movement a trigger, every sound a threat.
Shaking off the oppressive paranoia, I run harder.
As I ascend, snowflakes fall thicker and heavier; I relish the ethereal sensation.
I’m not cold; I’m wearing a fleece jacket, shorts, sports bra, sneakers, and my favorite Dale of Norway headband-and-mitten set my mother found in a box yesterday.
Reaching a bend in the road, I slow to a jog. The wind is picking up.
Tucking my necklace beneath my jacket, I stop to get my bearings. Although the steep incline slowed my pace, I’ve still run far.
Down the canyon, I see Waterford. Straining my eyes, I calculate the distance home—about seven kilometers. I glance at my watch. Though barely four o’clock, it’s November; the light is already sinking below the h
orizon.
One thing I have learned about Waterford—positioned in a high alpine valley—darkness falls quickly and with it, the bitter cold of night.
If I run double pace downhill, I’ll return a few minutes after dark. My parents won’t have to worry long—
Abruptly, a high-pitched sound reverberates between the canyon walls.
I go rigid.
Alarmed, I look over to see a car skidding around the bend.
Its horn blazes. The tires shred the ice. I see a blur of olive green.
Somewhere in my subconscious I register that this car is careening across the road—hurtling uncontrollably—at me.
I dive.
CHAPTER 14
Although the packed snowbank is cold, my body feels hot and afraid.
Ten meters away, in the center of the road, is an olive-green Land Rover Defender. The door swings open. A familiar, ruggedly handsome figure emerges.
Reckless. Stupid. What was I thinking?
Aksel is wearing a down sweater and boots. His face is tanned and beautiful, his emerald green eyes are wide and brilliant, and he is racing toward me.
I try to stand; instead, I keep sinking back into the snowdrift I impaled as I dove out of the way.
In seconds, he reaches me.
“I’m fine!” I snap, covering my embarrassment.
“Why were you standing in the middle of the road? Trying to get yourself killed?” Reaching for my right arm, he lifts me effortlessly out of the snowbank and sets me on my feet. “Are you lost?”
Lost? I shake off his hand. “No!”
His stoic demeanor is shattered. He seems agitated, flustered.
I stare up at him, trying to ignore the blistering heat rising on the back of my neck. My stomach twists. Seeing Aksel only exacerbates my conflicted feelings about Waterford.
“This time, I did nearly hit you,” he seethes.
“So don’t drive so fast,” I fire back, unnecessarily combative.
His hostile eyes bore into mine. “I wasn’t going too fast!”
Aksel circles the Defender and steps onto the running board to inspect the ski rack, which is screwed into the white aluminum top. The rack wouldn’t have unbolted or shifted when the car braked, which means Aksel isn’t actually inspecting it; he is looking for an alternative to talking to me.
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