Girl from Nowhere

by Tiffany Rosenhan

  CHAPTER 24

  “How was your night?” my father calls to me from down the hall.

  Thirty seconds ago, I’d been standing on my porch with Aksel. Now, I call out to my father. “Good,” I answer.

  “Sophia, come in here.”

  Grudgingly, I step away from the banister and walk to the den.

  My father is seated at his pine desk, which is cluttered with papers. His voice is calm, but his eyes have gray lines beneath them.

  Shoving aside a box of envelopes, I sit down in a cozy leather chair in the corner.

  I don’t want to discuss Aksel with my parents. Not yet. Apparently, the freedom I’ve had in Waterford is going to take some getting used to—for all of us.

  My father must see my wet hair, my chilled face—

  “What’s that?” I point over his shoulder.

  “Analysis,” he answers.

  On the far wall, a new whiteboard is tacked up. Six whiteboards, actually, assembled in a grid pattern to form one large wall of writing space. “Thinking space,” he calls it.

  Taped in the center of one whiteboard is a map. Cobwebbing across the map are pushpins and sticky notes with names drawn on them, all connecting to one another with different-colored strings. Some strings dangle loose, unassigned.

  This is my father—forgoing hard drives for twine and pushpins. A computer can store everything I might possibly need, but then I can’t see it. I can’t solve it.

  My eyes roam over the whiteboard to the rest of the den. The books are stacked haphazardly in the bookcases. Several boxes are shoved into the corner. A tangle of electronic devices litter the floor beside his desk.

  What problem is he solving now?

  He’s looking again at my hair. He’s going to ask me about tonight—about Aksel.

  I gesture around the usually tidy space. “I haven’t seen this much paperwork since Prague.”

  “I’m consulting on a report for the United Nations Humanitarian Council on the effect of the migrant crisis on the island economies of the Aegean Sea,” he answers easily.

  “That’s all you’re doing?”

  He hands me a paper from one of the files. “I am consulting, Sophia,” he says, walking over to the wall of whiteboards, “analyzing the acquisition probability of special atomic demolition munitions—ADMs. That’s what they’re after now.”

  For years, I’ve understood that his work is much more layered and nuanced and complex than an average diplomat’s.

  But now that it’s over—shouldn’t it be over?

  “Who?” I ask, scanning the economic graph.

  “Everyone. Anyone,” he says. “There are more terrorist cells now than ever, and each wants to get their hands on one.”

  “And what exactly is a special atomic demolition munition?” I ask.

  “In slang? It’s a backpack nuke.”

  “Those exist?”

  “Sure.”

  “But they can’t get one,” I say, “right?”

  “America kept track of her nuclear weapons at the end of the Cold War. Others didn’t.”

  “You mean Russia.”

  He surveys one of the whiteboards. “The development of ADMs changed everything. Small nukes that could be transported easily and carried across borders? I couldn’t think of anything more dangerous. Until the Russians succeeded in creating the first micro-nukes. Smaller than a fire extinguisher, light enough to carry in a handbag.”

  “Is it scientifically possible to create a weapon that small?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I motion to the wall. “And you believe they exist?”

  “I know they did exist, Sophia. But they were dismantled. That’s the important part.”

  “How do you know?”

  He exhales. And that, Sophia, I will not answer.

  “So, what are you doing now?” I prompt.

  “Wondering,” he says slowly, stepping back over to his desk, “that’s all.”

  Handing the economic graph back to my father, I suppress the urge to tell him that I was afraid earlier, that my blood ran cold when the man walked up behind me. The nervous adrenaline I felt in the street seeps into my bones—both distant and raw. It feels like days, not hours, since the Creamery.

  “Darling, is there something you want to discuss?”

  I imagine the conversation: I was afraid when I saw a hooded figure in the street walking toward me … It was nobody … Just some guy.

  Then he would say: It’s over. You have to believe that.

  And I’d say: I do.

  And I’d be lying.

  What will happen if I tell him that although the man appeared to be from Waterford—wearing a Carhartt parka and work boots and strolling confidently into Alpine Market—by the way he pronounced his rs he sounded as though his first language wasn’t English, but … Chechen?

  “Sophia?” he asks.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say, backing out of the den.

  Suddenly, I am so scared I’m trembling. Because I realize what I am truly afraid of, and it’s not that man.

  It’s leaving Waterford.

  CHAPTER 25

  My phone beeps. It’s another text from Charlotte, her seventeenth since Saturday. This is why you have a phone—call me!

  Instead, she calls me, demanding, “Did Aksel drive you home? Tate says—”

  Downstairs, the doorbell rings. “Charlotte, I have to go. I’ll see you—”

  “Is Aksel picking—”

  “See you soon!” I hang up, hurry to the front door, and swing it open.

  It’s been fifty-six hours since he dropped me off Friday evening, and I’ve been thinking about this moment for each one.

  Aksel is dressed in jeans and a collared shirt under a canvas jacket; his hands are tucked casually in his pockets. His face is windburned, and his green eyes flicker gold in the morning sunlight. Stepping forward, he brushes his lips swiftly against my cheek.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. I’ve heard this phrase hundreds of times from my parents; it’s entirely different coming from Aksel.

  He glances into the foyer and living room; he doesn’t look curious, rather relieved.

  Twisting a piece of hair in my fingertips, I try not to smile too widely. “Let me, um, grab something.”

  Inside, I retrieve Aksel’s clean sweater from my drawer. On my way back outside, I duck into the den.

  “See you after school?” I say to my father. He’s focused, reading at his desk. Behind him, I scan the whiteboards for a clue, an indication my father is keeping something from me. I see nothing. It is a typical thinking wall—sticky notes, paper, twine, and tape.

  “Sophia?”

  I halt.

  “You remember how to use it?” He looks up from his papers. He points to my hip where my phone is zipped inside the pocket of my Moncler puffer.

  I laugh, “I am a teenager.”

  “I meant use it.” His voice is quiet. Why is he reminding me of this? As if I could forget. By default, it blocks all GPS tracking, but it can also do the reverse—enable GPS tracking with a specific SOS protocol.

  He gives me a hard look.

  “I know.” I pat my pocket, grinning.

  A minute later, Aksel laughs when I give him his clothes. “I forgot,” he says, which frustrates me—I should have kept them.

  Outside, I notice a familiar vehicle—sparkling in the daylight.

  “It’s back!” I exclaim.

  Aksel holds the door to the Defender open. “Dropped off early this morning.”

  Its olive-green exterior has been waxed. No visible dents. The interior smells like oiled leather.

  “I am sorry,” I say honestly.

  He laces his fingers into mine. “Don’t be.” He grins. “I’m not.”

  Inside the school several minutes later, we head to my locker in the north hall, where I unload my backpack. “See you in Krenshaw’s?” he asks.

  “You’re not staying?” I ask, surpr
ised.

  “I only have to turn in a physics assignment.”

  “If you don’t have to be at school, then why …”

  Aksel hooks his finger around my coat sleeve and tugs. My chest bumps into his, and I giggle. “I wanted to see you,” he says simply.

  Blushing, I lace my fingers through his, stand on my tiptoes, and sling my arms around his neck.

  “See you in”—Aksel checks his watch—“four hours and three minutes?”

  “Don’t be late,” I warn, smiling.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he says. I shove him gently in the direction of the stairs. With an easy grin, he releases his hands from mine and bounds up the steps.

  “So you’ve been sneaking around with Fredricksen this whole time?”

  The words snap me into reality. Tate slams his locker shut and walks over, staring me down with a malevolent sneer plastered across his face.

  I adjust my books. “I was not sneaking—”

  “You played me!” Tate doesn’t seem upset, he seems infuriated.

  My face flushes. “Played you?”

  Tate seethes, “Don’t pretend you weren’t leading me—”

  “Hey, man,” Henry interrupts, “I don’t think she meant—”

  “Shut up, Henry. You saw her all over me, before she ditched me to hook up with Fredricksen—”

  “I did not!” I fire back. “You need to get your facts straight, frauenfeindlicher Vollidiot.”

  My words echo in the stark hall. After so many weeks trying to blend in, it’s like I’ve exposed my identity. Everyone looks at me.

  Tate’s eye twitches. “What did you call me?” he asks furiously.

  My cheeks redden with fury. “Pay attention in German, and you’ll learn.”

  Tate steps toward me. “You think you’re so cool because—”

  “It’s not a big deal, Tate.” Mason steps between me and Tate, trying to placate him.

  “Did you think we wouldn’t find out, Sophia? That you could play us? We always find out the girls who—”

  “Who what?” an icy voice says from over my shoulder.

  Tate takes a step back.

  Charlotte is standing beside me, hand on her hip, glaring at Tate. Henry purses his lips together, holding in a laugh.

  Charlotte glances over at me. “Everything okay here?”

  “Certainly. Du bist ein Chauvinistenschwein, right, Tate?” I smile. “It means ‘We’re good’ in German.”

  Tate turns on his heel and stalks off.

  “It’s a good thing he’s failing German,” I utter to Charlotte and Henry.

  Henry looks over at me, grinning. “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t mean ‘we’re good.’ ”

  If word travels fast in most small towns, it travels at lightning speed in Waterford.

  Tate is convinced I played him—and by lunchtime the story is that I hooked up with Tate outside the Creamery, then hooked up with Aksel hours later. So not only does word travel fast, but it has left the truth in a different galaxy.

  As I fiddle with my cucumber and tomato sandwich, Charlotte stands and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  Inside the Art History classroom, Emma sits on top of a desk and unwraps her sandwich. “Sophia, maybe you should apologize to Tate and this will—”

  “That’s a terrible idea, Emma!” Charlotte says, aghast.

  Emma narrows her eyes at Charlotte. The freckles on her cheeks seem to change colors with her moods. “Perhaps you should apologize. You pushed her at Tate—”

  “She was having fun!” Charlotte counters. “She kept smiling at him!”

  “You wanted Sophia to ride with Tate so you could ride with Mason!” Emma retorts. “He’s my brother, Charlotte! You could have anyone! You flirting with Mason is weird—”

  “Oh please,” Charlotte says, a faint redness glowing in her face. “I was not! And I didn’t know Tate would overreact!”

  “It’s Tate!” Emma declares. “You dated him! Of course you knew he would—”

  “It doesn’t matter what Tate or anyone else says,” I interrupt. “I wasn’t planning to tell everyone I’d gone out with Aksel!”

  A thick silence drapes over the Art History classroom. Emma and Charlotte exchange glances. It’s like they’ve morphed from enemy combatants into allies again.

  Charlotte tugs at a string on her sweater. “You weren’t going to tell us?”

  “I didn’t think you would understand,” I explain.

  “Understand what? Liking someone? Do you listen to anything we say, like—ever?”

  I rub my cheeks with my palms. Wringing my hands, I pace back and forth. I breathe in through my nose and stare at them.

  “I didn’t think you would understand what it was like to want to be with someone every moment, while at the same time be terrified of the moment it might disappear”—I snap my fingers—“instantly.”

  “Are you oblivious?” Charlotte tosses her apple core across the room. It lands with a thump in the trash bin. “Aksel Fredricksen hasn’t taken a girl out in this entire town. If he’s taking you out, Sophia, I guarantee he’s not going to—poof!—disappear anytime soon.”

  “I didn’t mean him.” I twist my finger through my necklace. “I meant me.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Front door is unlocked, Aksel texts me.

  After I stay late completing a French assignment with Charlotte, I run up Eagle Pass to Aksel’s house. However, Aksel is nowhere in sight: he’s not in the library, kitchen, or great room. I notice nothing out of the ordinary except a coffee mug in the sink—Aksel doesn’t drink coffee.

  Quickly, I descend the staircase to the ground floor. Beyond the gear room is a misty opaque surface—a swimming pool. A very grand swimming pool, framed by a high cedar-planked ceiling and plate glass windows overlooking the steep mountain summit.

  Aksel is underwater at the far end. Sidestepping a heap of underwater diving equipment, I sit cross-legged on the pool deck and pull off my Dale of Norway headband.

  “Thought I heard an intruder,” Aksel says, surfacing. He swims over. When he reaches me, he wraps his large hands around my ankles and stands up in the water, nearly pulling me in. I laugh, pushing back at his shoulders.

  He shifts to place his arms on either side of me, elbows locked, holding himself upright. Heat spreads like wildfire across my chest until it constricts my airways, like I can’t breathe.

  His hand is wet yet warm when he strokes my cheek. He outlines my lips with his thumb. He bends forward to kiss me, then stops, eyebrows knitting together.

  He touches my chin with his forefinger, tilting my neck back.

  “You do have a scar,” he says bluntly, tracing the delicate skin with his forefinger.

  “It’s old,” I say quickly, my ears pink.

  “I never noticed …,” he murmurs.

  The scar is the length of my pinkie, a millimeter wide, and directly in the crease where my head meets my neck. “It was a car accident. A piece of glass.” I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

  I draw my feet up and fold them into my chest.

  He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

  “You had a visitor?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  Aksel places his palms flat on the edge and hops out of the pool. “How’d you know?”

  “The coffee mug in the sink.”

  He stares at me, amused, half smiling. However, his smile fades as he looks darkly across the water. “He shouldn’t have come.” He grimaces.

  “Who?”

  “Martin,” Aksel sighs. “My grandfather. Guardian now.”

  After a moment’s hesitation I say, “Why didn’t he stay? Did he want something?”

  Aksel looks over his shoulder. I follow his gaze. On the cedar pool deck is an envelope with a letter halfway out. I stretch my arm back to retrieve it. On the top of the page is a blue embossed letterhead. I only have to read the first paragraph.

  “You’ve b
een admitted,” I say faintly.

  Aksel nods.

  “Congratulations,” I force out. “So, you’re going?” I try to stifle the unexplained panic rising in my voice.

  Aksel leans back, resting his weight on his elbows. His expression is contemplative.

  “I’ve dreamed of becoming a SEAL since I was twelve—getting helo-ed into some Siberian inlet, sneaking underwater to some fortress, ambushing bad guys …” His voice is tinged with sincerity and regret.

  I glance at the letter, trying to decipher his guarded response. “And your grandfather—Martin—came here to persuade you to not attend the Naval Academy?”

  Aksel shifts his hands, scowling. “He insists I should attend an Ivy League school like the rest of my family.”

  A lingering suspicion that he is hiding something leaks into my thoughts. “And … that’s a bad option?”

  Aksel’s jaw clenches. He looks disgusted. “He says the military is no place for ‘someone like me.’ ”

  “Has he seen you shoot?” I laugh. “Aksel, the only people who shoot better than you are combat snipers.”

  Aksel draws his hands through his wet hair and then shakes it out. “He doesn’t mean someone with my marksmanship.” Aksel looks down at his hands, averting his eyes from mine. His neck is a blistering shade of red. “He means someone … privileged.”

  I whistle under my breath. “If my mother meets Martin, she might punch him in the nose.”

  While Aksel’s presence still unnerves me, my presence seems to conflict him. Aksel’s eyes dart between me and the far side of the pool.

  “I suppose it’s my own fault for confiding in him about my parents’ deaths.” Aksel shrugs. “It was already hard enough for him, losing his daughter. But my dad flew into the mountains and performed surgery on those who otherwise would have died. He believed in it, you know? Using medicine to save the world. He would never have done anything to get himself, or my mom, killed.”

  When Aksel looks back at me, as if he’s said too much, the turquoise of the pool reflects in his eyes so they appear a vivid blue. He stands and grabs my backpack off the floor. Throwing a sweatshirt over his head, the corner of his lip tilts upward in an exasperated, restless smile. “Let’s get some food,” he says, pulling me onto my feet.