“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, feeling 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.