“What happened to you?!” Charlotte stares down at me.
Beneath the porch light, I notice that not only are my leggings ripped, but I am covered in mud, leaves, twigs, and possibly remnants of bear fur—ugh.
I wipe a chunk of mud off my knee and stomp my sneakers on the doormat. “I got caught in the storm.”
“You ran here?” Charlotte asks, perplexed. She peers over my shoulder. “Alone?”
He had taken me on a trail that wasn’t on my father’s map, and we’d emerged from the forest near Charlotte’s house, at the base of a narrow granite canyon marked by a sign—Eagle Pass.
Wondering if he waited for me to make it inside, I turn. Both the driveway and wet glistening road are empty.
“Yeah,” I answer, realizing I still have the jagged stone in my palm. Discreetly, I toss it onto her lawn.
Charlotte drops back on her heels; her long hair cascades over her shoulders in waves. “Why didn’t you drive?”
“I don’t have a license.”
She shuts the door, laughing, “Sophia, when you learn to drive—drive!”
Charlotte’s bedroom resembles a tree house; two walls are plastered in a collage of Winter Olympics posters; the remaining walls are windows. After inspecting my throbbing thigh, mutating into various shades of violet and reddish-violet, I change into a pair of Charlotte’s royal blue Waterford High sweats and return downstairs.
“Heard you got wet.” Emma is removing bowls from a cupboard beside the fridge, wearing a plaid button-up shirt, with her auburn hair braided down her back.
Laughing, I detangle my damp hair with my fingers. “Slightly.”
Emma sets down the bowls. “Too bad you missed cross-country. We needed you!”
“You run cross-country too?”
“Too?” Emma inquires.
“You’re a swimmer, right?” I flush. “I saw the posters at school … and your hair … it was wet earlier … and smelled faintly like chlorine …”
Emma draws a strand of hair to her nose, laughing. “You’re right, Sherlock. The season’s about to start, so I’ve begun training in the mornings.”
Charlotte pulls out a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer and hands me a spoon. “Have as much as you want. We have more.”
They scoop ice cream into their bowls, then drown the ice cream in chocolate brownies, chocolate sprinkles, and chocolate shavings, before drizzling a thick chocolate syrup over the mound like a volcano. Our mudslides are so gigantic they drip over the sides of the bowls and I have to lick the rim before eating a spoonful.
As we settle into cozy velvet chairs by the fireplace, Charlotte turns to us intently. “Okay, let’s play a game. Never Have I Ever”—she scrunches her nose—“been to Paris. You eat, Sophia, because you’ve done it and I haven’t. Get it?”
My mouth already full of chocolate shavings, I eat another bite of ice cream.
Grinning, Charlotte points to Emma. “You’re up.”
Emma wipes her mouth. “Never Have I Ever … kissed Tate McCormick.”
Charlotte rolls her eyes, distinctly not taking a bite. Emma motions to me. “Sophia?”
I wrinkle my nose, pondering. “Never Have I Ever … been to Idaho?”
Charlotte groans. “Weak. That was totally weak!”
Emma laughs. “Shouldn’t even count.”
“Okay, okay,” Charlotte says. “Never Have I Ever … been alone with Aksel Fredricksen.”
Emma’s smile fades. She looks inquiringly at Charlotte, who points at my mudslide. “You’re supposed to take a bite.”
“Sorry?” I ask, confused.
“Sophia, you’re a terrible liar!” Charlotte leans forward. “I saw him walk you here!”
“Who?” Emma’s eyes flit between Charlotte and me.
“Yes, Sophia, who was it?” Charlotte asks innocently.
I twirl the ice cream around in my bowl. “I didn’t learn his name.”
“His name is Aksel, Sophia.” Charlotte licks her spoon. “Aksel Fredricksen.”
“Why?” Emma interrupts. “Was he heading home?”
Charlotte nods to the windows. “He lives a few miles up Eagle Pass; it’s at the base of Silver Canyon. He’s the only one up there year-round of course; everyone else just comes to ski, so it’s basically a private lane.”
Staring into the darkness, I recall the steep ravine as we emerged from the forest—Eagle Pass is more a narrow chasm between granite rather than an independent canyon.
“Didn’t you just move here?” Emma asks. “How do you know Aksel? Why did he—”
“I don’t know him. It was an accident. I was running on this trail and there was a grizzly and she attacked me and—”
“A grizzly?” Charlotte nearly chokes on her ice cream. “And you’re alive? Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“I’m not hurt!” I exclaim defensively. “I only have a bruise, and some scratches—”
We are interrupted by the doorbell.
A crew of classmates enter Charlotte’s house in a pack.
Nevertheless, for the rest of the evening, I try to keep Aksel Fredricksen out of my mind.
I fail.
CHAPTER 9
I wake at dawn. My forehead is damp, and the sheets are tangled around me. Extricating myself from the linens, I dash to the gabled window and unhook the latch. I inhale the crisp alpine air, trying to calm my nerves, to cool myself off.
Parched mouth … a smell of garlic and vinegar beneath the doorway … loud shouting on the other side of the wall … a blinding flash of light …
I cling to the window ledge. That was the past. I press my eyelids together until I see stars. It is over now. Over.
“Why did you leave so fast?” my mother asks as I hurry down the staircase a short while later, having returned home from my morning run with barely enough time to shower. “I would have joined you!” There is a reason I prefer running with my father over my mother—she can beat me, and he can’t.
She nods at my outfit: a plaid button-up blouse tucked into high-waist jeans. “All part of blending in.” She smiles ruefully.
“You’re not leaving without breakfast!” my father orders from down the hall. I step into the small, modern kitchen—marble counters, a polished-nickel faucet, and French tile on the walls. My mother’s favorite Stelton teapot is on the stove, and her Celine handbag is on the counter, but other than that—nothing. No photographs. No sticky notes with our handwriting. No handmade figurines. Nothing of us.
“They sell muesli in Waterford?” I ask, distracting myself from comparing my pristine, sterile kitchen to Charlotte’s cozy, cluttered one.
The muesli package is open on the counter. My father has made three yogurt parfaits drizzled with honey. He gives me one.
“Found it at Alpine Market. It’s actually not bad.” My father eats so quickly he’s emptied his dish and washed it before I take my first bite.
“Sit,” my mother says sternly. “Some American habits I want you to learn. Others, I do not.” She motions to me, standing in the middle of the kitchen, eating. I dutifully sit.