Page 14 of First Echo

She's asleep . The realization struck me as oddly endearing.

Madeline Hayes, always so perfectly put together, was passed out fully clothed on her bed, looking utterly exhausted.

There was something vulnerable about her in that moment, something that made her seem more human and less like the untouchable queen bee I was used to seeing at school.

I moved quietly around the room, not wanting to wake her.

I dried my hair with a towel, trying to tame the waves into something presentable, then settled back on my bed with my book.

This time, I managed to actually read, losing myself in the story as the afternoon light gradually faded outside our window.

I was so absorbed in my book that I almost lost track of time.

A glance at my phone showed it was nearly six—dinner time.

The teachers had been very clear that attendance at group meals was mandatory, a way of checking in on everyone and making sure no one had fallen off the mountain or gotten into trouble.

Madeline was still sound asleep, her face pressed into the pillow in a way that would probably leave creases on her cheek.

For a moment, I debated letting her sleep, but the thought of Mr. Sinclair marking her absent and coming to check on her—and by extension, me—was enough to make me decide waking her was the lesser evil.

"Madeline," I said softly, then a bit louder when she didn't stir. "Madeline, wake up."

She groaned and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

"Madeline," I tried again, this time gently touching her shoulder. "It's dinner time. We have to go downstairs."

Her eyes flew open, disoriented and slightly panicked. She sat up quickly, wincing as she did so. "What time is it?" she demanded, her voice rough with sleep.

"Almost six," I replied, stepping back to give her space. "Dinner starts in five minutes."

"And you're just waking me up now?" she snapped, suddenly fully alert.

"I've been asleep for hours! Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

I blinked, taken aback by her hostility. "I didn't realize I was supposed to be your personal alarm clock."

She was already on her feet, frantically running her fingers through her tangled hair, her expression growing more horrified as she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

"Look at me! I can't go down like this. My hair is a disaster, and I'm still in my ski clothes!"

"You look fine, Madeline," I said, my patience wearing thin. "Everyone's going to be in casual clothes anyway."

" Fine? " she repeated, as if I'd just suggested she had three heads. "I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backward. And my makeup—" She caught sight of her face in the mirror and actually gasped. "I can't be seen like this!"

Something inside me snapped. All the goodwill I'd been feeling toward her, all the benefit of the doubt I'd been extending, evaporated in an instant. "You look fine, Madeline, so stop being so goddamn insufferable for just one minute and appreciate the fact that I woke you up at all!"

She spun around, her blue eyes flashing with anger. "I didn't ask to be woken up at the last possible second! And excuse me for caring how I look in public. Some of us have reputations to maintain."

"Oh yes, your precious reputation," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Heaven forbid anyone sees the real Madeline Hayes without her perfect hair and makeup. They might actually realize you're a human being instead of some plastic doll."

Her mouth fell open, a mixture of shock and rage crossing her features. "You don't know the first thing about me or my life, so don't pretend you do. It's easy for you to judge when you don't care what anyone thinks of you."

"You think it's easy?" I asked, my voice rising. "You think it's easy being invisible, being the girl no one wants to room with? At least people look at you, even if it's only because of your designer clothes and your rich parents."

We stood there, glaring at each other, the air between us crackling with tension. In that moment, I remembered exactly why I'd disliked her from the beginning. She was shallow, self-absorbed, obsessed with appearances. And she reminded me of everything I wasn't, everything I'd never be.

"This," she said finally, gesturing between us, "is why this roommate situation is going to be a disaster. We can't even get through one conversation without fighting."

And though I hated to admit it, she was right.

Whatever brief connection we might have shared earlier—that moment of gratitude, that flicker of something like understanding—was gone.

We were back to being who we'd always been: the popular girl and the outsider, oil and water, fundamentally incompatible.

"Let's just go to dinner," I said, the fight suddenly draining out of me.

"You can blame your appearance on me if anyone asks. Tell them I hogged the bathroom or something."

A look of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a guarded expression.

"Fine," she said, grabbing a hairbrush from her bag and quickly running it through her hair.

"But just so we're clear, this doesn't change anything. We're still not friends."

"Trust me," I said, the words coming out more bitter than I'd intended, "that's the one thing we agree on.”

As we headed down to dinner, not speaking, not even looking at each other, I couldn't help feeling a strange sense of loss.

For a brief moment, I'd glimpsed something different in Madeline, something that had made me curious, even hopeful.

But now that glimpse was gone, and I was left with the same old realization: people like Madeline Hayes and people like me don't mix. We never have, and we never will.

And yet, as we entered the dining hall and I watched her plaster on a smile and glide over to her waiting friends, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd seen something real beneath that perfect facade.

Something that made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was more to Madeline Hayes than met the eye.