Page 16 of First Echo

brOOKE

For a brief, sleep-disoriented moment, I forgot about the argument with Madeline the night before.

Then it all rushed back—the way she'd dismissed my book, the hurt that had lanced through me when she called me boring, the way I'd instantly shut down rather than let her see how deeply her words had cut.

I glanced over at her sleeping form, bundled under the covers.

Only the top of her blonde head was visible, her face buried in the pillow.

She looked oddly vulnerable like this, stripped of all her usual confidence and cutting remarks.

There was something almost innocent about her when she was asleep.

I shook the thought away. I wasn't going to waste another precious minute thinking about Madeline Hayes.

I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to make any noise that might wake her—though I doubted anything short of a fire alarm could rouse her this early.

I grabbed my clothes and headed for the bathroom, where I changed quickly into my thermal base layers, followed by my snowboarding pants and a comfortable hoodie.

I pulled my hair up into a messy bun, not bothering with anything elaborate.

It would all be hidden under a helmet anyway.

I didn't wake Madeline. Why would I? She'd made it abundantly clear that we weren't friends.

Besides, she'd probably sleep until at least nine—that seemed more her style.

And honestly, I preferred hitting the slopes alone.

No waiting for other people, no compromising on which runs to take, just me and the mountain in perfect harmony.

The hallways were silent as I made my way down to the dining hall, my snowboard boots creating soft thuds against the carpet. Outside the large windows, the world was still bathed in pre-dawn darkness, but I could make out the faint silhouette of the mountain against the gradually lightening sky.

The dining hall was almost entirely empty when I arrived.

A few staff members were setting up the breakfast buffet, and at a small table in the corner sat Mr. Sinclair, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and what looked like student papers in the other.

Even on a ski trip, he couldn't escape grading.

He looked up as I entered, surprise registering on his face before morphing into an approving smile.

"Ms. Winters," he said, raising his coffee mug in greeting. "Early bird catches the worm, I see."

I returned his smile with a small one of my own. "Or the fresh powder, in this case."

"Indeed." He nodded toward the buffet. "You're the first student down. Better get some fuel before you head out."

I didn't need to be told twice. I loaded my plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and a slice of toast—proper mountain fuel.

As an afterthought, I grabbed an apple to stash in my pocket for later.

Sitting at a table near the window, I ate quickly, watching as the sky gradually transitioned from deep blue to the paler hues of early morning.

My mind, frustratingly, kept drifting back to Madeline. I pictured her still asleep in our room, blissfully unaware that I was already up and heading for the slopes. Would she wonder where I was when she woke up? Would she care? Why did I even care if she cared?

I shook my head, annoyed with myself. This was ridiculous. I didn't need her approval, her friendship, or anything else from her. I had been perfectly fine on my own before Mr. Sinclair forced us together for tutoring, and I would be perfectly fine after this trip ended.

Some small voice in the back of my mind whispered that maybe things would be different if I had more friends, if I wasn't always the odd one out. Maybe I should try harder to connect with people, to let them see more than just the studious exterior I presented to the world.

But no. I was happy with my life. I had my books, my snowboard, and my own thoughts for company.

I didn't need the drama that came with friendships—the petty fights, the gossip, the constant need to perform for an audience.

Look at Madeline, surrounded by people who probably didn't even know the real her.

What was the point of that kind of shallow connection?

The only person who had ever truly understood me was my mom. She had never expected me to be anything other than who I was, had never made me feel like I needed to change to be worthy of love. I missed her with a physical ache that never really went away.

I finished breakfast quickly and headed out, my board tucked under my arm, my breath puffing out in small clouds in the crisp morning air. The lifts had just started running, the first operators giving me friendly nods as I approached.

"First one up," one of them commented, his weathered face creasing into a smile beneath his beard. "Going to lay down some fresh tracks, huh?"

"That's the plan," I replied, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

The ride up was peaceful, almost meditative.

The world below me transformed as I ascended, the resort growing smaller, the vista expanding.

From here, everything looked different—cleaner, simpler, more beautiful.

Free from the complications of human interaction, the mountain existed in its own perfect state of being.

At the top, I paused for a moment, taking in the view.

The sun was just beginning to crest the eastern peaks, casting a golden glow across the untouched snow.

Perfect corduroy lines stretched down the slope where the grooming machines had passed earlier, an invitation to carve my own path through them.

I strapped in, adjusted my goggles, and pushed off.

The sensation was immediate and exhilarating—the rush of cold air against my face, the feeling of floating as my board glided over the snow, the perfect balance of control and abandon. This was where I felt most alive, most myself. This was freedom.

I carved smooth, wide turns, my board leaving clean lines through the freshly groomed snow. With each turn, I built more speed, more confidence, until I was flying down the mountain, the world reduced to nothing but the slope ahead and the board beneath my feet.

I lost track of time, taking run after run, each one better than the last as I fine-tuned my movements, pushed myself faster, tried more challenging lines. The mountain was still largely empty, a playground all to myself.

By around 8:30, though, things started to change.

More students appeared at the lifts, sleepy-eyed and bundled in their gear.

I recognized faces from our school, mixed in with other guests at the resort.

As I rode the lift up for what had to be my fourth or fifth run, I spotted a familiar group congregating at the base—Madeline and her usual entourage.

Julian was there, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, probably boasting about some run he'd barely survived.

Victoria and Audrey flanked Madeline, their matching ski outfits looking more suited for a photoshoot than actual skiing.

Sam stood close to Madeline, his arm around her shoulders as they surveyed the slopes.

From my vantage point on the lift, they looked like a scene from a movie about popular high school kids on a winter vacation. Perfect, polished, posed.

I was heading up for another run, and they were standing around chatting. I felt a small, petty sense of satisfaction at that. While they were just starting their day, I'd already been carving through fresh powder all morning.

Something strange happened during my next run.

As I carved my way down the mountain, about halfway through the descent, I noticed that I had attracted an audience.

A small cluster of people had gathered along the edge of the run, pointing and watching as I approached.

I was the only one on this particular section of the slope at the moment, and for some reason, I had become a spectacle.

Under normal circumstances, this would have horrified me. I hated being the center of attention—it was why I preferred to blend into the background at school, to go unnoticed in the classroom except when I knew the answer to a particularly difficult question. Invisibility was my comfort zone.

But here, on the mountain? It felt... different.

This was my domain, my element. I wasn't just some quiet girl who sat alone at lunch or spent her weekends reading. I was a snowboarder, and a damn good one at that. For once, people were seeing a part of me I was actually proud to show.

So instead of shrinking under their gaze, I embraced it. I laid into my turns more dramatically, picked up more speed, added in a little flair here and there—nothing too showy, just enough to demonstrate that I knew what I was doing.

As I drew closer to the bottom, I could make out individual faces in the small crowd.

There were some younger kids from our school looking impressed, a few adults nodding in appreciation of my technique, and right in the center, Madeline and her friends.

Julian was saying something to Sam, who was watching me with raised eyebrows.

Victoria and Audrey looked annoyed, probably because someone else was getting attention.

And Madeline? Her expression was harder to read. She seemed almost... conflicted? Maybe even a little impressed? The thought sent an unexpected thrill through me.

Why did I care what Madeline thought? I didn't—I told myself I didn't. And yet, as I approached the final stretch, I found myself pushing harder, carving deeper, putting on my best performance.

The moment passed quickly. I reached the bottom, slowed to a stop well away from the crowd, and unclipped one foot to skate toward the lift line.

The small audience dispersed, returning to their own activities.

I caught one last glimpse of Madeline, her blue eyes still following me, before she turned back to Sam and said something that made him laugh.

I felt a strange mixture of emotions as I headed back to the lift—pride in my abilities, satisfaction at having momentarily claimed the spotlight, and an annoying little twinge of something that felt dangerously close to caring what Madeline Hayes thought of me.

That last bit had to go. I refused to give her that kind of power. I was here for the mountain, for the snow, for the perfect solitude of carving my own path. Not for the approval of someone who thought reading books was boring and cared more about appearances than substance.

As I settled into the lift chair for another ascent, I made myself a promise: I wouldn't look for Madeline again.

I wouldn't wonder what she thought. I would focus on the snow, the sky, the sensation of flying down the mountain—all the things that brought me joy long before Madeline Hayes entered my life, and all the things that would continue to bring me joy long after she inevitably exited it.

The lift carried me higher, and with each foot of elevation, I felt a little more like myself again—Brooke Winters, snowboarder, reader, daughter of a woman who taught me to love the mountains.

Not Brooke Winters, chemistry tutor, roommate of Madeline Hayes, girl who sometimes cared too much about things she shouldn't.

As I reached the top and prepared for another run, I took a deep breath of the clear mountain air. This was my day, my mountain, my moment. And I wasn't going to let thoughts of Madeline Hayes steal even one more second of it from me.