Page 4 of First Echo

MADELINE

I can’t believe I need tutoring. Just thinking about it made my stomach twist into a painful knot.

I was never the kind of person who needed extra help in school.

In fact, for most of my life, academics were barely something I worried about.

I showed up, did the minimum, and still got decent grades.

Until now. Until chemistry. This was so embarrassing.

I didn’t even know where the tutoring center was and had to awkwardly ask one of the hall monitors for directions.

They looked at me with a slight smirk, like it was amusing to see me lost on school property. The nerve.

I’d barely ever been around after classes, let alone set foot in the tutoring center.

I usually had better things to do, like sneaking out with friends, driving around town, or attending parties I probably should have skipped.

But there I was, turning the doorknob to a place that felt utterly foreign.

The moment I stepped inside, a horrible smell assaulted my nose—this humid odor that reminded me of wet dog.

It was like the ventilation didn’t work properly or something.

There were a few ancient couches lining the walls, sagging in the middle, and some battered-looking desks scattered around the small, window-lined room.

Sticky notes were pinned on the notice board, advertising math help, literature tutoring, extra-credit sessions for biology.

It all felt so far removed from my life that I cringed just from being there. This is my worst nightmare come true.

I glanced at my phone. It showed that class had ended a good fifteen minutes ago, or at least it had for me.

The teacher ended our lesson early, and I took advantage, slipping out quickly.

Now I stood, fidgeting in front of a cracked whiteboard that displayed tomorrow’s tutoring schedule.

There was no mention of my name, which only served to remind me how alien this whole place was to me.

Where even is this tutor? The more time passed, the more desperate I felt to escape before anyone I knew could walk by and witness me in this place.

There was a slight draft from the windows, which rattled a bit in the frames.

The day was miserably cold, and I had to wrap my arms around myself for warmth.

At least the tutoring center was quiet—no prying eyes or mocking whispers yet.

As I waited, I looked through the window and noticed a figure approaching the door.

The glass was a bit foggy from the inside, making it hard to see any defining features.

But as the door opened, letting in a rush of chilly air, I saw a short girl, about 5’3, walk in.

Her long brown hair was cut into one of those layered, wavy styles that looked effortless, like she barely thought about it but still managed to make it work.

It framed her face and fell over her shoulders in a way that wasn’t overly done, just…

there. Her cheeks were pink from the cold outside, and she reached up to smooth a few stray strands behind her ear.

The frames accentuated her dark eyes, giving her a bookish, studious look.

She wore black boots and dark blue jeans that clung nicely to her legs.

Topping off the outfit was a shapeless and somewhat boring hoodie—like she didn’t particularly care about the latest trends or how she looked.

It was a stark contrast to the carefully curated outfits I was used to seeing (and wearing) every day.

I recognized her from my chemistry class, even though I barely paid attention to anyone in that room.

But I had no idea she was a tutor. Then again, I didn’t even know her name before Mr. Sinclair told me to meet a Brooke Winters here.

So it wasn’t exactly a shock that I didn’t know her story.

She looked at me with a hint of hesitation, probably as taken aback as I was.

I just wanted to leave as soon as possible, so I did the first thing that popped into my head: I set the time and place on my terms and made my exit.

I told her to meet me at my house on Thursday at 5 pm.

It’s not like someone like her would have plans on a Thursday night, right?

She looked a bit flustered at how curt I was, but I figured that was her problem, not mine.

As soon as I left, I got this sinking feeling in my chest, reminding me that as much as I wanted to go home, I was also dreading what awaited me there.

I just knew Julian had already tattled to our parents that I got an F in chemistry, and then I’d have to admit I needed a tutor, which was humiliating on its own.

So I made a decision: I went for a drive to clear my head before dealing with that chaos.

My car is one of the only things in my life I can actually call mine.

I turned on the engine and felt a sense of relief wash over me as I pulled out of the school parking lot, the tires crunching over stray gravel.

The roads were quiet in that late-afternoon lull, with only a few cars passing by.

I fiddled with the radio, jumping from station to station until I landed on some pop song I halfway liked.

The sky was gray, threatening rain or maybe even snow, and the gloom outside matched my mood.

I drove aimlessly around town, passing the same old diners, boutiques, and that run-down cinema that had been closed since forever.

Everything looked dull and lifeless, but part of me found solace in the emptiness.

At least nobody was bothering me here in my car.

Eventually, though, I couldn’t keep going in circles forever.

I had to go home. So I pulled up into our driveway, feeling the tension coil inside me like a spring.

The house loomed large and imposing, pristine white walls and enormous columns that practically screamed old money.

My parents loved to flaunt our family name whenever they could.

I saw the front door opening, and in the doorway stood Julian with a big smile on his face.

I instantly knew he’d already spilled the beans about my grade and was probably gloating.

My dear twin brother lived for moments like these.

He had that stupid, smug look on his face, the one where he narrowed his eyes just enough to look like a cat about to pounce on a helpless mouse.

I shoved him aside as I walked in, not in the mood for his remarks.

He only laughed, which made my blood boil even more.

Before I could greet my parents, my mother started yelling.

Her voice filled the spacious foyer, echoing off the high ceilings and marble floors, making it impossible to ignore.

But I tried. I let her scolding wash over me like a static wave while I stared into space, picturing all the different ways I might kill Julian for ratting me out.

I caught a glimpse of my father standing off to the side, arms crossed, looking disappointed.

He often left the berating to Mom, content to add a solemn nod or a heavy sigh now and then.

“ Are you even listening, Madeline?! ” my mom screamed, exasperated.

I hated how they set these impossibly high standards for me. It was never enough to just be a normal teenager—I had to be perfect. I had to attend every social function, look immaculate, maintain high grades, and essentially present myself as a model daughter. But I’m not perfect. Nobody is.

“Yes, Mom, it will be fine, I already got a tutor,” I finally managed, trying to keep my voice even.

“A tutor? Do you know how that looks for us, Madeline?” she shot back sharply, stepping forward in her heels that clicked against the pristine floor.

I stared at her, feeling the pressure behind my eyes. She looked impeccable, as always, hair styled, wearing a tailored dress, every inch the image of a perfect trophy wife. But her eyes were cold, disapproving.

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” she said right before walking over to Julian. She draped an arm around his shoulders with a proud smile. “Well done, sweetie, a B. Maybe you could teach your sister a thing or two.”

It was official. I hated my family. Actually, that was putting it mildly. At that moment, I hated my life. The only good thing I had left was Sam.

Life used to be fun and carefree, or at least that’s how it felt when I was younger.

As far back as I can remember, I had it all—great friends, pretty clothes, people who admired me, parents who spoiled me with anything I wanted.

But as I got older, all those privileges came with impossible expectations.

I wasn’t allowed to do anything that didn’t fit into their perfect mold.

No “wasteful” hobbies, no sports that might get in the way of academics, no free time that could lead to a social scandal.

They wanted me to get straight A’s, look pretty, be the head cheerleader dating the quarterback, like some sort of miserable trophy wife in training. Just like my mom.

I used to love art. I still do. From the time I was a little girl, I adored painting, sketching, and anything that let my imagination run free.

It came naturally to me, like breathing.

But my parents brushed it off as a frivolous pastime.

They limited when and where I could practice, eventually confining it to my bedroom.

They never said it outright, but the message was clear: being a perfect daughter meant focusing on things they approved of, and art wasn’t one of them.

I stormed off to my room, ignoring Julian’s smug grin.

My door slammed behind me, reverberating through the silent hallway.

I tossed my bag onto the plush carpet, kicked off my shoes, and hopped into my private bathroom for a quick, scalding shower that did little to wash away the day’s frustrations.

Steam fogged up the mirror, obscuring my reflection, which was a relief.

I didn’t want to look at my own face, filled with bitterness and exhaustion.

After my nighttime routine—a halfhearted one, because I was too drained to care—I threw myself onto my bed.

The sheets felt cold against my skin, but I pulled the blanket over me and stared up at the ceiling.

I started wondering what life is like for people like Brooke.

Maybe people who have no name to uphold, no endless demands hovering over their heads.

It must be nice to be a nobody sometimes, free of absurdly high expectations and free of a reputation that could unravel at any moment.

It sounds like a dream. A nice, free, carefree dream.

Eventually, sleep crept in, though my mind was still clouded with anger.

Art, Sam, the humiliating tutor sessions, the reality that I got an F…

everything swirled in my thoughts. Tomorrow would be another day, another chance for my parents to remind me how I’m failing to live up to their impossible standards.

The only small comfort was that I’d made it through this one without completely losing my sanity.

But deep inside, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that things were only going to get worse.