Page 7 of First Echo

brOOKE

A rt? Madeline Hayes likes art? I never would have guessed in a million years that the queen of our cheer squad had a serious artistic side, let alone such a bold and surprising talent.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pieces hanging on her bedroom walls.

The drawings, the paintings, each one signed with M.G.

Hayes in a neat little flourish at the corner.

Every image drew me in—wild colors blending in a hazy skyline, a portrait of a woman’s face highlighted in smoky charcoal, surreal plants twisting around each other in breathtaking detail.

They were actually good, not some mediocre attempt.

It looked professional, like maybe she could hang them in a gallery someday if she wanted to.

For a moment, I felt like I was standing in a different world, somewhere far from the typical school dramas or my own relentless studying.

Maybe I didn’t know the real Madeline Hayes after all.

The thought unsettled me. She was already so confusing—arrogant, popular, guarded, and yet somehow more complicated than I ever imagined.

Did I even want to figure her out? I honestly wasn’t sure.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, excitement clear in her voice. Her eyes were bright, almost like she was a little kid waiting to hear my reaction, which felt oddly vulnerable for her.

“It’s not at all what I expected,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though I was still in awe of the colorful chaos surrounding me. “I didn’t exactly peg you for the artist type.”

“Most people don’t,” she replied with a small shrug. “I’m not just all looks, you know. I have other interests besides cheerleading.”

There was something about the way she said it.

Her tone was open and genuine rather than defensive or sarcastic.

It struck me that maybe she was used to people assuming she had no depth.

Maybe she hated that people only saw the pretty, popular side of her—and then she turned around and presented herself in a way that only reinforced that stereotype.

The contradiction left me strangely breathless, like I was seeing a side of her I’d never expected to witness.

I didn’t know how to react to such honesty.

My brain spun, searching for some appropriate response, but everything felt clumsy.

I’d never been great at dealing with people, anyway.

I was more comfortable buried in my books, or lost in my own solitary routines.

Which is probably why I don’t have any friends, I thought wryly.

“Ahem… let’s, uhm… start with chemistry,” I mumbled awkwardly, struggling to shift the conversation.

She nodded, but her eyes lingered on me, like she was curious about whether I was genuinely impressed or just pretending. The intensity in her gaze made my stomach do a funny little flip.

I cleared my throat again and sat down beside her on the bed, opening the thick chemistry textbook already splayed out on the rumpled blankets.

The mattress dipped a little under my weight, and the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and sweet—wrapped around me, making it hard to focus on the words in front of me. I took a slow, calming breath.

About five minutes into my explanation, I noticed Madeline wasn’t even looking at the book. She was staring at me, not just casually, but with her eyebrows slightly furrowed, as if trying to decode something mysterious.

“What?” I asked, confused, letting the sentence I’d been reading trail off.

“Is studying all you ever do?” she said, half-incredulous.

“Wha—why? What do you mean?”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Her lips curled into a teasing smirk, and she leaned back, crossing her arms lightly. “Are you locked in your room all day?”

“No, I am not,” I said, trying to keep a firm tone. “I’m just good at studying. Unlike you, apparently, which is why we should continue.”

She ignored my attempt to redirect her attention and cocked her head. “Tell me then—what is it that Brooke Winters does all day besides being a nerd?”

The word nerd stung, even though I already suspected she thought of me that way. I hated that she had no issue throwing the insult around, especially considering she’s the one who needed my help. But I tried to stay calm.

“No, we should really keep going,” I said, voice clipped. “We have a lot to do.”

“No.” Her arms folded across her chest in a resolute, final manner.

I blinked. “No? What do you mean, no? ”

“I mean no,” she said simply. “We’re not continuing until you tell me what you do every day.”

“Why are you so interested in my life all of a sudden?” I asked, my irritation mounting.

She paused, her gaze flicking momentarily to the paintings on the wall before landing back on me. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

There was something about the set of her jaw, something stubborn and yet strangely genuine.

I felt the prick of frustration—and something else I couldn’t name.

It made my face feel hot, and my chest tightened in ways that were unfamiliar.

I hated it, but I also felt a tiny spark of… I don’t know. Maybe it was intrigue.

“Fine, if you really want to know.” I sighed, setting the textbook down beside me.

“I do,” she said again, more softly this time. No sarcasm, no bite. Just an earnest interest that almost disarmed me.

“After school, I study for a bit,” I began hesitantly, “sometimes I go to the gym, then I watch Netflix or read a book before bed. Not very exciting, I know.”

She looked at me like I’d just announced I was an alien from another planet. Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth parting in surprise, which quickly turned into an amused grin.

“What is it?” I asked, face warming.

“Okay, first of all… you go to the gym?” she said, obviously struggling not to laugh.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I answered, lifting my chin. “You can’t tell?”

She snorted, a real, unguarded laugh. “Not really, no.”

I rolled my eyes, but a small grin snuck onto my lips. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Second of all, the studying and reading, yeah, I can see that,” she continued, “but Netflix? That, I cannot believe.”

“Well, you better start believing it. Because it’s the truth.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Prove it. What’s your favorite show?”

I felt a pang of apprehension. If I tell her it’s Game of Thrones, she’ll have a field day.

I imagined her smug face, calling me a super-nerd for loving dragons, medieval politics, and epic battles.

My gaze flicked around her room, searching for an alternative.

Some random show name popped into my head— Gossip Girl, a show I could totally picture Madeline starring in.

“Gossip Girl,” I said confidently, trying to keep a straight face.

She actually burst out laughing. It was a musical sound, equal parts amusement and disbelief. “No, it’s not,” she said, wiping a nonexistent tear from her eye. “That was a decent try, but I can see right through you. Now tell me the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Her words made me pause. I wouldn’t lie to you. It was such a strange thing to say, coming from her. It felt oddly personal, like she was trying to form some sort of connection.

I swallowed, feeling my face grow hot again. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll tell you. It’s Game of Thrones.”

She smirked, clearly satisfied. “See? I knew you were a nerd.”

My jaw tightened. “You know, I really hate that word.”

“Noted,” she said with a lazy grin.

“Alright,” I said, flipping open the chemistry book again. “Now that you’ve pried into my personal life, can we please get back to studying?”

“Fine,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Whatever you want.”

I started explaining molecular bonds and electron configurations, pointing to diagrams and occasionally glancing over to see if she was at least pretending to follow along.

For a few minutes, it was okay—she nodded here and there, asked a short question.

But then I noticed her expression drifting, like she was physically in the room but her mind was a million miles away.

Her gaze would slip to the corner of her desk where her pencils were scattered, or to the paintings on the wall, or sometimes to me.

I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but it was definitely not about protons or electrons. As her gaze lingered on my profile, I felt myself flush again, though I tried to hide it by tapping on the book with my pen.

I just wished she’d focus. Yet, there was a part of me that couldn’t help being a little curious about what was going on in her head.

Was she thinking about her next drawing, or maybe something else in her life that was weighing her down?

And why had she shown me that genuine side of herself when she talked about her art, then snapped right back to the confident, almost cocky persona that everyone knew her for?

I pushed the question aside. I was here to help her study, to save her from failing chemistry. I had no business trying to figure out the mystery of Madeline Hayes. No matter how captivating those paintings on the wall were, or how unexpectedly she seemed to open up.

So I cleared my throat and repeated the last part of my explanation, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could anchor her attention back to the periodic table instead of wherever her thoughts were drifting off to.

All the while, I couldn’t ignore the stubborn beat of my heart, or the strange, electric feeling settling in the room.

I told myself it was just nerves, and that I just wanted to be done with this session, so I could leave and pretend things were back to normal.

But I knew there was no going back to normal. Not when Madeline Hayes was turning out to be so much more than I’d ever imagined.