Page 8 of First Echo

MADELINE

W hile Brooke was trying to explain acids and bases to me, I couldn’t stop focusing on one strange realization: I actually kind of liked talking to her.

Not that I liked her, obviously, because I didn’t.

And it was painfully obvious that she didn’t like me either.

But maybe that was exactly why it felt so different.

She wasn’t here because she wanted something from me, or because she felt obligated to pretend she liked me.

She was here because she had to be. Something about that made it more honest than any other conversation I’d had in a while.

Everyone else in my life either wanted some form of approval, or they wanted access to what I could offer.

Half the time, they were just using me to feel better about themselves or to climb some imaginary social ladder.

But Brooke didn’t care about any of that.

There were no forced smiles, no empty compliments, no giggling at my every word.

She didn’t hesitate to tell me exactly what she thought of me, good or bad, and it was oddly refreshing.

It was as if, for once, nobody was dancing around my ego.

I glanced at her and saw the determination in her eyes as she delved deeper into the chapter.

Her voice rose and fell in an almost rhythmic way while she explained acids, bases, pH values, and all that other stuff I had never really bothered to learn.

Her hair kept slipping down her shoulder, and every once in a while she’d tuck it back behind her ear, looking so focused that I doubted she was even aware she was doing it.

I caught myself staring at her. It was then that I noticed the tiny bump on her nose, a feature so small you’d never see it unless you were up close.

I felt a strange pull in my chest, like curiosity tugging me forward.

I told myself it was just me being bored, but a nagging voice in the back of my head insisted it was something more.

She must have felt my eyes on her because she looked up, confusion flickering across her face. Then she let out a short, almost nervous laugh.

“What?” she asked. “Do I have something stuck in my teeth or something?”

I hesitated for a moment, thinking about how to respond, then blurted out, “Why don’t you have friends?”

Her face shifted immediately. Whatever calm had been there disappeared in an instant, and her expression turned guarded.

“Excuse me? Listen, Madeline, I’m here to help you. You constantly asking me questions about my personal life is not helping me help you.”

I’d only meant it as a passing curiosity.

She talked about her daily life the other day, but she never mentioned meeting anyone or hanging out.

I was merely wondering about it, but she acted like I’d stepped on her soul.

She was the one overreacting. Had she forgotten who she was talking to? I am Madeline Hayes.

“Why are you so stuck up all the time?” I snapped, my temper flaring.

She scoffed and stood up from the bed so quickly that it almost startled me. “Me? Stuck up?” Her voice trembled with anger. “Have you ever looked in a mirror? Oh, wait. Who am I kidding? That’s all you do. Maybe that’s why you’re failing chemistry.”

I could feel my pulse beating in my neck. Her words stung more than I wanted to admit. She had no idea what I dealt with day in and day out in this house, this family, this life. Who did she think she was, talking to me that way?

I shot up from the bed, too, closing the space between us in a couple of quick steps. We were inches apart now, so close that I could feel the warmth of her breath near my collarbone. My heart pounded, and I hated how my body betrayed me by reacting that way.

I stared straight into her eyes. “Get the hell out of my house. Now.” My voice dropped low, cold, final.

“Gladly,” she said, her own anger radiating off her. There was no sign of fear or intimidation in her gaze. If anything, she looked ready to push back if I dared say anything else.

She stormed out of my room, mumbling something under her breath. I couldn’t make out the words, but the frustration in her tone was unmistakable. I stood there, fists clenched, as I heard her footsteps fade down the hallway.

After she left, I felt… something. Something uncomfortable and heavy, like a weight lodged in my chest. Annoyance, definitely, and frustration, of course, but there was also this nagging sensation that I had messed up.

That I was the one who’d pushed it too far.

But why should I feel guilty? She was the one who overreacted.

She was the one who’d gotten all sensitive about a harmless question.

I shook my head, trying to clear the thought. It was ridiculous. I didn’t care about Brooke Winters or her feelings, not even a little.

(Right…?)

We didn’t speak after that.

Days passed in a tense silence, at least on my end.

I kept expecting some text from Mr. Sinclair telling me that my tutor was refusing to continue or some lecture from Brooke in the hallway about how ungrateful I was.

But there was nothing. Just a whole lot of emptiness whenever I thought about it for too long.

Finally, I did something unthinkable: I went to chemistry class. I was hardly ever on time, but today I walked in right before the bell rang. Sam had saved me a seat as usual, but my eyes drifted to the chair next to Brooke, which was empty. On impulse, I slid into the seat beside her.

I could feel the tension radiating off her the moment I sat down. She stared at the board, refusing to even acknowledge my presence. Fine. Two could play that game. The entire class passed like that, with both of us pretending the other didn’t exist.

The weird part was that nobody else seemed to notice.

Everyone was busy whispering about the upcoming senior ski trip, rummaging through their textbooks, or rolling their eyes at Mr. Sinclair’s monotone lecture.

I focused on my notes, which mostly amounted to scribbles in the margins, while Brooke took furious, detailed notes as though her life depended on it.

Right before the bell, Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat for an announcement. “Don’t forget about the senior ski trip. We leave in five days at seven in the morning.” Then he looked right at me. “Don’t be late.”

I bit my lip to keep from snarking back, but I couldn’t help it. “I won’t be,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

That’s when I heard it—a soft, mocking laugh. I turned my head toward the sound. Brooke. She was looking away from me by the time I caught sight of her, but there was no mistaking who had laughed.

SHE was mocking ME? Unbelievable.

The bell rang, and everyone started packing up. I tossed my notebook into my bag, glancing at Brooke with narrowed eyes. “Are you going?” I asked, making no effort to hide the judgment in my tone.

She paused, then just let out a quiet pff, as if to say: Why are you even talking to me? Her expression said it all—annoyed, dismissive, and something else I couldn’t quite read. Without a word, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out.

A small part of me wanted to laugh it off, but instead I felt a pang of something I refused to label.

Usually, people were the ones who felt nervous around me, not the other way around.

I was the one who decided whether to ignore them or grace them with my attention. That was how it had always been.

But Brooke didn’t care about any of that. She barely bothered to mask her irritation, and then she just… walked away. No dramatic insults, no last-minute jabs. Just a cold, final exit that left me standing there like I was the one who didn’t matter.

I found myself scoffing out loud as I watched her leave. “Wow. So polite. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for that delightful response.” My words dripped with sarcasm, echoing uselessly in the nearly empty classroom.

She didn’t turn around. She just kept on walking.

Rude bitch.

Except, for some reason, the anger in my chest didn’t burn as hot as I wanted it to.

It felt muddled, twisted with that same unsettled feeling I’d had when she stormed out of my house.

I stuffed my binder into my backpack, cursing under my breath.

She’d see soon enough that nobody treated Madeline Hayes like an afterthought.

I just had no idea how to make that point clear without looking like I actually cared what she thought of me.

So instead, I gritted my teeth, lifted my chin, and told myself I didn’t give a damn.

Because if there was one thing I didn’t want to do, it was admit that maybe… it bothered me more than it should.