Page 20 of First Echo

Iwoke up at 5:30 AM. It wasn't hard for me to get up early—even through the thin resort curtains, the way moonlight reflected off the snow created this beautiful, ethereal glow that crept into our room. It was like a whispered invitation that only the truly dedicated could hear. Fresh powder. First tracks. Perfect conditions.

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 botheringwith 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 myfourth 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.

---