Page 25 of First Echo

Her eyes widened slightly. "You'd do that? Why?"

It was a fair question. Why would I help Madeline Hayes, of all people? The girl who'd spent most of our time together either insulting me or dismissing me?

I shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Because contrary to what you might think, I'm not actually in the habit of leaving people to injure themselves on mountainsides. Even people I don't particularly like."

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe?—crossed her face before she masked it with her usual confidence. "Fine," she said, raising her chin slightly. "Show me."

And so I did. I started with the absolute basics—how to position her feet, how to distribute her weight, how to use her edges to control speed and direction. Madeline listened with surprising attentiveness, her usual haughty demeanor replaced by genuine concentration.

"The most common mistake beginners make is leaning back," I explained, demonstrating the proper stance. "It feels safer, but it actually gives you less control. You want your weight centered over the board, knees bent, shoulders aligned with your feet."

She nodded, mimicking my position. "Like this?"

"Close," I said, moving closer to adjust her stance slightly. "Bend your knees a bit more. Yeah, that's better."

We started on a gentle section of the slope, just practicing the feel of sliding on the board, getting comfortable with the balance. Madeline fell a few more times, but each time she got back up more quickly, her determination never wavering.

"Try turning now," I instructed after she'd managed to go straight for a decent stretch without falling. "Shift your weight to your toes to go to your right, to your heels to go left. Don't force it—let the board do the work."

She attempted it, wobbling precariously before overcorrecting and ending up on her butt again. But instead of the frustrated scowl I expected, she actually laughed.

"This is impossible," she said, but there was no real defeat in her voice, just the exhilaration that comes with learning something new.

"It's not impossible," I assured her, offering my hand again to help her up. "It just takes practice. Try again."

And she did, again and again, each attempt a little better than the last. About half an hour into our impromptu lesson, something clicked. She linked a series of turns, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. The look of focused concentration on her face gave way to genuine delight.

"I'm doing it!" she exclaimed, her smile wider and more genuine than I'd ever seen it.

"Wow, looks like you're a natural," I called back, surprised at how pleased I felt at her progress. "Just don't get too cocky!"

But of course, she did. Feeling more confident, she picked up speed, carving wider turns and clearly enjoying the rush. I kept pace beside her, ready to step in if needed, but also surprisingly enjoying myself. There was something infectious about her enthusiasm, about seeing someone experience the joy of snowboarding for the first time.

For those moments, it was like all the tension between us had evaporated. We weren't Madeline Hayes and Brooke Winters, the popular girl and the loner, the bully and the bookworm. We were just two people enjoying the mountain, laughing when one of us took a spill, celebrating the small victories of linked turns and successful stops.

But then, predictably, Madeline's newfound confidence got the better of her. She attempted a sharper turn at a higher speed than she was ready for, caught her edge again, and went down in a flurry of snow and limbs.

"I told you so," I said, sliding to a stop beside her, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. "Didn't I warn you about getting cocky?"

She looked up at me from her position in the snow, and for a second I thought she might be actually angry. But then she pushed herself up and turned around. The next thing I knew, a handful of snow hit me square in the chest, exploding in a puff of powder. I stood there for a moment, stunned, as Madeline's laughter rang out, clear and genuine in the cold mountain air. When she looked at me, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes I'd never seen before.

"Oh, you're so asking for it," I said, already bending to gather my own ammunition.

What followed was possibly the most ridiculous and yet most fun snowball fight I'd ever participated in. We were both still attached to our boards, which made moving around challenging, but somehow that only added to the hilarity. We lobbed snowballs at each other, ducking and weaving as best we could, our laughter echoing across the slope.

Madeline's aim was surprisingly good, and she managed to nail me with several well-placed shots, including one that caught me right in the face, sending snow down the collar of my jacket. In retaliation, I maneuvered close enough to dump a handful of snow directly onto her head, causing her to shriek in mock outrage.

We were both breathless and laughing uncontrollably, feeling like little kids without a care in the world. It was strange how natural it felt, how easy it was to forget all the reasons we supposedly couldn't stand each other. In that moment, covered in snow and grinning like fools, we were just having fun.

Eventually, we called a truce, both of us winded and soaked from melting snow.

"Not bad for your first day on a board," I admitted, brushing snow from my jacket.

"Thanks to my excellent teacher," she replied, and though her tone was teasing, there seemed to be genuine gratitude behind it.

We decided to take one more run together before heading back up. This time, Madeline managed to make it all the way down without falling, her movements becoming more confident and fluid with each turn. It was impressive how quickly she'd picked it up, though I shouldn't have been surprised. For all her faults, Madeline wasn't one to back down from a challenge.

When we reached the bottom, we headed back to the lift for another run. As we waited in the short line, Madeline chatted animatedly about her progress, her eyes bright with excitement. It was a side of her I'd never seen before—unguarded, genuinelyenthusiastic, without the layer of cool detachment she usually maintained.

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