Page 30 of First Echo

"About your question last night," Madeline said suddenly, her voice quieter. "Why I'm friends with them..."

I looked at her, surprised. I hadn't expected an answer, especially not here.

"It's complicated," she continued, staring at her gloved hands. "We've been friends since forever, you know? Victoria and I were in the same kindergarten class. Julian's my twin, obviously. And the others... it's just always been that way. It's easy. Comfortable."

The way she said "comfortable" made it sound like a prison sentence.

"Even when they're not actually good friends?" I asked carefully.

She shrugged. "They're not all bad. And besides... who else would I be friends with? It's not like you can just... start over in high school. Everyone already knows who you are, who you're supposed to be."

Her words hit home harder than I wanted to admit. After my mom died, I became "the girl whose mother died," and that label shaped everything. The pitying looks, the whispers, the way conversations would die when I approached—it was suffocating.

"Maybe you can," I said softly. "Start over, I mean. Maybe not with everyone, but... with someone."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, something shifting in her expression. I saw a flash of the real Madeline—the one who had laughed during our snowball fight, who had picked up snowboarding with surprising determination, who sometimes seemed lost inside her own perfect life.

Before she could respond, her expression changed.

"So what's your excuse?" she asked, her tone lighter but with a curious edge. "Why don't you have friends? And don't give me some sarcastic non-answer. I answered your question."

The question caught me off guard. My mind raced for a response—something witty, something dismissive, something that wouldn't reveal too much. But images flashed through my head: my mother's funeral, the awkward condolences, the whispers that followed me through hallways.

I'd always kept to myself, even before my mom died. I preferred books to people, found more comfort in solitude than in forced social interaction. But after she was gone, those walls grew higher. Stronger. It wasn't just preference anymore; it was protection.

Maybe that's what Madeline and I had in common—we were both hiding, just in different ways. She hid in plain sight, surrounded by people but never truly seen. I hid in solitude, keeping everyone at a distance so they couldn't hurt me.

For a brief, disorienting moment, I wanted to tell her this. Maybe it was the mountain air, or the way she'd been honest with me. Whatever the reason, I found myself on the verge of opening up.

But then the lift station appeared ahead, saving me from having to answer.

"Oh, would you look at that," I said, relief washing over me. "We're here."

Madeline gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing, but she didn't push it. We both prepared to disembark, gathering our gear.

"You're not getting off that easy," she warned, but there was no real threat in her voice. "This conversation isn't over."

"Isn't it?" I asked innocently, sliding forward as the lift reached the exit point.

We pushed off the lift, gliding in opposite directions—Madeline to the right, me to the left. I knelt to strap my free foot into my binding, perhaps focusing more intently than necessary on the task.

"Need help with that?" Madeline called over, surprising me again.

"I've been doing this since I was ten," I replied. "I think I can manage."

"Just trying to be helpful," she said with a small shrug.

"Wow, Madeline Hayes being helpful. Alert the media."

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile. "You know, you're not as funny as you think you are."

"And you're not as intimidating as you think you are," I shot back.

"I don't try to be intimidating."

I looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Right. And I don't try to be sarcastic."

That got another genuine laugh out of her. It was becoming addictive, making her laugh like that.

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