backside of the barn, blocking our route. In the rearview mirror, I check the distance between Ryan and us—150 meters. I slam on the brake, shift into reverse, and throttle up.
“Sophia, what are you doing?” Emma squeals.
We move backward at a clip. Up to speed, I yank the emergency brake and palm the steering wheel left, popping the stick from reverse into first. We rotate 180 degrees. I throttle again, getting traction as I shift into first. The slick road gives me too much angle, so I adjust the wheel, then pull down into second gear, accelerating. As we speed past Ryan and Tate, Charlotte blows them a kiss.
“What was that?” Emma shrills from the passenger seat.
“ ‘Escape and evade.’ ” I shrug. “It’s easier in a Lancia or a Fiat—”
“What exactly are we trying to escape and evade?” Emma grips her seat belt.
“Tate?” I suggest.
Charlotte throws her head back, laughing, “Did you see his face?”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Creamery on Main Street. I spot a parking place and make a tight U-turn.
“We won’t fit,” warns Emma.
Reversing, I palm the wheel right, then spin it left.
“It’s too small! Sophia!”
I glide in centimeters from the curb. Unbuckling, I turn off the engine, take out the keys, and hand them to Emma.
“You don’t have a license yet,” she reprimands me.
Slipping my wings off my shoulders, I climb out of the car. Charlotte waits for me on the brick sidewalk, smirking. “Fast and furious.”
Emma pockets the keys. “We are not going to tell my parents about this.”
I lift an eyebrow. “About what?”
CHAPTER 11
By the following Monday, the excitement of the holiday is still buzzing on my skin. America is both weird and exhilarating and finally, I’m starting to acclimate.
Yet the general anxiety I feel walking into Calc II each afternoon is compounded today when Krenshaw divides us into groups and puts Aksel in mine.
We push our desks together. I sit beside a pretty girl named Priyanka, and Aksel sits down beside Cole—who does not stop talking—and somehow we make it through three assignments speaking only about derivatives.
However, with ten minutes remaining, Priyanka and Cole go to check our work with Krenshaw, leaving Aksel and me alone at the table.
Unable to explain the sudden queasiness in my stomach, I look down at my work like my vocal cords have been snipped.
Aksel drums the table. He bends over and makes a citation. He crosses, then uncrosses his ankles. Then he leans slightly forward.
“So how are you liking Waterford?” he asks in an even, polite tone.
I stare up at him. “I liked the dance,” I say truthfully. “Did you?”
“Sure,” he answers. His deep voice is both familiar and intimidating. “It’s always fun.”
“So are you from Waterford too?” I ask. He looks so Montana, yet there is this air of luxurious indifference—otherness—about Aksel I can’t put my finger on.
Aksel wrinkles his forehead, watching me in a way that makes my heart leap into my throat. “I suppose so,” he says casually. Carefully.
“Were you born here?” I prod, remembering Mr. Steen’s French questions my first day of school.
Aksel doesn’t answer right away, which is odd because it’s a simple question.
“No,” Aksel finally says, angling back in his chair.
“Where were you born?” I ask.
Over Aksel’s shoulder, Priyanka gives me a thumbs-up from Krenshaw’s desk.
When I look back at Aksel, his expression has shifted.
Why do I get the impression he is trying to read me?
His eyebrows knit together. “Germany, actually,” he says coolly.
For several seconds we stare at each other in silence.
I am confused. He looks confused.
Which doesn’t make any sense.
What did I do?
Cole and Priyanka sit back down. Priyanka drops a paper onto the center of our conjoined desks. “We got a perfect score so Krenshaw added another assignment,” she says through gritted teeth.
For the rest of class, I resist looking at Aksel, though I’m certain I see him cast a furtive glance in my direction.
When the bell rings, we reach the door at the same time. Aksel steps left. I step right.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning away down the hall, avoiding him altogether.
Considering my feelings about Aksel hinge on suspicion, I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me. So why do I? Because he seems suspicious of me too?
I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it—more to him.
“Sophia!” Charlotte snaps her fingers. “Are you coming?!”
Her face is exuberant. We’ve been studying inside Waterford Bakery, which smells of warm bread and hazelnuts, for hours.
Fifty beds in eighteen months, and my first month in Waterford