Aksel catches me swiftly, steadying me. He immediately glances over my shoulder, before returning his confused gaze to mine.
Looking down at his chest, he frowns.
The tip of my Ladybug is up against his abdomen.
My left hand is coiled around his wrist in a steel grip.
Heat scorches my cheeks.
Rapidly, I retract my blade.
Hastily, I uncoil my hand from his wrist and drop it quickly at my side.
Aksel’s face is flushed. He is holding a swim duffel in his left hand, glaring at me.
My heart pounds like it’s going to leap into my throat. If he is expecting an explanation, I don’t have one. In only one world is this normal—mine. With trembling fingers, I fold the knife back into my waistband. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer.
Aksel’s eyes flick to my waistband. “Are you okay?” he asks. His tone is clipped. His eyes are still boring down on me. Stunned. Accusing.
Craning my neck, I look behind me. No one is there.
“Fine,” I say. “There was … someone … I thought …”
Am I seeing things?
Aksel glances over my shoulder again. Behind him, the swim team is trailing out of the locker rooms. Farther down, a crowd is exiting Fish Market.
I’ve missed the whole meet.
I push my tongue against the back of my teeth to keep my lips from quivering.
Why has all my progress come crashing down—and why does Aksel have to see it?
Aksel doesn’t lift his eyes from mine. His brow furrows, but the anger in his voice has subsided. He actually sounds concerned. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Sure,” I answer casually. My hands remain clenched into fists.
We stare at each other in agitated silence. I notice that Aksel is as tense as I am, his posture rigid, defensive. He’s like a mirror, reflecting my own fear and confusion. His gaze is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It’s as though his eyes are drilling through me again, trying to read me, solve me.
Yet, though he seems affronted, even concerned, he does not seem all that surprised I just pulled a knife on him.
I should have recognized it earlier: The patterns, the tells. Controlled expression. Maintaining distance. Aksel is hiding something.
“Sophia!” Charlotte calls my name.
Deftly, Aksel returns to his composed mask of civility. “See you around,” he says under his breath.
Beside me, he unlocks an olive-green ’97 Land Rover Defender. A half meter of snow is piled on the roof, much more than is on the ground—how far up Eagle Pass does he live?
Aksel steps into the driver’s seat, the line of his jaw clenched tight.
I bite my lip to prevent the tears. I’m not adjusting to life in Waterford. I am anxious—skeptical of nearly everything, and everyone.
Actually, I’m paranoid. I’ve been paranoid since we left Tunisia. I’ve been paranoid for eighteen months, and no amount of time living in Waterford can change that.
In the distance, I see the old red truck, rusty, with a broken taillight, turn out of the parking lot.
Reaching me, Charlotte’s eyes flit between me and the Defender driving off. She whistles under her breath, “Never Have I Ever …”
When I arrive home, my parents are in the study. I pour myself a cup of rooibos tea and walk to the living room, still thinking about Aksel and what happened outside Fish Market.
It’s exhausting: being suspicious, and experiencing a flashback, and trying to act normal …
I stop short when I see it. I stare, incredulous. They kept it?
It is an antique, nineteenth-century Érard; its black and white keys glisten in the moonlight streaking through the window behind it. Glossy in some parts, most of the color has been buffed away and its patina is now several shades of golden brown. However, its worn surface is deceiving; the inside is completely restored and plays beautifully. Or did.
Like a moon circling a planet, I feel a gravitational pull but keep my distance. After orbiting a moment, I move toward it. Memories, desires, fears all yank at one another in their own lunar tug-of-war.
My heartbeat quickens. My fingers twitch.
I trace my finger along a high F-sharp, careful not to press down.
Hesitantly, I sit. Despite my conflicted emotions, I feel the crescendo building, spreading throughout my limbs; I see the conductor in his black tuxedo, gold-leafed hall, gowns and tuxedos, the bright lights on the stage, my classmates huddled nearby. The melody resonates in my mind, vibrating down my spine into the tips of my fingers.
My hands reach forward. My fingers spread out like a peacock, poising carefully around middle C. I touch the smooth surface