of the lacquered keys.
Sophia, you’re going to play, my mother said. I’ve ordered a gown for you to wear. We’ll fly to Vienna for the weekend and be back in Istanbul for school on Monday.
I stare at my hands—the pale color of my fingers against the black and ivory of the keys—tapping out a simple Chopin melody.
She had no way of knowing it would be the last time.
I hit a D instead of a C. The chord echoes egregiously in the room.
Like a snail curling up in its shell, my fingers roll beneath my palms. I stand, backing away from the piano like it’s poison. I’m not ready. I’m not even close.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I ensure the window lock is secure. I crawl into the soft, lavender-smelling sheets and rest my head against the headboard. I lift my pillow to check my FN 5-7.
It’s gone.
My fingers fumble along the empty sheet. Panic creeps up my arms. Scrambling to my knees, I push aside the quilt. I tear the sheet off the mattress. I shove my hand into the crack between the mattress and the headboard.
Lying flat on my stomach, I push my hand farther down, stretching my fingers.
My forefinger slides around the pistol. I secure my thumb around the grip. Roughly, I tug. Scraping the back of my hand against the headboard, I dislodge it.
Panting, I back up against the headboard. I unclip the magazine, check the rounds, and snap it back in. I stare at my scratched hand, holding the weapon I’m not supposed to need.
What am I doing here? I want to scream.
Why is this so hard? What is the point of trying to make Waterford feel like home? Trying to feel like I belong?
Can I ever be like Charlotte and Emma? Can I ever go to Europe for “fun”?
Why can’t I brush aside my instinct that Aksel is hiding something from me?
I know it’s irrational to hold him accountable for my convoluted emotions, so why can’t I get him out of my mind? Because he thinks I don’t belong in Waterford? And deep down I wonder if he is right?
Devastated, I tug my knees to my chest.
How has my fortitude to become normal in Waterford already collapsed?
Across the room, my eyes settle on Katarina—her porcelain lips are painted such that she looks cheerful one moment, melancholy the next.
My mother set her on the floral chair in the corner of my bedroom weeks ago. She must have thought I’d want her nearby.
I can’t decide whether I do or don’t.
CHAPTER 13
“Miss Hepworth!” Krenshaw barks as the bell rings the following day.
I stuff my textbook into my backpack and approach Krenshaw at his desk, “Yes, sir?”
“You failed,” he says gruffly, returning my midterm exam.
One glance reveals that my efforts to catch up and prove I can fit in at an American high school have been eviscerated with four pages of paper.
“This is not good enough,” Krenshaw scolds me. “I expect every student to put in effort and hard work—”
“I have been!” I fire back.
“I recommend dropping you to Calculus I,” he tells me.
“I know that material, sir, and I’ll do better on the final,” I promise. “But how can I adequately prep for an exam you give a week early?”
His orange padded chair squeaks as he leans back. “I do the same thing every year, with every exam,” he says dismissively.
“I didn’t know that, sir,” I say. “It’s not fair—”
“Fair?” He sits upright. “Perhaps living in Waterford will teach you life isn’t fair.” He stretches his arm across his desk and clasps his fingers. The sleeves of his tweed jacket are too short for his arms; his wrists are covered in spindly gray hairs.
“You’ve had it easy,” he drawls condescendingly. “This transition—leaving behind glamorous cities for a simple mountain life—must be hard …”
He leans across the desk. “However, mathematics is not subjective. You’ll need to become less entitled and work much harder if you intend to pass.”
Entitled?
He doesn’t know me—at all. Nevertheless, fiery tears pool in the rims of my eyes.
“You have until the end of the semester or you fail and drop to Calc I.”
On the brink of screaming at Krenshaw, I grab my backpack and head to Art History, but halfway down the hall I turn.
I descend the main staircase, push out the front doors, vector 30 degrees northeast across the front lawn, cut around the snowy field, and cross Fourth Avenue.
Ten minutes later, I reach home.
“Mom? Dad?” I call out. The house is empty.
A brass light