back to the house—down the stairs, past the office, out the front doors, 30 degrees northeast across the front lawn, cut west across Fourth Avenue, and turn left onto Edgewood Drive.
Distraction works.
Seconds later, the tension in my chest releases.
My mother says I should allow the flashbacks to come, that the more I recall them, the more I can control them. But the truth is, they control me. When they come, my limbs stiffen, my body immobilizes—like I’m trapped in a nightmare and my legs won’t move.
Leaning my forehead against the window, I breathe slowly, how I learned in Varanasi—in for three, hold for three, out for three.
How did I think today would go? That I would suddenly be able to turn it off like a switch? That I could simply prevent being triggered?
Everything is supposed to be different in Waterford, but I don’t feel any different. I don’t want it to take time. I’ve had time. I want it to be different now. I want to be normal now.
I stand on the landing, midway between the first and second floors, where the windows overlook the front lawn of the school. Focusing on the shadows cascading between the cloud cover, I concentrate on counting the ocher hemlock trees circling the perimeter of the front lawn.
Exhaling slowly, I release the railing. I tell myself to return to the cafeteria. Finish lunch. Finish out the day.
The slightest pressure on my forearm causes me to spin.
“Sophia!” Emma gasps.
I look down. My hand is clutched around her wrist. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I uncoil my fingers instantly. “I’m sorry—”
“Did we say something wrong?” Emma asks, nonchalantly shaking out her wrist. “You ran off so fast—”
“Not at all.” I attempt a smile. Behind her, students hurry up the stairs. I glance at my watch—class starts in seventy seconds. “I didn’t want to be late.”
“What’s your next class? I’ll walk you.” Emma seems genuinely concerned.
I retrieve my schedule, showing her I have Calculus II—second floor, fourth classroom west of the staircase.
Emma looks between me and the schedule. “Lucky girl, you’re with all the seniors.” As I follow Emma, passing students watch me with unfiltered curiosity.
Charlotte meets us at the top balcony. “Do you want to come over tonight, Sophia? We’re going to make mudslides.”
“Mudslides?” I ask, imagining the dry protein pies the Red Cross delivers to displaced people after natural disasters, months after the foreign aid stops.
Charlotte grins. “The most delicious food ever. Do you want to come?”
The warning bell rings.
“Tonight?” I ask. Is she being nice? Is this normal? Am I supposed to say yes?
“It’s Friday,” Charlotte says, applying a nude lip gloss. “Don’t Egyptians have weekends?”
“Kind of, I mean, it’s different in Egypt. Sunday is the beginning of the workweek, so technically the weekend starts on Thursday night and goes through Saturday night, so it’s not exactly the same although …”
Emma and Charlotte both look at me like I’m speaking Finnish.
“Friday. Right, sure, thanks. I’ll check with my parents first.”
“Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.” Charlotte holds out her hand.
“I don’t have …” I look around at everyone else tucking away phones while scurrying into classrooms, “… an American number yet. Tell me your address.”
The tardy bell rings. Charlotte squints at me like I’m pranking her.
“I’ll remember,” I tell her.
“Fine. 124 Woodland Star Circle—I’m at the mouth of Silver Canyon, okay?”
A lanky boy standing at the classroom entrance looks over at us. “Door’s closing in five, four, three—”
“She’s coming!” Emma says, pushing my back toward the door, laughing.
The calculus teacher, Mr. Krenshaw, is a musty old man wearing a tweed coat with suede patches on the elbows. “Who are you?” he barks at me.
“Sophia Hepworth.” I pass him my schedule.
“You’re late.” He inspects the paper. “You’re a junior. You shouldn’t be in this class,” he says gruffly.
“I took a test.”
He peers at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His hair is long and gray and looks like wool. “When?”
Scanning the classroom, I notice everyone is either chatting or playing on their phones. I recognize many of them by now. Waterford High only has 403 students—404 including me.
“In August,” I reply.
“Where?” Mr. Krenshaw persists. “The district office?”
“In Tunisia,” I answer, feeling hot sweat burst onto my skin.
Mr. Krenshaw stares at me impatiently. “Tunisia?” He emphasizes the word, like I’m joking. A few kids in the front row look over.
“Yes, sir, in Tunis.” I push my nails into my palms to stop the shaking. “I took a test at the embassy. I take it