Echoes by Marissa Lete (best books for students to read txt) 📕

“Wow, thank you so much! This vase is gorgeous.” Mom had replied.

“Don’t be fooled, it’s only some fancy paint, not real stained glass,” Annie had explained.

I look at the vase in my hands. It looks like it’s made of stained glass, little pieces intricately placed in yellows, blues, and greens, creating a beautiful floral design. But like Annie had mentioned, upon closer examination, I can see spots on the edges where the paint has chipped off, revealing clear glass underneath.

I recall a faint memory of the vase sitting on the counter after we moved in, a few long, yellow flowers standing in it, but I still can’t remember Annie or Maverick.

“Do you know when we got this?” I ask Dad.

He shrugs. “I’ve never seen it before. Your mom might know?”

I walk to the other side of the house to find her. She’s sitting in her office, typing something into her computer.

“Mom, do you remember where we got this vase?” I ask her.

Mom turns to me, reaching for the vase to examine it. “Wow. It’s beautiful. I forgot we had this.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I didn’t get it, actually. I think it was just here when we moved in. I only put flowers in it once.”

“But didn’t we have this house built? No one lived here before, so how could it have gotten here?” I ask her.

“I’m… not sure. Maybe it was a gift from someone, then?” She raises an eyebrow.

“A gift from who, though?” I press.

She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know, Laura. It might have just been one of those things we forgot we had and it showed up again when we moved. I don’t really remember. Why do you ask?”

“I just…” I struggle for an explanation. “I really like it.”

Mom smiles and shakes her head. “I do, too. But it’s a mystery to me. If I see something like it, I’ll let you know, though.” She turns back to her computer, letting me know the conversation is over.

“Thanks,” I say, then go back into the kitchen. I try to tell myself that it’s all just a coincidence and that this isn’t the same vase I’d heard Mom talking about in the echo. But the problem is that if it isn’t the same vase, then Maverick might not actually exist, which means there’s something wrong with the echoes. If it is the vase, then he might exist, which means there might be something wrong with me.

Unfortunately, neither of those explanations leaves room for my sanity.

 

Chapter 6

Over the weekend, I continue to listen for any more echoes that might include Maverick or more information about him, but I get nothing. I keep an eye on the roads, too, searching for the black Suburban everywhere I go and come up short there, too. By Monday, the paranoia has subsided, and I’ve almost brushed off the entire past week as nothing more than a random incident that I’d forgotten about.

At school, Grace has news.

“Andy gave me flowers,” she tells me and Leo at the lunch table.

“Seriously?” I reply. She shows me a photo on her phone as proof.

Leo rolls his eyes. “He’s only trying so hard because he feels like he can’t have you now. Once you give in, it’s going to be the same thing all over again.”

“I agree with Leo. This is ridiculous.”

Grace’s face falls. “Maybe you guys are right.”

“Just don’t worry about it. It’s over. Live up your single life,” I tell her.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t even try to date people.”

I open my mouth to reply, but stop, letting out my breath.

She’s not wrong. Dating is the last thing on my mind most of the time. Even though I’ve heard the echoes my entire life, it still takes a lot of my focus to tune them out, to focus on the present. It’s hard enough for me to have friends who want to go out to places that are really, really loud. Grace and Leo may have gotten used to me not wanting to go out very often, but I can still see that it disappoints them every time I don’t tag along. I can’t even imagine trying to hold a relationship with someone, having to explain why I don’t ever want to eat at a restaurant or go to a movie. Sure, it sounds nice to have a person to do those things with, but when I don’t even want to do them in the first place, I don’t really need a person like that in my life.

“I don’t need to date to be happy,” I finally say.

“It’s not about needing someone else to feel happy. It’s about being close to someone. Having another person on your side, someone you can count on,” Grace replies solemnly.

I imagine having someone like that. Maybe if there was someone I could be completely honest with, someone that knew about my ability to hear the echoes, it would be nice. To not have to hide my sometimes strange behavior. To be able to talk to them about it. I mean, I have my parents, and they know. But the topic of the echoes has become such a taboo thing with them. They don’t know how to respond, or how to deal with it. What can you say to someone who’s hearing things you never thought possible? I don’t even think I’d know what to say to myself, either. So it would be nice if someone understood that part of my life.

But that could never happen. No sane person would believe that I hear echoes of the past. Even my parents, the people who love me most and know me better than anyone else in the world thought I was mentally ill for years. What would happen if I tried to