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

I set the thought to the side, continuing my rush towards the parking lot. The sport’s car seems to have stopped everyone from chasing me for the moment, but I don’t slow down.

After what seems like ages, I reach my car, and I go through my pockets for my keys, my stomach dropping when I don’t find them at first. Finally, though, my hand touches the metal of my key ring and I whip it out, throwing my car’s door open and jumping inside as quickly as humanly possible. I hit the lock button on the door as soon as I’m in, and fumble to put the key in the ignition because my hands are shaking so bad.

Once it’s on, I back out of the parking spot and speed toward the exit. In my rearview mirror, I see the sport’s car moving off of the gravel road and through the parking lot in my direction. I hesitate, wondering what to do. Whoever is in that car seems to be protecting me by blocking my pursuer’s path. But what if it tries to follow me?

When I glance back again, I see the bright headlights of the Suburban shining over the top of the sport’s car, headed in the same direction, and I realize that I need to leave, now. But before I look away, the sport’s car makes a wide turn to the left, taking up the entirety of the driveable space in the parking lot. And then it sits there, blocking the path of the Suburban.

I slam on the gas and whip of the parking lot, losing sight of them both. I speed home, taking a route I don’t usually take, making as many twists and turns as I can. I circle the neighborhood once, then twice, on edge. When I’m sure no one has followed me, I finally pull into my driveway. I open the garage door to find that Mom and Dad have both parked their cars inside and sigh, knowing I can’t leave my car in the driveway because I don’t want them—whoever they are—to find me.

As I rush inside to find the keys to Dad’s car, I once again think about coming clean to my parents. About telling them everything that’s been happening lately. What would they think? Would they believe me? Throughout my life, they’ve always tried to be supportive of me, but for the longest time, they thought that I’d been lying about the echoes. Making them up, or hallucinating. It wasn’t until this past year they’ve finally believed me, and we’ve gotten to the point where they don’t ask questions anymore, they don’t treat me like I’m broken. At least, not as much. So what if I do break? What if this ruins everything we’ve worked so hard to build?

I shake the thoughts away as I step inside. The house is dark, and it appears that Mom and Dad aren’t even awake. I sigh in relief, grab Dad’s keys off the key rack, and move his car into the driveway.

Inside the house, I double-check that all of the doors and windows are locked before going upstairs to my room. And when I finally curl up in bed, I can’t stop the tears from flowing down my face. I’m confused and angry, and I can’t figure out how to fix anything that’s going on. I want to know who’s chasing me and what they want, I want to know who Maverick is and where he went, and I want to explain everything to Grace and continue to be friends with her. But I can’t. I’m just stuck here, curled up in a ball in my bed, not knowing what to do about any of it.

Chapter 11

Monday morning, I roll into the school parking lot, sleep-deprived, and still a bit jittery. One glance around tells me that Grace’s car is parked on the opposite side, as far away from mine as possible. I take a deep breath before going inside, unsure of what to do about Grace. I could try talking to her, but what’s the point? She made it abundantly clear that I’m holding her back, and who would I be if I kept doing it?

In Chemistry, she’s sitting at our usual table, but one of Andy’s friends is in my spot. I bite my lip and scan the room, finding an empty table to sit at a few rows away. For the entire class, I avoid looking in their direction because I’m afraid I might burst into tears if I do.

“Alright everyone, I graded your tests over the weekend, and I have to say I’m impressed by the overall performance of the class,” Mrs. Andrews tells us. She begins handing out the papers, and I remember the morning Grace showed up with her new car, how I’d forgotten all about the test. How the fire alarm echo had interrupted my already struggling attempts to answer the questions.

Mrs. Andrews passes me by, placing my test on the desk facedown without making eye contact. I flip it over, and at the top, the number 47 is circled in bright red. I take a deep, shaky breath. I usually do excellent in school, and I’ve never had a grade this low. But with everything going on lately, I’ve been way too distracted to study well.

“Oh my gosh!” I hear Grace exclaim from behind me a minute later. I try to tune her out, but I still hear her tell someone that she got a 92 on the test, the best she’s ever done in Chemistry.

I try to hold in my emotions through the rest of the class, and when the bell rings, I wait until everyone has cleared out before making my way toward the door.

At lunch, I sit at our usual table, but I know that Grace won’t be joining me. Instead, she