by Marissa Lete
ECHOES
Marissa Lete
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Echoes
Book 1 of the Echoes Series
Copyright © 2021 by Marissa Lete
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Farook Maya
Cover Copy created by BlurbWriter.com
www.MarissaLete.com
For Briana,
The first one to believe in me and my writing
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
When the bell rings to let the students of St. Martin High School know that it’s time to head to class, I sigh in relief. Within seconds, the noise around me dulls. Students say goodbye to each other, then head in different directions to their classrooms, and as they leave, the once stifling, endless stream of sound fades. The sounds of this year, last year, and the years before that, all piled up in one room where teenagers are constantly talking over each other can get really loud.
I would know because I can hear it all.
And that’s why, when the last bell rings to indicate the start of class and the first thing I hear is Mrs. Andrews telling everyone to turn in their research papers at her desk, I start to panic.
Research paper? The one I hadn’t even started working on yet because the due date—I’d thought—was still two weeks away? Did I accidentally get the date mixed up with something else?
My head shoots up from where I’d been resting it on the desk, and I glance around the room in a moment of confusion as the sound of papers shuffling fills the air. But, I realize with a sigh of relief, no one in the classroom has moved. In fact, Mrs. Andrews is still sitting at her desk, pulling up today’s presentation on the projector.
I’d misheard. The research paper in question isn’t from today’s class, it’s from last year’s. What I’d heard was just an echo—a sound from the past—and I hadn’t been paying enough attention to recognize the distinction.
Mrs. Andrews gets up from her desk. “Good morning, everyone!” Her voice is just as cheery as last year’s, but this one, I can assure, is definitely from the present. Her past voice continues speaking, too, but I try to ignore it, focusing on the present version of her as she introduces the lesson. At least, until my best friend distracts me.
“I went to a party,” Grace whispers to me from the seat on my left, a look on her face that tells me all I need to know about this supposed “party”: it wasn’t good.
I raise an eyebrow, questioning. “You did?”
“Well, Andy went to the party, without telling me, and got drunk and ended up fracturing his wrist. I had to go get him.” Her lips purse in frustration.
I scowl. “What do you mean, you had to go get him?”
“It was—”
“Laura and Grace? Do you have something to add?” We both turn our heads towards Mrs. Andrews, who is glaring at us in annoyance. As the room quiets, I hear her voice from last year explaining the lab the class was going to do that day, and behind it, barely audible is the low timbre of the male teacher from two years ago mumbling something to his class. I’m pretty sure the guy never took a public speaking class because no matter how hard I try to listen to his lessons, I can never make out any of the words. Which, in retrospect, is kind of nice, because it means I have less noise to ignore when I need to focus on the present.
“No, sorry,” Grace says, looking down at our shared desk a little sheepishly. Mrs. Andrews gives us a stern look before going back to teaching, and an awkward feeling spreads through the room as our classmates share glances at one another, then look back at us.
When Mrs. Andrews isn’t looking, I roll my eyes in Grace’s direction; it’s not like we were being that loud. Mrs. Andrews just has it in for Grace, most likely because Grace is well known for being one of the chattiest students in the school. She might have tried to separate us, except early on, Mrs. Andrews learned that it doesn’t matter who Grace sits next to- she’ll talk to anyone. Putting Grace next to me was her last, exasperated effort to quiet the unruly student. Which, in theory, was a nice plan, since my reputation of being “the quiet one” usually meant that anyone around me stayed pretty quiet, too. Except Mrs. Andrews didn’t know that Grace is my best friend, one of the few people in the school I actually do talk to.
Surprisingly, for the rest of the period, Grace manages to hold her tongue. While she’s busy trying to keep her lips sealed, I just listen to everything. As is the case with any classroom I’m in, there are a lot of echoes: students talking to each other, equipment moving, Mrs. Andrews helping with the lab from last year. Fortunately, the sounds of the past are generally quieter than the present ones, fading like an echo bouncing around in a cave. Every year that passes since the sound happened puts it farther away until it gets lost in the endless, dull ringing of time. But the noise still piles up, and I have to constantly focus on tuning it out for the rest of the period.
“Chemistry is going to be the death of me,” Grace groans as we make our way into the hallway after class. The moment I pass through the threshold of the doorway, a wall of sound hits me from all angles. Even without the echoes, it would be hard to hear out here because of the loud chatting of students in the hallway, voices bouncing off the metal lockers and concrete walls. But with the echoes, it’s so much worse.
Luckily, years of practice have taught me how to focus on the voices I actually want to hear. “That and your crappy boyfriend,” I reply to Grace. I know she’ll bring the subject back up eventually, so I might as well get it over with.
She rolls her eyes, not even attempting to defend her less-than-stable relationship, and flips her jet-black hair over one shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” she says, glancing across the hallway. My eyes follow hers and I spot Andy walking toward us, his left wrist in a cast and his right arm waving, trying to catch Grace’s attention.
“Grace!” he calls, the sound barely making it into earshot as he shoves his way past students and bulging backpacks towards her. She ignores him, turning her back and shuffling stuff from her locker into her bag. When he finally reaches her, he pauses a few feet away, a desperate look on his face. “I tried calling you four times last night. I can’t apologize if you don’t let
me.”
She closes her locker a little forcefully and turns to him, a hand on her hip and fire in her eyes. “Apologize? Go ahead. Spit it out.”
“I’m sorry. I am. I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what? Put your hands all over Dana?” Grace’s voice rises, making it easier for me to hear over the thunder of voices around us. I blink in surprise. Grace can’t stand Dana Stevens, mostly because of a certain history between her and Andy. I suck in a breath, realizing that this encounter might end up being more than just the usual small fight the couple often experiences.
“I—I was drunk!” Andy stammers, the frustration in his voice growing. I exhale slowly, mentally preparing myself for the inevitable.
“Exactly!” Grace half-yells, cutting her hands through the air in exasperation. A few heads turn towards us. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to her party. You know how I feel about her! You went behind my back and screwed everything up. Again.” Then, Grace’s tone turns from borderline hysterical to menacingly calm. “Let me spell something out for you, Andy.”
“Grace, please—”
“We. Are. Done.”
Once the words are out of her mouth, she grabs my arm and shoves past him down the hallway. Andy tries to follow, pushing people out of the way as he reaches for her. “Babe, please—”
“Stop,” I say from Grace’s side, turning to glare at him. “Just stop.” He meets my eyes for a long, tense moment, then finally drops his hand. I tug on Grace to keep moving.
“I can’t believe he has the nerve!” Her voice rises as we move through the hall, snaking our way through the sea of people. I breathe deeply through my nose, almost wanting to roll my eyes at the situation. Grace and Andy have been on-and-off since, well, before I even met Grace a year ago. Grace has told me the story a thousand times— he was the swoon-worthy quarterback with girls falling at his feet, and Grace was the new girl from a small town back in sophomore year. They, as Grace often put it, were from two different worlds, but had been brought together by fate. Andy fell in love with her, and despite his reputation, committed himself to a serious relationship. Grace, after realizing he (supposedly) wasn’t the jerk she thought he was and that he really, truly was a good person on the inside, fell for him too.
At least, that’s the way Grace tells the story. My version recognizes their “love” as the dysfunctional relationship it is and includes me, the best friend that often has to deal with the aftermath.
It takes all of my effort not to sigh in disdain. “You really shouldn’t put up with him,” I tell Grace in as gentle of a tone as I can muster. I’ve told her this before, of course, but normally she gets defensive about the subject. This time, however, she sighs in defeat.
“I shouldn’t,” she admits. “Which is why it’s officially over. I’m done with him.”
She’s said this before, of course. And both of those times, they ended up getting back together. But one can hope. “Are you going to be okay?”
We reach the bathroom and Grace pauses, her hand on the door and her eyes slightly damp. “Yeah, I will be. I’ve got you, at least.”
“And you always will,” I punch her lightly on the arm, smiling as wide as I can for her. She laughs softly, then pushes the door open.
“What exactly did he do with Dana?” I ask once we’re in the bathroom. Since the whole school hasn’t been through here in the past few years, the echoes that were screaming in my ears in the hallway dull, and I feel like a weight has been lifted off of my body. I grab a wad of tissue for her to dry her eyes, and she sniffles before answering.
“I don’t know. I walked in and they were sitting on the couch together, his arm around her. He was—”
Behind me, in the far corner of the bathroom, a chorus of laughter fills the air. I turn my head around, ready to snap at whoever might be making fun of Grace’s distress, but realize that no one is there. It’s only an echo, probably some girls from last year laughing over a text message or something one of them said.
“Did you see the other one yet?” a girl’s voice says amidst the laughter. I pull my focus away from the echo as another voice responds, turning my attention back to Grace.
“—called me about him falling down the stairs. ‘Here to clean up your mess?’ she said.” Her voice turns obnoxious as she mimics Dana, and she’s oblivious to the small interruption I’d just experienced.
“Are you serious?” I ask in disbelief as I try to fill in the gaps of the conversation.
She dabs her eye before answering, mascara staining the white tissue paper. “Yeah, it’s ridiculous. She clearly set the whole thing up. Maybe he didn’t mean to do it, maybe he—”
“Whoa,” I put a hand up, “hold on. Andy went to that party without telling you— and he knows you don’t trust Dana. He was not thinking about your feelings at all.”
“When has he ever?” A sob wracks through her body.
I pull her into a hug. “My point exactly.”
“I’m so done.”
“I know.” I hold her there for a minute, soothing her. When she finally pulls away, the second-period bell rings.
“You know what, I’m not even going to cry anymore,” Grace says, drying her eyes. “And instead of boohooing and eating ice cream from the tub all day, we should celebrate.”
This is a surprise, but I’m all for it. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s skip the rest of school. Go explore, or something.” I watch her face brighten as the idea solidifies in her mind.
My eyes widen. “Skip school? But I’ve never—”
Her mouth spreads into a grin, and she takes my hand. “Come on!”
✽✽✽✽✽
Two hours later, we’re sitting in my car in front of my house, the brisk October air quickly sapping any remnants of heat from the inside.
“That,” I say, “has got to be the best cookie dough ice cream I’ve ever had.”
Grace shoves the last bite of her ice cream cone into her mouth. “It was, in fact, very delicious,” she replies, chewing through each word.
I laugh, shaking my head. Skipping school wasn’t exactly as hard as I’d imagined it to be. A trip to the nurse’s office and a call to my mom saying I wasn’t feeling well—including several reassurances that yes, I was well enough to drive myself home and that no, I didn’t need her to come home from work to take care of me—was all it took, and then Grace and I were free to go. Both of our parents would be at work until later in the evening, so we had plenty of time to roam downtown Shorewick before stopping for food. Grace had still wanted ice cream, but we got it in cone-form, which is much less depressing than right-from-the-tub form. Then we drove back to my house, where we sat in the car, finishing up those ice cream cones.
Grace reaches out to turn the volume of the radio up. A pop song I’ve never heard before blasts through the speakers. “I love this song!” she says, excited.
I shrug in response. “Never heard it before.”
Grace gapes at me. “Are you serious? This is, like, in the top ten right now. All the radio stations play it!”
I shrug again. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever turned the radio on in my car before. Cars are one of the only places that I never hear the echoes, so when I’m in one, I like to relish in the silence, something I rarely get to do. At least, I used to rarely get to do. Things are a lot better now than they had been when I was younger.
Growing up, the echoes weren’t exactly something that made sense to my parents. When I was little, they chalked it up to me just having a lot of imaginary friends, but when I started to get older, and I was still commenting about all of the noise I was hearing, they started to worry. Eventually, they started taking me to a stream of mental health experts, all of whom came to the conclusion that I had schizophrenia, bipolar, or some other personality disorder. For a while, I even believed it myself. I was hearing things that no one else was, which was strange. I had to be hallucinating.
&n
bsp; At least, that’s what I thought until I started remembering the things I was hearing. My parents singing happy birthday from last year, Dad watching the football game that aired exactly two years ago. And then it all made sense: it was all sound from the past, not just a bunch of random concoctions of my brain. Everything I could hear was something that had actually happened.
After I realized that, it didn’t take long to convince my parents and my psychologist—all I did was listen for the name of the patient who had been in my psychologist’s office on the same day last year and convince her to check her records. When the same name was right there in the file, things changed. Of course, I had to answer a few more questions about past things to convince her and my parents, but when I did, they were baffled by the situation.
Turns out, I just have this strange ability to hear the past, and it isn’t something anyone understands. My psychologist wanted to get some doctors involved and do a bunch of tests, but my parents quickly stopped that before I could be turned into a science experiment. Eventually, we decided to move, partially because the echoes of the past had piled up over the years in our old house, and partially because it would give me a fresh start to try and be a normal teenager and make friends, something I’d failed to do up to that point.
We had a brand new house built here in Shorewick—one with no past to echo at me—and we set aside an entire room we call the “office” where no one is allowed to make any noise so that I can go there when I need silence. Now, the office is mine, one of the only places besides cars where I don’t have to constantly hear the echoes of the past.
“Alright, let’s go watch some sappy rom-coms and complain about how awful boys are,” Grace pulls the handle of her door, stopping the music and startling me out of my thoughts.
I take a deep breath, pausing after Grace closes the door. One year ago today was the day we moved here to Shorewick, so today, I will start hearing echoes of the past in my own house again. I remind myself that it’s okay, that I’ve dealt with this before, and that I still have the office if I need a break. But even so, it takes all of my effort to tear myself out of the car and force my feet up the walkway to the front door.
