Echoes Marissa Lete (best ereader for students .TXT) 📖

well while we’re in the quiet neighborhood, but as soon as we hit the main road, the car’s noise gets drowned out by the rest of the traffic, past and present alike.

I think, examining my options. Shorewick isn’t that big of a town, so there can’t be too many places to look. Or listen, really. I decide that downtown is probably the best date spot in town, so I drive there to start my search. I park in the large parking garage in the center of the city, and from there I walk along Main Street toward the busier strip of businesses. There are all kinds of places to eat around here, and I’m not even sure where—or how—to begin listening for the echo. It’s not very busy today, but it was definitely busier last year based on the abundance of echoes surrounding me. I don’t know how I’m going to pick out my own voice in the bustle of downtown noise, but I listen intently anyway.

I pass by a flower store, a bar, a burger restaurant, and a photography studio. As I walk, I try to imagine what my first ever date must have been like—if it even actually happened. What did we talk about? What was Maverick like? What did he look like? The questions never seem to end, and before I know it, I’m lost in thought, aimlessly walking down the street.

Eventually, I reach a stoplight and realize I’m at the edge of the cityscape. Up ahead are some large warehouse buildings, but to my right, there are some smaller business buildings. I turn in that direction, feeling desperate. About a hundred feet down the road, I pass an alley, and when I glance down it, I find myself staring directly into the grill of a big, black Suburban.

I stumble, recognizing the vehicle immediately, but then try to play it cool, keeping my eyes forwards and continuing my walk at a brisk pace. Maybe it’s not the same Suburban. Maybe they aren’t looking for me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door of the Suburban pop open as I’m passing, and I know that I’m wrong. It is the same Suburban, and they definitely must have recognized me. I pause for a second, wondering. What if the Suburban and echoes of Maverick are somehow connected? What if the Suburban guy is Maverick? I hesitate, my desire for answers growing stronger.

“Hey, you!” a voice calls from the direction of the Suburban. It’s light, casual. And definitely not Maverick’s voice.

I make the mistake of looking back, and a hooded man is standing a few feet away from the Suburban holding something that looks like a wallet out to me. “I think you dropped this,” he tells me.

I look at the guy, knowing fully well that I didn’t drop anything. I can’t see his face because it’s shaded by the hood, and I’m not about to try and get a better look, either. Neither of us moves for a few seconds. I blink once, then twice.

And then I bolt.

A moment later, footsteps follow.

As I race down the street, a few thoughts go through my mind. First: why did I wander off to the edge of downtown where there aren’t any people, alone, at this time of night? Second: who is chasing after me? And third: why?

I run faster, adrenaline coursing through my body. At school, I’m not the fastest runner in gym class—but I’m not the slowest, either. I just hope that my speed can get me out of this. Or at least back to the main road, where there might be people around who can help.

Up ahead, the block ends and on the next one are the buildings I’d originally intended to go to. I strain to look at them, searching for some indication that they could be used as a refuge, but I can’t even see a neon “Open” sign, so I decide not to risk it. My chances of losing my pursuer might be better if I zigzag through the streets anyway. I make a hard right, sprinting along the backside of the shops I’d walked past minutes earlier. At my first opportunity, I dart right again, sprinting through a thin alley toward Main Street. When I hit the sidewalk, I veer left and use the few seconds I have out of the hooded guy’s sight to rush to the nearest door. To my relief, it opens when I tug on it, and I slip inside, attempting to get as far away from the windows as possible.

“Bathroom’s in there,” a bored voice says from the counter, and I pause to look at her. A woman, probably mid-twenties. Dark hair, thumb pointed at the back corner of the room. “But you gotta buy something.”

I nod, realizing that I better move quickly or else the guy might catch up, look through the window, and find me. I half jog to the bathroom, where I lock myself in and stand against the door, panting. A mirror across from me reveals a disheveled, anxious girl that I barely recognize. I walk over to the sink and splash water onto my face, trying desperately to catch my breath.

After spending a longer amount of time than is socially acceptable in the bathroom, I push open the door and step into the shop. For the first time, I notice the strong smell of coffee. The walls are painted bright pink, bearing a logo that says “Coffee and Cream.” It’s a small shop, but there’s enough room for a few tables and chairs. I recognize it suddenly, remembering that this is where Grace and I went for ice cream the day she and Andy broke up. I remember that their cookie dough ice cream was exceptionally good, too.

The place is empty except for the two of us and seems to have the same amount of