Page 11 of The Silence Between

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not bad. Though I imagine Princeton's average is closer to 1550 these days.”

Not bad. Translation: not good enough.

“I'll keep working on it,” I promised.

When he finally left, closing the door behind him, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes. From beneath my mattress, I pulled out a worn composition notebook—my real life, hidden between springs and memory foam.

I flipped to a blank page and began to write, the words flowing in a way they never did in my AP English essays. Not arguments or analysis, but poetry. Observations. Fragments of stories I'd never tell. The truth, unfiltered by expectations or GPAs or the suffocating weight of Webb family tradition.

My pen paused mid-sentence, my thoughts drifting to the debate team meeting earlier that day. Specifically, to Leo, the scholarship kid from East Riverton who'd joined the team last year. We'd been discussing educational funding, and while the rest of us had spouted statistics and cited studies, Leo had spoken about reality—overcrowded classrooms where teachers bought their own supplies, outdated textbooks held together with tape, the kids who came to school hungry because free breakfast programs had been cut.

“The question isn't whether these inequalities exist,” he'd said, his voice quiet but steady. “It's whether we care enough to fix them.”

The room had fallen silent after that. Not because it was a novel argument—we'd all heard similar points before—but because of how he said it. Raw. Honest. Without the artificial structure the rest of us had been trained to use since freshman debate.

I found myself wondering what it would be like to speak that honestly. To shed the carefully constructed sentences and perfect citations and just say what I actually thought.

“Ethan!” Mom's voice called from downstairs. “Dinner!”

I tucked my notebook back into its hiding place and headed down to the dining room, steeling myself for the nightly interrogation.

The Webb family dining room was a battleground disguised as a Norman Rockwell painting. Crystal glasses. Cloth napkins. Conversations that were really examinations in disguise.

“How was school?” Mom asked, serving perfect portions of roast chicken onto bone china plates.

“Fine. We got our calculus tests back. I got an A.”

“An A-plus?” Dad asked, reaching for the wine.

“Just an A.” I took a bite of chicken to avoid seeing his reaction.

“Well, that's still good,” Mom said quickly. “What about debate? How are preparations coming for the regional tournament?”

Safe territory. “Good. Coach says we have a strong chance this year.”

“Wonderful,” Mom smiled. “That will look excellent on your applications. Have you thought more about which academic focus you want to highlight? Political science would align well with debate.”

“Actually,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider, “I've been thinking about creative writing.”

The silence that followed felt thick enough to cut with the sterling silver butter knife beside my plate.

Mom and Dad exchanged a look.

Dad cleared his throat. “English literature as a minor could complement a strong political science major,” he said smoothly. “Writing skills are certainly valuable in law or policy work.”

And just like that, my interest was redirected, reshaped into something more acceptable, more Webb-appropriate. My hands clenched under the table as I nodded along, pretending they hadn't just dismissed the one thing that actually made me feel alive.

“Of course,” I said. “That makes sense.”

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of college admissions statistics and discussions of Dad's latest academic paper. By the time I escaped back to my room, the familiar hollowness had settled in my chest—the empty space where I imagined other people kept their authentic selves.

* * *

“For the regional tournament,”Coach Phillips announced, “we'll be mixing up the usual partnerships.”

The debate team conference room hummed with anticipation. Partnerships mattered—they could make or break your tournament performance, which could make or break your competition record, which could make or break your college applications. Everything always circled back to that.

“Anderson and Lake. Webb and Reyes. Goldstein and Williams...”

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