Page 36 of The Silence Between

8

HOLDING PATTERNS

LEO

“Diego's science fair project was quite remarkable,” Ms. Rivera began, pushing her rectangular glasses higher on her nose. “His understanding of renewable energy systems shows creativity and insight well beyond his grade level placement.”

I nodded, familiar with the pattern. Good news first, concerns to follow.

“However,” she continued right on cue, “I'm concerned about how he responds to collaborative work. The partner phase of the science fair was especially challenging. He refused to compromise on his design and became highly agitated when his partner suggested modifications.”

“He struggles with changes to his plans,” I countered, keeping my voice level. “Diego gets overwhelmed when his ideas are dismissed without consideration.”

Ms. Rivera tilted her head slightly, acknowledging the point. “Fair enough. But there was also the incident last week during our ecosystem unit. He refused to participate in the group simulation entirely. When pressed, he became... quite vocal about the 'unrealistic parameters' of the activity.”

Despite everything, I felt a flicker of pride. Diego had always been the most analytical of the three.

“He's passionate about scientific accuracy,” I explained. “And group work is particularly difficult for him. The constant school changes when he was younger didn't help. He's sixteen but academically behind because we moved so much.”

“I'm aware of his history,” Ms. Rivera said, her tone gentler than most teachers'. “Which is actually why I wanted to meet with you specifically, rather than just sending a note home.”

She pulled out a worn book from her desk drawer and slid it across to me. “Have you ever heard of neurodivergent learning styles? This book helped me understand my own daughter's needs. Some of what I'm seeing with Diego reminds me of her experiences.”

I took the book, scanning the cover: “Different Minds, Different Brilliance: Understanding Neurodivergent Children.” It wasn't a glossy brochure with prohibitively expensive services listed inside, just a well-used paperback offered with what seemed like genuine concern.

“I know you've already spoken with the school about formal assessment options,” Ms. Rivera continued. “But while you're navigating that process, I'd like to try adapting my classroom approach for Diego. I've had success with similar students using alternative assignment structures.”

I studied her face, looking for the agenda, the judgment, the subtle blame I'd grown accustomed to detecting in these meetings. Found nothing but professional concern and what appeared to be authentic understanding.

“What kind of adaptations?” I asked cautiously.

“Option for individual work when group projects are assigned. Written instructions rather than just verbal. Advance warning about sensory activities like labs with strong smells or loud demonstrations.” She pulled out a simple checklist. “If you have time, could you indicate which of these accommodations might help Diego specifically? You know him best.”

Something tight in my chest loosened slightly. Not another burden being placed on my shoulders, but an actual offer of support. It felt so unfamiliar I almost didn't recognize it.

“I can do that,” I said, accepting the checklist. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, we emerged with a folder of resources, potential strategies, and the weight of another complex problem without easy solutions. The hallway bustled with end-of-day activity, students slamming lockers and teachers looking simultaneously relieved and exhausted.

We passed a bulletin board plastered with college acceptance letters from recent graduates, their excited faces beaming beside logos of universities across the country. I paused briefly, an old ache resurfacing at the sight of opportunities I'd never had.

Diego hung back, watching me study the board. “This is what you want for me and Mari, isn't it?” he asked quietly.

I turned to find him slouched against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets with that particular teenage awkwardness that seemed at odds with his analytical mind.

“I want you both to have options,” I said carefully. “Whatever those might be.”

He scuffed his worn sneaker against the floor. “I know I'm making things harder. All these meetings, the testing you can't afford... it's just one more problem for you to solve.”

The resignation in his voice hit me harder than anger would have. Sixteen years old, but carrying the weight of feeling like a burden—already calculating his worth against the trouble he caused.

“Listen to me,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder, respecting his height while maintaining connection. “Everyone's story is written differently. What looks like the end of a sentence to some people might just be a pause in yours.”

He glanced at my wrist, where the semicolon tattoo was partially visible below my sleeve. “That's what your tattoo means, right? The pause thing?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, offering a rare piece of my private history.

A hint of a smile flickered across his face. “Kinda nerdy. Using punctuation as a tattoo.”

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