Page 48 of The Silence Between

“Good. Those TI-84s cost a small fortune.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You know calculator models?”

“I teach high school. Numbers aren't my specialty, but I recognize expensive equipment when I see it.” I extended my hand, keeping interaction professionally appropriate. “Ethan Webb. I am the new English teacher at Riverton High.”

“Diego Reyes,” he replied, accepting the handshake with the particular firmness of a teenager trying to appear more confident than he feels. Recognition flickered across his face. “Wait. Webb? Are you the writer? Sophie mentioned a new English teacher named Webb.”

“That's me,” I confirmed, heart rate accelerating at this additional familial connection. “Your sister's in my freshman English class. She's very bright.”

Diego studied me with the particular intensity I remembered from Leo at his age. “Thanks for... you know.” He gestured vaguely toward where the boys had disappeared. “They've been hassling me about being in advanced math but still in sophomore classes. Like it's a crime to be good at something but behind in other subjects.”

“It isn't,” I assured him. “Neither is needing help with things that don't come as easily. Speaking of which, Riverton High has a math club that meets Thursdays after school. Some of them help with tutoring too. Might be worth checking out, if only for safety in numbers.”

He nodded noncommittally, shouldering his backpack. “Maybe. Thanks again, Mr. Webb.”

As Diego walked away, I recognized how significantly this encounter changed circumstances. What happened here would inevitably reach Leo, and I was not sure what to think about that.

11

INEVITABLE COLLISION

LEO

Steam rose from the pot of spaghetti as I dumped it into the colander, the familiar Sunday evening rhythm playing out in our small kitchen. These weekly family dinners had become our constant when everything else in life shifted unpredictably. No matter how many hours I'd worked, what bills loomed, or what crises threatened, Sunday dinner remained sacred—the four of us at our scratched table, together.

“Five-minute warning,” I called over my shoulder, knowing Mari was helping Sophie with homework while Diego set the table.

“Can we have garlic bread?” Diego asked, appearing at my elbow with plates already in hand.

“Already in the oven,” I confirmed, gesturing toward the timer counting down. “Get drinks sorted?”

He nodded and moved to the refrigerator with the quiet efficiency of a sixteen-year-old who'd been handling household responsibilities for years. The subtle shift in our dynamic over the past year hadn't escaped my notice.

So much was changing. The stability I'd fought ten years to build now seemed sturdy enough to withstand evolution, but the prospect of change still triggered the old panic, the fear that any deviation from tested patterns might collapse everything.

“Leo, the sauce is bubbling over,” Mari's voice cut through my thoughts, her hand already reaching past me to lower the heat. “Where'd you go just now?”

“Nowhere,” I lied. “Just tired.”

Her raised eyebrow communicated clear disbelief, but she let it pass. “Sophie's bouncing off the walls about some English assignment,” she said instead. “Fair warning.”

The table soon filled with mismatched plates, the pasta simple but abundant, garlic bread sliced and slightly burned on one edge the way Diego secretly preferred it. As we settled into our places, I studied the three faces that had oriented my life for a decade—Mari's sharp intelligence, Diego's cautious watchfulness, Sophie's open enthusiasm. My family, preserved despite every system designed to separate us.

“So,” I began, our standard dinnertime opening, “how was everyone's week?”

Sophie practically vibrated with excitement, energy barely contained. “My English teacher assigned the coolest project,” she burst out. “We have to create an alternative ending to Romeo and Juliet where they don't die. And he said mine was one of the best in class!”

“That's great, Soph,” I said, serving her pasta. “What was your ending?”

“Juliet wakes up before Romeo takes the poison, and they run away to Venice to become actors in a theater company.” Her explanation gained momentum, hands gesturing dramatically. “Mr. Webb said it was 'thematically resonant' because they escape the tragedy by embracing art instead of death.”

My hand froze mid-serve, sauce dripping slowly onto the tablecloth. Mr. Webb. The name I'd been hearing whispered around town, the rumors I'd dismissed as coincidence, suddenly confirmed with devastating casualness over Sunday dinner.

“Mr. Webb?” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice neutral. “The new English teacher?”

Sophie nodded enthusiastically. “He's so cool. He's a real writer—published three novels. But he says teaching is more meaningful than being famous.” She twirled spaghetti on her fork. “He lets us call books stupid if we can explain why. Most teachers get mad if you criticize the classics.”

I nodded mechanically, mind racing as Sophie continued describing classroom discussions and book recommendations. Ethan. Here. Teaching my sister. The boundaries between past and present collapsing with terrifying speed.

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