Page 65 of The Silence Between

I should have said no. Coming to his classroom meant voluntarily entering his territory, seeing him in his element. It was the opposite of avoidance.

“Yeah, okay,” I heard myself say. “I could stop by. I know nothing about contemporary poetry though.”

“That's actually perfect,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Most bookstore customers don't either. It'll help them think about audience.”

I stared at my phone for a good minute after hanging up with Ethan. Did I really just agree to go to his classroom? Today? For his fifth period poetry class? My brain was still spinning from the social services bombshell about my father, and now I'd volunteered to talk to a bunch of teenagers about how bookstores choose poetry collections. Clearly, I'd lost my mind somewhere between Eleanor's office and Corinne's desk.

With nowhere else to go and a few hours to kill before fifth period, I found myself at Riverton Diner, nursing the world's most mediocre coffee while flipping through Eleanor's training binder. I couldn't focus on inventory systems or ordering procedures, though. My thoughts kept drifting to what Ethan had said on the phone.

The idea that Ethan, needed my perspective on anything literary was almost laughable. But there was something in his voice that sounded genuine, even a little uncertain. The great literary success wasn't quite as confident in the classroom as I would have expected.

By the time I had to leave, I'd downed three cups of coffee, read exactly six pages of the training manual, and nearly talked myself out of going five different times. But I'd promised, and if there's one thing I've learned from ten years of being responsible for three kids, it's that you don't break promises unless someone's bleeding or the car breaks down.

The high school looked exactly the same as when I'd been a student, except now I could enter through the front doors without feeling like I was walking into prison. The secretary gave me a visitor badge with minimal suspicion and pointed me toward Ethan's classroom.

Standing outside Room 237, I heard the muffled sound of teenagers talking over each other, that particular energy that happens right before a teacher calls a class to order. I took a deep breath and walked in.

The classroom looked weirdly different as an adult visitor. Less horror movie hallway, more motivational poster explosion. Students were clustered in small groups, some looking at notebooks, others chatting about definitely not poetry. Ethan was at his desk, arranging what looked like handouts, but he looked up immediately when I entered.

“Leo, you made it,” he said, genuine relief in his voice as he stood to greet me. The students glanced over, their teenage radar instantly detecting something interesting might be happening.

“Said I would, didn't I?” I replied, suddenly aware of twenty-something pairs of teenage eyes evaluating me, probably wondering who this random guy in work boots was and why their teacher seemed actually happy to see him.

“Class, this is Mr. Reyes from Second Chapter Bookstore,” Ethan announced, switching to teacher mode. “As I mentioned, he's going to give us some insight into how bookstores select poetry collections and maybe offer some feedback on your presentation ideas.”

A girl in the front row raised her hand immediately. “Are you Sophie's brother? The one who fixes stuff?”

And just like that, I was labeled. Not Leo Reyes, professional bookstore manager-in-training, but Sophie's brother who carries a toolbox. Riverton in a nutshell.

“That would be me,” I confirmed, and saw a few nods of recognition around the room. Small towns, man. Everyone knows you, or at least knows of you.

“Mr. Reyes has agreed to talk with us about the practical side of poetry in bookstores,” Ethan continued smoothly. “As you're preparing your presentations on contemporary poets, think about the bridge between what we study academically and what actually makes it onto bookstore shelves.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I found myself talking more about poetry than I had in the last decade combined. The students, once they got past their initial skepticism of this random maintenance guy suddenly talking about book sales, actually asked decent questions. Which poets sell best? How do bookstores decide what to stock? Do people actually buy poetry or just look at it and put it back?

I answered as honestly as I could, occasionally catching Ethan's eye as he nodded encouragingly from where he'd taken a seat at the side of the room. He was letting me run the show, which was both terrifying and strangely empowering.

When the students broke into groups to work on their presentations, Ethan pulled a chair up next to me.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said quietly. “They respond differently to someone from outside the classroom, especially someone with practical experience.”

“Not sure how practical my experience is,” I admitted. “Eleanor handles most of the poetry ordering.”

“But you understand what makes people actually pick up a book,” he pointed out. “That's something I can't teach from academic theory.”

We spent the rest of the period moving between student groups, listening to their ideas for presentations on poets I'd mostly never heard of. Ethan would handle the literary analysis while I'd chime in about accessibility, readability, what might make someone browsing actually stop and open the book.

Our back-and-forth developed a natural rhythm. His academic knowledge complemented my practical bookstore perspective, his literary analysis balanced with my understanding of how to make books appeal to people who didn't grow up with bookshelves at home.

As the class ended and students filed out, a few of them actually thanked me for coming, which felt weird but nice. One lanky kid who reminded me a lot of Diego lingered, asking about whether I thought there could ever be a market for poetry about video games. I talked with him for a few minutes about finding your audience and writing what you're passionate about, surprising myself with how much I apparently cared about this topic.

Once the room cleared, Ethan and I found ourselves alone. He'd arranged two student desks facing each other with books and notebooks stacked between them.

“I thought we could talk more about the bookstore-school partnership if you have time,” he said, his tone carefully professional. We were both still figuring out how to navigate this new territory, trying to exist in the same zip code without either avoiding each other or accidentally reopening old wounds.

“Eleanor's pretty persuasive about this whole collaboration,” I replied, dropping into one of the desks that was way too small for adult butts. “The bookstore-school thing makes good business sense.”

“I put together some ideas for the student writing showcase,” Ethan said, flipping open a folder. “I was thinking we could mix kids from different grades, grouped by themes instead of by class.”

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