Page 7 of The Silence Between

The weirdest encounter had been in April, when I'd been walking home in a sudden downpour. A car had pulled alongside me. Ethan leaning across the passenger seat to roll down the window. “Need a ride?” The instinctive refusal had been on my lips when he added, “It's coming down hard. No big deal.” Against my better judgment, I'd gotten in. The eight-minute drive had been excruciating, both of us attempting small talk that died between the seats. He'd dropped me off three blocks from my actual apartment—my choice, not wanting him to see The Hollows. As I'd gotten out, he'd said, “See you around, Leo,” like we were friends. Like he remembered my name.

We weren't friends. But there was something between us—some strange recognition. As if he saw me when others didn't. Which made no sense at all.

After class, Ms. Abernathy asked me to stay behind. Great. Had I gone too far? Said something inappropriate?

“Leo,” she said when the room had emptied, “your analysis today was college-level work.”

I shifted my weight, unsure how to respond to praise. “Thanks.”

“Have you ever considered joining the debate team? We need students who can think critically about complex issues.”

“I'm not really a joiner,” I said, thinking of my after-school job, the kids waiting at home.

“It would look impressive on college applications,” she pressed. “Riverton's team competes regionally. Scholarships are sometimes offered to exceptional debaters.”

The word “scholarships” caught in my mind like a hook. College had always seemed like a fantasy—something that happened to other people, kids whose parents could afford SAT prep courses and application fees.

“When do they meet?” I asked, despite myself.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Tryouts are next week.” She smiled, sensing my wavering. “Just consider it. You have a unique perspective that would strengthen the team.”

I nodded, not committing, and stepped into the hallway where Ethan stood leaning against a row of lockers, apparently waiting for someone. When he saw me, he straightened.

“Your take on Gatsby was better than anything I've read in the study guides,” he said without preamble.

I stared at him, momentarily disoriented by the direct address. In a year of sharing classes, we'd barely exchanged ten words.

“Thanks,” I managed.

Before I could say more, a voice called from down the hall. “Ethan! Team meeting in five!”

He glanced over his shoulder, nodded, then turned back to me. “See you around, Leo.” And then he was gone, joining a group of well-dressed students heading toward the debate classroom.

* * *

The apartment doorwas stuck in its frame, swollen from the recent rains. I had to slam my shoulder against it twice before it gave way with a reluctant groan. The smell hit me first—sour and stale, so unlike Mom's obsessively clean home that alarm bells immediately rang in my head.

“Mari?” I called, dropping my backpack by the door. “Diego? Sophie?”

“In here,” Mari's small voice came from the bedroom.

I found them all there. Mari was sitting on the bed with Sophie in her lap, Diego curled beside them watching cartoons on our ancient portable TV. The anxious set of Mari's mouth told me everything before she spoke.

“Mom's sick,” she whispered. “She couldn't go to work.”

My eyes darted to the living room, where Dad lay sprawled on the couch, an arm flung over his face, in the middle of the day. An empty orange prescription bottle sat on the coffee table.

“Where's Mom now?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Mari nodded toward the bathroom. I ruffled Diego's hair, gave Sophie's chubby arm a gentle squeeze, and whispered, “Stay here, okay? I'll be right back.”

The bathroom door was ajar. Inside, Mom knelt on the linoleum, her forehead resting against the edge of the toilet bowl, her body trembling.

“Mom,” I said softly, kneeling beside her. “What's going on?”

She flinched, then tried to straighten, to compose herself. “Mijo, I didn't hear you come in. It's nothing, just a little stomach bug.”

But the sheen of sweat on her face, the blown pupils, the way her hands shook told a different story. When she tried to stand, her legs buckled. I caught her, alarmed at how light she felt, as if she were hollowing out from the inside.

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