Page 1 of The Silence Between

1

THE NEW KID

LEO

FRESHMAN YEAR

I stood frozen at the entrance to Riverton High, my knuckles white around the fraying strap of my backpack. The double doors loomed before me like the gateway to another world—one I wasn't sure I belonged in. Mom had promised this move from Oakland would give us stability after Dad lost his job at the warehouse. The small town of Riverton, with its paper mill and promise of steady work, was supposed to be our fresh start.

But fresh starts still came with first days, and first days still sucked.

Through the glass doors, I could already see how the school divided itself. On one side, students with pristine backpacks and expensive sneakers laughed together, their voices carrying across the quad. West Riverton kids. On the other, students in worn hoodies and work boots gathered in smaller groups, their postures a little more guarded. East Riverton.

And then there was me, wearing my cousin Carlos's hand-me-downs that hung too loose on my frame, carrying the special kind of invisibility that only the new kid mid-semester knows.

“Mijo,” Mom said beside me, her voice dropping to a whisper, “estás bien? You look pale.”

“I'm fine,” I muttered, though my stomach churned like I'd swallowed stones.

She smoothed a hand over my hair, a gesture that would have been comforting if we weren't standing in full view of what felt like the entire student body. “Remember what your father said this morning? New town, new opportunities.”

What Dad had actually said was those exact words while staring blankly at job listings in the local paper, the hope in his voice wearing thin like an old t-shirt passed down too many times. But I nodded anyway.

“Let's get your schedule,” Mom said, limping slightly as she pulled open the heavy door.

The administrative office smelled like coffee and industrial cleaner. A secretary with tightly permed hair glanced up from her computer, her gaze sliding over my mother's factory uniform before landing on me.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not bothering to stand.

Mom launched into rapid Spanish, explaining how we'd just moved and needed to finalize my enrollment. With each word, the secretary's expression grew more pinched.

“Um, we're here for my schedule,” I translated, my voice coming out quieter than intended. “Leo Reyes. I should be registered.”

The secretary's fingers clacked against her keyboard. “Leonel Reyes?”

“Just Leo,” I corrected, ignoring the familiar twist in my gut whenever someone used my full name.

Mom continued in Spanish, asking about bus routes and free lunch programs. The secretary's eyes darted between us, impatience radiating from her pursed lips.

“She doesn't understand,” I told Mom in Spanish, quiet enough that only she could hear. “Let me handle it.”

Mom's face fell slightly, but she nodded, squeezing my arm. I asked the secretary the necessary questions in English, translating her curt responses back to Mom. By the time we finished, a small line had formed behind us, and I could feel stares burning into my back.

Finally, the secretary handed me a printed schedule without meeting my eyes. “Your homeroom is 103. The bell rings in ten minutes.”

Mom turned to me, her dark eyes soft with worry. She pressed a kiss to my cheek before I could duck away. “Te quiero, mijo. You'll do great.”

Behind me, someone snickered. Heat crawled up my neck as I mumbled, “Love you too.”

As Mom turned to leave, I noticed her limp was worse today. Only two weeks at the factory, and already her body was paying the price. She paused at the door, digging something from her pocket.

“Para valor,” she whispered, pressing a small object into my palm. For courage.

It was a smooth river stone, one she'd painted with a tiny hummingbird. I closed my fingers around it, the familiar weight anchoring me as I watched her disappear through the front doors.

The hallway stretched before me, a gauntlet of unknown faces and closed classroom doors. I slipped the stone into my pocket and gripped my schedule like a shield.

New town. New opportunities. New bullshit.

* * *

The cafeteria roared with lunchtime chaos. I stood at the edge, tray in hand, mapping the invisible boundaries that separated the room. The West Riverton kids claimed the tables near the windows, golden sunlight gleaming off their name-brand water bottles and Apple watches. The East Riverton kids dominated the tables near the food line, their laughter louder, their movements more expansive.

Where the hell did I fit?

My gaze caught on a corner table where a single boy sat hunched over a book, seemingly content in his isolation. He wore glasses and a blue button-down that looked ironed, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he turned a page. He didn't look up once, completely absorbed in whatever world existed between those pages.

Something about his solitude called to me. But before I could move toward him, a voice cut through the noise.

“Hey! New kid!”

A group at a nearby table waved me over. They were clearly East Riverton—work boots, hoodies, that slight hardness around the eyes that came from growing up on the wrong side of town. I recognized the hunger in their gazes—fresh meat, someone new to entertain them.

I hesitated, then made my way toward them. Better to be entertainment than invisible.

“Sit down, man,” said a guy with a buzz cut and a skull tattooed on his forearm. “You're the kid from California, right?”

I nodded, lowering myself onto the bench.

“I'm Leroy. This is Cruz, Taylor, and Jackie.” He pointed around the table. “So Oakland, huh? That's hardcore. You in a gang there?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. I'd heard variations of it my entire life. Are you illegal? Do you know how to get drugs? Can your cousins get us fake IDs?

“No,” I said, stabbing a fork into what the cafeteria claimed was lasagna. “Just a regular neighborhood. Not everything in California is a gang territory.”

Leroy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just asking, man. No offense.”

“None taken,” I lied.

Cruz, a stocky guy with an eyebrow piercing, leaned forward. “So what brought your family to this shithole town?”

I shrugged. “Work. My mom got a job at the factory.”

“Oh shit, Riverside Paper? My mom works there too,” Jackie said, flipping her purple-streaked hair. “Which section?”

“Packaging, I think? She just started two weeks ago.”

Jackie's face clouded. “Damn. That's rough. Those jobs wreck people, seriously. My mom's been there five years and her back is fucked. They keep cutting benefits too.”

My fingers found the painted stone in my pocket, worry building in my chest as I thought of Mom's worsening limp.

“You got siblings?” Taylor asked, clearly trying to shift the conversation.

“Yeah,” I said, grateful for the change. “Three. My sister Mari is seven, Diego's three, and Sophie's just learning to walk.”

“Damn, that's a full house,” Cruz laughed. “Big age gap between you and them.”

I smiled despite myself. “Yeah. I was the trial run. They figured out all their parenting mistakes on me before trying again.”

They laughed, and for a moment, I felt a crack in the wall between us—the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I could find my footing here.

“So, little siblings,” Leroy mused. “That means you're stuck babysitting all the time, right?”

“It's not so bad,” I said. “They're good kids.”

“Man, that's your youth slipping away,” Cruz said, shaking his head. “When do you have time to party?”

I didn't tell them that the concept of “partying” felt as foreign to me as this town still did. That my life in Oakland had been school, home, siblings, repeat. That watching my parents struggle had never left much room for the kind of teenage rebellion they seemed to take for granted.

“I manage,” I said instead.

As lunch ended and we stood to leave, Jackie touched my arm. “Hey, just so you know, the factory has this family night thing coming up. If your mom wants to bring you guys, my mom and I could show you around. Sometimes they give out decent free stuff.”

The kindness caught me off guard. “Thanks. I'll tell her.”

As the group moved toward the exit, I glanced back at the corner table. The boy with the book was gone, leaving behind nothing but an empty chocolate milk carton.

I slipped into English class seconds before the bell, scanning the room for an empty seat. The only one available was in the back row, which suited me fine. Less chance of being noticed. I slid into the desk, hunching my shoulders as if I could make myself smaller through sheer force of will.

The teacher, a woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a loose bun, wrote “Romeo and Juliet—Act III” on the whiteboard. Great. Shakespeare. Nothing made a new kid stand out more than stumbling through four-hundred-year-old English in front of strangers.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept the room and caught on me like a snag in fabric. “Ah, it appears we have a new face. Mr...”

“Reyes,” I supplied when she trailed off. “Leo Reyes.”

“Welcome to Riverton High, Mr. Reyes. I'm Ms. Abernathy.” She smiled, the expression warming her tired face. “We're in the middle of our Romeo and Juliet unit. Have you studied the play before?”

“Not really,” I admitted, feeling twenty-five pairs of eyes swivel toward me.

“Well, then. Since you're joining us mid-unit, perhaps you'd like to share your first impressions of the reading? Fresh perspectives are always valuable.”

My mouth went dry. “I, uh, don't have the book yet.”

The silence that followed felt endless. I stared at the scratched surface of my desk, wishing I could disappear into it.

“Ms. Abernathy,” a voice called from across the room, “the office probably wouldn't have had time to issue textbooks yet. He just got here.”

I looked up to find the source of the voice. It was the boy from the cafeteria, the one who'd been reading alone. He didn't look at me as he spoke, his attention focused on arranging his notebook and pen with careful precision.

Ms. Abernathy's expression shifted to embarrassment. “Of course. How thoughtless of me.” She moved to a cabinet at the side of the room and extracted a worn copy of the play. “Here you are, Mr. Reyes. We're discussing Act III today, but perhaps you could catch up by reading Acts I and II tonight?”

I took the book, nodding. “Thank you.”

As she launched into a discussion about star-crossed lovers and fate, I glanced toward my unexpected defender. From this angle, I could see his profile clearly—straight nose, serious mouth, the kind of focused expression that suggested his mind ran a mile a minute. He wrote in his notebook continuously, not in the hurried scrawl of someone taking dictation, but in careful, thoughtful lines.

When class ended, I gathered my things slowly, watching as he was immediately surrounded by friends. West Riverton kids with confident voices discussing weekend plans and college application essays. He transformed among them, his reserved demeanor giving way to quick wit and easy laughter.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the door, any thought of thanking him evaporating. What would I even say? Thanks for noticing I exist? Thanks for the reminder that I don't belong here?

But as I passed the group, our eyes met briefly over his friends' heads. He gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his conversation.

Recognition without acknowledgment. The story of my life.

* * *

The walk home stretched three miles from Riverton High to our apartment in The Hollows, the poorest section of East Riverton. With each step away from school, the world changed. Trimmed lawns gave way to patchy grass. Maintained storefronts surrendered to boarded windows. The air itself felt different.

By the time I reached our ground-floor apartment, my shoulders ached from the weight of my backpack and the new textbooks I'd been issued. Before I even reached the door, I could hear Sophie crying inside—the high, frustrated wail that meant she'd been at it for a while.

I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob, mentally shifting gears. School Leo. Home Leo. The border between them growing thinner with each passing day.

Chaos greeted me when I stepped inside. Sophie sat red-faced in her high chair, banging a plastic spoon against the tray. Mari stood beside her, a jar of baby food in one hand, frustration written across her small features. Diego raced toy cars across the worn linoleum, making engine noises with his mouth and occasionally crashing them into the table legs with enthusiastic sound effects.

“Leo!” Mari cried when she saw me, relief washing over her face. “She won't eat for me.”

I dropped my backpack by the door and crossed to them, ruffling Diego's hair as I passed. “Hey, little man.”

“Vroom!” Diego responded, not looking up from his cars.

“Where's Dad?” I asked Mari, taking the baby food from her hand. “I thought he'd be home.”

“He had a job interview,” she explained, wiping sticky hands on her jeans. “And Mom called. The factory needs her for another shift.”

I nodded, swallowing disappointment. Dad had seemed motivated this morning, talking about fresh starts and opportunities. I'd wanted to believe him.

“How was school?” I asked Mari, lifting Sophie from her high chair. The baby immediately stopped crying, burying her face against my shoulder.

Mari's face clouded. “I don't like my teacher,” she confessed in a small voice. “She makes me read out loud and everyone laughs at my accent.”

Something hot and protective flared in my chest. “Your accent means you're twice as smart as them,” I told her, bouncing Sophie gently. “You speak two languages. How many do they speak?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Just one.”

“Exactly.” I handed Sophie back to her. “Now, you hold her while I make dinner. Did you do your homework?”

Mari nodded. “Most of it. I need help with math.”

“After dinner,” I promised, moving to the small kitchen area. I opened the refrigerator, assessing our options. Not much—some eggs, half a block of cheese, tortillas. The grocery money would have to stretch until Mom got paid next week.

“How about huevos rancheros for dinner?” I suggested.

“With hot sauce?” Diego piped up, suddenly interested now that food was mentioned.

“Just a little,” I said, pulling ingredients from the fridge. “Mari, can you set the table?”

For the next hour, I moved through the familiar routine—cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, getting Diego and Sophie bathed and into pajamas. The apartment was small but clean, every surface wiped down, toys confined to their bins, dishes washed and put away. Mom insisted on keeping it spotless, regardless of how exhausted she was when she came home.

“A clean home means dignity,” she always said.

By nine o'clock, I'd managed to get all three kids to bed in the apartment's single bedroom. Diego and Sophie shared the small bed, while Mari had a mattress on the floor. Mom and Dad would take the pull-out couch in the living room when they got home.

I sat at the kitchen table under the harsh light of the single overhead bulb, textbooks spread before me. The clock on the microwave read 9:47 PM. My eyes burned with fatigue, but I had reading to catch up on and math problems to complete.

An hour later, Mom stumbled through the door. Her uniform was stained with ink from the packaging floor, and her limp was so pronounced she had to brace herself against the wall.

“Mijo,” she said, surprise coloring her voice. “Still awake? It's so late.”

“Homework,” I explained, standing to take her lunch bag. “How was work?”

She waved away the question, moving past me to peek into the bedroom. “The children?”

“Fed, bathed, homework done. They're asleep.”

Relief softened her features as she returned to the kitchen. “You're such a good boy, Leo.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, hours ago.” I didn't mention that I'd given most of my portion to Diego, who'd suddenly decided he was “starving” after finishing his own plate.

“And your father?”

“Not home yet.”

Something flickered across her face—worry, resignation, I couldn't tell which. “His interview was at two.” She sighed, sinking into a chair. “He'll be home soon, I'm sure.”

I didn't argue. We both knew what “not home yet” likely meant, but neither of us wanted to say it aloud. Dad wasn't drinking again. He was networking. He was following a job lead. He was anywhere but at a bar trying to drown the shame of unemployment.

“Go to bed, mijo,” Mom said, noticing my drooping eyelids. “School is more important than waiting up.”

“I'm almost done,” I lied, not wanting her to sit alone. “Just a few more pages.”

She smiled tiredly, but didn't argue, disappearing into the bathroom to shower away the factory grime.

When she emerged twenty minutes later, I'd managed to finish my math homework and start on the first act of Romeo and Juliet. Mom kissed my cheek again before collapsing onto the pull-out couch, not bothering to unfold it, her exhaustion too complete for such effort.

The apartment fell quiet except for Mom's soft breathing and the occasional creak of the building settling. I turned back to the play, the unfamiliar language swimming before my tired eyes.

“Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene...”

I thought about Riverton High. The West Side kids with their confidence and plans for the future, the East Side kids with their defensive humor and premature hardness. Two worlds separated by a river, neither truly seeing the other.

The door opened just past midnight. Dad entered quietly, the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. I looked up from my book, saying nothing as he crossed to the table.

“Still up, mijo?” he asked, ruffling my hair with a gentleness that surprised me.

“Homework,” I explained for the second time that night. “How was the interview?”

Dad's smile faltered, then returned too brightly. “Almost had it. Guy said he might have something next week.” He glanced toward the couch where Mom slept. “She work a double?”

I nodded.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow will be better,” he said, though whether to me or himself, I couldn't tell. He squeezed my shoulder before moving to the couch, carefully adjusting Mom's position so he could unfold it without waking her.

Alone again at the table, I turned back to Romeo and Juliet. The familiar weight of uncertainty settled over me, but as I read, something unexpected happened. The strange language began to make sense, the story pulling me in despite my exhaustion. These people from centuries ago felt real—their loves and hates and fears as immediate as my own.

I pulled my worn notebook from my backpack and began to write. Why did Romeo switch from loving Rosaline to Juliet so quickly? Was it real love or just infatuation? What would have happened if they'd just told their parents the truth?

The words blurred as my eyelids grew heavier. I fought against sleep, determined to finish the first act, but eventually my head drooped, coming to rest on the open pages of Shakespeare's tragedy.