Page 10 of The Silence Between

10

ECHOING HALLS

ETHAN

T wenty pairs of eyes assessed me with the particular blend of curiosity, skepticism, and boredom that only teenagers can perfect. I stood at the front of my first-period English class, chalk dust already smudging my dark slacks, wondering if my own face had ever held that same expression when I sat in these very seats a decade ago.

“Good morning,” I began, my voice steadier than the tremor in my fingers suggested. “I'm Mr. Webb, your new English teacher for the remainder of the year.”

The institutional green walls hadn't changed, nor had the uncomfortable desks arranged in neat rows. Through the windows, the football field stretched exactly as it had during my high school years, the bleachers still missing slats in the same places. The strange overlay of past and present made me momentarily dizzy, as though I'd slipped between timelines.

“As Mr. Patterson mentioned before he left for his wife's new job in Denver, we'll be focusing on narrative voice this semester.” I moved to the whiteboard, writing the day's objective. “How authors choose who tells their stories, and why that choice matters.”

A hand shot up in the front row—a girl with immaculate braids and an expression of intense focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you the Ethan Webb who wrote The Cartographer's Dream ?” she asked, brandishing a paperback from her backpack. “My mom has all your books.”

So much for easing into my identity. “I am, yes. But today, I'm just your English teacher.”

“Why would you quit being a famous author to teach high school?” called a boy from the back, not bothering to raise his hand. “Seems like a serious downgrade.”

The bluntness of the question caught me off guard, but also cut through the performance I'd been trying to maintain. These kids would see through any sanitized explanation.

“That's actually relevant to today's topic,” I said, setting down my lesson plan. “Voice isn't just about technical choices on a page. It's about authenticity. I left publishing because I'd lost mine.”

The classroom stilled, the sudden shift from academic exercise to genuine conversation palpable.

“Sometimes,” I continued, surprising myself with this unplanned vulnerability, “you need to revisit your foundations to remember why you started building in the first place. I began writing because I loved literature, because books helped me understand myself and the world. Somewhere along the way, that got buried under marketing plans and sales projections.”

“So you're, like, having a midlife crisis?” the same boy asked, though with less edge than before.

Several students laughed, breaking the tension.

“I'm twenty-nine, Jackson. Let's call it a quarter-life reassessment,” I countered, consulting the seating chart to identify him. “But yes, I suppose I am questioning what makes work meaningful. Which brings us back to narrative voice, and how the perspective we choose shapes the stories we tell.”

The lesson flowed more naturally after that moment of honesty, the students engaging with examples of first-person versus third-person narration with surprising enthusiasm. Throughout the discussion, I noticed a quiet girl in the back row, her dark eyes following the conversation with intense focus though she never raised her hand. Something about her reminded me of Mari at that age—serious beyond her years, taking in everything, selective about when to reveal her thoughts.

When the bell rang, students gathered their belongings with the usual scraping of chairs and overlapping conversations. As they filed out, the quiet girl from the back row approached my desk.

“Mr. Webb? Could you recommend any books about unreliable narrators? For independent reading?”

I looked up into familiar dark eyes, noticing her name tag for the first time: “Reyes, S.”

My breath caught. Sophie. Leo's sibling, now a freshman.

“Of course,” I managed, mind racing through appropriate titles while processing this unexpected connection. “Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl is the contemporary classic, though it's pretty dark. For something more accessible but still complex, maybe The Perks of Being a Wallflower .”

She nodded, jotting the titles in a small notebook. “Thanks. I like stories where you can't quite trust what you're being told.”

“Those can be the most interesting kind,” I agreed, wondering what she'd think if she knew the history I shared with her older brother.

After Sophie left, I sank into my chair, the empty classroom suddenly too quiet. Leo's family remained directly connected to my daily environment in ways I hadn't anticipated. My careful plan for gradual reacclimation had already been complicated by family ties neither of us could have predicted.

The next class would arrive in ten minutes. I straightened my desk, trying to refocus on lesson plans rather than the ghost of memory Sophie's presence had stirred.

The bell rang again, summoning me back to the present as students began filing in. I stood, marker in hand, ready to guide another group through the complexities of narrative voice while my own story took unexpected turns I couldn't control.

* * *

The faculty lounge buzzed with the particular energy of teachers during lunch period—a brief respite from classroom demands spent refueling on caffeine and comparing notes on students, curriculum, and administrative quirks. I balanced my tray of questionable cafeteria lasagna at the edge of a table where Marcus sat with several other English department members, the social geography of the room both familiar and foreign.

“Here he is!” announced Mrs. Greenfield, my former AP English teacher and now department colleague. Her red curls had silvered but her enthusiastic gestures remained unchanged. “Our celebrated author returned to his roots.”

The introduction sent a ripple of interest through nearby tables, creating exactly the kind of attention I'd hoped to avoid. I smiled politely, taking the seat Marcus had saved.

“Hardly celebrated,” I demurred. “Just happy to be back teaching.”

“Don't be modest,” insisted Mr. Bakshi, the debate coach who'd replaced our former mentor after retirement. “My wife has your entire collection on our nightstand. She'll expect an autograph when you come for dinner.”

“Speaking of which,” Mrs. Greenfield continued, “we should organize a special assembly. Let the students hear about your writing process, how you developed your career. Inspirational for our aspiring authors.”

The suggestion landed like a stone in my stomach. My success now threatened to create the kind of spotlight I'd specifically fled. The last thing I wanted was to stand before the entire student body performing the role of Literary Success Story while secretly questioning every choice that had built that narrative.

“That's very kind, but I'd rather focus on teaching for now,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Get my bearings before any public speaking.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Greenfield agreed, though the gleam in her eye suggested she hadn't abandoned the idea. “But once you're settled, perhaps for National Library Week in April? Principal Rodriguez would love the community engagement opportunity.”

Marcus caught my eye across the table, a subtle shake of his head communicating that resistance was futile. I nodded noncommittally and steered the conversation toward curriculum planning, safer territory than my literary career.

As lunch ended and teachers dispersed to afternoon classes, Marcus pulled me aside in the hallway.

“Greenfield means well,” he said. “They all do. Small town, hometown success—it's catnip to them.”

“I know,” I sighed. “I just didn't come back to be paraded around as the local boy made good.”

“Why did you come back?” His direct question caught me off guard. “Really. We never fully got into it the other night.”

Before I could formulate a response that wasn't entirely dishonest without being completely revealing, a group of students rounded the corner, forcing us to flatten against the wall to allow passage.

“Later,” Marcus promised, but added something that fundamentally shifted my perspective on the school. “By the way, you should know—the night janitorial staff includes not just Leo but occasionally Mari as well. She helps him when she can arrange childcare for the younger ones.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said, processing the implications.

“Tread carefully,” Marcus advised, his voice gentle but firm. “His life isn't simple, and your return complicates it whether you intend to or not.”

* * *

The bell above Second Chapter Bookstore's door announced my entrance with the same musical chime I remembered from high school. The familiar smell of paper and binding glue enveloped me as I stepped inside, wooden shelves worn smooth by countless browsing hands creating immediate sensory connection to my past.

I wandered through the labyrinthine aisles, noting changes and constants. The children's section had expanded, now featuring a small reading nook with cushions shaped like woodland creatures. The literary fiction section remained anchored by the same large window overlooking Main Street, though the featured titles had evolved with passing years. The poetry corner, tucked behind the biography section, still held the worn armchair where Leo and I had spent countless afternoons reading aloud from collections we couldn't afford to purchase.

“I wondered when you'd find your way back here.”

Eleanor emerged from behind the counter, her silver hair elegantly coiled at the nape of her neck, her lined face marking passage of years while her sharp eyes and warm smile remained unchanged. At seventy-three, she moved more deliberately than she once had, but her presence still carried the quiet authority that had governed this literary sanctuary for decades.

“Hello, Eleanor,” I said, genuine pleasure warming my voice. She had been one of few adults who supported my early writing without agenda, who saw beyond socioeconomic divisions to recognize genuine connections. “The store looks wonderful.”

“Still standing, despite online store’s best efforts,” she replied with characteristic dry humor. “Come, sit. Tell me about the prodigal author's return.”

We settled in the small office behind the counter, a space unchanged since my high school visits—still crowded with overflow inventory, still featuring the mismatched teacups she preferred to disposable options. The familiar ritual of Eleanor preparing tea created space for our conversation to move from polite catching-up to gradually increasing honesty.

“Three published novels, reviews in all the prestigious places,” she mused, handing me a steaming cup. “Yet here you are, teaching high school English in the town you couldn't wait to escape. The question writes itself.”

I sipped the fragrant jasmine tea, considering how to respond to Eleanor's unspoken question about my return. “I heard you considered selling the store,” I said, shifting the focus from myself. “Marcus mentioned you might be looking for management help.”

Eleanor nodded, a slight smile acknowledging my deflection. “Age catches up with everyone eventually, even stubborn bookstore owners. The stairs to the storage room have become my daily nemesis.”

“Is there interest in buying it?”

“A chain wanted to convert it to another cookie-cutter café with books as decorative props,” she said with undisguised disdain. “I'd rather burn it down myself.”

I laughed, then sobered. “Marcus mentioned Leo might be taking on some management responsibilities here.”

“He's considering it,” Eleanor confirmed, watching me carefully. “He's good with books. Always was. And he needs work that accommodates his family responsibilities better than three separate jobs with conflicting schedules.”

The thought of Leo potentially working here, among these shelves that held so many memories of us together, created a complicated knot of emotions I couldn't immediately untangle.

“Does he know I'm back?” I asked, the question that had been circling my mind for days finally finding voice.

“Riverton isn't that big, Ethan. Word travels.” Eleanor's gentle directness had always been her gift. “But if you're asking whether he's mentioned you—no, he hasn’t”. Leo keeps his thoughts close these days. Life taught him that particular skill.”

“Do you think I shouldn't have returned?” I asked, surprising myself with the directness of the question.

Eleanor considered this, her expression thoughtful. “I think unfinished stories create their own gravity. The question isn't whether you should have returned, but what you intend to do now that you have.” She poured more tea for both of us. “He's been working toward his own next chapter, you know.”

“I don't want to interfere with his life,” I said. “I just need...”

“Resolution,” Eleanor finished when I faltered. “Most unfinished stories do.”

She poured more tea, the steam curling between us like a question mark. The late afternoon sun filtered through the bookstore's windows, casting golden rectangles across the worn wooden floor.

“Did you two ever discuss what happened after you left?” she asked, her tone careful but direct.

“No,” I admitted. “Everything happened so fast. His family crisis, my college acceptance, the decisions we both made. There was never a proper ending, just... an ellipsis that stretched into years.”

Eleanor nodded slowly. “Some people believe unresolved endings are a gift. They leave room for possibility.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I believe,” she said after a thoughtful pause, “that stories deserve the endings their characters need, not always the ones readers want.” She set down her cup. “Leo has built a life defined by responsibility to others. Whatever resolution you seek needs to respect that reality.”

She stood, signaling our conversation's end. “Sometimes stories deserve second chapters, but they need to be written carefully, with attention to all characters involved.”

As I browsed before leaving, I found myself in the poetry section, fingers tracing spines until I located the volume Leo and I had once shared—Neruda's works in the same translation we'd read together. I purchased it along with several contemporary novels, Eleanor's knowing smile following me out the door into the fading afternoon light.

Her parting words echoed as I walked back toward the school to retrieve papers left in my classroom: “Writing requires courage, Ethan. But revision demands both courage and wisdom.” The observation applied to more than literature, as she well knew.

Darkness had settled over Riverton High by the time I returned to my classroom, the empty hallways amplifying every footstep with theatrical echo. I preferred preparing lessons in this quiet after-hours environment, finding focus impossible during busy school days filled with student questions and faculty interactions.

The janitor on duty—not Leo, but an older man named Carl who remembered me from my student days—had let me in with a friendly nod before continuing his rounds in the gymnasium wing. I settled at my desk, spreading out student essays on narrative perspective, surprising myself with genuine enjoyment in their sometimes awkward but often insightful analyses.

Teaching felt more natural than I'd expected. The commercial pressure that had slowly suffocated my writing found no purchase here—success measured in moments of student understanding rather than sales figures or critical reception. When a sophomore previously silent in discussions suddenly articulated a complex interpretation of unreliable narration, the satisfaction far exceeded any recent professional accolade.

Distant sounds of a maintenance cart in another hallway broke my concentration, the metal rattle distinctly different from Carl's equipment. My pulse quickened with immediate understanding—the night shift had begun, which meant Leo might be in the building.

I froze, caught between contradictory impulses. Part of me wanted to seek him out immediately, force the reunion that had hovered at the edges of my consciousness since returning to Riverton. Another part recognized the potential harm in such an approach—the selfishness of demanding his attention when he was literally at work, the disrespect of orchestrating a meeting on my terms rather than his.

Minutes passed as I debated, all pretense of grading abandoned. Eventually, I settled on remaining in my classroom—neither actively seeking nor deliberately avoiding an encounter. If our paths crossed tonight, I would handle it with as much grace as I could muster. If not, I would respect the universe's timing rather than forcing my own.

The maintenance sounds gradually moved to a different wing, opportunity for encounter fading with distance. I redirected my attention to the essays, but focus proved impossible. My gaze drifted to the classroom bookshelves lining the back wall, curiosity about what remained from my student days drawing me from my seat.

Behind outdated textbooks and literary anthologies, I discovered a trove of institutional memory—old yearbooks, literary magazines from previous decades, debate team records. Curiosity piqued, I pulled out a leather binder labeled “Debate Tournament Archives,” its surface dusty from neglect.

Inside, plastic-protected pages preserved tournament programs, newspaper clippings, faculty notes about team performance. I turned pages slowly until reaching my junior and senior years, stomach tightening when I found what I hadn't consciously sought but somehow knew would be there. Leo's name beside mine as debate partners, our regional championship victory documented in yellowing newsprint, faculty comments noting our “complementary strengths” and “unusual chemistry.”

Physical evidence of connection that subsequent life choices had neither erased nor resolved. Proof that what existed between us hadn't been adolescent imagination but something substantial enough to leave marks on institutional memory.

A sudden silence registered. Whether Leo had finished his rounds or moved to another building, the opportunity for encounter had passed for tonight. I carefully returned the debate records to their shelf, brushing dust from my hands with strange ceremony, as though touching these artifacts of our shared past required ritual cleansing.

* * *

Saturday afternoon found me walking through East Riverton for the first time since my return. While West Riverton showed signs of attempted revitalization, East Riverton told a different story. New discount stores stood alongside familiar pawn shops, apartment buildings with cosmetic improvements beside boarded structures awaiting demolition or resurrection, evidence of economic struggle persisting alongside modest renewal efforts.

The river marking division between town halves hadn't changed—still cutting through Riverton's center with indifferent persistence, still crossable by three bridges that connected geographically adjacent communities that remained socially distant. I'd chosen to cross today deliberately, refusing to limit myself to the comfortable West Riverton bubble I'd grown up in. If I truly sought authentic reconnection with my past, I needed to acknowledge the whole of Riverton, not just its privileged sections.

Passing the basketball courts where Leo occasionally brought his siblings years earlier, I noticed a familiar figure. Diego stood by the court's edge, his tall, lanky frame unmistakably reminiscent of Leo. He already had his brother's height and lean build, though he carried himself with less confidence. He clutched his backpack defensively as three boys surrounded him, their postures communicating threat even from distance.

I slowed, uncertain about appropriate intervention. Yet watching as one boy grabbed something from Diego's backpack while another blocked his attempts to retrieve it, I couldn't simply walk past.

The moral calculus resolved instantly when the largest boy shoved Diego, causing him to stumble backward. I crossed the remaining distance with purposeful strides, recognizing two of the aggressors as freshmen from my fourth-period class.

“Gentlemen,” I called, my teacher voice carrying across the concrete. “Interesting running into Riverton High students here.”

The three boys turned, hostility shifting to wariness as they registered adult authority.

“Mr. Webb,” mumbled one.

“I believe you have something that belongs to Diego,” I said, gesturing to the calculator clutched in another boy's hand. “Scientific models like that are expensive. I'd hate to discuss property destruction during Monday's detention.”

The implied threat worked immediately. The calculator returned to Diego's hands with muttered excuses about “just messing around,” the three retreating with backward glances suggesting their retreat was strategic rather than permanent.

“You okay?” I asked, maintaining a respectful distance.

Diego nodded, suspicion evident in his guarded posture as he carefully returned the calculator to his backpack. “They didn't break it.”

“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.