Page 2 of The Silence Between

2

PARALLEL LIVES

LEO

SOPHOMORE YEAR

T he last sunset of summer bled across the Riverton skyline, painting the worn rooftops of The Hollows in fading gold. I sat on the fire escape outside our apartment, one leg dangling over the edge, watching as the day drained away. Fifteen now, I'd grown four inches over the past year, my shoulders filling out from carrying Sophie up three flights of stairs daily and hauling groceries home from the discount store across town.

Below me, The Hollows pulsed with life—kids chasing each other through uneven streams of water from a broken hydrant, competing music from half a dozen apartments creating a chaotic symphony, occasional shouts punctuating the melody. No longer foreign territory, this neighborhood had wrapped itself around us like a second skin. Home, for whatever that was worth.

Inside our apartment, Mari sat cross-legged on the floor with Diego, guiding his pudgy hand as he struggled to write his name on a sheet of paper. At eight, my sister had developed a startling patience, her dark eyes serious beyond their years as she praised Diego's crooked letters. Sophie, no longer a baby but a determined toddler, stacked plastic cups nearby, babbling a running commentary only she understood.

I watched through the window, a strange ache spreading beneath my ribs. When had Mari become a teacher? When had Diego grown out of toddlerhood? When had Sophie learned to stack anything besides consonants in her baby talk?

Mari shifted positions, and I caught the wince she tried to hide, the careful way she moved her arm. My stomach tightened.

“Mari,” I called softly through the open window. “Come out here a minute.”

She glanced up, her expression immediately guarded. “I'm helping Diego.”

“Just for a minute.”

With reluctance, she told Diego to practice the letter 'D' and joined me on the fire escape, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, her skinny arms wrapped around them.

“What's up?” she asked, not meeting my eyes.

“Your arm,” I said. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I bumped it.”

“Mari.”

She sighed, then slowly rolled up her sleeve. The bruise was the size of a golf ball, already turning a sickly yellow at the edges. Five distinct fingerprints.

“Dad didn't mean it,” she whispered, rolling her sleeve back down. “He was having a bad dream. He thought I was someone else.”

The rage came sudden and hot, a flash flood through my veins. I took three deep breaths, willing my voice to stay steady. “When?”

“Last night. You were working.”

Of course I was. Weekend inventory at the corner store, trying to save up for the graphing calculator I needed for Algebra II. I'd started working there three months ago when Dad's sporadic construction gigs had dried up completely and Mom's factory checks barely covered rent. Someone had to buy groceries, school supplies, the medicine Sophie needed for her constant ear infections. The sixty bucks I made each weekend wasn't much, but it meant the difference between eating and not some weeks. What I hadn't calculated was the true cost—I hadn't been home to protect them.

“Has it happened before?” I asked, though I already knew the answer from the way she avoided my eyes.

Before Mari could respond, the door opened. Mom shuffled in, her factory uniform stained with ink and sweat, her limp more pronounced than ever. The hunch of her shoulders told the story of another ten-hour shift standing at the packaging line. She'd aged a decade in the year we'd been in Riverton, deep lines etched around her mouth, dark circles like bruises beneath her eyes.

I slipped back inside, Mari following silently.

“Mamá,” I said, moving to take her lunch bag. “Let me start dinner.”

“No, mijo.” She waved me away, summoning a tired smile. “You study. You don't end up like me.”

The familiar refrain. Don't end up like me. As if her sacrifice was some kind of failure rather than the most enduring love I'd ever witnessed.

I watched as she moved to the kitchen, mechanically removing ingredients for dinner. From her purse, she extracted an orange prescription bottle, shaking a pill into her palm and swallowing it dry. Her shoulders relaxed incrementally as she tucked the bottle back into her purse, glancing around to make sure the kids hadn't seen.

But I had seen. And the knot in my stomach pulled tighter.

* * *

“So Gatsby reinvents himself to pursue an idealized version of success, but that pursuit ultimately destroys him,” Ms. Abernathy said, pacing in front of the whiteboard covered in her flowing script. “What does Fitzgerald want us to understand about the American Dream?”

The sophomore literature classroom fell into that peculiar silence of students avoiding eye contact with the teacher. I sat in my usual spot near the back corner, half-hidden behind Tyler Hansen's football-player bulk. A year at Riverton High had taught me to navigate its social ecosystem with minimal damage.

The silence stretched too long. Ms. Abernathy's gaze swept across the room, landing on me with a hopeful raise of her eyebrows.

Fuck it. I raised my hand.

“Leo,” she nodded, relief evident in her voice.

“Maybe it's not just about Gatsby failing,” I said, the words coming slowly as I pieced together thoughts that had been swirling since I'd finished the book. “Maybe it's about how the American Dream itself is a kind of lie. Like, we're told anyone can make it if they work hard enough, but Gatsby did everything right—reinvented himself, made money, played by their rules—and still wasn't accepted. Because some walls can't be climbed, no matter how hard you try.”

The classroom fell into a different kind of silence—the uncomfortable kind that happens when someone says something too real. I immediately regretted speaking.

“That's...” Ms. Abernathy paused, her eyes lighting up. “That's an excellent point, Leo. Fitzgerald is indeed suggesting that the American Dream might be fundamentally flawed, accessible only to those born into certain circumstances.” She turned to the class. “What do others think about Leo's interpretation?”

As the discussion reluctantly sputtered to life, I noticed Ethan watching me from across the room. His expression wasn't the surprised disbelief I sometimes got when I spoke in class. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

I'd run into Ethan exactly twelve times over the past year, not that I was counting. The first was after that English class freshman year, when he'd spoken up for me about the textbook. We'd found ourselves alone in the library a week later, both reaching for the same copy of “The Odyssey.” He'd smiled, actually smiled, and said, “You take it. I've already read it once for fun anyway.” The kind of thing only a West Riverton kid would say—reading classics “for fun” like that was normal.

Then there was the time in the cafeteria when his friend had knocked my tray, sending my sad excuse for a lunch skidding across the floor. While his friends snickered, Ethan had silently handed me his untouched apple and walked away before I could refuse it. Or thank him. Or figure out why he'd done it.

In January, during midterms, I'd been studying in the back corner of the library at a table I thought nobody knew about. Ethan had appeared with a stack of books, hesitated when he saw me, then stood awkwardly for a moment.

“Hi,” he'd said, like we'd never met before. “My name is Ethan.” As if I could have forgotten. As if we hadn't had that lunch conversation, as if he hadn't handed me that apple, as if I hadn't seen him every day in English class for months.

“I know,” I'd replied, not looking up from my notes.

A half-smile had pulled at his mouth. “Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.” It wasn't, but I nodded anyway. We'd sat in silence for two hours, occasionally glancing up to find the other looking away quickly. He'd left a half-full pack of highlighters on the table when he went home. When I tried to return them the next day, he just shook his head. “Keep them. I have more.”

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 door was 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.

“The pain,” she murmured as I helped her to the bedroom. “My back... from the line. Doctor gave me stronger pills.”

I eased her onto the bed where the kids had been, noticing how they'd already retreated to the corner of the room, a familiar wariness in their postures. Mari had Sophie on her hip, whispering something soothing in her ear. Even Diego, usually bursting with energy, sat unnaturally still.

They'd seen this before.

In the bathroom, I found a different prescription bottle than Mom's usual medication, the label bearing a name I didn't recognize for a dosage that seemed much higher. As Mom drifted into uneasy sleep, she clutched my hand, suddenly lucid.

“Don't tell your father they're gone,” she whispered urgently. “He gets angry.”

After she fell asleep, I called the factory, explained in my most adult voice that Gloria Reyes had a stomach virus, and would return tomorrow. Then I made dinner from what little we had—pasta with the last jar of sauce, no meat, a handful of frozen vegetables to bulk it out.

Dad woke as we ate, emerging from the living room with wild eyes and sweat-dampened hair. He paced the small kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, checking Mom's purse on the counter, growing increasingly agitated.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “Where did she put it?”

Diego shrank in his chair. Sophie, sensing the tension, began to whimper.

“They need to eat, Dad,” I said quietly, stepping between him and the table. “Why don't you sit down with us? There's enough.”

For a moment, I thought he might shove me aside. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, fixed on me as if seeing a stranger.

Without a word, he grabbed his jacket and left, the door slamming behind him.

Mari exhaled shakily. Sophie's whimpers escalated to wails. Diego kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

“It's okay,” I lied, sitting back down. “He just needs some air. Let's finish dinner.”

But the hollow feeling in my chest told me nothing was okay, and the fragile foundation beneath our feet was crumbling faster than I could shore it up.

* * *

The debate team tryouts were held in room 203, a classroom I'd never had reason to enter before. I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. About fifteen students sat in a semicircle, nearly all of them from West Riverton—designer jeans, casual confidence, easy laughter. Ethan sat at a small desk to the side, a stack of file folders and research materials spread before him.

The debate coach, Mr. Phillips, stood at the front of the room writing the day's topic on the whiteboard: “Economic Assistance Programs: Safety Net or Dependency Trap?”

I almost walked out. Of all the fucking topics, they had to pick the one that would put a spotlight on the exact divide between me and everyone else in the room.

But then I remembered Ms. Abernathy's words about scholarships, about college possibilities. I thought of Mari's bruised arm, of Mom's pill bottle, of Dad's vacant eyes. I thought of escape.

So I stayed, taking a seat slightly apart from the others, conscious of my secondhand jeans and the hole starting to form in the sole of my left sneaker.

Mr. Phillips explained the format: each candidate would present a two-minute argument either for or against the proposition, followed by a brief questioning period. My stomach knotted as student after student delivered polished arguments about “culture of dependency” and “budget deficits” and “intergenerational reliance on welfare.”

When my turn came, I stood, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Economic assistance programs,” I began, my mouth dry, “aren't just abstract policy issues. They're the difference between eating and going hungry, between medicine and suffering, between housing and homelessness.”

I didn't explicitly mention my family, but I spoke about what I knew—how assistance created survival but rarely advancement, how the system trapped people in cycles of just-enough, how the psychological toll of needing help in a society that despised dependency crushed people from the inside.

“The real problem isn't that these programs create dependency,” I concluded. “It's that they're designed to maintain people at subsistence levels while never addressing the barriers that keep them from true self-sufficiency. The debate shouldn't be whether to help people, but how to actually lift them up rather than just preventing them from drowning.”

The room fell silent when I finished. Mr. Phillips, who had been making notes throughout, studied me with an unreadable expression. Several of the West Riverton students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ethan watched me intently, his pen frozen above his notepad.

“That was... passionate,” Mr. Phillips finally said. “Perhaps a bit light on statistical evidence, but compelling nonetheless. Thank you, Mr. Reyes.”

I nodded and returned to my seat, shakiness spreading through my limbs as the adrenaline ebbed.

After the tryouts concluded, I lingered in the hallway, waiting for the crowd to disperse before heading home. Two West Riverton students passed without noticing me, their voices carrying.

“God, that kid from East Side was so dramatic,” one said, rolling his eyes. “Playing the poverty card for sympathy points.”

“Right? Like, we get it, you're poor. My dad says people just need to work harder instead of looking for handouts.”

My face burned, shame and anger warring in my chest. I wanted to disappear, to never have exposed myself this way.

“You're missing the point,” a third voice interrupted—Ethan's. “He just demolished your theoretical arguments with real-world application.” His tone held an edge I'd never heard before. “Maybe try listening instead of dismissing experiences you don't understand.”

I slipped away before any of them noticed me, Ethan's unexpected defense replaying in my mind as I walked home. The strange warmth it sparked felt dangerous, like hope—and hope was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Three days later, the debate team roster was posted outside room 203. My name was on it.

* * *

It was freezing when I got home, my breath visible in the air. Mari had wrapped Sophie and Diego in every blanket we owned, the three of them huddled on the couch like refugees. Her face, when she saw me, crumpled with relief.

“The heat's off,” she said. “I tried calling Mom but she didn't answer.”

“Where are they?” I asked, though I already suspected.

“Mom said she was going to find Dad.” Mari's voice was small. “She promised they'd be back yesterday.”

Two days. They'd been gone for two days, leaving children nine, five, and two years old alone in an unheated apartment in November.

I swallowed the rage that threatened to choke me. “Have you guys eaten today?”

Mari shook her head. “We had cereal for breakfast, but the milk's gone. I didn't know what else to make.”

I checked the kitchen—nearly empty. Half a loaf of bread, a few slices of cheese, one can of beans, a handful of pasta. I made grilled cheese sandwiches, cut them into shapes to make Diego smile, heated the beans to stretch the meal.

After they ate, I ran a bath, the hot water temporarily warming the apartment. I bathed Sophie while Mari helped Diego, then tucked all three into bed together for warmth, piling on every piece of clothing we owned as makeshift blankets.

“Tell us a story,” Diego pleaded, his dark eyes wide. “A good one.”

So I made up a tale about a magical world where families stayed together, where houses were always warm, where food appeared whenever you were hungry, where no one ever had to be afraid. I spun it until their eyelids grew heavy, until Sophie's thumb found her mouth and Diego's breathing deepened into sleep.

Only Mari remained awake, her eyes fixed on mine in the dim light.

“My teacher keeps asking questions,” she whispered once the others were asleep. “About why I miss so much school. About why my homework isn't always done.”

Fear seized my chest. “What did you tell her?”

“That I get sick a lot. That you help me with homework but sometimes we're busy.” She bit her lip. “Leo, if I tell the truth, they'll take us away. They'll separate us.”

I pulled her close, this tiny girl carrying adult worries. “I won't let that happen,” I promised. “We're staying together, no matter what.”

Her tears soaked through my shirt as she finally allowed herself to cry, her small body shaking with the force of sobs she'd been holding back for who knew how long. I held her until she cried herself to sleep, my own eyes burning with exhaustion and unshed tears.

The door opened around midnight. Mom and Dad stumbled in, bringing cold air and the sickly-sweet smell of unwashed bodies and something chemical I couldn't name. They hadn't brought food, or explanations, or apologies—just a frenetic energy that threatened to wake the children.

I extracted myself carefully from Mari's grip and met them in the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind me.

“Where have you been?” I kept my voice low, but couldn't mask the anger. “The heat's off. The kids haven't eaten properly in days.”

Mom's eyes couldn't seem to focus on my face. “Mijo, don't be angry. We had to... your father needed...”

“Pills,” I finished for her. “You needed pills. More than you needed to take care of your children.”

Dad stepped toward me, his movements jerky and unpredictable. “Don't talk to your mother like that. Show some goddamn respect.”

“Respect?” The word tasted bitter. “You left three kids alone for two days. Mari's been missing school to take care of Sophie and Diego. There's no food, no heat.”

“You think I don't know that?” Dad's voice rose. “You think I like this? You think I wanted to end up like this?”

“Miguel, please,” Mom pleaded. “The children are sleeping.”

“You have to choose,” I said, the words heavy as stones. “The pills or us.”

Dad's face twisted, rage and shame battling across his features. He grabbed my shirt, pushing me against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

“You don't tell me what to do in my own house,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “You're the child. I'm the father.”

Mom pulled at his arm, murmuring incoherently for peace, for calm. He shook her off, his grip on my shirt tightening.

With shaking hands, I reached into my pocket and pulled out all the cash I'd been saving—almost two hundred dollars from my weekend job, money that was supposed to pay for the debate team trip to Portland next month.

“Here,” I said flatly. “Get what you need. But come back sober.”

Dad's grip loosened as he stared at the money. Slowly, he took it, something like shame flickering across his face before the need won out.

“We'll be back soon,” Mom whispered, not meeting my eyes. “I'll bring food.”

They left as quickly as they'd arrived, the door closing behind them with a soft click that somehow hurt worse than any slam.

In the empty kitchen, I stood motionless, listening to the quiet breathing of my siblings from the bedroom. The weight of everything settled over me like wet concrete, hardening around my limbs, making it difficult to move, to breathe, to think beyond the next immediate need.

My hand found its way to my pocket, fingers closing around a small, smooth object—the painted stone Mom had given me on my first day at Riverton High.

Para valor. For courage.

The hummingbird's colors had faded from handling, the wings barely visible now. Like Mom's smile. Like our family. Like any hope of things ever getting better.

I clutched it until the edges bit into my palm, wondering how much courage it would take to keep going, to hold what remained of our family together. Wondering if I had enough.

Outside, snow began to fall, soft and indifferent, on the dark streets of The Hollows.