Page 3 of The Silence Between
3
COLLISION COURSE
ETHAN
JUNIOR YEAR
C ollege brochures stared at me from my desk, their glossy pages heavy with expectations. Princeton's orange and black. Harvard's crimson. Yale's blue. A rainbow of futures, all pre-selected for me since before I could read.
I pushed aside my SAT practice test—three hours of mind-numbing multiple choice that would somehow determine whether I was worthy of my father's alma mater. The familiar knot in my stomach tightened as I glanced at the clock. Seven hundred and twenty-six days until college applications were due. Seven hundred and twenty-six days of this suffocating pressure.
My bedroom door opened without a knock. Dad appeared, his reading glasses perched on his nose, another Princeton alumni magazine in his hand.
“Thought you might want to see this,” he said, placing it atop my practice test. “They've profiled some fascinating young alumni. One just clerked for the Supreme Court.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air between us. “Just something to aspire to.”
Just something to aspire to. As if Supreme Court clerks grew on trees in our backyard.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile I didn't feel. “I'll check it out.”
He lingered, glancing at my abandoned practice test. “How's the studying coming along?”
“Good. I'm averaging 1520 on the practice exams.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not bad. Though I imagine Princeton's average is closer to 1550 these days.”
Not bad. Translation: not good enough.
“I'll keep working on it,” I promised.
When he finally left, closing the door behind him, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes. From beneath my mattress, I pulled out a worn composition notebook—my real life, hidden between springs and memory foam.
I flipped to a blank page and began to write, the words flowing in a way they never did in my AP English essays. Not arguments or analysis, but poetry. Observations. Fragments of stories I'd never tell. The truth, unfiltered by expectations or GPAs or the suffocating weight of Webb family tradition.
My pen paused mid-sentence, my thoughts drifting to the debate team meeting earlier that day. Specifically, to Leo, the scholarship kid from East Riverton who'd joined the team last year. We'd been discussing educational funding, and while the rest of us had spouted statistics and cited studies, Leo had spoken about reality—overcrowded classrooms where teachers bought their own supplies, outdated textbooks held together with tape, the kids who came to school hungry because free breakfast programs had been cut.
“The question isn't whether these inequalities exist,” he'd said, his voice quiet but steady. “It's whether we care enough to fix them.”
The room had fallen silent after that. Not because it was a novel argument—we'd all heard similar points before—but because of how he said it. Raw. Honest. Without the artificial structure the rest of us had been trained to use since freshman debate.
I found myself wondering what it would be like to speak that honestly. To shed the carefully constructed sentences and perfect citations and just say what I actually thought.
“Ethan!” Mom's voice called from downstairs. “Dinner!”
I tucked my notebook back into its hiding place and headed down to the dining room, steeling myself for the nightly interrogation.
The Webb family dining room was a battleground disguised as a Norman Rockwell painting. Crystal glasses. Cloth napkins. Conversations that were really examinations in disguise.
“How was school?” Mom asked, serving perfect portions of roast chicken onto bone china plates.
“Fine. We got our calculus tests back. I got an A.”
“An A-plus?” Dad asked, reaching for the wine.
“Just an A.” I took a bite of chicken to avoid seeing his reaction.
“Well, that's still good,” Mom said quickly. “What about debate? How are preparations coming for the regional tournament?”
Safe territory. “Good. Coach says we have a strong chance this year.”
“Wonderful,” Mom smiled. “That will look excellent on your applications. Have you thought more about which academic focus you want to highlight? Political science would align well with debate.”
“Actually,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider, “I've been thinking about creative writing.”
The silence that followed felt thick enough to cut with the sterling silver butter knife beside my plate.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
Dad cleared his throat. “English literature as a minor could complement a strong political science major,” he said smoothly. “Writing skills are certainly valuable in law or policy work.”
And just like that, my interest was redirected, reshaped into something more acceptable, more Webb-appropriate. My hands clenched under the table as I nodded along, pretending they hadn't just dismissed the one thing that actually made me feel alive.
“Of course,” I said. “That makes sense.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of college admissions statistics and discussions of Dad's latest academic paper. By the time I escaped back to my room, the familiar hollowness had settled in my chest—the empty space where I imagined other people kept their authentic selves.
* * *
“For the regional tournament,” Coach Phillips announced, “we'll be mixing up the usual partnerships.”
The debate team conference room hummed with anticipation. Partnerships mattered—they could make or break your tournament performance, which could make or break your competition record, which could make or break your college applications. Everything always circled back to that.
“Anderson and Lake. Webb and Reyes. Goldstein and Williams...”
I glanced across the room at Leo, who sat slightly apart from the rest of the team, his expression unreadable. He remained separate somehow—present but not really included. I'd noticed how conversations stopped when he approached, how no one ever saved him a seat.
Around me, I caught the subtle reactions of my teammates. Marcus raised an eyebrow. Jessica frowned slightly. Small signals that communicated a shared thought: Sucks for you, having to work with the East Riverton kid.
When practice ended, I approached him as he packed up his notes.
“Hey,” I said. “Looks like we're partners for regionals.”
He looked up, his dark eyes assessing me for a moment before he nodded. “Looks like it.”
“We should probably schedule some prep sessions. When are you free?”
A muscle in his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I work weeknights at the high school as a janitor. Mornings I help at the diner. I could do Saturday morning at the public library.”
The constraints of his schedule hit me like a physical force. I'd been prepared to suggest multiple sessions, evening meetings at my house with dinner included, maybe even a weekend prep retreat like I'd done with previous partners.
“Saturday morning works,” I said, adjusting quickly. “Nine o'clock?”
“Eight would be better. I need to be done by eleven.”
Of course he did. I nodded. “Eight it is.”
As I watched him walk away, I realized how little I actually knew about Leo despite sharing classes and the debate team with him for nearly a year. I'd compiled mental notes but they amounted to observations, not understanding.
“Tough break on the partner assignment,” Marcus said, appearing beside me. “But hey, at least Reyes knows his stuff, even if he is kind of a loner.”
“He works two jobs,” I heard myself saying. “Probably doesn't leave much time for socializing.”
Marcus looked surprised, both at the information and my defensive tone. I was a little surprised myself.
* * *
The public library opened its doors at eight o'clock sharp on Saturday morning. I arrived fifteen minutes early, waiting on the stone steps with two coffees from the café down the street. One black, one with cream and sugar, since I didn't know Leo's preference.
The morning air carried the crisp bite of early fall, leaves beginning to turn on the trees lining the avenue. It was quieter here than in my neighborhood; West Riverton would already be alive with lawn services and luxury cars heading to weekend brunches.
Leo arrived precisely at eight, but he wasn't alone. A young girl walked beside him with the same dark eyes as Leo but a more guarded expression. She carried a backpack that looked too heavy for her slender frame.
“This is my sister, Mari,” Leo said when they reached the steps. “Mom's working. Dad's...unavailable.”
The way he hesitated on the last word carried volumes of unspoken explanation.
“Nice to meet you, Mari,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. “I'm Ethan.”
“I know who you are,” she replied, studying me with a directness that reminded me of her brother. “Leo talks about debate team sometimes.”
Leo shot her a look I couldn't interpret before turning to me. “I hope it's okay. She has homework, and she'll sit at a different table. She won't disturb us.”
“Of course it's okay,” I said quickly. I held out the coffee cups. “I wasn't sure how you take your coffee, so I got both.”
He looked genuinely surprised by the gesture. “Black is good. Thanks.”
Inside, we found a quiet corner with two tables. Mari set up at one with her homework, while Leo and I took the other. As we spread out our debate materials, I couldn't help noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the careful way he kept glancing over at Mari while trying to focus on our work.
It struck me then that Leo carried responsibilities I couldn't imagine. While I worried about SAT scores and college applications, he worried about his sister having a safe place to do homework on a Saturday morning.
* * *
“The counterargument is that increased funding doesn't guarantee better outcomes,” I said, reviewing our strategy. “We need to anticipate that.”
Leo nodded, making notes in cramped handwriting on the margins of a page he'd clearly used and erased multiple times. We'd been working for nearly two hours, and I was surprised by how well we complemented each other. My academic approach balanced with his real-world insights created arguments stronger than either of us could have developed alone.
“The outcomes they measure are standardized test scores and college acceptance rates,” Leo said. “But education should be about more than that. It should be about opportunity, about opening doors that would otherwise remain closed.”
The passion in his voice made me look up from my notes. “That's good. That's really good, actually.”
He shrugged. “Just speaking from experience.”
“Your perspective makes our arguments better,” I admitted. “Most of what I know comes from articles and statistics.”
“Most of what I know comes from living it,” he replied without self-pity. “Bad textbooks, overworked teachers, counselors with caseloads too big to know your name.”
A comfortable silence fell between us. I found myself wanting to continue the conversation beyond debate prep.
“Read anything good lately?” I asked. “Besides debate research, I mean.”
Leo looked surprised by the question. “Steinbeck, actually. 'East of Eden.' Found it at a yard sale for fifty cents.”
“I loved that book,” I said, genuinely excited. “The whole Cain and Abel parallel, the idea of choosing your own destiny...”
“'Timshel,'” Leo said. “'Thou mayest.' The idea that we have a choice.”
“Exactly.” I hesitated, then admitted something I rarely shared. “I write sometimes. Poetry, mostly. Nothing good, but it helps me think.”
Leo's expression shifted, interest replacing surprise. “I wouldn't have guessed that.”
“No one knows. My parents would consider it a distraction from more practical pursuits.”
“Like debate and future law school?”
“How did you?—“
“You're not the only one who observes things, Webb.”
Before I could respond, Mari approached our table, looking embarrassed but determined. “Leo, I need help with this math problem. I've tried three times and keep getting different answers.”
Leo immediately started to shift his papers aside, but I found myself saying, “I could help. If you want. Math is kind of my thing.”
Mari glanced at her brother, who nodded slightly. “Go ahead.”
I followed her to the other table, where she showed me a problem involving proportions. As I explained the solution, she worked through it carefully, asking smart questions. Between calculations, she mentioned things that painted a clearer picture of Leo's life than he had ever revealed directly.
“Leo checks my homework every night, but he was working late yesterday.”
“Diego—that's our brother—says he wants to be a scientist like in the books Leo brings home from the library.”
“Leo makes the best pancakes. He made some this morning, even though we were running late.”
Each casual reference revealed the extent of Leo's family responsibilities. When Mari finally solved the problem correctly, her face lit up with such pride that I couldn't help smiling.
“Thanks,” she said. “You explain things differently than Leo. He's always in a hurry.”
When I returned to our table, Leo was watching me with an unreadable expression. “She get it sorted?”
“Yeah. She's really bright.”
“She is,” he agreed, pride evident in his voice. “She deserves better than what Riverton schools can give her.”
We worked for another thirty minutes before Leo checked his watch. “I need to get Mari home soon.”
As we packed up, I found myself reluctant to end our session. “There's this bookstore, Second Chapter, not far from here. I work there part-time, so I get a discount. They have some great poetry collections.” The invitation felt momentous somehow. “Maybe you could stop by later? After you drop Mari off?”
Leo hesitated, uncertainty crossing his face. For a moment, I was sure he would refuse. Then he nodded. “Maybe. Give me the address.”
I scribbled it on a scrap of paper, oddly nervous. “I'll be there around two.”
Outside the library, we parted ways with an awkward goodbye—not quite friends, not quite just debate partners, but something shifting into new territory neither of us had mapped.
* * *
Second Chapter Bookstore occupied the ground floor of a Victorian house that straddled the invisible boundary between East and West Riverton. Inside, mismatched armchairs and floor-to-ceiling shelves created a labyrinth of literary treasures. I'd been working there for six months, though my parents believed I volunteered. They didn't understand why I would want a minimum wage job when my trust fund covered my expenses.
The truth was, Second Chapter felt like neutral territory in a town divided by invisible lines. The owner, Eleanor Chen, hired staff from both sides of the river and stocked everything from academic texts to paperback romances without judgment.
I arrived at one-thirty, ostensibly to start my shift but really to wait for Leo. By two-fifteen, I was convinced he wasn't coming. By two-thirty, I was shelving returns with more force than necessary, annoyed at myself for feeling disappointed.
“Looking for someone?”
I turned to find Leo standing in the poetry section, hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, watching me with an expression that might have been amusement.
“Just shelving,” I lied, then immediately abandoned the pretense. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“Neither was I,” he admitted.
A strange tension hung between us—the awareness that this meeting was different. Chosen rather than required. Leo moved along the shelves, fingers trailing over spines, occasionally pulling out a volume to read the back cover.
“I've never actually been in here before,” he said. “Always looked interesting from outside, though.”
“It's my favorite place in Riverton,” I told him, leading him deeper into the store's maze. “They have first editions hidden in corners, poetry collections no one's touched in years, weird literary magazines from the seventies...”
For the next hour, we wandered through sections, pulling books from shelves, reading passages aloud, arguing good-naturedly about authors and genres. In the music section, we discovered a shared appreciation for indie bands no one else at school seemed to know. In science fiction, we debated whether dystopian futures were warnings or inevitabilities.
In the poetry section, our hands brushed reaching for the same slim volume of Pablo Neruda. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through me. I pulled back quickly, confused by my reaction.
“Ethan! Is that you hiding back there?” Eleanor Chen's voice broke the moment as she appeared around a bookshelf. Her gaze moved to Leo with curiosity. “I don't believe we've met properly. You must be one of Ethan's school friends?”
“This is Leo,” I said. “We're debate partners. Leo, this is Mrs. Chen, the owner.”
“Nice to meet you,” Leo said politely.
“Reyes, correct? I think I've seen you come into St. Mary's Community Center,” Mrs. Chen said. “I volunteer there on Wednesdays for the food pantry. Your mother came in once or twice last year.”
Leo's demeanor changed instantly—his shoulders tightening, his expression becoming carefully neutral. “That's right,” he confirmed, his voice flat.
“How is your family settling into Riverton? It can be difficult being new in a small town.” Her question was kind, but I could see Leo's discomfort growing with each word.
“We're managing, thank you,” he replied, the polite words at odds with the tension in his jaw.
“Well, you're always welcome here,” she said warmly before turning to me. “Ethan, when you're done helping your friend, can you check the new shipment that just arrived?”
After she left, Leo remained tense, his earlier openness vanished behind an invisible wall.
“You okay?” I asked, the question feeling like a breach of some unspoken boundary between us.
He shrugged, replacing a book on the shelf with deliberate care. “Fine.”
“Leo...”
He sighed, meeting my eyes with reluctance. “My mom got hurt at work last year. The medication...changed things.” He paused, weighing his words. “The Community Center helps sometimes. With food, when things get tight. It's not something I advertise at school.”
It wasn't the complete story—I could sense the careful editing—but it was more than he'd shared with anyone at school. The trust in that partial truth felt significant.
“I'm sorry,” I said, meaning it.
He nodded, accepting the simple expression of sympathy without comment.
As closing time approached, we lingered outside the bookstore, the autumn evening wrapping around us like a shared secret. I found myself unwilling to say goodbye, to return to my carefully structured life and the SAT prep waiting on my desk.
“Have you ever been to the old railroad bridge?” I asked impulsively.
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Of course I have.”
“Want to go now? The view at sunset is incredible.”
He checked his phone, then nodded. “For a little while.”
We walked in comfortable silence, past the neat storefronts of downtown toward the abandoned railroad bridge that spanned the River Slate. Once the lifeblood of Riverton's commerce, the tracks had been unused for decades, the bridge now a favorite spot for teenagers seeking privacy.
We sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the river flowing dark and constant beneath us. From this vantage point, the town's divide was painfully clear. West Riverton's well-lit streets and manicured parks contrasting sharply with the dimmer glow of East Riverton and the shadows of The Hollows beyond.
“Do you ever want to leave?” I asked, watching the sunset paint the water in shades of gold and crimson.
Leo was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. “Every day,” he finally said, his voice low. “But not without my siblings.”
The simplicity of his answer contained multitudes—dreams constrained by love, ambition tempered by responsibility. I thought about my own carefully mapped escape route: college applications, scholarships based on debate performance, the promise of cities far from Riverton's expectations. I'd never considered having to stay for someone else.
“What about you?” Leo asked. “Princeton legacy, right? Following in daddy's footsteps?”
The question should have sounded mocking, but instead held genuine curiosity.
“That's the plan,” I said. “Princeton undergrad, Yale Law, then politics or corporate law, depending on which will make my father prouder.”
“And what do you want?”
No one had ever asked me that directly. Not my parents, not my guidance counselor, not even my friends. What did I want?
“I don't know,” I admitted. “Something that feels real. Writing, maybe. Or teaching.” I laughed without humor. “Pretty much anything that would disappoint my family.”
Leo didn't offer empty reassurances or dismissive platitudes. He just nodded, understanding the weight of expectations in a way my West Riverton friends never could.
We sat there until stars appeared, neither speaking but somehow communicating more than we had all day.
* * *
The regional debate tournament was held in the grand ballroom of a downtown hotel that had seen better days. Ornate chandeliers hung above threadbare carpet, gilt mirrors reflected nervous teenagers in formal attire, and the air carried the competing scents of floor polish and anxiety.
Leo and I had prepared extensively, meeting whenever his complicated schedule allowed. Our topic—educational inequality in public schools—had personal significance for both of us, though from vastly different perspectives.
As we reviewed our notes one last time before our round, I noticed Leo checking his phone repeatedly, his forehead creased with worry.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He looked up, conflict evident in his expression. “Mari called. Mom had another episode. Dad's not around. She says she's handling it, but...” He trailed off, clearly torn between his commitment to the tournament and concern for his family.
“We could forfeit,” I suggested. “Family comes first.”
He shook his head firmly. “Mari insisted I stay. And we've worked too hard.” His phone buzzed again, and he checked it quickly. “She says they're fine for now. Let's just focus on the debate.”
But the weight of his divided attention was palpable, the impossible choices he navigated daily suddenly visible in a way they hadn't been before. I wanted to say something meaningful, something that acknowledged the unfairness of it all, but before I could find the words, the tournament director announced that we were up next.
The debate itself passed in a blur of arguments and rebuttals. I provided historical context and policy analysis, while Leo delivered devastating firsthand perspectives on educational barriers. Our opponents, two students from an elite private school in Portland, seemed taken aback by the passion behind our arguments.
During cross-examination, one of the judges questioned the practicality of Leo's policy suggestions.
“Your proposal for community-based resource centers sounds idealistic,” he said. “Where would funding come from in already-strained districts?”
Before Leo could respond, I jumped in, surprising even myself with my vehemence. “With respect, sir, what's truly impractical is continuing to underfund schools while expecting different results. The money exists—in military budgets, in corporate tax breaks, in the funds allocated to schools in wealthy districts like mine while schools three miles away lack basic supplies.”
The judge's eyebrows rose at my passion. Leo gave me a quick glance of appreciation before seamlessly building on my point.
When the results were announced—we'd won our division and qualified for state finals—the rush of victory was accompanied by something deeper: the sense that together, we'd communicated something true.
The celebration afterward felt hollow as I watched Leo discreetly check his phone while teammates who had previously ignored him suddenly included him in their congratulations. The manufactured camaraderie grated on me in a way it never had before, as if a filter had been removed from my vision.
“I need to go,” Leo said during a lull in the celebration. “Now.”
The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. “I'll drive you,” I offered immediately.
He hesitated, and I could see the internal debate playing across his features—the pride that wanted to keep his worlds separate warring with the practical need for fast transportation.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Thanks.”
We slipped away without lengthy goodbyes, Leo already texting Mari as we walked to my car. The drive from downtown to East Riverton took only fifteen minutes, but it might as well have been a journey to another country. The streets narrowed, the houses grew smaller and more worn, the sidewalks cracked and spotted with weeds.
Outside a run-down apartment building, Leo asked me to wait in the car. I watched through the windshield as he ran inside, noticing how several people called greetings to him as he passed—he wasn't just a resident here, but part of a community.
Minutes later, he emerged with Mari and two younger children I recognized from photos he kept in his debate folder—Diego, with the same serious eyes as his siblings, and Sophie, a toddler with wild curls and tearstained cheeks. Leo helped them into my car's back seat, his movements gentle but urgent.
“We need to go to the hospital,” he explained briefly. “Mom's medication. She took too much. Neighbor's with her now, ambulance costs too much.”
The children were frightened but composed, following Leo's instructions with practiced obedience that spoke of other crises, other emergency trips. Mari held Sophie on her lap, whispering soothing words in Spanish. Diego sat silently, his small hand clutching Leo's jacket sleeve across the seat.
At Riverton Memorial Hospital, I witnessed a side of Leo I'd never imagined—confident in crisis, navigating the healthcare system with practiced knowledge. He explained his mother's history to the nurses with calm authority, comforted his siblings in the waiting room, coordinated with a social worker who clearly knew him from previous incidents.
“Mr. Reyes, we've discussed resources before,” the social worker said quietly. “There are options?—“
“We're managing,” Leo interrupted, his tone firm but respectful. “It was an accident. She got the dosage confused.”
The social worker's expression suggested she'd heard similar explanations before, but she nodded. “Call me if anything changes. My direct line, anytime.”
When things finally stabilized, Leo seemed to remember my presence for the first time in hours.
“You didn't have to stay,” he said, sinking into the hard plastic chair beside me while his siblings dozed across from us, Diego and Sophie finally asleep after the long wait, Mari fighting to keep her eyes open.
“I wanted to,” I replied simply.
He studied me for a long moment, as if searching for hidden motives. Finding none, he nodded slightly, then leaned back against the wall, his shoulder brushing against mine.
We sat in silence under the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room, the antiseptic smell of hospital cleaning products hanging in the air. I watched his hand resting on the chair between us, knuckles scraped from some unnamed labor, fingers barely an inch from my own.
Carefully, hesitantly, I moved my pinky finger until it touched his. He didn't pull away.
In that moment, in that sterile waiting room with its background noise of beeping monitors and squeaking nurses' shoes, something shifted between us—something that felt both terrifying and inevitable, like standing at the edge of the railroad bridge and wondering what it would feel like to jump.