Page 120 of Faultlines

The corner of his mouth lifts before he catches himself. The classroom door opens with a soft creak, and a woman with bright purple glasses steps into the hallway.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett?” she asks, her voice a polite murmur.

The title lands strange now.

“Come on in.” She waves us forward.

The classroom smells of dry-erase markers and old books. Mrs. Rowane gestures toward two student desks positioned side by side. Ethan and I sit down simultaneously. My right knee bumps his left, and we both shift away without a word.

Mrs. Rowane smiles politely, either unaware or kind enough to pretend she didn’t notice the tension.

“First, let me tell you how much I enjoy having Ellie in class.”

The praise is a familiar, welcome refrain.

“She’s thoughtful, hardworking, and one of the strongest writers in the grade.”

She slides a writing sample across the desk. Ethan and I both reach for it, our hands bumping—we pull back, a silent apology passing between us.

“I can already tell you two are involved parents.”

Ethan pulls out a small, leather-bound notebook and uncaps a pen with a soft click. I stare, and a slight frown creases his brow. “What?”

“You brought a notebook.”

He frowns deeper, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Normal people take notes.”

“You have tabs.”

Mrs. Rowane leans forward, the lights of the classroom glinting off her glasses. “Color-coded?”

I snort.

“You have a color-coded planner, don’t you?” she teases, a playful lilt in her voice.

“Three of them,” I tell her, and Ethan raises his eyebrows at me, an almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.

“What? You label your labels.”

Mrs. Rowane laughs so hard she has to set down her folder, the cheap cardboard thudding against the worn desk. To my horror, I feel a traitorous smile tugging at my mouth.

We discuss assignments and classroom expectations. I try to focus on her words, but the scratch of Ethan’s pen keeps drawing my attention.

“There is one thing I’d like to mention. Nothing bad. Parents always look terrified when I say that.” She glances at her notes. “Ellie is incredibly sensitive to the feelings of everyone around her. She picks up on her classmates’ emotions, senses when teachers feel pressured, and watches everything carefully.”

“Sometimes,” she continues, her voice softer now, “I think she’s more focused on managing everyone else’s feelings than expressing her own.”

Ethan lowers his pen with a tiny click. My mind drifts to family gatherings where Ellie assesses us before choosing a seat. Or Reid’s recent birthday dinner, where she steered conversations away from tension, her small hands smoothing the tablecloth. I recall how she checks my expression before mentioning something she did with Ethan.

Her voice cuts through my thoughts. “It’s not causing problems academically. I just wanted you to be aware of it.”

The meeting concludes a few minutes later.

Out in the hallway, students and parents stream past as teachers exchange greetings. The building carries the chaotic energy of a new school year.

Ethan and I remain standing awkwardly, unsure how to depart. “I can send you the name of a counselor Reid gave me who specializes in teens Ellie’s age, if you want to check out her website.”

The comment is so practical, so absurdly businesslike.