That night was exceptionally quiet. She still worked diligently on other school work. Books were stacked high from the floor and shoved around the couch and all he could do was stick around in his own mind, trying to figure her out.
Once or twice he offered to check her work but she declined.
He asked if she wanted to talk about Mrs. Steven’s class and that was an obvious silent response.
“I can’t help you, Malorie,” he paused, “if you don’t let me in.”
Malorie’s pen kept moving against her paper as if she didn’t need to give a thought to what she was doing. Besides the rise and fall of her shoulders, he was positive he was talking to a ghost of her consciousness.
“I’ll talk when I’m ready,” she replied softly, scribbling out a sequence of words in her sentence. “I can’t work and
