As it turned out, I didn’t have to do much to bring the whole thing up. Class proceeded the next day without incident until I read Tom’s piece as I had planned. It was received in respectful silence—for a moment. Then Rashid snorted. “That’s not what it’s like,” he said.

Every head snapped to look at him. I couldn’t believe it. He had never even come close to speaking out of turn in class and now he makes a comment like that? What the devil was going on with him?

“Rashid, what do you mean?” I said.

“I mean that’s not what it’s like … when somebody dies. It’s not all pretty and soft.”

I felt trapped. I needed to protect Tom, who was looking stricken, but I couldn’t let this lie. “Well, I think that one of the first things you have to learn as a reader of good writing is that even if you don’t feel the same as the writer, if he’s been true to his or her experience, the piece probably has something to say,” I said. “I think Tom tried hard to write about what it felt like to him to lose his grandmother. Maybe that’s not what it would feel like to you, Rashid.”

He looked out the window, sucking his teeth contemptuously. I taught through the end of the class with one eye on him and sent Tom off with a pat on the shoulder.

“Rashid, I’d like to talk to you for a minute,” I said as he passed my desk without speaking. He turned to me with eyes the color of coal. “What’s going on, Rashid? Is something in class upsetting you? You didn’t even give me your assignment,” I said. “It’s the first one you haven’t handed in.”

I was startled to see tears come to his eyes but allowed him to look away from me without saying anything about it. “That’s just not what it’s like, all right? I just wanted the boy to say what it’s really like … when somebody dies.”

“Sounds like this has happened to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe you should write about it. Tell us your version of what it feels like.” He didn’t speak. “Do you think you’d like to try?” He still didn’t speak, but he lowered his chin a little, which made him look heartbreakingly vulnerable, the little boy he was. “Why don’t you try? If it’s too hard, you can just show it to me. You don’t have to read it aloud.” He nodded, just the tiniest bit. I watched him go, feeling like I might cry myself.

The next day, this was left in my mailbox: