In my college literature class, she sat in the front row every day. Her posture was straight, her notebook open, her handwriting neat and deliberate. She never whispered, never fidgeted, and answered the professor’s jokes with only a polite smile that faded before anyone could hold it. While the rest of us shifted and checked our phones, she listened. We assumed she was painfully shy. A few called her weird. In the comfortable self-absorption of college, none of us wondered much further than that. Her silence became part of the room, like the clock or the hum of the lights. I barely noticed her until one gray Thursday morning when Mr. Anderson was discussing The Great Gatsby. Nobody wanted to analyze symbolism before nine, and the room was almost completely silent.

He paced in front of the board, frustrated by our lack of participation. Then his eyes settled on the girl in the front row. She was writing something carefully in her notebook when he pointed toward her. “You’ve been here every class,” he said. “Don’t just sit there like a statue. Did no one ever teach you how to speak?” She slowly closed her notebook, stood, and walked toward the board. Then she picked up a marker.