Someone coughed “Bullshit!” loud enough for everyone to hear, and a din of laughter broke out.
The principal only spoke louder into the mic. “He may not have been a model student. He may have even rubbed some of us the wrong way. But these are often the kids who need our care the most.” She glanced at the teachers flanking her in folding chairs, some nodding slowly as they looked down at their hands.
Hypocrites, Réal thought.
“He was not honor roll, or star athlete, or class president…”
Alex muttered, “A pain in their necks, more like.” Réal nudged him with his elbow, and both boys half smiled.
“…but he was special,” she went on. “He was ours. And as a Northerner, he represents each and every one of us at North Cold Water Collegiate. This tragic event stands as a lesson—”
“Say no to drugs!” the same wiseass cracked. A laugh rose up but was choked out fast.
“Mister McKellar, what is wrong with you? One of your classmates has died!” the principal barked, fist landing like a gavel on her podium.
After a red-faced pause, she went on. “As you all know, the police are investigating this incident, and we have promised to cooperate fully. If anyone in this school is found to be working against that promise, there will be consequences. As well,” she added hurriedly, “grief counseling will be available to any students who need to talk about their feelings.”
Kids started snickering about feelings. Some outright laughed.
Réal’s knee bounced as he tapped his heel against the bleachers. “Ostie d’crisse,” he swore. “These idiots don’t even know what dead means.” A cold finger ran up his spine. It means having your guts dragged from the bowl of your belly across a field in the middle of the night.
“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “It’s not like losing your damn wallet.”
And then McKellar made another wisecrack.
“Goddammit!” the principal spat into the mic, and the whole room laughed.
Réal stood up.
He walked down the bleacher row and grabbed McKellar’s shirt collar. He popped him once, hard and fast in the ear with a cut fist, not waiting for the kid to get scared first.
Then he waited, fist pulled back, eyes narrowed.
The dazed boy looked up at him, blinking blindly. Then he lost it. He scratched at the hand that held his shirt, trying to wrench it off. “What the fuck, Dufresne!” he yelped, eyes going white. “You frickin’ psycho!”
Réal smiled. Then he punched him. Knuckles met orbital bone with a satisfying crack, and McKellar spat that dumb look right off his face.
The gym exploded. Kids screamed, scrambling like pins from a strike, McKellar flailing helplessly in Réal’s hands. Réal saw nothing but red, heard nothing but the ringing of a bell as his fist fell again, then again.
Suddenly there were hands on his arm, hobbling him. He jerked, trying to shake them off, but they wouldn’t shake. He glared over his shoulder at their owner, thinking, You’re next, buddy.
Evie’s sad, scared eyes looked back at him.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurt his neck. He tried again to shake her off, but her two hands around his elbow were like a hundred-pound trap.
His nostrils flared.
He dropped McKellar, who stumbled back with a cry.
Ré was tight as a crossbow as Evie pulled him away, down the bleacher stairs. Panicked kids skittered out of their way. Two hundred jaws on the floor, but no one said a word. Not even the teachers stepped in.
E
The door clanged shut behind them as Evie pulled Réal out into the parking lot. They got thirty feet before Réal stopped dead. Evie turned to face him, confused.
“What?” she asked. He’d reared back like a chained dog, looking down at her through his lashes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
But he said nothing, lips sealed in a tight line.
She glanced at his wrist in her hand. It was tan-dark, with a worn old watch on a black leather band. The knuckles of his right hand were bloody and swollen around a large silver ring set with black stone. Evie cringed when she saw it, thinking of that poor kid’s face.
Réal was nearly six feet of muscle. A Rottweiler of a boy. This wasn’t the first fight she’d seen him start, and she’d never seen him lose. He wasn’t called “Psycho Ré” for nothing. He is, she thought, the toughest boy I know. Toughest anyone knows, probably.
“Come on.” She tugged him again, half scared a teacher would come out that door and make them go back inside, ruining their perfect exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
And then he spoke. “Evie.” It was a low, warning sound, like he wanted to say more. He didn’t say anything though. Instead, she watched his eyes fall to her belly, then away.
A wave of shame rushed through her, hot and red. She jutted her chin, heart fluttering up her throat. So he knew. For a second she just stood there, not sure what to do. Then she turned and walked away as fast as she could.
“Evie, stop,” he called after her. “Come on, girl.”
He trotted up to her side, grabbing her sleeve, but she yanked away. “What else did Shaun tell you?” she spat over her shoulder.
“He just told me, that’s all,” Réal said, sidestepping along next to her.
She laughed harshly. “Did he tell you he wanted to marry me?”
“Evie, just stop, will you?” His fingers closed on her arm, jerking her around to face him. “He told me what you wanted,” he said. “And I told him you were right—and then he busted my face.” He grinned, just for a second.
She gaped at him. His nose was back to normal, but dark bruises still circled each eye. Never in a million years would she have thought Réal Dufresne—of all people—would stick up
