Chapter 2: Sparks in the Yard
The afternoon sun was merciless over Lycée Philippe Guerrier. Heat shimmered off the cracked concrete yard, and the aging fans in the classrooms groaned uselessly against the rising temperature. The air inside the school felt thick—like breathing through wet cloth.
Peterson Joseph sat at the back of his classroom, half-focused, his chin resting in one hand. The teacher's voice sounded like static. His mind wasn't on verbs or equations. Instead, his eyes kept drifting toward Naëlle. She sat two rows ahead of him, her back straight, her braids tucked neatly into a bun, her pen moving with quiet confidence. There was something about her—graceful, but sharp like flint. She never laughed too loud, never wore too much. She didn't need to.
Peterson liked her. Had liked her for a while now. But he never said a word. He wasn't the kind of boy who knew what to say. Not when he had so much on his mind and too much weight on his shoulders.
When the bell rang for recess, he slipped out into the dusty schoolyard. The sun hit him like a slap. He shielded his eyes, looking around for Amanda and Miranda. They usually met by the old mango tree, where the younger kids played hopscotch with chalk lines and bottle caps.
But before he could take three steps, he heard the shouting.
A crowd had gathered by the west fence. Teenagers moved like sharks sensing blood. Peterson recognized one of the voices immediately—Jean-Daniel, a class clown with a bad attitude and something to prove. Peterson pushed through the ring of bodies just in time to see him shove a smaller boy to the ground.
It was Wilkens, a quiet kid from the year below. His glasses were cracked, his backpack ripped.
"Ou pa janm aprann, ti kras?" (You never learn, little boy?) Jean-Daniel barked.
Peterson felt something stir in his gut. A familiar itch. The kind that came before things got violent.
He pushed through the crowd.
"Woy!" (Hey!) Peterson shouted, stepping between them. "Ou panse ou ka fè sa epi rete konsa?" (You think you can do that and just walk away?)
The crowd ooh'ed. Jean-Daniel turned slowly, sizing him up.
"Ou vle jwe malveyan, Peterson? Ou panse ou gen kè?" (You want to play tough, Peterson? You think you have heart?)
"M gen plis kè pase ou, frè," (I have more heart than you, brother) Peterson shot back, fists clenched.
The circle closed tighter. Some kids pulled out phones. Someone whispered, "Yo pral goumen!" (They're going to fight!)
Peterson had fought before. But this was school. This was supposed to be his normal life.
Before it could go further, a voice pierced the noise.
"Superviseur ap vini!" (The supervisor is coming!)
It was Naëlle.
She had vanished the moment the shoving started—and returned with the tall supervisor in a white shirt and mirrored sunglasses striding across the yard like a thunderstorm. The crowd exploded, scattering in every direction.
Jean-Daniel backed away with a hiss, throwing one last glare.
Peterson didn't move. His pulse still raced, his body ready for something that didn't come.
Naëlle walked past him slowly. She didn't smile. But her eyes met his. She saw him.
Not just the boy in the back row.
Him.
And then she was gone.
But Peterson knew something had shifted. Not just in the yard—but inside him.
This world wasn't going to let him coast much longer.
And soon, schoolyard fights might be the least of his worries.