Sparks in the Yard
The afternoon sun was merciless over Lycée Philippe Guerrier. The 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 it was graceful, and sharp like flint. She never laughed too loud, never wore too much. She didn't need to.
Peterson liked her. He 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 students shouting.
A crowd had gathered by the west fence of the schoolyard a bunch of Teenagers moved like sharks sensing blood. Peterson recognized one of the voices immediately—Jean-Daniel, a class clown with a bad attitude and always thinking he has 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, and his backpack ripped on the floor.
"You'll 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 hates bullies
He pushed through the crowd.
"Hey!" Peterson shouted, stepping between them. "You think you can do that to him in front of everyone and just walk away?"
The crowd ooh'ed. Jean-Daniel turned slowly, sizing him up.
"You want to play rough, Peterson? You think you are tough or something?"
" I have more b*llz than you, brother. why don't you take on someone your own size? " Peterson shot back, he clenched his fist.
The circle got tighter. Some kids pulled out their phones to record what's going to happen. Someone shouted, "They're going to fight!"
Peterson had fought before. But this was school. And This was supposed to be his normal life.
Before it could go further, a voice pierced the noise.
"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 like gazelles seeing a lion.
Jean-Daniel backed away with a hiss, throwing one last glare.
Peterson didn't move. His pulse still raced, his body was ready for something that didn't come.
Naëlle walked past him slowly. She looked at them like they were idiots that didn't know better ,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.