You mispronounce something in history class and the teacher mocks you in front of everyone. The boys laugh. No one steps in to defend you. You’re the new girl, a recent transfer from another country, and Voltaire High had only just started letting girls attend. Most of the boys still acted like that was some kind of inconvenience.

You sit down, burning with embarrassment. The chair beside you has stayed empty since your first day.

Until today.

Jean-Pierre slides into it like it means nothing. He doesn’t look at you for a while.

Then, without turning his head, he says, “Next time, punch him. You’d be right.”