Chapter 79
Aveline
"Aveline, we didn't mean—" Sarah started.
"Yes, you did," I snapped. "You meant every word. And for your information, Ryan is one of the most thoughtful, intelligent, kind-hearted children I've ever taught. Whatever his family situation is, it doesn't define his worth. Unlike some adults I know who apparently have nothing better to do than tear down a little boy."
The room had gone completely silent.
"If I hear any of you talking about my student like that again," I said, my voice low and dangerous, "we're going to have a much bigger problem than office gossip."
I grabbed my lesson plans and headed for my classroom, leaving them staring after me in shocked silence.
I don't give a damn what they think about Orion, I told myself firmly. But Ryan? If they dare speak about a child that way again, I'll make sure they regret it.
As I settled into my classroom, I couldn't help but notice Colin's empty desk across the hall. He hadn't shown up today, and the guilt that settled in my chest was hard to ignore. What exactly had Orion said to him yesterday? And how much of Colin's absence was my fault for dragging him into whatever complicated mess existed between Orion and me?
I was halfway through my morning lesson on colors and shapes when shouts erupted from the playground outside. At first, I tried to ignore them—playground disputes were common enough—but when I heard genuine crying, my protective instincts kicked in.
Ryan. My first thought was of that sweet, serious little boy who tried so hard to fit in despite being smaller than his classmates.
I quickly told my students to stay seated and rushed outside, expecting to find Ryan being bullied by bigger kids. Instead, I found a scene that made me stop dead in my tracks.
Ryan stood in the middle of the sandbox, a bright plastic shovel clutched in his small fist, while Mike—a boy nearly twice his size—sat on the ground crying and holding his head. Other children formed a circle around them, some crying, others staring in shock.
"Ryan!" I called out, rushing toward them.
The PE teacher came running from the direction of the bathrooms, his face flushed with exertion and anger.
"What the hell happened here?" he demanded, then pointed an accusing finger at Ryan. "You little monster! Look what you did to Mike! We don't hit other children! What's wrong with you?"
I watched Ryan's face crumple at the harsh words, his small shoulders hunching inward like he was trying to disappear. The plastic shovel fell from his fingers, and something in his expression—lost, ashamed, deeply hurt—made my chest tight with protective fury.
"Stop yelling at him," I said sharply, stepping between the PE teacher and Ryan. "Let me handle this."
I knelt down and opened my arms, and Ryan immediately fell into them, his small body trembling against mine.
"It's okay," I whispered into his hair, my voice gentle despite the anger burning in my chest. "You're safe now. But we need to talk about what happened, okay? We can't solve problems by hitting people."
"He started it!" one of the other children piped up. "Mike was just playing around, and Ryan went crazy! He's mean!"
"Ryan's bad!" another child added. "He hurt Mike for no reason!"
I felt Ryan flinch against me with each accusation, and something protective and fierce rose in my chest. This wasn't random violence—I knew Ryan well enough to understand that much. Something had pushed this gentle, thoughtful child to the breaking point.
"Let's get Mike to the nurse," I said calmly. "And everyone else needs to go back to their activities. Ryan and I are going to have a private talk."
I guided Ryan toward the building, one hand on his small shoulder, ignoring the PE teacher's muttered complaints about "problem children" and "lack of discipline."
By the time we reached my office, I'd managed to clear the room of other teachers. The moment the door closed behind us, Ryan broke down completely.
"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, his small fists pressed against his eyes. "I'm sorry, Miss Aveline! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"
My heart shattered. I pulled him into my lap, holding him close as he cried with the kind of raw, desperate pain that only children can express.
"Shh," I murmured, stroking his hair. "It's okay, sweetheart. I know you're not a bad boy. I know you wouldn't hurt someone without a very good reason."
Ryan pulled back to look at me with red-rimmed eyes, his face streaked with tears and dirt from the playground.
"You... you believe me?" he whispered.
"Of course I do," I said firmly. "I know your heart, Ryan. You're one of the kindest children I've ever met. So something must have made you very upset to react like that."
For children like Ryan—sensitive, thoughtful, desperately seeking approval—violence was always a last resort. And there was only one thing I could think of that would drive him to such extremes.
Someone had attacked the most precious thing in his world. And for a five-year-old boy who barely remembered his mother, that meant...
"Someone said something about your mom, didn't they?" I asked softly.
Ryan's face crumpled again, and he threw his arms around my neck, holding on like I was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become hostile.
"He said... he said..." Ryan could barely get the words out between sobs. "He said I'm a bastard! He said I don't have a real mommy! He said... he said my daddy probably doesn't even know who my mommy is!"