If I could, I’d let myself sink in the bath like a rock to the bottom of the river. Then everything would be over and I would find some peace, some quiet. The Paradis would have their money, and the ministry could close my file for good, like they did for Antan who died in the residential school, or Shipu, my father. If I were gone, they would have one less problem.

I stay in the bath until the water is cold and the house is quiet. I leave the bathroom quietly. All the lights are out. The neon lights from Armand’s store leave me in semidarkness.

I kneel on the floor and pull out the drawer under the sofa. I’m as calm as still water. My heart is beating slowly but steadily in my chest. I open my canvas bag and unroll my moccasins. I feel the soft skin, breathe in the bitter, smoky smell of cedar.

Then I hold them to my face and sob as if my heart would break.

En hommage à Louis Riel.

1

IT FEELS LIKE the day before a storm. At school, kids are fighting for no reason, swearing like troopers. It’s the end of June, and today’s the day the report cards come out.

We can hear the principal out in the hall, going from class to class. We’re the last room on the list. At ten o’clock he bursts in, slams the door and dumps a pile of reports on the teacher’s desk. He looks like he’s in a bad mood. His hair is glued to his forehead and his tie is crooked.

We sit up straight and stiff. At first he looks us over, without saying a word. Then he speaks.

“I am disappointed. Worse than that, I am ashamed of you. Your results are dreadful. You have brought dishonor to the entire school. I think of your poor parents who have sacrificed so much for you, who now have to sign worthless garbage like this.”

He claps his hand on the pile of reports and picks them up one at a time.

“Allard, 57 percent. Bertrand, 55 percent. Cadieux, 54 percent. Couture, a nice big 50 percent.”

The whole class is on edge. They are all afraid of their parents. Miron is putting on a good front, but he’s shaking in his boots. His father is counting on his son to take over the grocery store, and he expects him to be at the top of the class.

One by one the students go up to collect their marks.

“Millette, 46 percent…”

I don’t get a report. Maybe there isn’t one for me.

But it’s too much to hope for.

The principal picks up the last report between his thumb and forefinger, holding it away from him like it stinks.

“There is only one left, and it is not even worth mentioning who it belongs to.”

He turns toward the door and stops. I see his back. He stretches out his arm and drops my report into the wastebasket beside the door.