Summary:

When their son comes home with split knuckles and a suspension for throwing the first punch, Shane and Ilya just want to know one thing: what did the other kid do to deserve it? Or in which the Hollander-Rozanovs learn that raising good kids sometimes means teaching them when the rules are worth breaking. Shane’s phone rings at 12:39 PM on a Wednesday, which is already strange because people don’t usually call during the day unless something’s wrong. He’s in the kitchen making Sachiko’s favorite snacks for when she gets home from school — apple slices with that specific brand of almond butter she likes, the one with honey — when he sees the number. Ottawa West Secondary School. His stomach drops. “Hello?” “Mr. Hollander? This is Principal Matheson from Ottawa West Secondary.” Shane sets down the knife he’s been using, his hand suddenly unsteady. “Yes?” “I’m calling about Viktor. There’s been an incident at school today, and we need you and your husband to come in immediately.” “An incident?” Shane’s voice comes out higher than he intends. “Is he hurt? Is he okay?” “He’s not injured, but there was a physical altercation, and-” “A physical altercation? Viktor?” Shane almost laughs because the idea is so absurd. Viktor, who cried for an hour when he accidentally stepped on a snail when he was nine. Viktor, who mediates arguments between his friends instead of participating in them. Viktor, who’s never even raised his voice at his little sister despite her sometimes stealing his things and hiding them around the house. “Yes, Mr. Hollander. Viktor punched another student. We have a zero-tolerance policy for violence, and-” “We’ll be right there,” Shane interrupts, his heart hammering. “Twenty minutes.” He hangs up and immediately calls Ilya, who answers on the second ring. “Solnyshko, I am at store. They are out of the good pasta, the one Vitya likes. Should I-” “Ilya.” Shane’s voice cracks slightly. “We need to go to Viktor’s school. Now.” The line goes quiet for a beat. Then: “What is wrong? Is he hurt?” “No, he’s—they said he punched someone. They said he was in a fight.” “Vitya?” Ilya sounds as disbelieving as Shane feels. “Our Vitya?” “That’s what they said.” “I am coming home now. Two minutes.” Shane leans against the counter, his mind racing through possibilities. Viktor’s been quiet lately, maybe a little withdrawn, but Shane had chalked that up to typical teenage stuff. Hormones. Growing pains. The universal adolescent need to assert independence from one’s parents. Had Shane missed something? Had they both missed something? The front door bangs open, and Ilya strides in, still wearing his jacket, car keys jangling in his hand. “Okay,” Ilya says, slightly breathless. “Okay. We go now. Is probably mistake, yes? Maybe is different Viktor.” “There’s only one Viktor Hollander-Rozanov at that school, Ilya.” Ilya runs a hand through his hair, which is still thick despite being in his mid-forties, though there are silver threads now mixed in with the light brown curls. “Then is mistake in other way. Vitya does not fight. Is not who he is.” But Shane’s remembering the way Viktor went quiet at dinner two nights ago when Sachiko asked him how school was. The way he’d pushed food around his plate and said “Fine” in a tone that clearly meant it wasn’t fine at all. Shane had meant to follow up, had meant to talk to him, but then Sachiko had spilled her juice and the moment had been lost in the chaos of cleanup and bedtime routines. “We should go,” Shane says quietly. The drive to the school is tense. Ilya’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and he keeps muttering things in Russian under his breath. Shane catches “ne mozhet byt” more than once, which he knows means “It can’t be.” “Whatever happened,” Shane says, trying to convince himself as much as Ilya, “There has to be an explanation. Viktor wouldn’t just hit someone for no reason.” “Of course not,” Ilya snaps, but Shane knows the anger isn’t directed at him. “Our boy is good. Is sweet. Is-” He struggles for the word. “Is gentle.” Shane’s throat tightens. Viktor is gentle. He’s the kid who brings home injured birds and nurses them back to health in shoeboxes. Who reads to Sachiko every night before bed even though she’s perfectly capable of reading to herself. Who still, at fourteen, will curl up next to Shane on the couch during movies and rest his head on Shane’s shoulder. The school parking lot is half-empty, most students still in afternoon classes. Shane and Ilya walk quickly toward the main entrance, and Shane notices the way Ilya’s jaw is set, the way he’s holding himself like he’s about to step onto the ice for a crucial playoff game. “Let me do the talking,” Shane says as they approach the main office. Ilya shoots him a look. “When have I ever let you do all talking?” “Ilya, I mean it. We need to stay calm and-”