“M’as-tu entendu?” the guy yells as he stands over him. （Translation: Did you hear me?） I pass my beer to the girl on my left and make my way over.
“Reponds-moi espece de putain de cochon grossier.” （Translation: Answer me, you fucking rude pig.） Adrenaline surges through me, and I stand in front of the kid. “Recule la merde.” （Translation: Back the fuck up.）
HAYDEN
The music is loud, and the laughter is endless. This is the best night of my life. I’ve never had so much fun. I catch sight of Christopher on the other side of the dance floor, walking over to a group of men. His stance tells me something is off.
I stop dancing and watch him. What’s he doing? Without thinking, I begin to make my way over.
“S’excuser,” I hear Christopher say. （Translation: Apologize.） “Va au diable.” （Translation: Go to hell.） I frown as I walk closer. They’re speaking another language. Let me rephrase that: they’re fighting in another language.
Christopher is angry, and he pushes a young boy out of the way. Who’s he?
Huh?
What’s going on here?
“Hayden.” Someone laughs. “Got you.” I’m lifted up and playfully thrown over someone’s shoulder.
“Ahh, put me down.”
“Make me.” He laughs, thinking I’m joking. He runs me across the room, and as I’m trying to get out of his grip, I see Christopher push the guy in the chest. The guy stumbles back.
What the hell?
Next minute, all hell breaks loose.
There’s an all-out brawl.
Men, all-out fighting. Everyone is stepping in, and I have no idea who’s on whose side. But I see Basil and Bodie in there fighting alongside Christopher too.
What the hell?
The music stops, and the lights go on. Security guards grab the troublemakers and struggle outside with them. The guy Christopher was fighting seems super drunk, and he’s yelling something. Christopher is yelling back at him in another language as they get pushed outside.
Bernadette comes and stands beside me as we watch them get ushered outside.
I glance over at her, and she’s smiling goofily after them. “What?” I frown.
“He speaks French.”
I roll my eyes. “You mean fights in French.”
“That’s even hotter.”
I smirk, because she’s right . . . not that I’ll ever admit it.
The music starts, and she grabs my hand and pulls me to the dance floor, and we laugh as we twirl, the drama all but forgotten.
Still having the best night of my life.
I’m woken by the sound of hysterical laughter, men laughing like hyenas as they fumble and try to unlock the door.
I screw up my face. God, no . . . go away.
I roll over and snuggle back into my blanket in my bottom bunk. This is the first night I’ve actually been able to sleep all week. The three hundred drinks I had at the full moon party are responsible, no doubt.
The door busts open, and someone falls through it onto the carpet to deep belly laughter. It echoes down the quiet corridor. “Shh.”
“Shh.” They all giggle. “Shh, you noisy fucks.”
I screw up my face as I try to open my eyes. The sun is peeking through the blinds. It’s early morning.
More hysterical laughter.
What could possibly be so fucking funny at this godforsaken hour?