By morning the snow had stopped. when Travis and Nish and Lars came up from their bedroom in the Dupont’s basement, they stopped by the patio doors to see just how much had fallen through the night.

Travis hadn’t slept well. He kept going over the contents of that awful newspaper article, comparing it to his recollection of what he had written in the diary. None of it seemed to fit quite together. There were links, but all the strings connecting them had ugly knots in them.

All Nish and Lars could talk about was the snow. The world was whiter than any of them had ever seen, the snow piled so high on every surface, large and small–branches, fences, rooftops, telephone wires–that it seemed to have been squeezed on, like thick layers of toothpaste. Every now and then a pile on a branch would topple over, the snow spraying into powder as it fell, the sun dancing off the flakes and causing the Owls to wince as they stared out.

Monsieur Dupont was already up and making himself busy outside. At least Travis presumed it was Monsieur Dupont: a tall man covered head to foot, his face in a black ski mask that had two small slits for the eyes.

“It’s a bank robbery!” Nish shouted.

“It’s Mister Dupont,” said Lars. “He’s just clearing off the rink.”

Sure enough, Monsieur Dupont was standing in front of a large red snowblower, brushed clean of snow. He yanked its starter cord once, twice, and instantly the silence of the morning was lost. The snowblower roared and coughed into action, and Monsieur Dupont adjusted the chute and put it in gear. The chains and tires caught and the machine jumped into action, the clear winter air between the boys and Monsieur Dupont filling once again with heavy snow. Only this time it was going up, not falling down.

The radio was on in the kitchen. It was in French, but the boys caught enough of the talk–“…Travis Lindsay…the Screech Owls…Anglais…”–to know that the commentators were discussing the newspaper article Bart Lundrigan had written.

“You’re in big trouble, my friend,” Nish whispered as he poured himself a second bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

Travis snapped a quick look back at Nish, one that told him to sit on it and keep quiet. Travis didn’t want to discuss the matter. J-P and Nicole were also in the kitchen now, and neither of them had said a word about the newspaper article.

The telephone rang. Travis thought he was going to hit the ceiling he jumped so high.

Madame Dupont answered. She spoke a few words of French and then turned to the table, looking first at Travis–hurt written all over her face–and then holding the receiver out towards Nicole.

“Oui,” she answered. “Oui…Nicole Dupont…oui, c’est vrai…non…Yes, I speak English.”

There was a long pause while Nicole listened. She turned to the table, twisting the telephone cord in her fingers and rolling her eyes to indicate boredom.

“No. He’s already left for the rink,” she said. “Sorry…Yes, I will…Fine…Yes…Yes, goodbye.”

Nicole hung up the receiver and came back to the table. J-P and the three Owls were all staring at her, waiting.

“It was the local CBC,” she said. “They wanted to talk to Travis about the article. I said you weren’t here, okay?”

Travis felt immense relief. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

She had lied for him. No, fibbed for him. A white lie. A harmless lie. Instead of anyone getting hurt, Travis told himself, someone got saved: himself.

He knew that “Thanks” was not enough. The Duponts deserved more.

Travis cleared his throat. He felt awkward, embarrassed. “That article,” he began.

“Don’t even bother,” Nicole said. “We know you didn’t say those things.”

Travis closed his eyes. Thank heavens; they believed him without him having to prove it.

“But I did kind of say those things,” he said. It was spilling out of him. “Nish was kidding Lars in Pig Latin, but no one ever said it was the same thing as French. Nish just can’t speak French either. And I said it was easier to speak English, because I’m so bad at French and so embarrassed that I don’t speak it better.”

“You shouldn’t have written that thing about my father,” Nicole said. Travis looked down, ashamed. But then she smiled; her point had been made and, as far as she was concerned, the matter was closed.

But Travis was near tears. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t know what that reporter was going to do with what I’d written. He took what I said and twisted it.”

J-P looked up, grinning. “A better story for him, I guess.”

“But it’s not fair,” said Nish.

Nicole smiled. “You get used to this stuff in Quebec,” she said. “We just ignore it.”

The side door opened with a waft of cold air that died the moment the door was slammed shut again. Monsieur Dupont was in the hallway. They could hear him stomping his boots and brushing the snow off his shoulders. They could hear him unzipping the heavy snowmobile suit he wore while working the snowblower. Travis noticed that the two Dupont children had stopped eating. They were waiting to see if their father already knew what had happened.

Monsieur Dupont came into the kitchen. His hair stood out all over at odd angles, uncombed since he had yanked off his ski mask. Travis could sense Nish was on the verge of a giggle, and knocked his knee against his leg to shut him up. There was a new tension in the air.

Monsieur Dupont came into the kitchen, stopped, and stared once, hard, at Travis. Travis swallowed uncomfortably. No one said a word.

Monsieur Dupont seemed sad rather than upset. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but then decided not to say anything. He moved instead to the sink, took a cup out of the cupboard above it, then turned to fill it from the coffeepot.

Nicole leaned over her cereal towards Travis, glancing meaningfully at her father and then back to Travis.

“I’ll explain to him,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Travis smiled. But he was deeply worried all the same.

 

 

The team was to meet, again, at the parking area near the Ice Palace. From there, the team would travel, by bus, to the Colisée. Madame Dupont could drop the Owls and their equipment off on her way to her job at the provincial tourism office, just down the street from the Château. She seemed fine, smiling and laughing. But Travis noticed that when she got into the minivan the radio was on, and that she’d quickly turned it off before starting out.

There was a commotion around the school bus when they arrived at the parking lot. Nish was first to spot the activity out the minivan window.

“Television cameras!” he called, excitedly.

Travis felt a sinking feeling inside. No one would normally be interested in a peewee hockey team heading out for a tournament game.

“There’s more over here!” said Lars from the front seat.

The Owls got out, and someone shouted, “It’s him!”

Pandemonium struck as the boys tried to get their gear clear of Madame Dupont’s vehicle. Three or four television crews and several people with tape recorders and microphones with little station logos on them descended on Travis, Nish, and Lars as they sorted out their bags and sticks.

“Which one of you is Travis Lindsay?” shouted a hatless man with a hard helmet of sprayed hair.

“Not me!” said Nish, hustling to get out of the way with his equipment.

Travis was surrounded. He knew he looked frightened; he was frightened. The cameras were rolling. The reporters were all shouting at him.

“What do you think of French, Travis?”

“Parlez-vous français?”

“Can you explain what ‘Pig Latin’ is, please?”

“Are you having any trouble with the signs?”

“Do you think Quebec has the right to separate from Canada?”

“How do you get along with your billets, Mr. Lindsay?”

“How do you feel about playing a Quebec team today?”

The questions were flying at him, too many, too fast. Travis cringed against the back of the Duponts’ minivan. Other reporters were at the driver’s side of the van, trying to get a comment from Madame Dupont, who was hurriedly rolling up her window. She shook her head and put the vehicle in gear, forcing it through the throng. Travis watched as it slipped away from him until he was all alone in the centre of the parking lot, the camera operators and reporters circling him like wolves moving in for the kill.

“Just a minute!” a loud voice commanded. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît!”

It was Muck’s voice. Muck speaking French–something Travis had never even imagined.

The circle broke as Muck barged his way through and took Travis by the elbow. Travis was almost overcome with relief. He felt like he had just been shaken awake from the worst nightmare of his life. He knew, even before it was over, that it was going to be all right. Because it was Muck.

“Are you the coach?”

“Vous parlez français?”

“What do you have to say about your captain’s anti-French remarks, sir?”

Muck was already pulling Travis away from the throng. He paused, looked back, and caught the eye of the woman who had called out the last question.

“Just this…,” Muck said. The cameras and microphones instantly pressed closer. “There is no story here for you. Sorry to disappoint you–but there’s no story.”

“How do you explain the diary entries then?”

“You’d better ask Mr. Lundrigan about that,” Muck said. “He’s the one who made up the stories, is he not?”

The questions now came even faster.

“Are you accusing the reporter of making up quotes?”

“Travis–are you denying you said those things?”

“Why are you running from us?”

Muck had no more to say. He still had a firm hold on Travis’s elbow and was half pulling, half leading him toward the bus. Travis wasn’t sure his feet were even touching the ground, but he tried to hurry anyway. He could feel Muck’s huge strength in his grip. His elbow hurt, but he wasn’t about to say anything.

The reporters and cameras were following right behind, videotaping it all. But Muck never looked back. With Travis in tow, he rounded the bus and came to an abrupt stop on the far side by the door.

Mr. Dillinger was frantically at work with a rag and cleanser. He was wiping as hard as he could, but to little effect. Someone had spray-painted the side of the Screech Owls’ bus. In large, crudely formed red letters was the message: “ANGLAIS PIGS GO HOME!”

Travis looked up at Muck, who had forgotten to let go of his elbow. The coach had shut his eyes, as if wishing everything would somehow go away. When he opened them again, he directed a helpless look at Mr. Dillinger, who was still wiping hard. But Mr. Dillinger shot back an equally helpless look: the paint wasn’t coming off.

The reporters had seen it now. In near panic, they scrambled over each other to get their shots–some pushing and pulling, some yelling and shoving as they fought for position.

Travis felt, rather than heard, the breath go out of Muck.

“They got a story now,” the coach said. “They’ve got their story now.”