Protest

It's more carnival procession than demonstration. A group of high school kids straggle down Atlantic Avenue, taking up most of the road. Girls in purple and yellow cheerleader outfits. A Lion, a Scarecrow, a Tin Man, and a pigtailed Dorothy — the drama class — ready, like the cheerleaders, for after-school practice. Basketball players in purple and yellow uniforms throw needlessly hard chest passes and leap to shoot imaginary baskets. A group of girls, taking advantage of the end-of-year relaxation of the school dress code, strut with stomachs exposed between white denim short shorts and lacy, see-through tank tops.

They wave as cars weave slowly through the group. Some drivers smile and wave back. Others scowl and blow their horns.

Bilan Mahamoud, in a green hijab and short red jacket over a long, dark green dress, marches at the head of the students. Arn Saunders, in black jeans with a hoodie covering his almost shaved black hair and part of his dark face, is beside her. Barlow Fist has his cap pulled so low it rests on his sunglasses, and shoulders hunched in an army surplus jacket over a tee shirt with Like I Care? on the front. He saunters among the cheerleaders, who cartwheel and pirouette around him. Grant Mograno swaggers with his basketball teammates. At the rear — part of the group but not part of it — Lettie Snow drifts with her eyes on the ground.

Then, from a car creeping through the crowd, "Why don't you go back to where you came from?"

It doesn't often happen in the little seaside town of Savage Harbour, but Arn and Bilan, at the head of the procession, are always ready for it. Arn steps directly in front of the car, forcing it to stop. The driver — male, middle-aged, red-faced, balding — climbs out. He marches close to Arn and says, "Move your black arse out of the way of my car."

A police cruiser appears, moving slowly towards the students.

Barlow moves to the front of the group and murmurs to Arn, "Best let it go."

The driver grins, pointing his finger at Arn. "You heard your friend, boy. Back off."

Barlow steps between Arn and the driver. He puts his hand on the driver's chest and says, "No. You back off."

The driver scoffs, "Or what?"

Without taking his eyes from the driver, Barlow slowly takes off his sunglasses. He holds them out and Bilan takes them. Barlow says, "Or I'll beat the crap out of you, right here in front of everybody."

The driver hesitates, then scurries back to his car, making monkey noises as he goes. As the man pulls away, Barlow takes his sunglasses from Bilan, who murmurs, "Thank you."

Arn snarls at Barlow, "Why don't you keep out of my way? I don't need you to fight my battles."

"I know," says Barlow. "But the thing is — I can punch out dickheads like that and nothing will happen to me. You do it and you're in shit."

Bilan says, "He is right, Arn." She takes his arm and pulls him away. But Arn still scowls back at Barlow.

The police car has stopped a few metres up the street with lights flashing. Sergeant Tony Hansen notes the registration of the car that's pulling away as he approaches the students. A few minutes earlier he was reading the Atlantic Daily News with his feet on his desk and a cup of coffee in his hand. Then the secretary called from the front desk: "Got a call from St. Isaac's School about kids walking out. The principal wants the police to stop them." Sgt. Hansen was half inclined to ignore the call. It was a warm June morning near the end of term. The kids always walked out at least one day this time of year, usually to go to the beach. It was like a tradition. He'd done it himself. But nothing else was on, so he decided to take a look. He headed down to Atlantic Avenue, which ran alongside Seaside Park, where the old school sat like a stately home.

He knows some of the students by name, all of them by sight. He's had a few run-ins with a couple of them, namely Arn and Barlow. He has his men keep an eye on the strange girl at the back, the one he sees on the street at all hours of the day and night. And then there's the immigrant girl at the front of the group. He's uneasily aware it may not be correct to think of her like that, but he doesn't know her name.

He leads the students to the sidewalk and asks, "What's going on, guys? What are you doing out of school?"

The girl, who seems to be the leader, has her hands on her hips. A pretty kid, with skin the colour of amber, she barely comes to his chin. But she stares at him like a challenge. He thinks that if her eyes could shoot fire he'd be burned to a crisp.

"We are demonstrating," she says. "And you cannot stop us." Her voice is taut, her diction perfect.

"Whoa," says Sgt. Hansen. "I'm not trying to, not unless you block traffic or cause a major disturbance, Miss ... er ..."

"Mahamoud. Ms. Mahamoud."

"Sorry. Ms. Mahamoud. Just, it would have been helpful if you'd let us know you were planning to demonstrate. Maybe I could have helped with traffic control."

"We do not need help. Thank you."

"So who's in your group?"

"The grade eleven class. The principal said we were not allowed to protest because children — children! — did not have the right to question decisions made by the authorities."

"That'd be the decision about the school?"

"Which means the decision concerning our future."

"Where are you marching to?"

"The town hall, where the District Education Council is meeting."

"How about I follow you, keep the traffic back?"

"Then you will harass us when we get to the town hall."

Sgt. Hansen sighs. "I'll stay out of your way, unless something happens that needs my attention."

We Will Be Heard

With Bilan at their head, the students march the three blocks to the town hall, a narrow, three storey, brick building. Charlie Higgs, the door guard, with rounded shoulders and a shock of white hair, sees them approaching. He stands in the doorway with his arms held wide and says firmly, "Sorry, young ladies and gentlemen. You can't come in."

Bilan says, "But we want to address the Education Council."

"The meeting's private. Sorry, dear. Best I can do is take a message."

"Please ask the council if we can talk to them about St. Isaac's School."

Charlie Higgs returns a few minutes later, shaking his head. "I spoke to the superintendent of schools, Mr. Kitchener. He says students are not allowed to attend meetings of the council. He says the principal of St. Isaac's has informed him you have left the school unlawfully and you are to return right away."

Bilan purses her lips. "What room are they in?

Charlie Higgs nods at the ground floor window beside him.

She turns to face the window and starts chanting loudly, "We have a voice and we will be heard."

She looks around at the students, cupping her ear. They repeat after her, uncertainly at first, then louder as Bilan goes on. "We have a voice and we will be heard."

Barlow uses a garbage can as a drum to beat out the rhythm. The students stamp their feet with him. Their voices grow louder. Charlie Higgs, watching from the doorway, moves his shoulders with the beat. Sgt.

Hansen, who has parked across the road and is leaning on his car, smiles.

A rock sails from the group. It shatters the window of the room right above the room where the meeting is being...