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“Guillaume,” I say.
He freezes.
Étienne and Johan run to the end of the hallway and dart into their rooms.
“What are you hiding behind your back?”
“Nothing,” he says, trying to pull off such an exaggerated innocent expression that I suppress a laugh.
“Let’s see it.”
Sighing, he brings his arms from behind his back and shows me two halves of a ceramic flowerpot.
I motion at the shards. “How did that happen?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I raise a brow. “Try again.”
“I don’t know,” he exclaims.
Crossing my arms, I lean a shoulder against the wall. “Then we’re just going to stand here until you remember.”
He stomps his foot. “I’m hungry.”
“All the more reason to remember quickly.”
He huffs and drops his shoulders in a dramatic gesture while rolling his eyes. “I kicked it.”
“Why did you kick the flowerpot?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a sentence or a reply.”
“I don’t know.”
I shake my head. “That’s not an answer either.”
“I got mad,” he cries out. “Étienne and Johan wouldn’t let me kick the ball.”
“That’s no reason to kick the flowerpot. You need to learn to control your frustration.”
He only looks at me.
“What were you planning on doing? Hiding the shards in your room?”
More silence.
I jut my chin toward the incriminating evidence. “What did you do with the plant?”
“Left it there,” he says in almost inaudible voice, fixing his gaze on a spot on the floor.
“What’s going to happen to it if we just leave it there?”
He cocks a shoulder.
“It’s going to die,” I say. “If we replant it, it may survive.”
