by Liza Wiemer
1 Like Reply
EinsteinFan
Google “Jewish contributions to society” and I bet people will be surprised by how much Jews have done to help this world for the better. If you hate them so much, don’t be a hypocrite. Stop using your computer and cell phones immediately, because Jews developed a lot of that technology.
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TripleK4Evr
@HistoryBuff @EinsteinFan
We got a bullet for you, too. You can each hold hands with these teens.
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LegalEagle
@TripleK4Evr
Reporting you to site administration. Bye-bye.
10 Like Reply
Posted on my Twitter feed:
JUSSUK @jussuk
@loganmarchNY watch out. Hitler missed you, but I won’t. I got bullets, one for you and one for Cade.
And there is more:
A tweet saying we should put guns to our heads and kill ourselves.
A tweet saying we should never have children because we’ll contaminate the gene pool.
A tweet of a crematorium at a concentration camp and the message: I’ll light the match.
A tweet with a photo of a lynching and the message YOU’RE NEXT.
They’re anonymous. Faceless. Hateful people. My hands tremble on the keyboard. I report each one.
I check the time. Dad went out to dinner with a colleague. Should I call him to come home? I want to, but he rarely goes out. I know I come first, but he’s due back within the hour. I can wait, right? I’ll give it a few more minutes, then decide.
I return to Twitter. For the hundredth time, I tell myself to shut down my laptop. But I have this obsessive sick need to know.
Somewhere, there’s a monster disguised as a human being who wants to put a bullet into our brains.
Dead. It reverberates in my head like a plucked wire. Dead.
Goose bumps rise on my arms. Gripped with fear, I stare out the breakfast nook bay window and scan the night, jumping at every shifting shadow. I close the curtains, grab my laptop off the table, and slide to the floor.
Who posted these comments? Someone wearing a white sheet and a hood? Or maybe the white supremacists I saw on TV, marching in Charlottesville, chanting, “Jews will not replace us.” It’s easier to believe it’s a man or a woman far away, but it could be someone right here in Riviere.
I shudder. What if these people know where we live? I locked the doors, right? I set my laptop aside and crawl across the kitchen floor, making sure to stay way below the sightline of the bay window. Reaching up, I turn the stairwell doorknob and peek through the crack. I race down the stairs, yank on the door. Locked. Of course it’s locked.
I dash from window to window, pulling down shades, drawing curtains. I run back to the kitchen, grab my phone, laptop, a quart of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream, and a spoon.
Safe in my room, I refresh the screen. There are now 132 comments. Lissa had said the article might garner attention. But I never imagined this! I call Cade. It goes right to voicemail. Arrgh! Why can’t he ever leave his phone on?
Should I call the inn? I doubt he even knows that the article was published. It wasn’t supposed to post until tomorrow. Oh God. Did he tell his parents? I hope he told his parents.
My phone rings. But it’s not Cade. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. It’s my neighbor: Police Officer Shawn Sullivan.
Heather waits until her parents leave for the evening before shutting herself in the bathroom with the bag of supplies she’d hidden in her bedroom closet. She knows they’ll be furious and deeply disappointed.
Heather is not the “disappointment” in the family. That title belongs to her older sister, Holly. Holly decided a long time ago to live up to her plant name, embracing the prickly and poisonous instead of the holiday cheer. After a stint in juvie for selling drugs, Holly dropped out of high school, stole from her family, shoplifted, and continued to use any drug she could get her hands on. A year ago Christmas, on her eighteenth birthday, Holly left with her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend, but not before she smashed every ornament on the tree, hauled off every present like the Grinch, and not only packed up her belongings but dinner as well.
Because of her sister, Heather’s been the “good girl,” and paying the price for Holly’s actions. Her parents are super strict. They pushed both daughters to excel and strive for perfection. Holly had enough.
No matter how hard Heather works to be their perfect daughter, she has never been able to live up to their expectations. “Only a ninety-three on your chemistry test? Clearly, you didn’t study enough,” her dad accused.
Isn’t an A an A? Not in her father’s book.
Heather would never do what her sister did. Where is her sister? Heather worries, but she’s bone-tired of it, tired of being afraid, tired of not knowing who the real Heather is supposed to be.
She meant every word she said to Jesse, from liking him (past tense) to reporting him to Principal McNeil if he ever touches her again without her permission.
Standing in front of the vanity, Heather talks to the girl in the mirror. “You are not doing this because of Jesse.” Although, she concedes, he did give her motivation. “You can do this.” She laughs a little as she fights back tears that cloud her sky-blue eyes. She leans in close, whispers, “If you go through with this, people will see you. They’ll notice you. You’ll stand out. Do you really want to stand out?”
No, not really. But didn’t Mr. Bartley do that to her by having her stand up in class? Remembering the smug look in Jesse’s eyes, the way he laughed, fortifies her. She lifts her chin. “One day. That’s all you need. That’s all you’ll get,” she says, resigned, thinking of her father’s wrath to come. If all goes according to plan, her parents won’t know until tomorrow night. At dinner, she told them that she’ll be leaving extra early tomorrow morning for an AP Lit and Composition study session. As long as they don’t break their pattern, Heather will be out of the house long before they wake up. This one day will have to be enough. A full day to make her statement: Heather Jameson is no Aryan. Heather Jameson has a mind of her own.
Bracing herself against the sink, she says goodbye to the girl who always does what she’s told. She runs her fingers through her long blond hair—her mother’s pride and joy. No doubt Heather will be grounded—she’s been grounded for a lot less, like leaving her clothes on the floor and for getting a B in Spanish freshman year.
This will be worth it.
Setting her phone on top of the toilet tank, she clicks on the playlist she created for this moment and hits shuffle. She opens her bag and empties the contents onto the vanity: conditioner, a plastic bowl, a croc clip, gloves, cobalt-blue semi-permanent hair dye, and the brush applicator. Thanks to several YouTube videos, she knows exactly what to do to get the best results.
After brushing out her long blond hair, she takes a before selfie, then strips off her shirt and puts on latex gloves. She mixes the conditioner and color and begins the transformation.
Forty-five minutes later, she spins around and sings along with Cindy Lauper’s True Colors. The blue-haired Heather in the mirror looks badass-awesome. She takes an after selfie, posts both photos on Instagram. Within seconds, her friends respond:
“Gorgeous!!!”
“Omg I want!”
“Smokin’ hot!”
“Damn, you’re sexy, girl”
Emboldened from all the compliments, Heather emails Mr. Bartley, requesting the alternative assignment.
I follow Mom to the farthest guest room from our apartment. The second I cross the threshold and she shuts the door, I blurt out, “I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry?” she huffs. “For what, Cade? Because from what I see, you didn’t just happen to speak with a reporter. That was deli
berate.”
I slump against the wall. “I’m sorry we lost Mrs. Stoke’s business.” Tears glisten in Mom’s eyes. I had told myself to stay calm, to explain, but the devastation on her face guts me. “Mom, you have to understand. Logan and I had to speak to the reporter. We did the right thing.”
“The right thing? What was right about keeping this from us?”
“I tried to tell you. But you’ve been so stressed and busy—”
Mom cuts me off. “Not once did you say that you had an urgent matter to discuss about an assignment. Not once did you—”
I jump in. “I was going to tell you. If you think back, you’ll remember I came to find you and Dad. You were in the basement freaking out over the busted furnace.”
Mom grabs onto a bedpost. “There were plenty of other times you could have said something. You and Logan were working on an assignment, went to school early to discuss it with Mr. Bartley. You shared that much. Wouldn’t that have been the time to tell us?”
For a brief moment, I close my eyes. I need to own this. “You’re right. I could have, but I didn’t. I chose not to tell you about the interview because I thought you wouldn’t allow it.”
Mom breaks her own rule and sits on the guest bed. “God Almighty. This is a disaster, Cade.” She covers her face with her palms, moans into them. When she looks at me, her cheeks are covered with tears. “For one second, did you think about how this could impact this family? We needed Mrs. Stoke’s business, Cade. You know that.”
I slide to the floor, fighting back my own tears. Not once did it occur to me that we’d pay this kind of price. “I know. You’re right. But we had to do this. We had to.”
“Start from the beginning. I want to hear every detail and later you’ll explain to your dad.”
It takes a half hour to tell the story and answer all of her questions. I watch her carefully. The hurt and betrayal I’m responsible for morphs to shock, frustration, and disgust aimed not at me, but at Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil. Mom seems surprised and impressed by our actions, but it’s hard to be certain because she doesn’t say so. When I finally finish, I say, “That’s it. I’ve told you everything.”
I brace myself. Mom gets up and joins me on the floor. She picks up my hand and threads her fingers with mine. A tear trickles down her face, sending a spear of fear into my heart. She brushes the tear away with her free hand. “Losing her business hurts, Cade. But I’m proud of you and Logan.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
More and more tears stream down Mom’s cheeks. I get up and grab the box of tissues from the bathroom and bring it over to her. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, then says, “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure why she’s apologizing. She has nothing to apologize for.
“You’re right. If you had told us earlier, I don’t know how we would have advised you. That’s the truth.” She pauses. “I am fairly certain I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what you and Logan did. I would have done the assignment and moved on, even if I didn’t like it.”
Mom’s gaze is fierce, determined, stubborn. I’ve experienced this look enough times to know that whatever she says next is nonnegotiable. I brace myself.
“I have no idea where this is going to lead, Cade. I’m not sure what we’ll do if—” More tears roll down her cheeks. “If we lose more business. Based on what I’ve already read, there will be more people saying hateful, disgusting, and vicious things about you and Logan. Sadly, it’s just the way people are sometimes. When your dad and I got married so young, the things people said—” She cuts herself off, taps the spot above my heart, then my temple. “You’re Granite. Steel. Titanium. You don’t allow any of that hate to get through. You understand?”
I nod.
She continues. “What you said to the reporter showed tremendous dignity and respect. Let that be your guide. You and Logan must be together on this, and if you need guidance, you can turn to us.”
“What about Nana? What are we going to tell her?”
“Tell Nana what?”
Mom and I both startle.
Much to my relief, it’s Dad. His gaze shifts from Mom’s tearstained cheeks to me, then to the rumpled bed. “What’s going on?”
Jesse tags me in an Instagram post. It’s a picture of the Lake Towns Journal article with the caption: CADE CRAWFORD AND @LOGANMARCHNY ATTACK MR. BARTLEY. #RIVIEREHIGHSCHOOL
In the comments, I read:
So not fair to Mr. Bartley. He’s the best teacher.
Logan thinks she’s better than the rest of us. Obviously, she thinks she can do Mr. Bartley’s job!
Can they get suspended?
Nah. Free speech. But they’ll get what they deserve. I have no sympathy for them.
That one is from the private account RHSHockey4Evr.
There’s more, lots more. I know every one of these people but RHSHockey4Evr. It could be anyone. No one, not one person, comes to our defense. Not one person says anything supportive. Lissa Chen had warned us not to respond to online comments, saying people have the right to express themselves. But it’s so much easier to ignore when they come from strangers. I pick up my pillow, plant my face in the middle, and scream. I really had hoped we would get some support from people at school. How could I have been so naive?
My skin turns ice-cold. I burrow under my covers, struggling to come to terms with this reality. What is Mr. Bartley doing right now? What is he thinking? Does he hate us? Why do I want him to like us?
Blair’s words come back to me. A good teacher would never give that assignment. But Mr. Bartley wasn’t just a good teacher. He was my ideal teacher—challenging. Creative. Encouraging. Enthusiastic. Funny. Interesting. Supportive. I compared all my other teachers to him. He was my Zeus and now he’s Ares. No, that’s not right. A mere man I made into an icon, built a monument for. Not only has he come tumbling down, but I’m the one who threw the ropes and pulled. Why do I feel guilty? He’s wrong, not us.
Who is the real Mr. Bartley? Trying to answer that question is like trying to grasp a cloud. Impossible.
My phone pings. I’m tagged in another comment on Jesse’s Instagram post.
@LOGANMARCHNY HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO MR. BARTLEY?
It’s from an RHS junior.
I take a screenshot and text it to Blair.
Five minutes later, she responds.
BLAIR: Open his post.
I find this:
BlairinToGo So much respect for Cade and Logan. Did you read the article? Because if you did, you’ll see that they did NOT attack Mr. Bartley. They spoke up for morality. I’m with them. Why not be courageous and join them?
ME: You are amazing.
BLAIR: YOU.
I refresh Instagram to see if anyone responds.
I scroll down.
And down.
And down.
It’s gone. Blair’s comment is gone.
ME: He deleted your comment!
BLAIR: (sends me a gif of Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman deflecting bullets, sparks flying everywhere) YOU!
ME: Ha! Right.
BLAIR: You’re my hero. Tell Cade I think he’s a hero, too. Keep your head up.
ME: (sends gif from The Sound of Music of Baron von Trapp ripping a Nazi flag in half)
BLAIR: Oh yeah. Go tear ’em down! Love you.
ME: Love you more.
Setting my phone aside, I stare at the ceiling. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I bolt up. I have always wanted to go to school, and I resent Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil for taking that away from me. How am I ever going to face all those haters? I reach for my phone and call Cade. Once again, it goes straight to voicemail.
I need a distraction, some entertainment. I Google “Movies where Nazis get their asses kicked.” I spend the next hour on YouTube watching clips from
Captain America: The First Avenger, Inglourious Basterds, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and X-Men: First Class. Watching history be rewritten temporarily improves my mood.
But reality kicks in, dragging me into a pit of despair. Replaying the Wonder Woman gif Blair texted me doesn’t help.
Tuesday turned into Wednesday a few hours ago. In a few more, Cade and I are supposed to walk into school. I don’t want to go.
“Stop, Logan,” I say out loud, talking to myself like I’m another person. “You’re not going to let Jesse and all the rest of those jerks get to you.”
Cade and I won’t be silenced. An idea comes to me, a way for Cade and me to speak to our haters without actually saying a word. I go online, find the perfect quote to contribute to Mr. Bartley’s wall:
“I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” —Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor (Quote contributed by Logan March and Cade Crawford)
* * *
* * *
I turn the corner from Washington Avenue to Third Street and find Cade. He’s bundled into his winter coat and the knit hat that Nana made him for Christmas last year. I’m wearing one just like his, but Nana added pompoms hanging from earflaps.
“Hi,” he says, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“Define okay.” Dark circles ring Cade’s eyes. “You look like you got as much sleep as I did. Two hours. You?”
“Maybe four. I fell asleep in Grandpa’s workshop.” He scoops up some snow, nails a fire hydrant. “We got a major cancellation at the inn because of the article.”