The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  “Oh, Cade. No!”

  “I spent most of the night trying to figure out how I could help financially. I ended up in Grandpa’s workshop. There are a few pieces of furniture he was building from reclaimed wood. I’m going to finish them. Sell them on eBay or Etsy.”

  I set my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No regrets, okay?”

  “And Nana? How is she?”

  “She doesn’t know. Mom doesn’t want to tell her, and Dad thinks with pressure from outside sources, Mr. Bartley will cancel the assignment.”

  “That’s what Lissa Chen said.” When we reach the steps of our school, I stop. “I’m not ready for this.”

  He gives my pompoms a tug. “We got this.”

  “Maybe you do, but I don’t.”

  Cade’s lips quirk. “I know exactly what will help. Mom made me say this ten times this morning before she let me leave. ‘I’m granite. I’m steel. I’m titanium. No one and nothing will get to me today.’ Say it with me.”

  “No. I’m not going to.”

  He laughs. “Come on now. Say it. With conviction.”

  “No!” I stick out my tongue and Cade laughs harder. “You think it’s funny, huh? Do you know how unfunny it is?”

  He raps his knuckles on top of my head. “Oh yeah, solid rock.”

  “How about these, funny guy.” I hold up my titanium fists and take a swing, but he manages to get his big paws around my wrists, turn me around in his arms so that mine cross in front of me. My back presses into his chest and I feel the vibration of his laughter. I wiggle and squirm. He takes several deep breaths and his laughter dies away. Other than that almost kiss, this is the closest we’ve been. If I turned around in his arms, I would be in the perfect position to kiss him. Before I can decide, he lets go and my hands fall to my sides. He steps back, but at least he’s still smiling.

  I catch my breath and watch the stream of students heading into school. No one says anything to us. They don’t have to. Their looks say everything.

  Cade’s arm presses into mine. He whispers, “Ignore them.” The first bell rings. He motions toward the door. “Ready?”

  “Nope. Changed my mind.”

  “You want to skip?” He sounds so hopeful.

  “Yes, but then they win.”

  He holds out his hand, palm up in invitation. “If we’re doing this, let’s do it together.”

  * * *

  * * *

  If only people were staring because we’re holding hands. They whisper about the article, the assignment—crude and cruel murmurs and giggles—some juvenile name-calling like I saw on social media. I will myself to keep my eyes forward and follow Cade’s stoic lead, but it’s hard. Hoping it will help, I begin chanting to myself, I’m granite. I’m steel. I’m titanium, faster and faster until Cade stops walking. We stand in the middle of the hallway between our lockers. He steps in front of me, puts his hands on my shoulders. “Okay?” he whispers.

  “Okay,” I whisper back.

  “We got this,” he says. We split up to put away our coats and gather our books for the morning.

  I enter my lock combination, open my locker, and…

  OH MY GOD.

  I recoil, and even though there’s a lot of background noise, I swear I hear Cade gasp. I turn. For several seconds, our eyes meet. His are wide and dark and not Cade’s. These are filled with shock, anger. People streaming by temporarily block my view, but I shift right and push up on my tiptoes. Cade grips his locker door and holds it open. Like mine, every inch is plastered with pictures and sticky notes filled with blood-red swastikas and hateful words.

  A camera flash goes off. The hallway buzzes and crawls, closing me in. I face my locker. There’s a small bag of dry dog food sitting on the bottom shelf and a note saying, “No dogs and Jew lovers allowed in the cafeteria.”

  I pull out my phone from my pocket and take a picture to show Mr. Bartley. I’d love for him to explain how the assignment promotes respect and tolerance.

  More people stop, stare, whisper.

  I spin around, meet them head-on with my glare. A few drop their gazes, shame-faced. Someone laughs behind me like this is a joke. My head snaps around whiplash-fast as I search for the comedian. Enraged, I call out, “Who did this?”

  I watch the scene as if I’m outside my body or in the middle of a bad dream and can’t wake up. For a few heartbeats, my mind goes absolutely blank. Then the scene comes barreling at me. All the air leaves my lungs as if I’ve been sucker punched. A flash goes off. I inhale. Then another flash and another. I turn around and try to find Logan. I hear her, but can’t see her.

  “Who did this? Who did this?”

  People stare, whisper, laugh, take pictures, and crane their necks to get a glimpse at the peep shows. I slam my locker door, but just my luck it bounces back and nearly clobbers me in the face. I reach in and grab a sticky note.

  “Jew lover,” it says. I stand there staring at it. But then, like someone hit a switch, it all comes full circle. I smile, deliberate and challenging. Jew lover? Hell yeah. I’d gladly side with Jews and my grandpa any day over these racist, hateful assholes. I stick the note on the front of my sweatshirt, and start to pick off the rest.

  A lioness. From ten feet away, that’s what Logan looks like to Mason with her nose-flaring and wild-eyed “Who did this?” He admires her for it, but hell, does she really think someone’s gonna confess?

  He read the article and the pieces clicked into place—why Cade and Logan were in Principal McNeil’s office with Mr. Bartley. Why Mr. Bartley’s been…different—not exactly in a bad mood, but not his usual enthusiastic self, either. And why yesterday Mr. Bartley ignored Logan.

  Last night, Mason’s dad went on a tirade over the article. “How dare they embarrass our school like this! Mason, you call the team together for a meeting tomorrow morning in the locker room. I want them focused on hockey and not this nonsense. We cannot let this distract us from winning regionals.” He used words to describe Cade and Logan that made Mason’s stomach slither like a pit of snakes. His mom tried to calm his father and paid for it with a verbal lashing. Mason closed his bedroom door, stuck his earbuds in, and cranked up the tunes.

  He spent the next hour reading through comments. The majority supported Logan and Cade. Some attacked Mr. Bartley. Those pissed him off. These people don’t know him, they don’t know our school, and they don’t know Cade and Logan, he thought. Several times, he wrote a response, then deleted it. But finally, he couldn’t help himself, and he posted his opinion under a pseudonym, of course, like everyone else. His comment was number 217.

  “I’m a student at RHS and I really like Mr. Bartley. He makes learning interesting, so for all those people who say he’s a bad teacher and should be fired, you’re wrong. But just because I like Mr. Bartley doesn’t mean I support this assignment. Both the pro and con sides of the debate are morally wrong. On that, I’m with Logan and Cade. It’s a fact there are some racist students at our school. They hate Jews and Blacks and gays and they’ve said it. Unfortunately, this assignment supports and promotes their beliefs. Right now, students have the option of doing an alternative. I’ve read several comments saying this should be sufficient. Personally, I disagree. Since the alternative meets class requirements, it’s the best choice for everyone.”

  Mason would prefer to do the alternative assignment, but what if his dad found out? Ever since Mason struck back, the tyrant found a more effective way of controlling him. Threatening his mother. He swallows hard, and as he watches Logan struggling, he hears his father’s firm directive to the team. “Anyone asks you about the assignment, you answer, ‘No comment.’ Your focus is hockey. STAY OUT OF IT!”

  Towering over the crowd, Mason watches Logan. People are giving her a wide berth.

  Reg laughs, and says, “They wanted the att
ention. They’re definitely getting it now.”

  “The dog food was classic,” Jesse says.

  Mason ignores them, refocuses on Logan until a girl walks by with big blue eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner, deep red lips, and long kickass blue hair. She stops three lockers from his, catches Mason staring, and sends him a shy smile.

  “Heather? Heather Jameson?”

  She blushes and nods.

  “So, what do you think?” Reg asks Mason, pulling his gaze away from Heather.

  Mason blinks at Reg. “About what?”

  “You haven’t said anything about the article or Cade and Logan.”

  Mason shrugs. “Didn’t read it.”

  Spencer makes his way over. Half the hockey team stands and watches like Cade and Logan are a part of a sitcom. Mason can’t stand here anymore. He takes two steps away and stops. Dammit. He turns around and shoulders his way through the gawking crowd and into the crosshairs of Logan’s fury.

  “Did you do this?”

  The insult hits him hard, but he ignores it, ignores her. He can’t ignore the sticky notes.

  He rips them off the door: Swastikas. “Burn baby burn.” “Kikes and dykes not welcome here.” He tears them in half, shoves them into his pockets, and begins to pick off the rest.

  Logan joins him, clawing at the notes, littering the ground at their feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know you’d never—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs.

  “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

  Mason’s neck prickles. He glances back. Spencer, Reg, and Jesse watch him with disbelief and contempt. To hell with them. He’s sick of them, sick of having to toe the line and keep the peace at home and in the locker room. But what makes Mason sick most of all is the painful gut feeling that several of his so-called teammates are probably—if not definitely—responsible for the disgusting messages in Cade and Logan’s lockers.

  “Who knows your combinations?” Mason asks.

  Logan turns around. “Only Cade and me. Whoever did this must have somehow gotten their hands on the master list.” Her eyes narrow. “Doesn’t your girlfriend work in the office?” It’s not a question.

  Mason flinches. His brow furrows. “You think Kerrianne did this? Or me?”

  “No.”

  His gray eyes turn into a thunderstorm. But there’s more than frustration, there’s hurt and defeat. He’s tired of walking the tightrope that defines his life. He’s too much, not enough, and pleases no one, especially the tyrant and least of all himself. Shaking his head, he walks away, mumbling, “What the hell’s the point if no matter what I do, I can’t win?”

  “Mason!” Logan calls. “Mason, I’m sorry!”

  Ignoring Logan, Mason kicks himself for caring. He reaches the stairs leading to the second-floor math and science wing and conquers them two at a time. The seed Logan planted in his head grows. Could Kerrianne get the master combination list? Hell yeah. She’s worked in the school office for nearly four years. Miss Wather has given Kerrianne plenty of responsibility, and even though Kerrianne has her own login on the office computer, she’s smart enough to figure out how to access the locker combination list.

  He slips a hand into his pocket, removes one of the crumpled sticky notes, and smooths it out. “Burn with the rest of them,” it says.

  Mason knows Kerrianne’s handwriting, and it’s not hers. She may not have written the notes, but it doesn’t erase logic.

  Did Kerrianne give someone the locker combinations? It’s highly probable, and he has a list of suspects. His conscience tugs at him. Should he confront her? Find out who she gave the combinations to? When she tells him, if she tells him, then what?

  Although there’s commotion all around him, Daniel isn’t a part of it. His mind takes him on a journey back to freshman year when it was his locker plastered with disgusting sticky notes and photos with anti-gay slurs and crude sexual comments and drawings.

  Shaking, he closed the door, went right to the office, and asked Miss Wather if he could speak with Principal McNeil. And then he sobbed his eyes out. It was Miss Wather who brought him into the conference room, shut the door, and hugged him. It was Miss Wather who said she’d been there and understood. It was Miss Wather who handed him a box of tissues, two pieces of candy, and said, “Those jerks don’t deserve your tears.” It was Miss Wather who cleaned up his locker and gave him a new lock. And it was Miss Wather who checked up on him every day, even on weekends, for months to make sure he was doing okay.

  Principal McNeil sent a letter to parents condemning bullying, telling them to talk to their kids about hate speech and to appreciate each other’s differences.

  For Daniel, not much has changed.

  The same assholes strike out whenever they can—mostly rude comments about him being gay mumbled in passing or crude illustrations of certain body parts dropped through the slats of his locker.

  He’s lived with it; figured out that if he doesn’t speak, doesn’t respond to taunts and cruel joke, and does his best to be invisible, he can endure school. If it weren’t for his supportive parents, he would have shattered. He can’t wait to go to one of the large universities he applied to that have LGBTQIAP+ student groups.

  But seeing Cade and Logan’s lockers, seeing their reactions and their strength, cracks a piece of his wall. He photographs Logan’s locker and the pile of notes on the floor, getting close-ups of the swastikas and slurs.

  In colorful language, Logan promises to shove the sticky notes into every crevice of whoever did this. She drags the big rubber garbage can from the girls’ bathroom, scoops up a pile of hate, and drops it in. Mason picks up a handful of notes and tears them in half before throwing them out.

  Daniel takes more photos while Cade stands a foot away, scanning his locker. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. Why is he smiling? When Cade shakes his head, it’s not from disgust or annoyance. More like he’s baffled by it. Daniel can’t help but find Cade’s reaction disconcerting. Why isn’t he pissed? Hurt? Disgusted?

  After a few more beats, Cade starts pulling the notes down. Daniel approaches and wordlessly asks permission to help. Cade nods.

  Red splotches dot Logan’s cheeks and neck as she watches Mason retreat. “Mason!” Logan calls. “Mason, I’m sorry!”

  A Post-it note falls from Mason’s pocket. Daniel rushes over and picks it up. He tears the swastika in half. Logan’s sad smile hurts Daniel’s heart. He looks at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

  “Why should you be sorry?” she asks, ducking her head so she can meet his eyes. “The ones who did this should be sorry. But some things are just too much to ask of pea-brain cowards.”

  “You need to report this. I took photos. I’ll email them to you.”

  Logan explodes. “And what’s Principal McNeil going to do? The last time we were in his office, he dismissed us. He shut us down and shut us up.”

  “But—”

  “When this happened to you, did reporting it make any difference? Did McNeil’s letter stop people from harassing you?”

  Daniel rocks back on his heels. “Maybe this time it will?”

  Logan laughs coldly. “You think someone’s going to confess? You think someone will snitch? I don’t think so. We’re not going to be victims here. We’ve done nothing wrong, and we’re not going to let a bunch of pricks intimidate us. Don’t go to McNeil. He’ll hear about it, but I expect nothing from him.”

  Daniel nods.

  Cade reaches across our lunch table and snatches a handful of fries off my plate. I scowl at him, then go back to glaring at the small pack of whispering, wide-eyed freshmen staring at us. I so want to walk over there and sit down at their table. Wouldn’t that freak them out? From the corner of my eye, I catch Cade going for my burger. This time I whisk it away before his greed
y fingers can get it.

  “Switch places with me,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Because you always sit there and it’s good to change things up.” He walks around our table, nudges me with his knee. I refuse to budge, but then he takes my hand and tugs. “Come on.”

  “But I like sitting here.” He bends down like he’s going to pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. As amusing as that would be, I would prefer not to attract any more attention.

  “Fine,” I say, switching spots, but only because Cade refused to move until I got up. I stare at the cafeteria’s baby-blue walls and a ridiculous poster with super-expensive luxury cars. The caption says, “Hard work pays off.” I can think of ten reasons why it’s absurd, but welcome to RHS. “Tired of this view, huh?” I point to the poster.

  He shakes his head. “Logan. We should talk about this.” His eyes dart over my shoulder and I know exactly what he’s referring to. His leg brushes against mine. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  I pick up a fry, but I have no appetite. Pushing my tray aside, I sigh. “I don’t know…I thought today would be hard, especially after the crap people said about us on social media. But this?” I tilt my head, motioning to the audience behind me.

  “I know.” Cade’s eyes remain on me, and it finally clicks why he wanted to switch places. He’s much better at ingoring the unwanted attention. I really do have the best friend in the world. He smiles, but it’s sad. “I’m not sure this is what my grandpa meant by being in the spot—”

  I jerk. Something hit me in the back of my neck. I spin in my seat, look around, down. A paper airplane lies belly-up next to my chair. I grab it and set it on the table. Swastikas decorate the wings. Someone snickers.

  I stand and scan the tables across from us. Any one of the dozens of people could have made this. I call out, “See my face? This is me laughing.” I glare at anyone who dares to look at us. “Coward,” I yell.