by Liza Wiemer
Cade unfolds the wings and smooths them out. That’s when Mrs. Ingram, my AP Lit and Composition teacher, walks over.
“I’ll take that,” she says, reaching for the flattened airplane. “Do you know who made it?”
Cade snatches it away from Mrs. Ingram and hops onto his seat. He holds the swastikas high over his head for everyone to see, putting as much wrath into his expression as he can.
The room grows quiet. I slide my chair around Mrs. Ingram, and join Cade. Stretching my arm, I grasp the other edge of the paper. Every time my eyes meet someone else’s, that person looks away.
Silence morphs to whispers, but no one laughs or taunts us like they did at our lockers before school. This is what I believe Cade’s grandpa meant by being in the spotlight. Cade slips the paper from my fingers and slowly and deliberately tears it to pieces. He crushes them in his fist, hops down, and strolls over to the garbage. When he returns, I push my seat back into place and sit.
Mrs. Ingram hasn’t moved. She removes two locks from her pants pocket. “I was in the office, and Miss Wather asked me to bring you these. Your new combinations are taped on the back. Just so you know, I checked. Only Miss Wather and Principal McNeil are able to access the file with everyone’s combinations. They have their own logins. Miss Wather looked. The last time the master list was opened was the third week of school.”
So maybe it wasn’t Kerrianne? I think. But then who? How?
Heather walks over, book in one hand, her tray in another. Her blue hair cascades over her shoulders like a waterfall. “Can I sit with you?” she asks, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear.
I pull out the chair next to me, and motion for her to join us. “Of course.”
“Thanks.” Her tray bobbles, and I reach up and take it from her. For several beats, she doesn’t move, so I turn to see what she’s staring at. Jesse. Though he’s at a table filled with hockey players, including Mason, he has this odd expression on his face that gives me the impression that he’s oblivious to everyone around him. At that moment, there seems to be only Heather in his world until Reg nudges his shoulder, breaking the spell. Heather sets her book down and joins us.
“I’d rather sit with you any day,” she says without elaborating. I don’t need specifics. I’m glad she’s here.
And then Daniel comes over. “Is it okay?” He motions to the empty chair.
Cade smiles. “Heck yeah.”
Mrs. Ingram straightens her yellow scarf, leans down. The four of us look at her. She whispers, “You should know quite a few teachers support you. A couple of us went to Principal McNeil. Unfortunately, we walk a fine line, but I felt it was important for you to hear.” Her eyes dart around the room, then back to us. “If there’s anything I can do, come and see me and we can talk about it, okay?”
“We appreciate it, Mrs. Ingram.” Cade picks up a fry, drags it through his ketchup, drawing a line down the middle. Then he wipes it out with his finger. He turns his defiant gaze on her. “We know about lines. You may walk a fine one, but we don’t.”
Principal McNeil’s voice booms out of the loudspeaker. “Good afternoon, Riviere High School students. It’s been called to my attention from multiple sources that some of our students were targeted and violated with hateful speech and vandalism. I ask for anyone with information about the perpetrators to come forward. Hate in any form will not be tolerated at Riviere High School. Your teacher will pass out a copy of our school’s Hate Speech and Anti-Bullying Policy, which is also available on our website. Beginning today, it must be read and signed by every student. Teachers, please keep track and set aside a copy for any student absent today. These must be collected and turned in to the office before you leave this evening. Students of Riviere High School, this behavior is beneath you. I expect your actions will be exemplary and will reflect the spirit of friendship, hard work, and dedication proudly displayed by our Riviere Rockets varsity hockey team. Violating this policy, including any online posts, will result in immediate suspension with a review for possible expulsion. Given today’s events, I expect teachers and students to be extra vigilant. It is imperative that you come forward and hold the person or people accountable. Our school must be a safe, welcoming environment for all students. That is all. Have a good rest of the afternoon.”
When the bell rings at the end of History of World Governments, Mr. Bartley comes over to me. “Logan, one moment please.” He walks to his desk. I exchange a look with Cade that says, Now what? He sets his backpack on his desk and waits for me. Mr. Bartley picks up a piece of paper that’s folded in half and stapled shut. My name is scrawled on the outside. “Mr. Lane dropped this off and asked me to give it to you.”
He holds it out, and when I take it, Mr. Bartley walks to his coat closet without saying another word. To his back, I say, “Thanks.”
Mr. Lane was my sociology seminar teacher and our National Honor Society advisor my sophomore and junior year.
The moment Cade and I enter the hallway, I open Mr. Lane’s note. “Please come and see me after school today or sometime tomorrow. Mr. Lane”
“What do you think he wants?” Cade asks.
“No idea. The last time we spoke was a few weeks ago, when he told me he nominated me for the Outstanding Senior College Scholarship Award. Maybe it has something to do with that?”
Cade nods. “You want me to go with you?”
“Aren’t you supposed to help your dad repair the furnace?”
“I’m sure whatever Mr. Lane wants will only take a few minutes. I can wait.”
“No. Don’t keep your dad waiting. I’m sure it’s nothing. He didn’t make it sound urgent, so I doubt it’s anything too important.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I give him a playful shove. “Go. I’ll call you and fill you in.”
* * *
—
When I open Mr. Lane’s door, he gets up from his desk. “Logan. Good of you to stop by. Come with me.” He motions for me to follow, which is odd. But there are several students I don’t recognize working on what looks like a test, so maybe he doesn’t want to disturb them?
I trail Mr. Lane into the alcove a short distance from his classroom. When he reaches the farthest corner from the hallway, he spins around, startling me with his anger.
He takes a step back, putting several feet between us. “Logan, it breaks my heart to say that I expected so much better from you.”
I flinch as if he struck me across the face. “W-what?”
“You heard me,” Mr. Lane whispers with a hiss. “I’m shocked. Not in a million years would I have ever thought you were capable of being unkind and thoughtless. It’s a shame I can’t retract my recommendation for you to receive the RHS Outstanding Senior College Scholarship Award. You don’t deserve it.”
His words knock the wind out of me and I have trouble catching my breath. My legs turn to jelly. I brace a hand on the wall as Mr. Lane continues his verbal assault. “What you and Cade did, going to the press, harassing Mr. Bartley, is deplorable.”
“Harassing him?” Black dots dance in front of my eyes.
“Were you so desperate for attention? Was that it?”
“N-no!”
“There are people calling for his resignation! You’ve not only damaged his impeccable reputation but our school’s. You’ve damaged this community, a community a lot of us care about.”
“I care!”
Mr. Lane shakes his head in disgust. “There were so many other ways you could have handled this. Like treat him with normal human decency. You should have talked to him, resolved the matter privately.”
“W-we tried.”
“Clearly not enough.”
“We talked with Principal McNeil and—”
“And that’s the problem. People are way too sensitive about every little thing these days. T
here’s no respect for authority, even after Mr. Bartley did everything he could to accommodate you.”
I press myself against the wall. I can’t think. I can’t speak. My mind is blank.
“I want you to really think about what you’ve done, especially the ramifications your actions have had on other students, this school, and our community. Then come back and we can discuss—”
Suddenly, Daniel is at my side. He glares at Mr. Lane. Did he hear everything? “Let’s go, Logan. Mr. Lane has nothing more to say.”
* * *
* * *
I want to scrreeam!
The second Daniel and I round the small alcove, I hold on to my backpack and run. Pissed. Furious. I can’t think of one word that properly describes the mixture of rage, embarrassment, hurt, and shock that came from Mr. Lane’s lecture. If only I could go back and say the thousands of things that now pop into my head. I’m so relieved I don’t have a class with him this semester. There’s no way I could have endured being in his room.
When I reach the stairway, I grab the railing and hurdle down two stairs at a time, accidentally bumping a petite girl. She stumbles into a guy wearing a hockey jersey.
“Hey! Watch it!” he yells, not to me but to the girl. I call out, “Sorry,” and keep going, passing students and even a teacher, who shouts at me to slow down. I don’t.
Daniel keeps up, offering platitudes like: “You have every right to be upset. What he said was so wrong.”
I power through the crowded hallway so furious that I no longer take notice of anyone or anything. How many other teachers agree with Mr. Lane? Do they really believe we’ve ruined the school’s reputation? The community’s?
It’s so messed up.
Mrs. Ingram said there are other teachers supporting our position, but where are they? Are they afraid if they do, they’ll lose their jobs?
I need to talk to Dad, except he’s in class right now. Would he find validity in what Mr. Lane said? No. No. He supports us. He said we’re doing the right thing. How can I doubt that?
“Logan, wait!”
I forgot about Daniel. But I can’t wait. I have to get out of here.
Breathing hard, he catches up with me, matching my footfalls. “Let me help you figure this out.”
“What’s to figure out? You heard Mr. Lane.”
“He was way out of line.”
I spin around so fast that Daniel almost stumbles over his own feet. “You think?” My frustration pours out in a long exhale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m not angry with you.”
“I know.”
“It’s all Mr. Lane.” But then I wonder…did Mr. Bartley know what Mr. Lane was going to speak to me about? He was fine in class. He called on me, and though he wasn’t his usual upbeat self, he wasn’t upset or angry, not even when I put up the Elie Wiesel quote.
I start walking again, but this time at normal speed. My gaze meets Kerrianne’s and she freezes as if I’ve hit her with a stun gun. She lowers her head, scurries by like a mouse running back to its hole. Did Mason tell her what I said about her having access to our locker combinations?
My brain hurts. I need a break from it all—the comments online, the sneers, whispers, swastikas, Mr. Lane. It’s too much. “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with this now.” I start moving again, this time at a less punishing pace.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“Right now, I am.”
At my locker, I spin the dial on the new lock Miss Wather gave me. Dammit! I kick the bottom. What was the combination? I try to remember, but I draw a blank, nothing but zeros. Somewhere in my backpack there’s that tiny piece of tape with the numbers. I start digging through my stuff, but…“To hell with it.”
Leaving my coat behind, I take off, hobbling a bit. I stick my hand into my pocket, grateful one thing has gone my way. At least I have my car’s key fob.
I take one step into the kitchen and I’m instantly chilled. Not because the furnace isn’t working but because something must be drastically wrong. I’ve never come home to this scene before. Mom, Dad, and Nana are sitting around the table. Nana’s skin is as white as flour.
“Cade, come sit down. How was school?” Nana asks, wrapping her fingers around a mug that rests on a folded copy of the New York Journal. I heard Nana, but Dad’s grim expression might as well be a sock that’s been shoved down my throat. I try to suck in oxygen, but I can barely wheeze in a breath. A thousand nightmarish thoughts run through my mind—the assignment, Nana’s health, the finances of the inn.
“Family meeting,” Mom says. Dad hooks his work boot on the leg of my chair and pulls it out for me. At my place, there’s a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of gingersnap cookies. Nana’s doing.
Nana slides her mug off the newspaper almost as if it’s too heavy for her to lift. She flips over the paper and pushes it across the table. Under “State News,” there’s a picture of Logan and me below the headline: UPSTATE TEENS FIGHT MURDEROUS ASSIGNMENT.
How? We didn’t give them an interview.
“I’d like to hear the details,” Nana says, her accent thick. “Tell me about this assignment.”
I glance at Mom, and she motions with her hand for me to go ahead.
Stalling, I bite into a gingersnap. Where am I supposed to start? Finally, I say, “Mr. Bartley gave my History of World Governments class an assignment to re-create the Wannsee Conference.”
“What is this conference?” she asks.
“Are you familiar with Hitler’s Final Solution for the Jews?”
She nods. I give an abridged version of what transpired, and when I mention that Mr. Bartley wanted us to examine the Final Solution from the Nazi perspective, she reaches for Mom’s hand and grips it tightly. I explain what we said to Mr. Bartley, Principal McNeil, and the reporter, highlighting why we have wanted the debate canceled from the beginning. I don’t mention Grandpa or his stories.
Nana listens. Her free hand trembles against the table. She doesn’t ask any questions. I filter out the cruel comments online, the swastikas and hateful words plastered in our lockers. When I finish, she stares into her mug.
Mom tries to loosen Nana’s grip. “Ma, are you all right?”
Nana lets go of Mom’s hand, raises her head. Her eyelids are heavy. “You need to stop the debate. This assignment is evil, Cade. You have to stop it.”
I look helplessly at Mom.
“Ma. He’s working on it. It’ll be okay,” Dad says, trying to calm her down.
“No, it’s not okay. It’s never been okay.” Nana’s hand flutters to her heart, and it sends panic into mine. A tear trails down her cheek.
“Nana. I didn’t want to upset you.”
She shakes her head. “You have been nothing but a blessing to me and your grandpa.” Another tear tracks down her check. “Grandpa told me that he told you. Have you told them? Have you shared your grandpa’s stories?”
Hot chocolate spills onto the table as I set my mug down.
“What stories?” Mom says. Confusion flashes across her face.
“Your pa wanted to tell you, Mikayla, but I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t. You have to understand I only wanted to keep you safe, to keep us all safe. But Pa didn’t want to leave this world without someone besides me knowing his history. And when Cade asked…” She trails off.
Mom whispers, “But I asked.”
Nana pushes away from the table, braces herself as she stands. “I need to lie down.”
Mom wraps her arm around Nana’s shoulders.
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss. Come. We’ll talk in my room.”
Dad and I follow. As Nana gets into bed, my mind races through scenes from Grandpa’s stories. How much am I supposed to share?
Drawing her quilt over her lap, Nana sa
ys, “Mikayla, if you’re going to be upset with anyone, you should be upset with me. This is my fault.” She turns to me, pats a spot next to her, so I sit. “Cade, do you remember the story about the Jewish boy your grandpa saved?” I nod. “His name was Yankel.” Nana takes my hand, gives it a squeeze, urging me to continue.
“Yankel was one of Grandpa’s best friends. Grandpa told me that Yankel lived in the town closest to his family’s farm and that Yankel’s parents owned a bakery.”
Nana nods, then picks up the story. “One day, truckloads of Nazis showed up at his family’s farm. They checked their ID papers, raided the house for food and valuables, then left, heading toward town. Your pa asked his parents what the Nazis were going to do. They refused to say and forbade him to follow.
“Warclaw didn’t listen. As soon as he had a chance, he went into town. The Nazis had gathered up all the Jews. Every single one and forced them to stand in the square. Over a thousand people. An SS officer announced that if anyone spoke, they would be shot. There was a crying baby. The mother tried to get her to stop, rocking her, pressing her to her breast, but nothing got her to stop. What that Nazi did to that precious baby, that angel.” Nana gestures like she’s tossing a ball into the air. “The mother screamed! Her husband tried to console her, but he couldn’t. They both received bullets to their heads. Such cruelty.” Tears stream down Nana’s cheeks.
“Grandpa didn’t tell me about the baby,” I whisper.
“Ma, we don’t need to hear this now. You’re upset—”
“Mikayla, I have lived with this burden almost my entire life. It’s time.”
Mom sits at the bottom of Nana’s bed, one arm across her stomach and her other hand covering her mouth like she’s trying to suppress a cry. Dad stands near Nana’s dresser, motionless.
“These Nazis were beyond vicious; they were pure evil. Six of Grandpa’s friends were hung on gallows—the oldest was fifteen and the youngest was twelve.” Nana closes her eyes. “He was so small—like a marionette.” Her voice chokes. “It took him the longest time to die.”