The Assignment

  Logan lobs another snowball at me and misses by a mile. I nail her right shoulder, spraying snow into her face. She squeals and takes off running toward Sunrise Park. “Catch me if you can,” she calls.

  I chase after her and purposefully let her stay ahead as I plan my next move. She’s just about to enter the park when I pitch a loosely packed snowball high above her. It showers down onto her hair.

  She turns, rubs her gloved hands together, and makes a cackling sound like she’s the Wicked Witch of the West. “You’re in for it now, my pretty.” This time she scoops up snow using her hands and forearms as a shovel. She braces the wet, fresh snow against her chest and stalks forward with her snow bowl. I can’t help it, I laugh.

  With three snowballs in hand, I plant my feet and start juggling, planning to use one to wash her face the moment she’s within arm’s length. Five, four, three…Ready, aim—

  Logan comes in low like a linebacker, knocking me flat into a snowbank with a loud grunt. She heaves her arms up and covers my face in snow and the rest of me with her body. “I win. I win!!!” She pants like a puppy.

  I grab her around the waist and roll us over, shaking melting snow all over her like a wet Saint Bernard. She covers her face with her gloves. “Who won?” I ask.

  “I won!” I take her wrists and hold them above her head. She grins, a mega-watt smile. Her clumped dark lashes accentuate the gold flecks lighting her eyes. Her grin slides off her face into something intense and serious. We’re both breathing hard. I should let her up, but I find myself drawn closer, so close that I’m barely a breath away.

  “Remember our bet?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she whispers back.

  “I’m cashing in. What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

  “This.” She kisses me and I’m kissing her and it’s not enough. Her arms come around my back. I press into her, pouring every ounce of myself into this one kiss. One kiss and it’s not enough, it will never be enough. How is it that we’ve spent so many seconds, minutes, hours, days, inches from each other and deprived ourselves of this?

  A car honks and startles us apart. We laugh. Logan lifts an arm and waves at the passing car. I roll off her, stand, and reach down, offering her a hand. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and from our PDA.

  “Not bad,” Logan says, brushing off some snow from her jeans.

  “Not bad?” I fake insult.

  “There might be room for improvement.”

  “Maybe not interested.”

  She fists my coat, yanks me forward. “Maybe I’m not, either.”

  We’re kissing again, and it’s everything, everything, and yet not enough. I want more. Her. Me. Us. Together.

  “There’s an inn down the street if you need a room,” a girl calls from the open passenger window of a pickup truck. The guy in the driver’s seat gives me a thumbs-up, then drives away.

  Laughing, eyes sparkling, Logan starts walking backward toward the inn. “C’mon, Mr. Room-for-Improvement, I’m starving. Let’s go see what Nana baked for you today.”

  My kiss-crazed high tanks as I take my time joining Logan.

  * * *

  * * *

  When we enter the inn’s parking lot, Mom is dragging a large plastic garbage bag toward our fenced-off dumpster. Oh no. I forgot to take out the trash? On warp speed, I recheck my daily a.m. to-do list, but for the life of me, I don’t remember.

  I jog over to Mom and head off the lecture. “Sorry. I got it,” I say, taking the bag out of her hands and hoisting it off the ground. Spying the unfamiliar car, I ask, “We have guests?”

  She nods. “Walk-ins. Mr. and Dr. Schaefer will be here through the weekend.”

  I know what she’s thinking ’cause I’m thinking it, too. Dollar signs.

  Mom turns to Logan. “What happened? You’re soaking wet. You’re both soaking wet.”

  Logan laughs. “Snowball fight. I won,” she adds, smiling at me as I dump the garbage. I send her a pointed look. We both won.

  “Did things go all right at school today? Any problems?”

  “Nothing more than we expected,” Logan answers.

  Mom glances over to me for an explanation, but before I can say more, Nana, dressed in a housedress and a flour-covered apron, comes around the corner with the recycling bin in her hands. I rush to take it from her.

  “You brought us Logan!”

  “Hi, Nana.” Beaming, Logan strides over and kisses her cheek.

  “Ma, I told you I’d get that. Go inside before you catch a chill.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a little trash. Stop treating me like I’m fragile, Mikayla. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “Ma—”

  Nana lifts her chin. “I’m going, not because you’ve ordered me to but because these young ones need some hot chocolate.” She takes Logan’s hand. “Come with me, sweet girl. Let’s get you warm and dry. We have a nice fire blazing in the parlor.”

  As they go ahead, I hang back with Mom, and just as I open my mouth to say something, Nana’s strangled scream stops me cold.

  We run, Mom at my heels.

  Nana’s hand shoots up, shaking, pointing. It takes my mind a second to comprehend. On the stone above our apartment entrance, someone’s written in blood-red spray paint, “Death to Jews!” Next to Jews is a swastika.

  “Oh my God!” Mom cries.

  With more force than I could have ever imagined, Nana shakes off Logan, making her stumble. “Not again!” Panic rises in her thick-accented voice.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial 911. As I talk to the dispatcher, Mikayla tries to get Nana inside, but she won’t budge. Nana’s face is sheet white.

  Cade clings to Nana’s hand, telling her, “We’re all right….”

  With blaring sirens and flashing lights, a squad car pulls into the inn’s parking lot.

  Tears crystallize on Cade’s lashes. Mikayla shivers and huddles in her coat.

  My neighbor Shawn and another officer stride over. The swastika and “Death to Jews” looms above us. Shawn’s eyes flicker to the vandalism, and then he says, “This is Officer Tisdale. We’ve been patrolling the area as promised and pulled in here not more than forty minutes ago.” He slips a hand into his coat and removes a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Why don’t we go inside and we can get your statements,” he says.

  Cade opens the apartment door and holds on to Nana, leading her inside. She says, “I need to lie down.” She slips her arm out of Cade’s, shuffles to her room as Cade stares helplessly after her.

  “Who did this to us?” Mikayla asks, once we’re sitting around the kitchen table. “Who could do something so hateful?”

  “We’ll do our best to find out. Do you have surveillance cameras?”

  Cade shakes his head. “No.”

  “We never thought we would need them,” Mikayla adds, looking shattered. “This is a good community.” The words hang in the air, hollow.

  Cade updates them on the additional articles and the letter to the editor by Reg Ashford.

  Shawn frowns. “This isn’t the only incident that’s occurred within the last twenty-four hours. The Lake Towns Journal reporter’s car had swastikas keyed into the paint and—”

  “Bethany Beshett?” I ask.

  Shawn nods. “And headstones were toppled and smashed in a Jewish cemetery forty-five minutes from here.”

  “Because we spoke out against the assignment?” Cade asks.

  “Because people hate,” Shawn says.

  Officer Tisdale asks us to email a list of every student who taunted us, threatened us, called us names. I ask, “What about teachers?”

  “Everyone,” Shawn responds. “We’ll check around the premises, canvas the area, and speak to some of the other business owners nearby.”

&
nbsp; “Are we safe?” Mikayla asks in a whisper. She reaches for Cade’s hand.

  “If it will make you feel better, we can make arrangements to have someone keep an eye on the inn 24/7.”

  Nana shuffles into the kitchen. “We’ll never be safe,” she says. Then she turns to Mikayla. “Where are your manners? These officers need some coffee and cookies.”

  After the police officers leave to speak with the neighboring business owners and Logan heads off to work at the library, Mom goes into Nana’s room to “talk.” The fear gripping Nana leaves me cold and scared and confused. Nana’s words replay in my mind. We’ll never be safe. No one but Mom and I understood what she meant, and when she served coffee and cookies, we talked about the community’s reaction and the lack of support. Officer Sullivan’s expression was grim. Officer Tisdale listened but showed no response. I had always thought of Riviere as a warm, welcoming town, but when Logan talked about the homes flying Confederate flags, the last remnants of our idyllic life crumbled into a pile of rubble. How did I not see it? What else have I ignored or missed?

  As I sweep the kitchen floor, Mom walks in. “Nana’s resting.”

  “This scares me, Mom,” I say. “What are we going to do?” My statement and question are so much bigger than the vandalism. It’s Nana. It’s her past. Our history. Our identity. The look on Mom’s face tells me she’s struggling just as much as I am.

  “I don’t know,” she says. And I realize that I had hoped she had an answer. I had hoped somehow she could help put our lives back together again. We’re drifting on an ocean in a boat without any oars.

  The reception desk bell rings, bringing us back to reality. “Can you take care of that?” Mom asks. “I need to call your dad.”

  An older couple waits for me at the front desk. “Hello,” I say as cheerfully as I can. Two suitcases are next to them. “Checking in?”

  The man sets a key on the counter. “Actually, we’re checking out.”

  “You’re Mr. and Dr. Schaefer.” I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice. “Was everything okay with your room? Is there something we can do for you to make your stay more comfortable?”

  “The room is lovely.” Dr. Schaefer shifts on her feet and exchanges a look with her husband. “As you know, we spoke with those kind police officers. We’re sorry for your trouble. Truth be told, I just don’t feel comfortable staying here anymore. We hope you understand.”

  Mr. Schaefer adds, “Please charge us for a night’s stay.”

  I swallow. “No, sir.” The little extra cash would have helped, but I can’t take their money. “If you ever come back this way, we hope you’ll visit us again and stay. May I help you with your bags?”

  “Thank you, no.” Mr. Schaefer takes a suitcase handle in each hand as Dr. Schaefer digs through her purse. She pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and sets it on the counter. “We took a nap,” she says, then walks with her husband out the inn’s front door.

  I drop into the reception desk chair, rest my arm on the desk, and lay my head down. I can’t cry. I can’t scream. All I can do is breathe. For one more minute, I just want to breathe.

  To protect Kerrianne, Mason will carry her secret. But he’s done with her, and he told her so. Three more months until graduation and they’ll also be done with Riviere High School.

  But that doesn’t mean Mason is going to sit back and not have Reg pay.

  Mason’s plan is simple. Reg will hammer the nails into his own coffin.

  Sure enough, with Reg’s return to the team’s locker room, all Mason has to do is light the fuse. “So, Reg. About that letter to the editor. Did you read the comments?”

  Reg explodes—a full-on antisemitic, racist, anti-gay rant.

  So predictable, Mason thinks, and smirks to himself.

  Reg grabs his junk, proudly bragging that he’s the only one who had the balls to speak out in Mr. Bartley’s defense. “I’m a hero,” he says. “We should take those Jew lovers and shoot them like rabid dogs. We’ll be doing Mr. Bartley a favor.”

  “Shut up,” Mason says, and as predicted, Reg continues on.

  The threats that Reg makes against Logan and Cade send shivers down Mason’s spine. He forces his fingers to stay open at his side even though they want to curl into a fist to pound Reg’s face. Mason stands there and listens to every. Single. Word.

  NEW YORK COMMISSIONER OF EDUCATION, FRANK MUNRO,

  ANNOUNCES RIVIERE HIGH SCHOOL ASSIGNMENT WILL NEVER BE GIVEN AGAIN

  CADE: Can I come over?

  ME: Of course.

  CADE: I’m outside your side door.

  I drop my phone on my bed, run down our back stairs into the kitchen, then into the entryway, and fling open the door. The motion sensor light shines on Cade. He lifts his head, and I get the biggest shock of my life. He looks absolutely wrecked.

  “What happened?”

  He takes one step, reaches for me, and buries his face in my neck. “Nana,” he chokes out. His hands come around my back and clasp onto my shoulders. He’s shaking. I brace us against the doorframe to hold us both up. Something unthinkable has happened to Nana. Tears pool in my eyes. I can’t form words to ask the question that might lead to the answer I fear the most.

  I tighten my grip around Cade’s waist. His warm tears drip into my Georgetown sleep shirt. My skin cools in the bitter cold wind. Goose bumps rise over my arms and legs, and the freezing cement numbs the bottom of my feet. But I hold on, hold on and try to imagine how we’ll live without Nana.

  He takes several deep breaths and pulls away. “I’m sorry.”

  “W-what happened to Nana?”

  “She’s okay. Or as okay as she can be under the circumstances.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have scared you like that. I just—I had to get away.”

  I nod as if I understand, but I don’t. In the kitchen, Cade takes off his coat and drapes it over a chair.

  “I’m confused. Did something else happen?”

  Cade leans against the kitchen counter. He struggles to speak. “Where’s your laptop?”

  “Upstairs.”

  He motions with his head to the stairwell, and I lead the way to my bedroom.

  Kicking off his shoes, he flops onto the pillows I have propped up against my bed’s headboard. “Look up Gross-Rosen concentration camp,” he says, then closes his eyes. “Read about it, then tell me when you’re done.”

  Sitting at my desk, I open my laptop. Wikipedia’s site pops up first. I click on it, read about the tens of thousands of people the Nazis tortured as slave laborers to mine the granite quarries and to build 102 prisoner sub-camps. From the summer of 1940 until the Red Army liberated them on February 14, 1945, some 125,000 people passed through Gross-Rosen and the other camps—40,000 were murdered. I go to the official Gross-Rosen Concentration Camp Museum website. It’s located in Rogoźnica, Poland. On the left side, there are tabs. One of them is labeled “Database of the Dead.” I’ve seen enough. I need to know what this is about.

  “Okay?” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “Nana was there.”

  “What?”

  “And that story I told you about my grandpa saving a Jewish boy?”

  I nod. “Uh-huh?”

  “My grandpa didn’t save the Jewish boy. He was the Jewish boy.”

  “Oh my God!” My hands fly up to my mouth.

  Cade struggles not to cry again.

  “Oh, Cade.” I get to my feet, but he stops me by holding up his hand. I sit back down at my desk and wait.

  Several minutes pass before Cade is able to speak again. Then he tells me the rest of his grandpa’s story, the parts he didn’t know until Nana told him. “Every single member of my grandparents’ families was murdered,” he says. “They’re Jewish.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, then scrubs his face.
“We’re—” He cuts himself off. “I don’t know what we are.”

  He stares down at his palms, flexes his fingers. “I don’t know who I am.”

  My heart breaks for him and it takes all my willpower not to cry. He doesn’t need my tears. “You’re Cade. This doesn’t have to change anything. You always knew there was something about your grandparents’ past, right? Now you know.”

  His eyes darken, fill with misery. “There is so much I don’t know! And it could have been me! Me, Logan.” He slaps his palm against his chest. “They would have killed me. Those evil, filthy excuses for human beings killed my family! Murdered for what? Do I look any different than I did yesterday or the day before or a month before?”

  “Not at all.”

  He covers his eyes with his arm. “I’m Jewish, Logan. What makes me Jewish?”

  I get up, sit at the bottom of the bed. “There’s a rabbi at SUNY-Lakeside my dad knows. We could get in touch with him?”

  He pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I don’t want to talk to a rabbi. I—I can’t. Maybe someday.” He scoots off my bed, checks his phone. “I gotta go. My parents and Nana were sleeping when I left. But if they wake up—I took the car and didn’t leave a note.”

  “Call me when you get home.”

  “Sure.”

  I walk him to the car, then watch him drive away.

  I climb into bed and finally allow myself to cry for Cade, for his family, for me. I replay what’s transpired over the past week, the misery and pain this assignment has caused. I want to put it all on Mr. Bartley. It belongs on Mr. Bartley, but as I stare up at my ceiling, Mr. Lane’s words haunt me. There were so many other ways you could have handled this.

  Were there?

  I seriously consider it. The answer is no.

  So many nights I’ve lain awake, worrying about Mr. Bartley, how this has impacted him. Enough! On the surface, I raged that Mr. Lane blamed Cade and me, but inside? I bought into his blame and piled it onto my back like a packhorse. He’s the one who behaved outrageously. I’m done making excuses for him.