It turns out I get a chance to test my courage sooner than I think. On Wednesday in AP Government, during our discussion of current affairs, Chris is doing exactly what Farida warned us he was doing.

“We need to restrict the flow of refugees,” Chris is arguing. “They say they’re just innocent people fleeing from a war zone, but how do we know?”

“We know because they have to go through a stringent vetting process,” Farida says. “Trust me, I should know.”

You’d think Chris might pick up on a few cues here. Not just that Farida knows because her parents were refugees from a war zone, but that what he’s saying is hurtful to her.

Nope. He just carries on spouting his dad’s verbal vomit, like a Mayor Abbott Mini-Me.

“But what if the bad apples slip through the cracks?” Chris asks. “We can’t afford to take that risk.”

I roll my eyes. I bet anything he literally took that straight from one of his dad’s speeches.

I’m not at all scared to confront him on this, I realize. It’s just like a debate, but this time it’s not hypothetical. This time it matters more than just wanting to beat him. I’m annoyed because he’s hurt my friend—and his dad is hurting so many other people by saying the same stuff in his campaign.

I raise my hand high so Mr. Walsh calls on me.

“Chris, I don’t understand. Why aren’t you worried about American bad apples?” I ask. “White dude terrorists have killed more people in this country than refugees.”

“No, they haven’t,” Chris says. “That’s just not true.”

“If you look at the facts, you’ll find it is,” I tell him.

“Stella’s right,” comes a voice from two seats behind me. “The statistics back her up.”

I turn around when I hear “Stella’s right,” and I’m surprised that it’s Adam Swann. He’s doesn’t usually speak in class unless Mr. Walsh asks him a question. Adam’s an outdoorsy type who wears lots of plaid shirts and hiking boots and either cargo shorts or jeans. Everyone says his dad is one of those doomsday preppers who thinks there’s going to be a massive failure of systems and government, and he’s taught Adam survivalist techniques so they can live off the grid. Rumor has it his dad stockpiles food, weapons, and ammo at their place in the woods on the outskirts of Argleton. Rumor also has it that his dad wasn’t nearly as out there before Adam’s mom died in a car crash on her way home from work when we were in fifth grade.

I smile at Adam for backing me up. He flushes and looks down at his desk.

“Instead of arguing, let’s fact-check,” Mr. Walsh says. He asks us for which search terms we think he should use, and then, once the results are projected on the board, he asks which links look like legitimate sources. Mr. Walsh is really big on what he calls media literacy. He says we need to use critical-thinking skills to evaluate the information that’s out there in order to be good students—and just as important, informed citizens when we’re old enough to vote.

Farida winks at me, because she knows I’m right.

After checking a few different websites, Mr. Walsh says, “It looks like the facts are on Ms. Walker’s side, Mr. Abbott.”

In debate, Chris sticks to the facts, but today he’s ignoring them. I guess he doesn’t want to go down without a fight, because he keeps arguing.

“Why should we put any American lives at risk?” he asks. “We need to put a pause on letting these people in.”

My fingers clench the edge of the desk. Haven’t American lives been put at risk for over a decade? Or do those not matter to Chris because they’re military lives?

At least my brother came back alive. Thousands of soldiers didn’t. And at least Rob has all his limbs, unlike his friend Travis, who had to have both his legs amputated above the knee when he stepped on an IED.

“So you’re saying your life is worth more than saving the lives of my parents, just because they happened to be born in Iraq?” Farida asks.

“Yeah, what does it say on the Statue of Liberty again?” I add.

“‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,’” Adam calls out. I never really noticed before, because he’s normally so quiet in class, but he’s got a great voice, low and rumbling.

“All I’m saying is that those of us who were born in this country have a constitutional right to pursue life, liberty, and happiness without having to worry about being blown up by terrorists,” Chris says.

Did Chris forget that once upon a time, the Abbott family came here from somewhere else, too?

But before I can say that, Mr. Walsh says, “Okay, folks, let’s show some respect for one another, please. Everyone in my classroom is entitled to that. Just as we would like to see respectful dialogue around these issues in political discourse, but sadly, we all too often don’t.”

Farida raises her hand. “Mr. Walsh, it’s hard to show respect and be civil when someone”—she glances briefly at Chris—“has been implying that you’re a terrorist just because of your religion. When that someone is going around school telling people who are Americans but happen to have a different skin color to ‘go back to your country.’”

The shock on Mr. Walsh’s face would be hilarious if we weren’t talking about something so messed up. When you’re a little kid, teachers seem like they have eyes in the back of their heads, but now it’s apparent that so much goes on within the walls of this school that passes below their radar.

“If that’s true, I would hope the student to whom it was said would report it,” he says. “It’s against our Code of Conduct.”

Mr. Walsh gives Chris a pointed look. “It’s also not showing basic decency to your fellow students. If you haven’t learned how to do that by the time you’ve graduated, then I don’t care if you get into the best Ivy League college, you haven’t learned the most important lesson in life.”

He pauses to let that sink in. “Current events discussion time’s over. Time to turn our focus back to the Constitution.”

As Mr. Walsh starts going through the finer points of the Fourth Amendment, Debbie Charles, who sits behind me, taps me on the shoulder and hands me a note.

It’s from Adam Swann.

If you let Abbott get to you, he wins, it says.

I know Adam’s right, but it’s hard not to let what he says get to me. How can it not? Chris and I are both Americans. So how did we end up with such different views of our country?

I ask my friends this at lunch, because I’m still so riled up.

“Seriously, I don’t get it. It’s like he’s forgotten the history of the United States. We’ve always had waves of immigrants.”

“I hate to break it to you, Stella, but you’ve forgotten the history, too,” Ken says. “Remember, we’ve had people like Chris and his dad spreading the hate with every wave of immigrants. You’ve seen pictures in our history book of all those ‘No Irish need apply’ signs?”

“Yeah, and the Chinese Exclusion Act. Or what about what we did to Japanese Americans during World War Two?” Farida says. “George Takei was in an internment camp when he was a kid. And if America can put Star Trek’s original Mr. Sulu in an internment camp, I might as well start packing my suitcase.”

“It was before he was Mr. Sulu,” Ken reminds her.

“Yeah, but that’s not the point,” I say. “You’re right. I did forget that part. Which is really awful, because we’re supposed to learn from history instead of repeating it.”

“At least that’s the theory,” Ken says. “But when has it ever actually happened? Seems like we never manage to do that. We’re always dumb enough to think, ‘This time it’ll all be different!’”

“Is it that or because first everyone has to remember the history?” Farida says. “All of it, including bad things like the Trail of Tears and slavery and the Jim Crow laws. Not just the good parts.”

She’s right. Maybe it’s not just that I’ve forgotten history. Maybe it’s also what parts of history we’re taught. And maybe it’s because I still want to believe in the ideal America, and it turns out the reality of my country is much more complicated.

“Hey, Stella,” Haley Morani says, stopping by our table. “Are you going to debate later?”

“Of course. Like I would miss the chance to debate ‘This House believes reality television does more harm than good.’”

She laughs. “Can’t wait to see you and Chris face off on that one.” Her smile fades. “By the way … is Rob okay? I saw him at the convenience store last week and …”

She hesitates, and I’m afraid of what’s coming.

“And?” I ask.

“Jed Landon and Mike Carlson were messing around by the cooler and one of them slammed the door,” Haley explains. “I was in the same aisle as Rob and he just hit the floor. At first I was afraid he’d fainted, but he got up. And when I asked if he was okay, he acted like we’d never met and walked straight out the door.”

Haley and I have known each other since kindergarten. Her family goes to our church. Rob definitely knows her.

Another drop in the my-brother’s-been-behaving-strangely bucket.

Do my parents know about this? I doubt Rob told them. He’s not exactly being Mr. Talkative at the moment.

“I’m sorry he was rude,” I tell Hayley, wondering how long I’m going to have to keep apologizing for my brother’s behavior.

“That’s okay.” Haley shrugs. “It was just kind of weird.”

She leaves and Farida asks, “What’s all that about? Is Rob okay?”

There’s so much about Rob that’s weird at the moment. But I’m not ready to share any of it with my friends. Not yet. Not until I have some kind of clue about what’s going on myself.

“Yeah. He’s fine,” I lie. Desperate to change the subject, I ask, “So what movie should we review next? Gaslight or The Birds?”

As I predicted, Farida and Ken disagree, so they’re distracted from what Haley said about Rob.

I couldn’t understand why Rob decided to enlist right out of high school, even though we come from a military family. I just didn’t get why he would sign up voluntarily when there was a war going on.

“I want to make a difference,” he said. “And I can get a full ride for college.”

“But you have to come back first,” I pointed out.

“Stella!” Mom exclaimed, giving me a horrified look and then picking up the salt, spilling some in her hand, and throwing it over her shoulder.

Dad laughed. “My wife, a woman of science, believes in silly superstitions.”

Mom looked sheepish, but she was completely unapologetic. “When it comes to protecting my family, I cover all the bases.”

It worked, I guess. Between his military training, the prayers, and the salt, Rob came back to us.

At least on the outside. On the inside, I’m not so sure.

“Did you hear who is running for class president?” Farida asks before school the following week.

“Who?” Haley asks.

“Imagine the worst possibility,” Farida says as she opens her locker.

“Scooter Douglas?”

“Okay, maybe not that bad, but close,” she says.

From the worried look on her face, that can only mean one person.

“Chris?” I ask, tugging on the string of my gray-and-white-striped hoodie.

She nods and tosses some books in her locker before grabbing different ones. “I heard him telling Mike Carlson in the hall. Ugh. I can’t stand the thought of him being class president.”

Chris can be annoying, but it’s just class president. It’s basically a popularity contest for people who want something impressive on their college applications.

“Like, I get that Chris can be a jerk sometimes, but it’s not the end of the world.” Haley says what I’m thinking. “It’s not like the class president has any real power. All they do is plan dances and fund raise and stuff.”

“That’s not true,” Farida says. “They get asked by the local paper to speak on behalf of students about issues that happen here at school. Do you want Chris to be the one who speaks for us?”

It’s a good point since reporters from the local paper interview the presidents of each class to get the “student opinion,” as if the person who wins the popularity contest for class government really represents the opinion of everyone in the entire school.

“No one else is running?” I ask.

“Amy Sarducci is, but her campaign is a complete joke,” Farida says, slamming her locker shut. “Her platform consists of campaigning for softer toilet paper and ice cream at lunch on Fridays.”

“Like that’s ever going to happen when the school board barely even funds new books for the library,” Haley says. “Mrs. Conway told me she goes to tag sales on weekends, buying books with her own money so there are things we actually want to read.”

“Mr. Kostek had to set up a DonorsChoose to get math supplies like protractors and meter sticks,” Farida adds.

“I don’t know—Amy will probably win with her ice cream slash soft toilet paper platform, even though it has zero chance of ever happening,” Haley points out.

“Yeah, she’s pretty popular across a wide range of friend groups,” I say.

“So is Chris,” Farida says.

“True,” I agree. “But why don’t you run?”

“I wanted to,” she says. “But I’m not.”

“Why not?” I ask. “You’d be awesome.”

“I talked it over with my parents. They’re worried about me doing it with everything that’s going on. You know, with Mayor Abbott and all of the hateful stuff he’s saying.”

“But that’s out in the real world,” Haley says. “We’re talking high school elections.”

Farida gives her some serious side-eye. “Haley, for some of us, Argleton High is the real world,” she says. “We can’t separate the two like you can.”

“But … that seems like all the more reason that you should run,” I tell Farida. “People need to hear that.”

“Can you imagine how it would be for me to run against Chris right now?” she says. “While his dad is on TV and the radio and in the newspapers and on social media every single day talking about the danger to America from people who look just like me?” She shakes her head slowly. “My parents are worried about me being subjected to too much … unpleasantness is the word they used. Or that it might make people boycott Tigris.”

“I get their concern, I really do,” I say. “But isn’t that just letting them win?”

“My parents said they have two kids to look after,” Farida says. “One of them is me. And that’s why they said that while they are really proud of me for wanting to run, right now I have to do what’s best for the entire family.”

“Doesn’t that make you angry?” I ask her. “It seems so unfair.”

She fiddles with the end of her backpack strap. “Angry? Yeah. They said I can run next year for senior class president ‘if Mayor Abbott loses, because hopefully the atmosphere will be less fraught.’”

Farida looks at Haley and then at me.

“Can’t one of you run?”

Haley laughs. “I’d love to help, but running for class president isn’t my thing. Not at all.” She and Farida both look at me, then Haley says, “Now, Stella—it’s got her name written all over it.”

I’m reading the poster for the Future Business Leaders of America Club even though I have no intention of joining. Anything to avoid eye contact with Farida, because while I want to be a good friend, I don’t think I want to run for class president.

“Stella, you know how to debate Chris and win,” Farida says, and I’m forced to stop pretending and meet her gaze. “You could beat him.”

“If people voted because of logic and persuasive arguments, maybe,” I admit. “I beat him about sixty-five percent of the time in debates. But this is a class election. I’m not going to beat him because I’ve backed up my arguments with facts.”

“No one is going to beat him unless someone runs,” Farida points out.

She’s right. I don’t want Chris to be president, and someone should definitely run. I just don’t know if that someone has to be me. But I don’t have the courage to look her in the eye and say no right at this very minute.

“I’ll think about it” is what I say instead.

Luckily for me, that seems to make Farida happy for now, and I ask her about Lucy and the Legends, this new band she’s really into. Hopefully, someone else will step up before I have to tell her that there’s enough going on at home right now without running for office, too.

I’d planned to talk to my parents about whether I should run for class president tonight, but as usual, whenever I need to talk to them they’re too busy dealing with the latest drama involving Rob. He’s started taking a few classes at the local community college. The idea is that he’ll start there and then transfer to a state university after his sophomore year, once he’s back in the school routine. It’s also cheaper that way.

I didn’t realize that it’s also because my parents are worried about him living on his own until I overhear them talking when I come downstairs to ask their advice. I sit on the bottom step outside the door, eavesdropping as Mom tells Dad that she thought she’d be able to stop worrying about him getting hurt once he got back, but now she’s just exchanged it for a different kind of worry.

I rest my chin on my knees and study the chipping lavender nail polish on my toes. Dad tells her that everything will turn out okay in the end. After all, it did for him, and pretty much all the guys down at the American Legion, which is where a lot of the local veterans hang out.

“In the end,” Mom says. “But what about Frank? He put Angelica and the kids through some rough years after Vietnam before it turned out okay. And … what about your father?”

Frank Meyers is a friend of Dad’s from the Argleton Legion post. My paternal grandfather, who also fought in Vietnam, died of non-Hodgkin lymphoma when I was little. I don’t remember that much about him other than him being really sick, so I’m not sure what Mom means.

“Vietnam was different,” Dad says. “Those vets had a hard time when they got back. They didn’t get much of a welcome. In fact, a lot of people were downright hostile.”

“I know but—”

“Besides, Frank told me he’d grown to question the war himself. He got tired of watching so many good men die when there didn’t seem be any overall strategy. It messed him up.”

“Bill, kids are coming back from this war devastated, too. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Of course I have, Val. I had to fight Rob to confiscate his sidearm the other day,” Dad said. “I’m glad it’s in the gun safe, and I changed the combination. But we still don’t know exactly what’s going on with Rob.”

I guess that explains Dad icing his hand on Saturday when I came home from Farida’s house. I’d never know anything about what’s going on in this family if I didn’t sleuth it out myself.

“Perhaps you forgot that I’m a doctor, dear?” Mom says. Usually, when she says dear it’s a term of affection, but it doesn’t sound much like one right now.

“No, darlin’,” Dad says in a soothing voice, clearly getting the message. “But you’re not a psychiatrist. And besides that, he’s your son.”

Or maybe my dad’s not getting the message. Oh, Dad … I cringe from my listening post beyond the doorway.

“I’m aware of that, Bill. I was there when he was born.”

I stand up, thinking maybe it’s time to head upstairs, because it sounds like my parents, who rarely fight, are about to have a doozy.

But Dad’s back to smoothing things over. “What I mean is, it’s hard for a doctor to treat their own child.”

“Bill, if anyone knows a child, it’s his mother. And I’m telling you, our son needs help, and he needs it soon. He’s too proud to ask for it, because he’s afraid you’ll think he’s weak. That he can’t hack it the way you did.”

“I would never think that. I’m so proud of that boy and it’s breaking my heart to see him suffer this way,” Dad says. “But can’t you understand why he wouldn’t want that on his record? Like it or not, there’s still a stigma about going to see a shrink. It could come back to bite him later in life.”

“So it’s more important to keep mental health treatment off his record than to go get treatment so he doesn’t kill himself?” Mom’s voice is rising and the anxiety that this conversation causes has made me not want to talk to my parents anyway, and I tiptoe back upstairs. Luckily, I hear music coming out of Rob’s room, so I don’t have to worry about him overhearing the discussion downstairs. I won’t bother telling him to turn it down so I can get to sleep, because I know sleep won’t be coming easy for me tonight.

My brother is shutting everyone out, my dad was worried enough to take away his gun, and my mom knows that isn’t the only answer to keeping Rob safe.

But nobody in my family has bothered to actually talk to me about any of this. I just have to live with the symptoms and piece it together by luck or accident, with whatever information I can get.

I lie in bed, staring into the darkness that’s broken only by the glow of my devices. As I turn toward the wall, trying to find a magical sleep-inducing position, I can’t help thinking Mom’s right about one thing—what’s the point of having a clean medical record if you’re dead?