Jesse Elton stands and snaps his feet together. He lifts his right arm and salutes like a Nazi. “Heil Hitler,” he calls out.

Several people laugh, and Jesse gives them an appreciative grin. Cade’s stunned expression matches mine. Does everyone else find that funny? I look around. Revulsion flashes across Daniel Riggs’s face, but it disappears so quickly that I question whether it was there to begin with.

Spencer holds out his fist to Jesse, then mimics the salute and says, “Seig Heil. Hail victory.”

This can’t be happening here, in my favorite class with my favorite teacher.

And just as I wonder if Mr. Bartley is going to do something, he walks over to Spencer and Jesse. His tone is sharp as a blade cutting through metal. “Those actions are inappropriate. This isn’t a joke and you are never to make light of the Nazi salute and the hate it represents. I expect you to take this assignment seriously.”

Jesse drops his gaze, but not his smirk. Spencer shrugs his shoulders and looks at Mason, the RHS varsity hockey team captain and my biggest rival for valedictorian. Jesse and Spencer are his guys, his teammates, and for one second I hold out hope that maybe Mason will be the leader he’s supposed to be, to say something, do something—even a look of disapproval. But he’s not looking at them. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s picking at a thread on his jersey.

Another teammate, Reginald Ashford, however, shoots daggers from across the room at Spencer and Jesse. The muscle in his jaw tics. He’s pissed. Good. There’s always been a bit of a rivalry between Mason and Reg, and now I can’t help but think Reg should have been team captain instead of the coach’s son.

And then there’s Spencer. He shrugs his shoulders when he sees me glaring at him. Disgusted, I turn back in my seat. It hardly matters that Mr. Bartley reprimanded them. This assignment is a green light for these guys to act like Nazis. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed with Mr. Bartley or with Spencer and Jesse. Definitely Mr. Bartley. I don’t get why he thinks it’s a good idea to promote fascism by having us do an immoral debate.

Mr. Bartley says, “Let me be clear. I am not asking you to be sympathetic to the Nazis. Quite the opposite. This is a serious examination of a historical event. Let’s learn from this moment and remember to be respectful.” He looks pointedly at Jesse and Spencer.

“By examining these perspectives, this assignment gives you the opportunity to discuss and present a topic that will force you out of your comfort zone. Why is this important? It’s important because there will be plenty of times in your life when you’ll be in a situation where people will express ideas existentially and philosophically opposed to your own. It happens every day on the internet. You’ll face it on your college campuses.” Mr. Bartley looks at me. “The point is to understand all sides and be prepared to debate. I promise, after you complete this work, you’ll have a better grasp on how to create and present compelling arguments.”

“But, Mr. Bartley—”

He goes all traffic cop on me and I close my mouth. “Let me finish, Logan.”

Kerrianne snickers. I so want to raise my middle finger and tell her to go perch on a building with her fellow gargoyles. Mason asked me to prom last year. Not my fault she was second choice after I said no. Ever since, Kerrianne has been nasty to me. You’d think after eleven months as Kerrison, she’d be over it.

I focus on Mr. Bartley.

He says, “We only need to look to Sudan and Myanmar, to name just a few nations, to understand that genocide is not history. It’s a part of our modern society. We can turn to China and the reports of concentration camps holding up to a million Uighur Muslims. What is the excuse for this inhumanity? Power and politics!

“So, for this assignment only, I want you to walk in the footsteps of Nazis to gain insight into the Final Solution and their justifications for genocide. I look forward to reading your personal perspectives for your side of the debate and your point of view on the Holocaust in your papers.”

When Dad and I lived in Milwaukee, we had Jewish neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Simon treated me like another grandchild—babysitting whenever Dad’s sister, Aunt Ava, couldn’t, reading books to me, and bringing me birthday presents. Every time I saw Mr. Simon in our apartment building, he’d greet me with “Howdo, howdo? How’s the sweetest girl on our floor today?”

They had a granddaughter my age, and whenever Gayle came to visit, the Simons always invited me over. During Hanukkah, Gayle taught my cousin Blair and me how to play a game with a four-sided spinning top called a dreidel. I cried when the Simons moved to California to be closer to Gayle. To this day, I miss them. I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to hurt the Simons for any reason, let alone because they’re Jewish.

To my knowledge, no one in our school is Jewish, and I don’t think there are any Jews in our town. But what if there were?

The sound of drumming fingers draws me out of my head. Mason’s looking at me. He stops tapping his notebook. His other hand rests on his thigh, clenched in a fist. For a split second I wonder if he, too, is appalled by this assignment. But no. His gaze shifts to the clock, then settles on Kerrianne. Of course. He’s probably counting the seconds until he can get his hands on her.

She is doodling in her notebook. Ugh. Hearts and stars when Mr. Bartley’s talking genocide.

Cade catches my attention, flashes his notebook. “U ok?”

I feel ill. But Cade’s concern helps make it bearable. I answer him with a nod.