“Dad?”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up from his book, absently taking bites of the baked ziti I made for dinner. I sit kitty-corner from him at our kitchen table and drag my fork through the tomato sauce, making figure eights on my plate. I press harder, and the high-pitched screee finally gets Dad’s attention.

His head snaps up. “Logan, that’s really annoying.”

“Sorry, but I need to talk with you.”

“Oh.” He shuts off his tablet, sets it aside. “Everything all right?”

I shake my head, and when his timid smile falls away, I clarify. “Everything’s okay. I mean, I’m okay, but something’s going on at school, and Cade and I aren’t sure what to do about it.”

At the mention of school, he relaxes a little, probably because anything academic is usually in his wheelhouse. But this? I doubt he’s run across anything like this in the math department.

Dad sips his water, sets his glass on the table. “What’s going on?”

I hand him copies of the assignment, the document we shared with Principal McNeil and Mr. Bartley, our notes from that meeting, and what’s transpired in Mr. Bartley’s class. He pages through while I explain in detail. When I finish, I ask, “Well, what do you think?”

He scrubs at his graying five-o’clock shadow. “You did the right thing. I’m proud of both of you.”

Relief washes over me like I got an A on a difficult test. Until I notice his frown. “But?”

“But you’re my daughter. I can’t help but worry that taking this further will cause problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

He folds his reading glasses and lets them dangle by the chain around his neck. “No authority likes to be challenged.”

“We get that. But, Dad, this isn’t right. I’m sure they think they’re being reasonable by offering the alternative assignment to everyone, but it’s not enough.”

“Let me explain. You stand by your position, correct?” I nod. “Well, so do they. They believe they resolved the issue. You pursue this, there is a good chance they’ll perceive you as being unreasonable and difficult. They’re bound to be defensive.” He makes two fists and holds them out six inches apart. “This is you and Cade.” He lifts his left fist. “And this is Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil.” He knocks his knuckles together like two rams butting heads.

“Yeah, but—”

“Hear me out. You go further with this, it’s possible—no, highly probable—they’ll dig in. Based on what you’ve told me, they see themselves as experts. You, as students, can’t possibly be right. At least that’s my take on it. In my twenty-five years of experience, I’ve had my share of teachers who don’t want to listen to students or be told how to teach.”

“Are you telling us to forget about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Speaking up for what we believe is important, right?”

“A lot of people have strong convictions, yet do nothing.”

“But—”

“Are there other students in History of World Governments who feel the same way you and Cade do?”

“Maybe?”

“Why didn’t they speak out? They’ve had the same opportunity to go to Mr. Bartley and express their objections. What stopped them?”

I hesitate, then say, “Well, if there are others, then they’re definitely in the minority. We felt intimidated, so I’m guessing they’re probably too afraid to go against Mr. Bartley.” I think of Mason and what he said when the bell rang. You didn’t deserve that. No, we didn’t. It would have been nice if he’d said it to Mr. Bartley.

Dad rubs his eyes, and when he drops his hands, they’re a sea of emotion. “Here’s the question you really need to think about. If you let this go, could you live with it?”

My instinct is to say no. But I stay silent, glance out the window. Every second I’ve spent arguing with Mr. Bartley about this debate has been uncomfortable at best. Most of it’s been hurtful and humiliating. Still…

I turn to Dad. “Do you remember our Jewish neighbors in Milwaukee, Mr. and Mrs. Simon, and their granddaughter Gayle?” He nods. “Since we got this assignment, I’ve thought about them a lot. If someone tried to hurt them, we would never stand by and do nothing. If we saw a stranger on the street being attacked, we wouldn’t stand by and do nothing. How would I live with myself if I didn’t pursue this? I couldn’t.”

My dinner sours in my stomach. “I’ve been trying to understand how Mr. Bartley could give this assignment, see this from his point of view. I can’t. I’ve been trying to understand how anyone could advocate for murder. How was it that millions of people either actively participated or passively did nothing during the Holocaust? What happened to their humanity, morality? How could they watch and do nothing, turn their Jewish neighbors over to the Nazis, or worse—become Nazis and be part of murder or commit murder themselves?”

“I don’t know and I have no answer, Logan.”

“I’ve imagined what it would be like if we’d been dragged from our home at gunpoint, made to dig our own graves, and then forced to kneel at the edge. What if Mr. Bartley had us reenact that? There would be such an uproar!”

“Logan, don’t.”

“We have to, Dad. Because no one else in our class is saying this is wrong. These Nazis started out as regular people and became monsters. They had wives, husbands, sons, daughters, parents. They laughed and danced and celebrated birthdays. They went on picnics, walked dogs, and read bedtime stories to their kids. And yet they didn’t hesitate to put a bullet into a neighbor’s head and go on with daily life. They had to be so brainwashed or filled with hate to bear looking at themselves in the mirror.

“When Cade and I researched the alternative assignment, I stumbled upon a 60 Minutes interview with Father Patrick Desbois. He’s a French Catholic priest who’s spent twenty-plus years trying to understand how the Holocaust could happen. His grandfather was a prisoner of war in a Nazi camp in the Ukraine and refused to talk about his experience. So Father Desbois traveled to that village, then throughout Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union, to get answers. He and his team recorded over four thousand eyewitness accounts of Jews being rounded up from their homes and shot in massive graves. They’ve found many of those graves.”

I choke back tears, but I have to continue.

“These witnesses saw everything, described it in detail. They were children and teenagers, so what could they do against Nazi soldiers? But the adults? They did nothing! Maybe they were afraid they would be murdered, too? Except Father Desbois heard firsthand accounts that after the Nazis left, the graves shifted and writhed for days and people did nothing to help the victims. Even worse, they searched the bodies and stripped them of watches, money—any treasure.”

A tear trickles down my cheek. I pick up my napkin and wipe it away.

“Dad, Father Desbois’s mission in life has been to let the world know how dark humanity can be. Most of my classmates are good people. Yet, they’re doing nothing to protest this absurd assignment. If they had lived in Nazi Germany or in one of those countries Father Desbois went to, would they have stayed silent as their Jewish neighbors were murdered? Would they have turned them in and stolen their belongings?”

Dad clutches the edge of the table. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Cade and I have to do something about this. Maybe then others will, too.”

“I’ll support you and Cade in every way I possibly can.” He pauses. “We’ve done all right, haven’t we? You and I? Without a mother in your life, I’ve worried about you.”

“We’re good, Dad. Really.”

He looks at me and asks, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I have you and Aunt Ava and Blair. I have Cade and his family.”

I know my parents’ story. They were never married, just lived together. When I was three, my birth mom packed up her things and walked out of our lives to be with another man. I don’t remember her and I’ve never had a need to find her. Dad was awarded full custody. She simply gave up her parental rights. Maybe I should miss having a mom, but I don’t. I never knew her. She’s my egg donor, that’s all. Whenever I’ve needed a mom, Aunt Ava has always been there for me. I’m so lucky my dad’s sister loves me like she loves Blair. The hardest part of my life was when Dad moved us away from Aunt Ava and Blair to Riviere. I thought I’d fall apart.

I got lucky again with Cade’s parents and his nana. I went from being a guest to being a part of their family. Although I love them all, Nana has a special spot in my heart. The week Dad and I stayed at the inn, I asked Nana if I could bake with her. I woke super early and joined her in the kitchen. We laughed, listened to oldies playing on the radio. She gave me an apron and I helped her mix the dough for chruściki, a fried Polish pastry shaped like angel wings and dusted with powdered sugar. Nana called me her breath of fresh air. Later, Cade told me that Nana doesn’t share her baking secrets, not even with him, and that in the six months since his grandpa had died, it was the first time he’d heard Nana laugh. When Dad and I checked out, Nana hugged me like she never wanted to let go.

In need of a hug now, I get up and walk over to Dad. I open my arms. He rises and hugs me close. For a few moments, even though I’m three months shy of eighteen, it feels so good to be his little girl.

I let go, pick up our plates, and bring them to the sink. Over the sound of running water, I ask, “So what do you think our next step should be?” I turn off the faucet and face him.

“I’m not sure.” He comes to my side. “There is a rabbi on campus, and now that I think about it, a few years back he received some threatening messages. There were other incidents, but I don’t remember the details. An organization called Humanity for Peace and Justice helped. Maybe HPJ could give you advice or you could talk with the rabbi?”

I unplug my phone from the charger. There’s a missed text from Blair:

“OMG your day sounds like the worst! I DESPISE Mr. Bigotley! CALL ME! BTW, I got the part of Sandy in our school production of GREASE! Can’t wait to tell you about it. Love you.”

Grinning, I text her back, “Congrats! So proud of you!”

I go online and search for Humanity for Peace and Justice. Their site comes up immediately. The first line of their mission statement says: “To seek justice and provide support for those targeted because of religion, race, gender, or sexual orientation.”

“Got it.” The nearest office is in Albany. “I’m going to call Cade.” When I reach the bottom step for our back stairway, I turn around. “Thanks, Dad.” I smile. “Not just for this, but for being my dad.”