From the moment we walk into History of World Governments, Mr. Bartley’s gaze passes right through us, yet he acknowledges others with a nod, a smile, or a hello. Not once does he make eye contact during his discussion on the alliance made by Italy, Nazi Germany, and Japan to form the Axis powers. Not once does he call on me when I raise my hand to answer his questions about the propaganda posters used during World War II. Even when my hand is the only one to go up, instead of calling on me, Mr. Bartley answers the question himself as if it were rhetorical. But I know better, and so does everyone else in class. I’ve caught their pitying looks.

I’m 99 percent sure I know why Mr. Bartley is ignoring us. Principal McNeil must have received the email from Lissa Chen at HPJ and shared it with Mr. Bartley. Did I expect him to be upset? Yes. Did I expect him to act like a jerk? No.

We haven’t done anything wrong, and that’s what I have to remember. Still, I’m struggling. I don’t want Mr. Bartley to hate us.

Wanting to disappear, I slump in my seat. For the next three questions, even though I know the answers, I keep my hands in my lap, wishing for a way to get out of class. I touch my forehead. Maybe I have a fever?

The weight of Cade’s gaze forces me to glance over at him. He forms a tight fist, sending me a message to stay strong.

Another image fills the Smart Board. It’s a Nazi poster showing a huge crowd of smiling people, saluting Hitler. “Yes! Leader, we will follow you!”

When Mr. Bartley asks for an analysis, Cade surprises me by raising his hand. It’s the second time this entire year. The first was a few days ago when he brought up my misguided theory that the assignment was a moral test. What is Cade up to? But Mr. Bartley angles away from us so it’s really easy for him to pretend he doesn’t see Cade. I don’t buy it for a second.

He calls on Heather Jameson.

“The image promotes absolute trust in Hitler,” Heather says.

“How so?” Mr. Bartley asks.

“Look at how he’s standing,” she says. “He’s on a stage way above the crowd with one fist propped on his hip and the other clenched at his side. He holds his head high. His back is to the people, commanding authority and strength. He’s huge compared to the smiling, saluting people standing below.” Heather adds, “It’s psychological warfare on the masses.”

Mr. Bartley nods, asks Heather to explain “psychological warfare.” As she does, I accidentally on purpose elbow my notebook. It thumps onto the floor. Almost everyone turns their eyes my way, except for Mr. Bartley.

Yup. I’m invisible to him now.

Advancing the screen, he brings up an official US Army poster.

“This was produced and distributed by our government. Take a good look and think about its message.”

The poster is a black-and-white drawing of Japanese soldiers leading American soldiers in chains, beating them. One prisoner is on his knees, the butt of the Japanese rifle poised to bash in the American’s face. On top, the poster reads, “What are YOU going to do about it?” “YOU” is in red, reminding me of the red “TOP-SECRET” used on our assignment.

Mr. Bartley asks, “What impressions does it give you? How do you think it impacted Americans during World War Two?”

My hand shoots up. He looks right through me. Half the class is ready to answer. Dejected, I lower my arm, and that’s when I hear “Yes, Logan?”

I’m so surprised Mr. Bartley chose me, my brain turns to mashed potatoes. Heat rises to my face. “Uh, I—uh—”

Mr. Bartley repeats the questions and, thankfully, waits for my answer. I launch into my analysis, stating that the poster was propaganda promoting hateful treatment toward Japanese Americans, turning public opinion against innocent people. “Even though it tells Americans to stay on the job until the enemy is wiped out, the line ‘What are you going to do about it?’ can be interpreted by the masses that they have blatant permission to take action into their own hands. This is extremely dangerous language, and—”

The bell rings.

Mr. Bartley holds up his hand, halting a few students who were ready to sprint out the door. “Logan’s assessment is spot-on. By today’s standards, it’s highly offensive, but during World War Two this was the norm. Antisemitism was also prevalent and, in many crowds, socially acceptable.” For a second, he holds my gaze. “You are dismissed. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”

My head spins from Mr. Bartley’s comment. I understand we need to examine propaganda and behavior based on the time period. But from my perspective, his point is another failed attempt to justify the assignment.

When Cade and I reach my locker, he says, “Glad that’s over.”

“Understatement of the day. Was Mr. Bartley ignoring us, or is my perception off?”

“Oh, he definitely was ignoring us.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. It beats the latter.”

Heather walks by with Jesse at her side. He slings his arm onto her shoulder. “We’re forming an Aryan club at school and I really think you should join us,” he says.

She shoves him hard, and he stumbles. “Get off me. Don’t you dare put your hands on me,” she says. “If you do it again, I will report you to Principal McNeil.” She storms off.

Jesse’s laugh stops her. “I was just messing with you. It was a joke. Lighten up.”

Heather spins around. There’s venom in her sky-blue eyes. “I really used to like you. But now?” She lets out a sound of disgust. I move toward her, but the crowd sweeps her away.

A stunned Jesse stares after her and, for a few moments, his face reveals raw emotions I’d never expect to see from him—confusion, regret, and sadness. They disappear when Reg and Spencer and a few other hockey players call Jesse over.

I look at Cade. “I think we could use some ice cream.”

“It’s twenty degrees and you’re thinking of ice cream?”

“A hot fudge sundae, emphasis on hot fudge. And warm caramel. After all, this is a celebration. We need to go all out.”

“And what exactly are we celebrating?”

“You raised your hand in class. You raised your hand.”

He grins, full-blown Dimple Zone. “The sacrifices I make to help prove a point.”

Damn. I really love this boy. If only he knew.