I wish I could pick up the phone and call Nana to tell her the debate is canceled. This morning, before I left for school, she said, “It’s not too late. It could still happen.” Even though the protest was complete mayhem, at least it was the answer.

Under our desks, I reach for Logan’s hand and lace our fingers together. She slides her desk closer, pressing her leg against mine. Our contact helps ease the mixed emotions stirred up during the protest—the fights and the incredible performance of “Hallelujah.” From shouting, my throat is raw, matching my emotions. The combination makes it hard to swallow.

Mr. Bartley pushes one of the empty desks against the wall. It takes me a few seconds to realize that Daniel and Reg are missing. It never occurred to me to ask Daniel why he wasn’t going to be in class today. As for Reg, I heard he was suspended. How is it that no one knows why?

Secrets.

My mind keeps wandering. I’ve spent the past few days pretty much thinking only about Nana and Grandpa’s secrets and came to the conclusion that what they endured is not something I’ll ever fully comprehend. No matter how much I try to grasp their painful past, there’s slim to no chance I’ll ever know what it’s like to starve, to be a slave, to be beaten, to watch the people I love murdered. As much as I struggle to figure out what it all means for me, to come to terms with our Jewish identity, I don’t blame Nana. My entire life my grandparents showered me only with love. I don’t fault Nana for trying to protect us, for doing what she felt she needed to do in order to feel safe. I’ve thought about Grandpa and wonder how much he suffered by keeping his Jewish identity a secret.

On Sunday, no one in my family went to church. Instead, Nana baked, and Dad, Mom, and I walked down to the inn’s beach and talked. Dad told us that being Jewish doesn’t change the fact that we’re a family, that wherever this journey takes us, we’ll do it together. Mom cried a little. A few minutes later, she asked me, “If we’d known my parents’ history all along, would you have told us about the assignment right away?”

I picked up the largest rock I could palm and hurled it into Lake Ontario. I thought about what I said in Principal McNeil’s office, the irony. If there were Jewish students in our school, would you have us look them in the eye and deliver reasons to kill them? “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I would have.”

Mom reached for me, pulled me into her arms. She said, “You spoke out because it was the right thing to do. That fills us with so much pride, Cade.” She shifted away, then added, “Dad and I talked about how much we admire your conviction and integrity. If you want, you could leave here. Go anywhere. We know you love the inn, but it doesn’t have to be your life. We want you to pursue your own dreams.”

Leave here. Go anywhere.

The idea is both exciting and terrifying. Leave Riviere. My family. The inn. Its walls, its history, our family’s legacy have always felt solid and safe. Even with financial struggles, we’ve survived. But this assignment, Nana, the spray-painted message of hate—they’ve taught me that safety is a facade, one that can fall in a second.

Do I want to stay in Riviere?

I don’t have an answer.

Looking around Mr. Bartley’s classroom, I see Mason inch his desk as close to Kerrianne without touching her. He stares straight ahead and so does Jesse. The largest gap between chairs is between those two.

Sliding into the empty seat next to Spencer, Mr. Bartley completes our circle. “I have some important things to say and I need all of you not only to listen, but to understand.”

I brace myself. This is it, I think. Do or die. Mr. Bartley said he’s going to fix this mess he made. I’m not at all confident he can. But hope is a strange partner. It keeps you holding on to a thread, even as you watch it unravel.

Mr. Bartley looks around to make sure he has everybody’s attention. Sixteen pairs of eyes, including the World War II veteran’s, are fixed on him.

“The Nazi debate at the Wannsee Conference was morally reprehensible. I now see that the assignment was misguided, insensitive, and grossly inappropriate. I accept full responsibility for what has transpired since I gave it to you. I take full responsibility for my failure as a teacher. I owe each of you an apology and I ask for your forgiveness.”

Wow. Didn’t expect that.

Mr. Bartley looks at Logan and me.

A murmur goes through the room.

I’m grateful he doesn’t hold our gaze for long. It feels like he’s asking too much. At this point, to say I forgive him would be a lie.