Zach has made nine plane lanterns, each in a different design and color, since he found me trying to make my star. My favorites are a red biplane, a yellow bomber and a helicopter painted bright turquoise. Each plane has a spot for a candle in the cockpit. Zach’s lined them up as if the workbench is a busy runway. Next to the planes are more drawings, each with Zach’s carefully drawn ruler lines. The wood Zach cut for my star is still neatly stacked on top of the design he drew for me, but I know I won’t bother to make it. The picture I drew looks boring next to Zach’s elegant planes, and I crumple the paper and shove it in the garbage bin under the bench. Maybe I’ll take Zach and his lanterns to the lantern festival next summer, although he hates crowds.
I sigh and listen to the hum of the furnace and the other quiet noises of the house on a Monday afternoon. It’s pouring outside and windy: I can hear the rain blowing against the basement windows, funneling through the gutters. I rest my head on the worktable, still woozy from the painkillers, my burned palm pulsing like sonar. I almost fall asleep, but then my neck gets sore, so I go back to bed. When I open my bedside drawer for more Tylenol, I see the Nazi armband. I take it out and look at it. I should have burned it with the Mengele book and my bat mitzvah certificate. But I didn’t, and now it’s here, like a gory bit of evidence. I should send it to the Holocaust museum Dad volunteers at, further evidence of ongoing anti-Semitism in the modern world. Jews, take cover: the Holocaust lives on, even if just in the minds of ignorant teenage boys. Alexis still thinks I should tell the school or my parents. She’d probably call the Anti-Defamation League headquarters in New York and make it international news: Teenage Boys Play Nazi. But that’s not it, that’s not it at all. This isn’t about hating Jews; it’s about boys and their guns and their stupid games. Like Jesse said, it’s just a bunch of guys in the park.
And it’s about Jesse, who isn’t a Nazi, isn’t my boyfriend, either, and possibly is not even a friend. He hasn’t texted me all weekend. I’m just part of a game of guys, guns and interchangeable, disposable girls. I roll over in bed and punch my pillow into a new shape. Nothing is sacred to them—not history, not relationships.
I finger the armband—the staples, the thick white paper, the swastika drawn with a ruler and filled in with black markers. It makes me think of the Mengele book, even though that book is ashes in the lane. I twirl the armband around my finger, hold it up to the light, bend the edges until the paper becomes soft. What should I do with it?
1. Throw it out and forget about it (except I won’t).
2. Let it sit in my drawer and drive me crazy (except I’m already nuts).
3. Turn it in, like Alexis says (except everyone will freak out, the boys will get in lots of trouble and great—the Holocaust will be front-page news again).
4. Shove it in between the books in my father’s office amid the millions of words about Nazis, death and torture. Let it be another bit of tragedy, another bit of hate. No one will notice it there.
I get out of bed and go down to Dad’s office. I look at the books and shudder, feeling surrounded by war, hate, hunger, disease and death. One day when I have my own place, I’ll have a library, or at least a bookshelf, with nothing on it but books on peace and novels about women.
I hear the click of the front door and Mom’s heels on the tile foyer, followed by the squeak of Zach’s sneakers. I quickly shove the armband between two books on the Warsaw Ghetto and go into the front hall.
I hear Mom say, “Then the Lego goes.” Mom looks supermad; her lips are pressed so tightly together that they form a thin, hard line. She’s taking her coat off so fast, I think she might rip the buttons off.
Zach stamps his foot. “That’s so unfair.”
“Look, we had a deal and you’ve broken it. Study with the tutor, learn all the parts for your bar mitzvah, or suffer the consequences.”
“You said I had to learn the Torah portion. No one said anything about leading the whole service. You keep changing the rules.”
Mom puts her hands on her hips. “Do I need to spell out every aspect of what we expect you to do? All the kids lead the service; you know that.”
Zach glares at Mom. “I’m not doing it.”
“Then the Lego goes.”
“Then forget the whole thing,” Zach mutters.
“Fine. You can kiss your video games goodbye too.”
Zach sits down on the staircase. “That’s so incredibly mean. I need my games.”
“Well, maybe you should start thinking about making some compromises,” Mom snaps.
There’s a long pause. Zach scrunches up his forehead and fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie. Then, very softly, he says, “No. Compliance is not an option.”
“What’s that?” Mom says.
Zach stands up. “Where are the sleeping bags?”
“What do you need a sleeping bag for?”
“I’ll be spending the duration of my hunger strike in the garage. So I’ll need a sleeping bag to keep warm. When you’re ready to abandon plans for my stupid bar mitzvah, I’ll be happy to eat again.”
Zach goes down to the basement, presumably to find a sleeping bag.
Mom throws up her hands. “This is ridiculous.”
Mom makes grilled-cheese sandwiches for dinner to entice Zach to the table, but he has already gone out to the garage.
“Just leave him,” Dad says. “I’m sure he’s got a stash of crackers or pretzels. If he doesn’t, he’ll be in soon enough.”
“And in the meantime”—Mom crosses her arms—“what am I supposed to do? Miss a day of work?” She looks at me. “Am I going to have two kids at home tomorrow?”
I swallow a bite of sandwich. “I’m going back to school.”
“Feeling better?” Mom says.
I nod.
“Good. That’s one kid.” She hands me a mug of tomato soup.
Dad helps himself to another sandwich. “Zach’s twelve. He can stay at home by himself. He’ll get bored eventually. Then he’ll eat and go back to school.”
Mom taps her fingernails on the table. “We’re totally caving in to him.”
Dad sighs. “Let’s wait it out. If he’s still out there tomorrow, then we’ll reconsider.”
“I wish Zach didn’t see his bar mitzvah as such an ordeal.” Mom gestures toward me. “Lauren loved her bat mitzvah.”
“Yes,” I say. “The gifts and party were a great finale to my Jewish education.”
Dad gives me a warning look and gets up to refill his drink. Mom looks like she might spit at me.
“Look,” I say, “I can tell you exactly why Zach’s freaking out. He doesn’t want to perform like a trained monkey in front of all of your friends.”
“This isn’t about performing,” Mom hisses. “It’s about becoming a Jewish adult. It’s a rite of passage.”
I can’t help snickering. “Fine, let him become a Jewish adult, just not in front of the entire community. It’s too scary for him.”
Mom puts down her soup spoon. “But the community needs to celebrate all our kids, especially Zach.”
“I don’t think Zach sees it that way.”
Mom glares at me across the table. I glare back.
In the morning, I spend at least five minutes trying to straighten my hair using my left hand. In the end, I ask Mom to help me, and because she’s my mom, she doesn’t say a word about me being rude last night. She just takes the straightener and quietly runs it through my hair, combing with her fingers. She even flips the ends under the way I like.
Mom and I don’t say much at breakfast. She sips her coffee and tries to avoid looking out at the garage. Zach refused to come inside last night. I’m not sure why he has to stage a hunger strike in the unheated garage. Additional risk due to exposure? You never know with Zach.
I nibble my toast and try not to think about sitting through biology between Brooke and Jesse. I’ll sit on the aisle, pop a painkiller to dull my general awareness and let them do their lab together. It’ll suck, but it won’t kill me, right? I mean, there are worse things in the world, like getting struck by lightning or drowning.
I’m putting on my rain boots by the front door when I get a text from Jesse.
Walk with me?
What the hell? No thanks, I text.
U still sick?
I hold my phone in my hand, not sure what to write back. Does he think he can pretend he didn’t go to the party with Brooke, or that I don’t care? I feel anger creeping up my spine like mercury rising up a thermometer. The idiot probably thinks the world revolves around him, and maybe it usually does. I resist the urge to throw my phone through the window. Instead I write Y u care? Then I stick the phone in my bag.
I feel hot in my jacket, my blood pounding in my head. Why aren’t people nicer? I jam the tip of my umbrella into my boot with my good hand. Ugh. I’m so sick of guys who think they can do anything without consequences. Pretend to be a Nazi and then apologize. No big deal. Kiss a girl and forget about her. Enough. Crap happens when you do shitty stuff—or at least it should.
Instead of walking out the front door, I find myself marching to Dad’s office and my hand going up to the shelf and pulling the armband from its hiding space. Then I write the names of all the Nazi boys on the inside of the armband. Mike, Tyler, Mac, Justin, Jesse. I add the words pretended to be Nazis after their names. I’m using my right hand, even though the burn hurts like hell and I can feel my scab breaking open, oozing pus into the gauze. I shove the armband into my pocket and let my anger fuel me out the door without saying goodbye to Mom. I run down the street, boots clomping on the pavement, and then across the field. I don’t stop until I get to school, where I lean up against the wall, breathing hard and sweating inside my rain jacket. I should throw the armband out, just rip it up and stick it in the garbage. My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.
I walk into the school—it’s early still and not many kids are around—and head toward the guidance offices. I slip in and pull a university calendar off a shelf, pretend to be interested in it. I hear two of the counselors talking in the hall and then see them walk toward the office. Ms. Chung, one of the counselors, has left the door to her office open. I look around, pull the armband from my pocket, drop it on her desk and then dart back to the hall.
I trot up the stairs to biology class, even though the bell won’t ring for another thirty minutes and Mr. Saunders isn’t there yet. I sink to the floor, still wearing my boots and jacket. My hand is throbbing now, and a wet stain has leaked through the bandage. My phone buzzes again, and I sigh and check my messages. Jesse, the idiot, is still texting me: miss u.
I write Y u care?, and his response is miss u.
My breath catches in my throat. I imagine Jesse with his phone, his hair hanging in his eyes, his tongue out the way it is when he’s concentrating on taking a shot in basketball. Wait a second. Who cares if he misses me? He’s still an idiot. But I miss him too, even if that makes me an idiot as well. And a loser. And a doormat. I’d let him walk all over me; I know I would. All weekend, when my hand hurt so bad I wanted to scream, I kept thinking about kissing him, about the way it felt when he wrapped his arms around me. Even when I thought about him leaving the party with Brooke, I still missed him.
I put my phone back in my bag. I don’t know what to text back. Maybe miss u 2 even tho u r an a-hole?
Brooke and Chantal slip into class just as the bell rings. Brooke doesn’t even look at me, and I don’t turn her way. Jesse arrives after the bell rings and receives a glare from Mr. Saunders. Jesse sits at the end of the row, beside Chantal, and doesn’t look at either Brooke or me. When biology is over, I try to leave class quickly, but Jesse is right beside me.
“I came by your house this morning, to see if you wanted to walk together.”
“I left early today.” I stare straight ahead.
“Hey, what happened to your hand?”
“Nothing.”
He grabs my arm. “Why are you so mad at me?”
I stop. “You have to ask?”
“Look, if this is about the party, I can explain.”
“Oh.” I start walking again, too embarrassed to look at him.
“What happened to your hand?” he asks again.
“It got burned.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you now.”
We arrive at English class. “Let’s talk at lunch,” Jesse says. He gives me his old cocky smile, and I feel myself melt a little.
“Not then. Maybe after school.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you.” He smiles again, but it’s a small smile, kind of nervous. He looks almost shy.
We go into English class and I take out my phone and look at the miss u message again. I’m a puddle on the floor. I’m a rag doll he can arrange anyway he wants. I’m a chocolate melting in Jesse’s pocket.
Then I think about the armband in Ms. Chung’s office with the names on it—with Jesse’s name on it. I squeeze both of my hands into fists, and the edge of my burn rips a little more. I bite my lip as pain ricochets across my palm.
At lunchtime I sit with Chloe and Em, trying to copy notes from yesterday’s classes. Jesse sits down the hall, listening to music on his phone, with his head buried in a math textbook. Since it’s not only raining but windy and cold as well, Chantal, Kelly and Brooke are inside too, looking bored. Brooke doesn’t glance my way, but I notice she isn’t looking at Jesse either. I can’t concentrate on the notes because of what Jesse might say later and because of the armband sitting on Ms. Chung’s desk. Maybe she’ll curl her lips in disdain and sweep the armband into the recycling bin. Maybe she’ll think it’s a bad joke, not worth following up. I tip my head from side to side, trying to unlock the kink in my shoulders. My palm pulsates like a kick drum.
Then I see Ms. Chung walking toward us down the hall with Mr. Petrovic, the principal. Their eyes fix on Mike, Tyler and Justin, playing cards in front of their lockers. They stop at the end of the hall, faces grim, arms crossed in front of their chests. I clench my fists again, almost willing the pain to spread through my hand—anything to relieve the tension building in my gut. Shit, I should never have turned in the armband. A major witch hunt is about to happen. And it’s my fault. I take a deep breath, swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. I know this feeling; panic starts like a sour taste in my mouth. I should do my relaxation exercises. Instead I get up and take my phone into the bathroom, lean my head against the wall of a locked stall and text Alexis.
I did what u said, I write.
Alexis texts back immediately. Armband?
Yes.
That was the right thing to do.
It’s going to b ugly.
Always is.
I want to live somewhere beautiful.
Don’t we all?
The bell rings and I text: Don’t tell anyone.
Lips sealed. U r going to b ok.
Hope so.
After school Jesse silently waits for me to pull on my boots and jacket. I can barely look at him, not even when he holds my bag open so I can slip in my books. “Does that hurt?” He points to my hand.
“Yep.”
“You going to tell me how it happened?”
“Maybe.”
Jesse smiles. “You’re in a weird mood.”
“Yep,” I repeat. I’m feeling almost giddy as we walk down the hall, because nothing matters anymore. I’ve already lost Brooke, and I’ve kissed a boy who probably doesn’t love me and then turned him in for playing at being a Nazi, which means he’ll hate me if he finds out it was me. What else is there to lose?
Jesse says, “Come over to my place?”
I shiver and nod.
Outside it’s blowing rain so hard, I don’t bother opening my umbrella; it’ll only flip inside out. It’s too windy to talk, so we trudge silently across the field, heads down against the wet wind. When we get to Jesse’s house, we peel off our wet layers in the mudroom off the kitchen.
Jesse lives in a mock Tudor house with green shutters that sits atop a small hill of a front yard. Inside there’s lots of wood trim, built-in shelves and stained-glass windows. Even though it’s pretty big, Jesse’s house has a comfortable, lived-in feeling. Nothing’s too fancy, and all the rooms have leaded-glass doors, so you can have privacy if you want it. Not like my house.
Jesse makes us hot chocolate and then leads me through the living room to a small den at the side of the house. At first the room is dim, but Jesse turns on a lamp and pulls the curtains against the rain-splattered windows. Then he flops onto a corduroy couch across from a small tiled fireplace and holds out his hand to me. “You look cold.”
I ignore his hand and sit in a wingback chair across from the couch. Jesse points to my bandaged hand. “So, what happened?”
I look down at my hand. “I burned it.”
“How?”
“Fireplace.”
“Ouch.” He moves closer to me, lifts my burned hand to his face, kisses my wrist. I let my eyes close for a second, then pull away.
“Wait.”
“What for?”
“You can’t just kiss me.”
“You weren’t complaining last week.”
I scoot back in the chair and pull my knees into my chest. “What about Brooke?”
Jesse groans and drops his head into his hands. “Can we forget about her?”
It’s so quiet I can hear my watch tick. Jesse rubs his forehead.
“I saw you leave the party together,” I whisper.
“Yeah, that was a mistake.” He looks up at me and smooths his damp hair off his forehead.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it was a dumb thing to do.” We’re talking softly, almost as if this conversation isn’t happening.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Jesse sighs and lifts his head. “Look, she’s your friend and I don’t want to bad-mouth her.”
“So what were you doing?”
Jesse sighs. “Okay, she calls and asks for a ride to the party. And I think, she’s your friend—right?—and we talk at school and all, so sure, I can drive her. I think maybe you’ll be coming with her too.”
I hug my knees tighter to my chest as he continues.
“Brooke says Chantal and Kelly need a ride too, but when I get to her house, it’s only her. So fine, we get to the party and we’re hanging out in the backyard and everything’s cool. Then she gets pretty drunk, and she asks for a ride home, which is weird, ’cause it’s early, but I figure maybe she isn’t feeling so great. So I ask the other girls if they want to go, but they say no. I look for you, to see if you want a ride, but you’ve disappeared. And so I drive her home.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well…” Jesse reddens. “She tried to—you know, come on to me, but I was like, Whoa, no thank you. I mean, she’s your friend.”
“I’m not sure we’re friends anymore.”
“Really?”
I nod.
“So that’s it. I’m not interested in Brooke or any other Smoker chick. They wear too much eye crap. I’m interested in you. So stop being mad at me, okay?” Jesse takes my hand and pulls me onto the couch next to him, kissing my wrist again. I feel my pulse start to race. He looks up at me. “Okay?”
“Um, okay,” I whisper. Jesse squeezes my arm with both his hands, leans in to kiss my neck. I want to say, Stop a minute, let me think this all through, but Jesse’s kissing my throat now, making little shivers scurry through me. I’m imagining Jesse fighting off Brooke because he likes me, not her. I feel myself smiling under the little ticklish kisses he’s laying on my lips. “You like that?” he says. I murmur yes and kiss him back. Jesse pulls me onto his lap and I wrap my arms around him. We could go for another run, and kiss by the beach again, and maybe even hold hands at school. I could come to his house and do this again. I run my hands through his hair. Jesse’s kisses are moving away from my throat and down the V-neck of my sweater. He doesn’t like Brooke, and he’s not a Nazi. Then I remember the armband. I stop playing with his hair and open my eyes. I slowly pull away from him. He smiles at me and picks up my hand. “So what really happened to your hand?”
“It got burned,” I say.
“You shouldn’t play with fire.” His hands slide up my thighs.
“I have to go.” Suddenly, I can’t hold all the thoughts in my head.
Jesse flops back on the couch. “Girls always do that, just when it gets exciting.”
I stand up and swallow back a nervous smile. “I need to get home and deal with my bandage, and Zach’s doing this hunger strike.”
Jesse crinkles his forehead. “For, like, world peace or something?”
“No, it’s more complicated.” I straighten my sweater. “I’ll have to explain another time.” I start backing up.
“Wait, I want to ask you something.” Jesse stands up and put his hands around my waist. “Can we stop with the not talking at school? It’s too weird.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And you could, like, eat lunch with me too.”
“Um, sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay, tomorrow.” I duck my head as my cheeks heat up.
“Wait, don’t leave yet.” Jesse pulls me closer and kisses me. It lasts forever, and I don’t want it to stop. “Are you sure you need to leave?” he whispers.
“I’m sure.” I sound unconvincing, but I manage to turn and walk out of the room.
Jesse and I walk to school together the next morning, holding hands under a stark fall sky. An early frost makes the grass crunch under our feet as we walk across the park. I let go of his hand as we walk into school, and he rolls his eyes at me.
“What?” I say.
“Chicken.” He squawks and flaps his arms. I smile weakly, but I’m so nervous I can’t think straight.
I walk to biology with Jesse, and we sit next to each other on our stools. When Brooke and Chantal come in, I see Brooke glance at us, then turn away. Jesse squeezes my good hand under the desk. I take a few deep breaths and try to think about Zach, still in the garage in his sleeping bag. He refused to eat or come in yesterday, and Mom and Dad had a huge fight about it. While they were yelling, I sneaked Zach a cheese sandwich.
Mr. Saunders starts class and I think, I can do this. I can do the rest of my life—Brooke, Jesse, the armbands—and then the phone in the class rings, and Mr. Saunders answers. He listens, nods and then hangs up. “Tyler Muller, Mac Thompson and Jesse Summers, you’re wanted in the office,” he says.
The class collectively says, “Ooh,” and my stomach plummets. Jesse smiles self-consciously as he packs up his binder and textbook. Everyone is staring at him, Tyler and Mac. After they leave, Mr. Saunders continues lecturing, but I’m not listening anymore.
Jesse isn’t in English class. Mr. Willoughby has us act out a scene from The Tempest, and luckily he doesn’t ask me to read. Right before the period ends, he reads out a note. “Oh yes. Tomorrow, period three and four classes are not being held as regularly scheduled.” Someone lets out a cheer. Mr. Willoughby puts up his hand. “Instead, you are to go to the auditorium for a special guest lecture by Professor Mark Yanofsky. Dr. Yanofsky is an acclaimed Holocaust historian and a dynamic speaker. It is hoped that all students will benefit from his lecture and accompanying film.” He puts the paper down and takes off his reading glasses. “I understand there was some sort of incident, something about Nazis in the park.” He winces with disgust. “Please take a notice with you on your way out.” The bell rings and Mr. Willoughby says, “Off you go.”
Students stream around me, but I can’t get out of my chair. This is worse than I could possibly have imagined. Not only do all the grade eleven and twelve classes have to attend a lecture on the Holocaust, but it’s being given by my father. My father! This is the final proof that there is no God. God couldn’t be this cruel to an innocent girl.
Mr. Willoughby stops me on the way out. “Lauren, are you related to Dr. Yanofsky?”
“Um, yeah, he’s my dad.”
“Interesting. I’ve heard him speak before, at my church. He is an excellent speaker.”
“Oh, thanks.”
At my locker, I find Jesse sitting on the floor, knees bent, head resting on his arms. My fingernails dig into my good hand as I clench it into a fist. “What’s going on?” I slide down the locker and sit next to him on the floor.
Jesse turns his head sideways to look at me. “Aw, someone ratted us out about the Nazi game. Mr. Petrovic had one of the armbands, and someone had written all our names on it.”
I should act surprised. And shocked. Horrified? That would be overdoing it. “Wow, that’s crazy,” I manage to say.
“Yeah, we got an in-school suspension and we had to write letters to our parents explaining what we did. My parents are going to kill me.”
“Oh.” I swallow.
“Shit.” Jesse pounds my locker. “They’ll probably start talking about boarding school again.”
I catch Chloe looking at us, but she looks away when our eyes meet. “Did you hate it there?” I say quietly. I draw my knees up to my chest so I’m sitting like Jesse. Neither of us pays attention to the kids moving down the hall for lunch.
“Aw, it was all right, it’s just not the same as here.”
I nod and relax a little now that we’re not talking about the armbands. Then I see Justin, Tyler and Mac coming down the hall, holding notices about the assembly.
“This is totally stupid,” Mac says, crumpling up the paper. He bats it down the hall.
“Yeah,” Tyler says. “They should thank us for making fun of Nazis.”
Mac elbows Tyler. “Hey Muller, you Germans should sit in the front row.”
“Hey, shut up. Your grandparents are lederhosen too.”
Mac grabs Tyler’s ballcap and throws it down the hall like a Frisbee. “No way, loser, they’re Polish.”
Justin looks over at me. “Hey, Lauren, is this your dad or something?” He holds up the notice.
I nod, and Jesse kneads his temples.
Mac grabs the paper. “Let me see that. Yanofsky? Oh shit, our moms are in book club together. My mom’s gonna freak.”
I cringe and lay my head on my knees.
Jesse pulls at his hair. “For those guys, it’s their first time getting into trouble, so it’s just a slap on the wrist. But me, I could get kicked out of school for, like, hate crimes. And your dad is friggin’ going to hate me.”
Justin, Mac and Tyler head down the hall, still swearing and jostling each other. Jesse watches me watch them. “Don’t worry about them. They’re just pissed off about getting caught.” Jesse stands up. “Let’s get out of here, go for a walk or something.”
I stay sitting. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’ll hang out here.”
Jesse nods and lopes down the hall after the guys. As soon as he’s out of sight, I slip into the bathroom and dial Alexis. She picks up after the first ring.
“Hey Lauren, can I call you back? I’m—”
“No, this is an emergency.”
“Okay, hold on a second.” I hear her saying something, probably to Eric. “What’s going on?”
“I did what you said, and now it’s crazy. My father is coming to the school to talk about the Holocaust. My father!”
Alexis sighs. “Maybe they need to hear it.”
“Are you nuts? No one needs more Holocaust.”
“Take a few deep breaths and calm down.”
“Lex, I’m beyond calming down. I’ve spent the last three years of my life trying to avoid the Holocaust, and now it’s coming to my school. And it’s my own fault!”
“It’s not your fault those idiots pretended to be Nazis. Look, I think you’re making way too big a deal about this. Kids will learn about hate crimes and then it will be over.”
“It won’t, and Jesse…”
“What about Jesse?”
“Forget it. I have to go now.” I can’t tell her the truth. It’s too late, and I’ve told too many lies already.
When I get home, Zach is still in the garage. He’s sleeping, so I leave a bag of chips and an apple beside his pillow. He hasn’t eaten the sandwich I made him yesterday, but I guess he’s been in the house eating whatever he likes. My parents aren’t home yet, so I log on to Facebook. Alexis has posted a stupid picture of her cheer squad in uniform. I scroll past Chloe’s and Em’s Grease comments, and then I see a post from Mike Choi: I smell a rat. Twenty-seven people “like” this, and there are an additional thirty-five comments, some from kids at school I don’t know, kids who weren’t at the park. Tyler comments, People should keep their mouths shut. Mac says, Wonder who the bigmouth is? I take a sharp breath in. What if someone says, I bet it was Lauren? I read more comments about a rat and a fun game being ruined. None of the comments are from Jesse. I check his status, but all it says is grounded, again.