We meet at Greco’s after school on Friday because Marci said we would. Greco’s is one of the reasons I love living in this town.

“I can walk out of my house, and ten minutes later I can get anything I want,” I say.

“Except milk and bread,” Marci says. “Which is why this town needs a little grocery store.”

“You and your grocery store!” Denis says.

Marci shrugs. She’s been talking about the lack of a small grocery store forever.

“It’s practical,” I say. “It’s the one thing we’re missing for a basic, normal, walkable town.”

“Exactly,” Marci says. “The whole point is to not have a car. Save the planet. All that stuff.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Are you two going to run it together?” Denis jokes.

I try not to smile, but the thought of running anything with Marci makes me smile because she’s so organized and I’d be happy to do whatever she wants. Ugh. That sounds so bad. But it’s not like that.

When we get to Greco’s, we take a minute to look at the menu board. They make their own ice cream and they have everything—milkshakes and soft serve and sundaes and Italian ice—thirty flavors easy. But we’re here for the homemade and I choose a small regular cone of butter pecan. Denis gets chocolate chunk and Marci gets a waffle cone with a scoop of chocolate and two scoops of butter brickle.

We sit outside at a picnic table, and even though it’s October, it still feels like summer.

“I wonder what Aaron told his dad,” Denis says. For the past few days of lit circle, Aaron has been turning every page, waiting for more black rectangles to appear.

Marci says, “We shouldn’t be focused on Aaron. We should be focused on the school board meeting.”

“I’ve been writing notes,” I report. “I still can’t find any real research about this kind of censorship. There’s a lot of banned books and book challenges. I mean a lot. But this blacking-out doesn’t seem to be officially reported. I don’t think it’s because it’s rare. I think it’s probably common. I can’t tell.”

“They sure make it seem common,” Denis says.

“Our main focus is trying to get a policy in place,” Marci says. “The one thing we’ve read everywhere is that when books are banned by one or two decision-makers, the goal is to set policy in place so it can’t happen again without a larger group of people making the decision.”

“Hold on,” Denis says. “I thought we were trying to get new books.”

“Look,” Marci says. “People won’t take us seriously if we just ask for what we want. The whole reason we’re protesting is for us, yes, and getting new books, yes, but it’s really so the kids who come after us don’t have this happen to them, too.”

“I’m sure if our copies are censored, other books in her classroom are, too,” I say. “So policy would be great.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Plus, my parents are all about policy. They say they could write it in their sleep. So for Tuesday’s meeting, I’ll have a sample of the policy we want them to use.”

“My dad works for the phone company and my mom programs computers. I don’t think they know anything about this kind of stuff,” Denis says.

They look at me. I nearly tell them that my dad thinks he’s an anthropologist from another galaxy … until I remember that he doesn’t really think that. Until I remember that I haven’t told them anything about my dad and how I can’t seem to find the right time or the right words.

“Are you coming to protest with us tomorrow?” I ask Denis.

“Yep. I even have a sign.”

“Excellent,” Marci says. “I was thinking of handing out flyers about what’s going on, but my dad told me to wait until after the meeting. We can hit them hard with the facts then, and spread the word after. He says that’s fair.”

“Seems fair,” I say.

We start walking toward the street and Denis peels off to go to his house. When it’s just me and Marci, I almost ask her to go to homecoming with me, but I don’t.

There are way too many files on this office guy’s desk for today.