On Monday and Tuesday at school, Denis and Marci treat me like they always did—like I’m their best friend. It makes me feel guilty because I feel like I’m lying to them. I almost told Denis about my new glove, but then I didn’t because he’d ask me what happened to my old one.

I keep trying to find a good time to tell them about what happened, but it never appears. Plus, Marci is so stressed out about the board meeting, I don’t want her to think about anything else. She’s our spokesperson and she needs to be sharp, as Grandad would say.

So I play the part of an enthusiastic team player, and Denis and I help Marci go through her main points over and over again, until finally, the Tuesday-night meeting arrives.

We have to wait almost until the end of the board meeting to speak. By this time, Denis has a nervous-leg-bouncing reaction and is vibrating the whole room. There’s a lady in the row in front of us who keeps asking him to stop with her eyes like she’s our mom or something.

I’m glad he’s jiggling his leg so much because it’s keeping my mind off how much my hands are sweating.

“We’re ready to hear from you,” a woman in a pink shirt finally says.

Marci walks a censored copy of the book to the place where the board president can take it from her. She then does the presentation she practiced on me and Denis perfectly. Denis and I stand behind her and nod and I am not prepared when a man on the school board says, “Mac, how do you feel about it?”

The man is a guy Grandad talks to on Main Street when we eat candy.

“I think it’s wrong in a few ways,” I say.

He motions like he wants me to continue.

“First, censoring anything is wrong. Second, censoring this particular material, in a book about the Holocaust, is wrong, and last, the reasoning behind it—at least what we were told—suggests that boys and men are in need of sheltering and if not sheltered, might be uncontrollably inappropriate. Which is sexist and wrong.”

The room is suddenly quiet and all I can hear is the blood rushing through my ears.

“Where are you reading this book?” another board member asks. I see Marci’s mouth move. I know she is answering. Still can’t hear anything except for my blood.

I have this entire imaginary scene play out in my head where all the men in the room lecture me about how I shouldn’t have any interest in sexism and how I will have a miserable life if I listen to what women have to say and one guy says, “You need a father around your house to show you the way,” and then I think of Dad and how he showed me the way, all right, and I look back at Marci and she’s looking right at me and I’m still thinking about—

“What?” I ask.

“What do you think a good solution would be, Mac?” Marci says.

“Oh. Easy. Tad’s books can replace all the ruined books with new copies.”

Denis adds, “We need a policy for the district so this doesn’t happen again when just one person thinks something is right for everyone.”

The crowd grumbles. I can’t tell if they agree or not.

Marci says, “Here’s a sample of policy for challenged books for you to consider when drawing up your own.” She hands out eleven copies of her proposed policy. It’s a lot of big language but basically it says that if anyone in the school district wants to censor or remove a book from anywhere, they must bring that book or content to the school board, who will decide the matter with the superintendent and a panel of teachers and community members.

“You know, I think this word might make girls uncomfortable, too,” the board member holding the censored copy of the book says.

“Breasts?” Marci says. “But girls and women have actual breasts.”

The room goes quiet for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time. As if Marci has just cursed. I feel a rising need to speak up.

“There isn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t cover their breasts or other private parts if they were twelve and naked with Nazi concentration camp guards yelling at them,” I say. “You should read the book.” I want to add more. My throat closes.

More silence. The board looks over the policy sample Marci handed them.

“Is there anything else we can tell you?” Marci asks. “Before you make your decision?”

“I think this is enough,” says the man sitting next to the woman in the pink shirt.

“It’s time for old business … starting with the bleacher situation,” another guy says.

Marci half raises her hand. The three of us are still standing here like we’re at a piano recital or something. “Um, so that’s it?” she says.

“You can sit down. Come to the next meeting.”

“But we need the new books now,” Marci says. “By next meeting, we’ll be done reading. Can’t you pass this part now and then adopt the policy later?”

“I’m sorry we can’t move any faster,” the guy says.

“But this is a special case, right? It’s happening now! You can stop it!” I say.

“We can’t move any faster,” the guy repeats.

I’ve decided all adults are liars. Except Mom and Grandad.

“We’ll discuss it,” the woman in the pink shirt says.

“It’s not that hard,” Marci says. “I don’t see why you can’t make a decision now.”

She seems so broken by what’s happening. Her feet are glued to the spot on the floor where she’s standing. I put my hand on the top of her shoulder to help her come back to reality and go sit down with us.

She turns and follows, but when Denis and I sit down again, she just keeps walking.

Right out the door. Right down through the parking lot. She doesn’t even wait for her parents to drive her home.

She walks so fast, we can’t catch up until we get to the park.

“Are you crying?” Denis says.

“Of course I’m crying,” Marci tells him.

“Don’t cry,” I say.

She turns to me. “Crying is a natural reaction to disappointment. Would you tell me not to sneeze?”

Funny, but in order to make this logical argument, Marci seems to have stopped crying.

“I should have practiced more. I don’t even know if what I said made sense,” I say.

“Why are you so hard on yourself, dude?” Denis asks.

I shrug.

No one says anything. I hear Denis’s question bouncing around in my head. I don’t know the answer, but I am 100 percent convinced that it’s my fault that the board didn’t give us an immediate answer. They all looked so—judgmental. Like they knew my dad left and they knew he stole my grandfather’s car and my mom’s rug and my baseball stuff.

I guess that answers Denis’s question, then.

“This is how boards work,” Marci says. “They have to take the time to think about what we talked about and they have to gather facts and stuff.”

“Exactly,” Denis says.

“Then they make a decision about what to do,” Marci says. “It’s going to be a month at least, unless they decide it’s a special case.”

“I think it’s a special case,” I say.

“You made that clear,” Marci says. She isn’t making eye contact.

Denis points to the sky. “Look! It’s Jupiter!”

“Are you mad at me?” I ask Marci.

She sighs. My whole body feels like it’s turning inside out.

“No, I just hate waiting,” she says. “And I’m still mad. About the whole thing. They treat us like kids.”

I think all three of us think that’s a funny thing to say because we all smirk a little after a few moments.

“That’s the thing,” Denis says. “I’m tired of being treated like a kid but I also really like not having to make dinner or do laundry.”

Marci smiles. Looks at me. Stops smiling.

“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” I ask after about half a block because that’s all I could wait. Denis trails behind us because he’s looking up at Jupiter.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she says.

“Why are you so serious when you look at me?”

“Serious?” She smiles.

“Yeah.”

“Mac, if you can’t figure it out, I’m not going to tell you.”

“That hardly feels fair,” I say.

“Nothing today has been fair, I guess,” she says, and then splits off down Cherry Lane, and I keep walking and looking at her walking away until I walk into a tree branch that nearly breaks my head open.