By the time I get back home, Mom and Grandad have weeded and mulched the flower beds and pruned all the plants and bushes around our yard. It’s like we’re closing the house down for fall and eventually winter—but it’s still shorts-and-T-shirt weather.

Grandad says it’s unnatural for it to be this hot in October.

“By the time I’m your age,” I tell Grandad, “they say the climate in Pennsylvania will be like northern Arkansas.”

“It already feels it,” Mom says, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Let’s get some lunch.”

“I have to take a quick shower. I stink!” Grandad proclaims. Mom laughs and he walks to his side door.

Mom and I go inside.

“How about a ham and cheese sandwich?” she asks. “I have potato salad.”

I say yes and I ask her as I set the table, “So did you ever have to read a book that was censored?”

“You mean banned books?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I think?”

“I’ve read many banned books. A lot of books have been banned, though.”

“Huh. Why?” I ask.

“People are scared of them, I guess.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Have you seen my blue mug?” Mom asks, her head in the mugs-and-glasses cabinet.

“No,” I answer. “Why would anyone be afraid of a book? There are guns and snakes and all kinds of other stuff for sale that could actually kill you.”

Mom brings food to the table. I go to fill water glasses. When I open the mugs-and-glasses cabinet, I have an extra look for her blue mug. It’s her favorite. Gram gave it to her.

“They’re afraid of the ideas, Mac. You know. Same as the watchdogs for candy and girls’ knees. Some people just think everyone should think like them. Or be like them.”

Grandad arrives in the middle of Mom’s answer. “What are we talking about?”

I say, “Censorship.”

“In what way?” he asks.

“Banned books,” Mom says.

“I love banned books. I used to read as many to you as I could when you were little, Mac.”

“You read me banned books?” I say this sarcastically because I know he’s making it up.

“Almost exclusively,” he answers—dead serious. “Charlotte’s Web and the poetry book by—uh—Silverstein—uh.”

“Where the Sidewalk Ends?” I say.

“And Reynolds—brave … uh …”

“As Brave as You? No! How could anyone ban that?”

“Yeah. And Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia. Remember that one?”

“I cried for a whole day.”

Mom says, “Where the Wild Things Are. And Tango Makes Three. Melissa.”

“Captain Underpants!” Grandad adds.

“A lot of younger books you loved. I Am Rosa Parks,” Mom says. “And Last Stop on Market Street and Henry’s Freedom Box, and …”

Grandad says, “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry!”

It’s like a banned books game show. I had no idea that my entire childhood was made up of books that other people didn’t think I should read.

“Hey, Dad, did you use my blue mug and forget to return it?” Mom asks.

“I never use it,” he says, shaking his head. “I know what it means to you.”

The two of them look a certain way when they think of Gram. It’s not entirely sad. It’s not happy, either. It’s a sort of look that means something good happened and that good thing is over now, but isn’t it nice we have the memories? I remember Gram. I was only seven when she died. She smelled like cinnamon all the time and made the best crumb cake in the world.

“Where’d you go off to this morning?” Grandad asks me.

“Adventures with Denis and Marci,” I tell him. “The library and then the bookstore and then the park to feed ducks because we were bored.”

“The library?” Mom says.

“Who says I can’t go to the library on a Saturday?”

Mom looks at me suspiciously.

“Where’s Mike?” Grandad asks. Mike is my dad.

“He can’t be here until later,” Mom says.

“Oh yeah,” I say.

Mom says, “He’s going to bring me more of those squashes.”

“Your squash soup.” Grandad makes a gesture like he’s kissing soup. Then he looks at me and leans forward, into my face. “Why were you at the library on a Saturday morning? And why are you talking about banned books? And if you weren’t at the library, you can tell us where you were. We won’t turn you in.”

This makes all three of us laugh. I take a huge bite of my sandwich and smile as I chew. And chew. And chew. It was a big bite.

“I think I’m the one who brought up banned books,” Mom says.

I nod. Chew more. And more. Until it’s finally wash-it-back-with-milk time.

I say, “I have to show you something.”

I get up and grab my school copy of The Devil’s Arithmetic. I tell them what’s going on. They both keep touching the black Sharpie rectangles as if there’s texture there. Mom looks serious.

“Breasts?”

“Yep.”

“Sixth grade?”

“Yep.”

“Breasts?” Mom says again. Shakes her head. Has a look on her face I can’t quite describe.

Grandad asks, “Did you buy the copy you found at Tad’s?”

“We only had enough money for duck food.”

“Let’s take a walk after lunch,” Grandad says. “I want to see it.”

Of course Grandad buys me the copy of The Devil’s Arithmetic at Tad’s. We walk through the park, and then up and around the cemetery. When we get home, we play a game of backgammon. He always wins. After he wins, he always takes a nap.

I look through the new book and read page 93 again. The scene is still terrifying—the Nazi guards, the freezing-cold showers, the girls—and Jane Yolen does such a great job showing how bad things were, and how weird. Like—surreal, you know? How could anyone believe that was even happening? The Holocaust was so bad, it’s hard to really understand it. The scene, without the black rectangle, with all the words in the right place, feels real now. It’s the truth. That’s the point. Jane Yolen wanted us to read the truth—every single word of it.

I am just like her, which is why I ask questions on field trips about how many of the signers of the Declaration of Independence owned slaves. Because most of my school and this town is populated by white people—like 97 percent of it—we rarely talk about stuff like this. It’s seen as too serious or too sensitive or even impolite, and some people think that it will make white kids feel bad, but if we want to change the world so it’s good for everyone, it’s important to talk about the truth.

I think about Dad and wonder what his truth is. Sometimes I think we’re just an anthropology project to him. Sometimes I fear he’s going to fix his ship and disappear without saying goodbye. I check the garage while Grandad is napping and the ship is still there, under its cover.