I have my theories, too, and as I prepared for our guests last night, one question kept popping into my mind: Could Mr. Bartley secretly be a member of a white supremacist group? My conclusion: possible, but highly unlikely. But it seems more plausible than some elaborate moral test. And horrifying, so I haven’t mentioned it to Logan.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” But her voice is laced with doubt, and her glow has dimmed like a dying flashlight on the verge of blinking out. I feel responsible for it. I open my mouth, but I’m not able to give any reassuring words.

The bell rings. I take a step, but Logan grabs my hand. There’s desperation in her eyes. Once again, I get it. I get her. Mr. Bartley didn’t show up. He didn’t respond to her email. Someone else would brush it off, let it go, and move on. But not Logan. It cuts.

“There’s no way he believes the Final Solution is defensible.”

“Well,” I say, picking up her backpack and swinging it onto my shoulder, “I really do hope your theory is right because it’ll be the easiest A I’ve ever earned.”

Chapter 10: Logan

Two hours after school started, Mr. Bartley answered my email: “Sorry for the delay. Didn’t get your note until now. Let’s talk after class.” I would have forwarded the message to Cade, but since he doesn’t have a smartphone, he wouldn’t have seen it until he got home and logged in to the computer. So before History of World Governments, I met him outside the boys’ locker room. When I told him what Mr. Bartley said, he nodded. His expression was pensive, and he stayed quiet the entire time we walked to class.

Sitting at my desk, I glance over at him. He’s hunched forward, legs stretched out, sketching in his notebook.

I blew it. I blew it, I blew it, I blew it. Why didn’t I just say we’d go to the dance? Since Mr. Bartley isn’t here yet, I pull out my phone and, for the hundredth time, I text Blair.

ME: He’s barely said six words. What if I ruined everything?

BLAIR: You didn’t. And six words from Cade is his normal. Stop obsessing.

ME: I’m not. You didn’t see his face. He looked like I kicked his dog.

BLAIR: He has a dog?

ME: NO!

BLAIR: You’ll fix it. Good luck talking to Mr. Barfly! Gtg my teacher’s glaring

ME: Bartley!