Anger crashes down on me like an avalanche. I set my hand on Logan’s wrist to let her know I have something to say. “Mr. Bartley, history or not, you’re wrong! This assignment fuels intolerance and hate!”

“Lower your voice, Mr. Crawford.” His nostrils flare as his chest rises, falls, rises, falls. He puts on his coat. When he looks at Logan, his voice is controlled and resolute. “Re-creating history does not in any way give it legitimacy. If anything, it illuminates the sins of the past. Think of it like you’re putting on a play.” He points to the Smart Board with the two SS officers saluting one another in the movie. “You’re actors. They’re actors. You can get into your roles without personally supporting your characters’ beliefs. How is this assignment any different from those actors playing Nazis?”

I struggle to find a response. Logan’s eyes are on the screen. Mr. Bartley goes to his computer and the screen goes blank.

“I have never been unreasonable with the work I’ve given my students. I understand you don’t like it, and that’s okay. We need to agree to disagree. That’s life. I expect your best work.”

Logan’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I press my arm against hers. She’s trembling. I look at Mr. Bartley. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll take an F.” And I follow Logan out the door.

Chapter 12: Logan

Who was that teacher? What happened to Mr. Bartley?

As I walk out of his room, the shock of his response morphs into fury and indignation, propelling me like a lit fuse burning through gunpowder. It takes all of my willpower not to explode. I stalk through the hallway, dodge and weave around the Friday after-school rush like a taxi in New York City traffic.

Blair’s words come back to me. Students and parents would storm administration if a teacher had given this assignment at Glenslope High School.

“Where are we going?” Cade asks when I pass our lockers. He leaps over a backpack and nearly collides with my AP Lit and Composition teacher, Mrs. Ingram. I point toward the office where Principal McNeil reigns over our school.

I wrench the door open and barely register Mason and Daniel standing at the counter. They turn and stare. Our school secretary, Miss Wather, holds out her jar, which is filled with Valentine’s Day candies. Her smile drops the second she sees us. “What’s wrong?” she asks, setting down the jar. Her hand flutters to the vintage butterfly brooch she always wears.