“It doesn’t matter if you agree with them or not,” Bracelet Lady says. “The publicity has ruined our community’s reputation. How are we going to sell real estate if outsiders see us as racists and antisemites? Imagine the type of people who will want to move into Riviere. This could destroy our town. I could strangle those teens.”

“It isn’t their fault. That’s not how I want my kids educated. Put the blame where it belongs—on Mr. Bartley. That teacher should be fired.”

“Why? The damage is done.” Bracelet Lady looks over, and in a blink her expression changes. Does she recognize me? Blue Coat turns around. I sprint in the opposite direction, dodge people and carts, and dash through the exit.

Within a half block I realize I’m in no condition to drive. I’m trembling so badly that I can barely keep my hands on the steering wheel. I put on my blinker, turn onto a side street, and pull over.

What did we do? What if she’s right? Have we destroyed our town?

I slam my fist against the dashboard, angry with myself for running away, angry for not defending us, angry with Bracelet Lady for blaming us, and angry with Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil. This is all their fault!

How is it that doing the right thing can be so devastatingly wrong?

—

My cart is where I left it. I push it aisle to aisle, looking for the women, but they’re nowhere in the store. I check out, disappointed, frustrated that I didn’t have the opportunity to speak with Bracelet Lady.

If it had been Logan—Logan! I completely forgot her meeting with Mr. Lane. I check my phone. No text. I pay for the groceries, put them in the trunk, and call her. It goes straight to voicemail. I text and get no response.

* * *

Twenty minutes have passed since I parked across the street from Logan’s house, waiting for her and Professor March to come home. I sit with my regrets, drumming my fingers on the door armrest, staring out the window at the Marches’ Victorian. It’s dark, but the streetlamp and bright white snow cast enough light to outline the house.

Logan, where are you?

And just as I’m about to call Logan again, someone raps on the passenger window. I drop my phone and nearly leap out of my skin. A burly man rests his forearms against my roof, leans down, and peers at me. I start the engine and crack the window.

“You’ve been sitting in this car for a long time. You need help with something?”

“No. Just waiting for my friend.”

“And who might that be?”

“Logan March?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Logan. I’m sure. She lives right over there.” I point across the street.