“I’m not sure I have a problem with it,” said Ms. Orlean, the social studies teacher. “If the game were called The Revolutionary War, and Gavin and his friends wore red coats and pretended to have British accents, would that be any different?”

Mr. Parnes tapped his long, bony fingers against the tabletop. “I don’t recall reading anywhere that the British were in favor of genocide.”

After lunch, Ms. B found Principal Summers in the hall. They discussed the situation and agreed that the Axis team shouldn’t wear the T-shirts again. Later, Ms. B spoke to Gavin, who looked completely surprised to learn what the lightning bolt represented.

“Believe me, Ms. B,” he said. “I’ve got nothing against Jewish people. I don’t even know any.”

He assured her that he would pass the message to the other members of the Axis squad. Ms. B thought that settled the matter, but over the next few days, as the eSports club segment continued to be shown on ITV, she received emails from parents complaining about the T-shirts and questioning the idea of eSports at school. Ms. B answered each one, apologizing for the tees and reminding the parents that the computers and high-speed internet had been provided for free and were being used for academics as well as gaming. Gradually, the emails stopped. But several weeks later when it all went horribly bad, Ms. B would look back at those emails as the first inkling that what they were involved in wasn’t just a game.

The day after the image of her as Caleb’s pet appeared on Instagram, Emma stayed home from school. A stomachache had merely been a convenient excuse in the morning, but by noon, it was as real as each tortured breath she took. As real as each new comment added to the post. “Lapdog.” “Freak.” “Loser.” “They should hold hands and jump off a bridge.”

Her phone was the source of all her agony and despair, and yet she couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop checking to see if any more awful comments had been added. It was torture.

By late afternoon the cyber spears and arrows had stopped flying. The hunters and haters had moved on to fresher targets. Going back to school the next morning was one of the hardest things Emma felt she’d ever done, but no one glowered. No one pointed a finger. No one called her lapdog. Everyone seemed to have forgotten.

Several days later, Emma stood on the lunch line feeling a sense of relief. By now, the pet post was ancient history, a billion posts ago on everyone’s feed. She didn’t know if Caleb had seen it. If he had, he hadn’t said anything. So the damage appeared to have passed and Emma was looking forward to the match that afternoon.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” a voice behind her said.

Emma felt a shiver. Her stomach grew queasy as she turned to find Mackenzie and Isabella. She would have bet anything that Mackenzie had been the one behind the horrible Instagram. Now she braced herself for the inevitable cruel, biting comment. She might have been a better gamer than Mackenzie, but in almost every other way, she still felt inferior. That was the way it had always been. It felt like that’s how it would always be.