“But if they’re being exposed to hate symbols here in middle school, shouldn’t we be educating them now?” Ms. B asked.

Principal Summers gazed up at the last few dark clouds drifting across the sky. “Ms. B, you and I both know that kids today are exposed to so much more than we were at their age. The internet has changed everything. Here in school we can’t possibly keep up with what they see on their phones and computer screens. We have to depend on their parents to pick up some of the slack.”

“Then maybe it’s the parents who need to see the assembly,” Ms. B said. “I mean, I consider myself a politically aware adult, and yet I had no idea what ‘RaHoWa’ and ‘1488’ meant.”

“I’ve never even heard of them,” Principal Summers said.

Ms. B explained that “RaHoWa” stood for “Racial Holy War,” something white supremacists spoke of as a solution to the “problem” of minorities. The number 14 stood for the fourteen words that made up a popular white supremacist rallying cry: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” And 88 stood for “Heil Hitler” because “H” was the eighth letter of the alphabet.

“And those are just three,” Ms. B said. “There are dozens and dozens more.”

Principal Summers’s face scrunched with frustration. “I don’t have to tell you that one of the problems we face here in Ironville is low parental participation. We’ve tried programs for parents before, and the turnout is always minimal. The ones who come aren’t the ones we need to reach, and the ones we need to reach don’t come.”

“So there’s nothing we can do?” Ms. B asked, feeling vexed.

“No, we always do something,” Principal Summers insisted. “If there’s an incident involving hate speech or a hate symbol, we send a notice to the parents suggesting they speak to their children about it.”

“But that’s being reactive instead of proactive,” Ms. B pointed out. “Instead of teaching them not to use hate symbols and language, you’re waiting until they use them and then responding.”

Principal Summers nodded sadly. “I know, and I’m sorry, Ms. B, but it’s the best we can do.”

Caleb and Zach stood at the crest of a long hilltop road, strapping on helmets and pulling on gloves. Caleb’s stomach felt like it was filled with fluttering butterflies. “You sure it’s dry enough?” he asked.

“See for yourself,” Zach said. “There’s hardly any wet spots.”

Caleb looked down the road and saw mostly sun-dried asphalt. “Tell me again how I stop?” he asked.

Zach rolled his eyes in good-natured exasperation. “We’ve been over this, like, a thousand times. If you’re not going too fast, you can foot brake.”

“I take my foot off the board and drag it on the ground,” Caleb said.

“Right. And if you’re going too fast for that, use the glove-down slide.”

“Uh…Maybe you could show me that again?” Caleb asked meekly.