Defiance blooms in her eyes. “Damn right. What do you think we should do?”
Video chat:
BLAIR: (on her smartphone, sitting in her beat-up car in the parking lot of JustaDollar, where she works as a cashier) Wow, Logan. I’m telling you, that assignment would never fly at Glenslope.
LOGAN: (on her laptop, sitting at her rummage sale desk she painted sky blue) You sure? This is a history class—
BLAIR: Hell yes, I’m sure. A billion percent. I don’t know how many Jewish students we have, but there are enough that we get a day off for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Half of our school is POC. If a teacher at our school gave out an assignment like that, I’m certain the majority of students and their parents would storm administration and get that racist, antisemitic fired.
LOGAN: We don’t want Mr. Bartley fired.
BLAIR: (surprised) Why not?
LOGAN: We only want the debate canceled. Mr. Bartley’s not a white supremacist. Normally, he’s a great teacher.
BLAIR: A good teacher would never give that assignment. I don’t get why you’re defending him. How well do you really know him?
LOGAN: (frustrated) I’m not defending him or the assignment, okay? Good people make mistakes. We want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’ll listen to us. I know he will.
BLAIR: If you say so. But maybe you can get other students to go with you? Anyone Jewish at your school? There’s no way he could let this assignment stand if he has to justify their murders.
LOGAN: (shakes head) No, I don’t think so. One sec. (gets last year’s yearbook from her bookshelf, flips through it) If there are any Jewish students, I wouldn’t know. Last year, we had six hundred students and the only POC were two junior exchange students from Japan. Our school is pretty much all white-bread. (turns to the pages with clubs) We don’t have an LGBTQIAP+ club, either. Compared to Milwaukee and your school, there’s hardly any diversity here. Other than Cade and me, I highly doubt any students or parents would storm our principal’s office because of this assignment. (pauses) Any of your neighbors hanging Confederate flags from their porches?
BLAIR: You’re kidding?
LOGAN: No. On my drive to school, I pass at least four homes with those flags, and the last time I was on Main Street, the resale shop had one in its display window.
BLAIR: I repeat, are you kidding me? Logan. That’s—I don’t even know what to say. Seriously, I can’t imagine being surrounded by that kind of hate. At my school, some Muslim students wear hijabs and some Jewish students wear kippahs. No one blinks an eye. I walk down our hallways and every day I see interracial couples holding hands. Same with girls and girls and boys with boys and, at least with my friends, no one thinks twice about it. Glenslope has problems, but not your problems. I’m worried about you. If you and Cade are going to take on your teacher, you need a plan.
LOGAN: We have one. We’re going to meet with Mr. Bartley before school and present him with a list of reasons why he needs to cancel this assignment.
BLAIR: (turns the key in her ignition, starting the engine to heat up her car) But, didn’t you once tell me that Cade doesn’t always come to school on time?
LOGAN: So?
BLAIR: Do you have a backup plan?
LOGAN: I don’t need one. He promised, so he’ll be there. And you know Cade never promises, because—
BLAIR: —the inn always comes first. That’s why I asked if you have a backup plan. Even with his promise, things come up and I don’t want you talking to your teacher alone. Why don’t you have your dad go with you?
LOGAN: I haven’t told him about the assignment, yet. Besides, would you want your mom marching into school to talk to your teacher?
BLAIR: Point taken. Still, with everything you just told me, favorite teacher or not, why would Mr. Bartley listen to just you?
LOGAN: (sighs) You’re right. I’ll figure it out.
BLAIR: Of course you will. Listen, I gotta go. Mom wants me to pick up Culver’s.
LOGAN: One more thing I miss from Wisconsin.
BLAIR: (grins) Deep-fried cheese curds, butterburgers, buffalo chicken tenders, topped off with melt-in-your-mouth chocolate custard. Hmmm.
LOGAN: Great. Now I’m craving Culver’s. So mean.
BLAIR: Yes. Yes I am. Text me the minute you’re done talking with Mr. Buttley, ’kay?
LOGAN: Bartley.
BLAIR: (smiling) Love you.
LOGAN: Love you, too, cuz.
“Cade, I need you to double-check the bathrooms. Make sure they’re spotless,” Mom says as I finish dusting the parlor. She leans over the reception desk, eyeing the room I just cleaned as if she could spot a speck of dust from this far away.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, knowing ten hours ago—the last time I’d gone through each guest room—everything was perfect.
“Mikayla, don’t nag the boy,” Nana says, coming through our apartment door. She sends me a sympathetic smile, then turns to Mom. “Give him a few minutes to have a snack. From the second he got home, he’s been working. There’s plenty of time, and if necessary I can scrub a toilet.” The lilt of her Polish accent thickens with irritation. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
“Ma, of course not. But no one in this family can make your pies, so let us worry about everything else.”
“Ach. That’s my point. You worry too much.”
Nana’s so right, but I keep my mouth shut.
The brewing argument is my cue to escape. As I reach our apartment door, Nana steps in my way, takes my hands, and turns them over in hers. “Nice strong hands, perfect for kneading dough. Maybe it’s time for me to pass on all my baking secrets to you, hmm?” She narrows her eyes at Mom. “Before I become too old to do anything around here.”
I gently squeeze her hands. “You’re not old, Nana. Besides, we need you. Our best reviews always mention your cooking.”
“Humph.” She lowers her voice, but it’s still loud enough for Mom to hear. “I put aside some rogaliki in our secret place so your dad won’t eat them all. Now give me a kiss and go enjoy your treat.”
“Thanks, Nana.”
I make my way into our small kitchen, take the pasta box out of the cupboard, and head into my room. Kicking my door shut, I set the box on my nightstand, which Grandpa and I made from repurposed wooden crates.