Linked: Chapters 6–11

The thing is, Swastika 2.0—the one on the baseball banner—is painted in roofing tar. So the cops come to our house and search the adjoining office and warehouse. Guess what they find—roofing tar. Gallons of the stuff.

“Your boy’s a seventh grader, isn’t he?” Sheriff Ocasek muses with a squint eye in my direction.
Dad sticks up for me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The sheriff shrugs. “Access to the tar. Access to the school. You do the math.”

School officials in Chokecherry were dismayed to find a second swastika painted on middle school property, this one on a banner celebrating the baseball team.

Much of the ethnic diversity in Chokecherry comes from visiting paleontologists involved in the dinosaur excavation sponsored by Wexford-Smythe University. However, there is no evidence as yet to suggest that the scientists and their families are the targets of the vandalism, although several of their children do attend the middle school.

Much of the ethnic diversity in Chokecherry comes from visiting paleontologists involved in the dinosaur excavation sponsored by Wexford-Smythe University. However, there is no evidence as yet to suggest that the scientists and their families are the targets of the vandalism, although several of their children do attend the middle school.

As recently as the 1970s, Shadbush County was home to an active chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Longtime residents have not forgotten 1978's infamous Night of a Thousand Flames, when KKK groups from all over the West gathered in the county and ringed the foothills around Chokecherry with burning crosses...

“That Night of a Thousand Flames thing. Doesn’t sound like the Chokecherry I know.”
“My father says it’s ‘hogwash,’” Link puts in. “Is that even a word?”

Dad’s brow furrows and the pounding of his fingers on the keyboard becomes downright violent. “What’s the matter with these people? Where’s my skull fragment?”

“I read your comments, TokNation. Get out of the city, you tell me. Get away from the crime and the garbage and the fights to the death over a lousy parking space. Find a small town with fresh air and friendly people, where the night jasmine wafts like perfume in through your windows. Wonderful idea!”

My father is furious. “If you find this hilarious, then you deserve the kind of future you’re going to get. This man has never been to Chokecherry. He knows nothing about our community. But it’s just fine for him to slander us to millions of people on the internet.”

Dad is adamant. “The chamber of commerce should sue. I’m going to put it to a vote. No one has the right to lie about our town.”

Dad brings down the cover of the laptop so hard it’s a miracle there aren’t computer keys bouncing off the ceiling. “I’m going for a walk!” he rasps, and is out of the house in a flash, slamming the door behind him.

“Swastika news,” she repeats wanly. “I never thought ‘swastika news’ was something we’d have to worry about in our lives.”

“Maybe,” Mom says dubiously. “But I don’t like these stories about the seventies and burning crosses. If that’s coming back—”

Dad sighs. “If you don’t like it, you two, you don’t have to eat it. But please stop making a mess.” This from a guy who spends his days carving fossils out of sandstone using a chisel and a paintbrush.

The only thing worse than seeing swastikas where they’re not is dreading where they’ll turn up next.

I can’t get past the feeling that this is just some juvenile delinquent trying to freak everybody out. And the worst part is, it’s working.

They’re a little more hands off with Ryan—nobody wants to traumatize a second grader. But even he gets a nightly stealth interrogation: Have you noticed friends treating you differently lately? Have you been overhearing new words you don’t understand?

He looks around furtively, like an escaped convict keeping an eye out for the police. “Not here.” He grabs my arm and drags me to the stairwell.

“I can’t hear you,” I say self-consciously. I’m not used to popular boys talking to me in any school, much less this one. What’s going on?

“We’re not that religious either,” I tell him. “We don’t keep kosher or go to services every week. We’re a hundred miles from the nearest synagogue, and my family’s okay with it. We still celebrate holidays, but we do it our own way. My parents are fossil hunters. Their careers are more important to them than being religious.”

I smile. “I’m not a rabbi. Why is this so important to you?”

But the rabbi says that if I’m really, truly committed to this, he can design a kind of bar mitzvah crash course—he’ll write the Hebrew parts out phonetically so I don’t have to learn a whole different alphabet. I’ll practice at home and work with him on Zoom.

I corner Dana in the cafeteria line the next day at lunch. “Hey, what are you doing December fourth?”
She regards me warily. “I don’t know. Why?”

I’m a little conflicted, since I’m against the idea of everybody worshipping the so-called cool crowd. But if Link’s name can bring a decent turnout to this very important meeting, then it’s worth it.

They’re standing next to the door, probably so they can make their escape if the meeting isn’t exciting enough. Come to think of it, a lot of the attendees are peering expectantly into the hall.

For all we know, the person behind this isn’t even a true racist, just a joker with a sick sense of humor. It isn’t our job to stop this; we should wait for the police to catch the perpetrator.

“But in Whitwell, the point wasn’t so much the paper clips as the number. Who can even imagine six million Jews murdered during the Holocaust? The collection was to give the students a picture of six million of anything. Each paper clip corresponded to a life exterminated for nothing, and the enormity of the collection represented the vastness of the crime against humanity.”

“A chain!” Michael, who’s head of the art club, stands up, his face alight with excitement. “A paper chain—with six million links!”

“Now wait just a minute.” Mr. Brademas holds up a hand. “Let’s consider the logistics. Paper clips come in boxes of hundreds or more. A paper chain has to be made one link at a time. Cut the paper, form the loop, glue it closed. Six million is an awfully big number.”

When Mr. Brademas finally speaks, his words are slow and deliberate, like he’s choosing them very carefully. “So long as everybody understands that we’re probably not going to make it anywhere near one million, much less six, then I think it’s a worthy response to the person or persons who have been defacing our building.”

When Mr. Brademas finally speaks, his words are slow and deliberate, like he’s choosing them very carefully. “So long as everybody understands that we’re probably not going to make it anywhere near one million, much less six, then I think it’s a worthy response to the person or persons who have been defacing our building.”

Watching soccer practice brings me a pang that’s part longing, part regret, and part resentment. How can they have the team without me?

Watching soccer practice brings me a pang that’s part longing, part regret, and part resentment. How can they have the team without me?

Sophie gives me a probing look. “What’s the deal with you and Dana Levinson? Is she your girlfriend now?”