Linked: Chapters 19–28

Whenever I start to feel like the paper chain has brought the Wexford-Smythe kids into the mainstream, along comes something like this to prove we're still outsiders.

“We’ve met,” she assures him.
He frowns. “Really?”
Her brow clouds. “You might not remember. You were busy at the time.”
“Vacuuming the fertilizer out of the office,” I supply when Link seems totally bewildered.
Ryan cackles. “Did it stink?”
“Kind of,” Link admits sheepishly.

“We’ve met,” she assures him.
He frowns. “Really?”
Her brow clouds. “You might not remember. You were busy at the time.”
“Vacuuming the fertilizer out of the office,” I supply when Link seems totally bewildered.
Ryan cackles. “Did it stink?”
“Kind of,” Link admits sheepishly.

“Is something wrong?” Dad asks him finally.
Link swallows gingerly. “Is this kosher?”
Mom stares at him. “You’re kosher now too?”

I have an orthodontist appointment on Wednesday, so I get to school late.

The principal is undaunted. “Where did you get that paint on your shirt?”
“I don’t know!” I babble.

The look on her face is absolute panic. That’s the first inkling I get that she does have something to hide. Something huge.

When the first few swastikas were appearing, I definitely expected the culprit to be found out at some point. But when that didn’t happen, I suppose I sort of got used to them and figured they’d go on forever. Like our vandal was some kind of swastika supervillain who was too smart and wily ever to be tripped up.

I glance over at Jordie. He looks stricken, his face paper white.

I have a giddy flashback to the very first paper-chaining day in the art room. Pamela and Jordie had a fight, and she ran out. Immediately after that, a new swastika was discovered.

“Dana, wait!” Link is jogging toward me. “I can’t make it today. Something came up.”
“Something sure did,” I agree, brandishing my phone. “Did you know about any of this?”
He shakes his head. “Neither did Jordie, and he was closer to her than anybody.”

ReelTok is still raving. “Chokecherry may deny its scandalous past, but you can’t paint over rot. It’s still there, TokNation, and it will always come out.”

ReelTok is still raving. “Chokecherry may deny its scandalous past, but you can’t paint over rot. It’s still there, TokNation, and it will always come out.”

The screen shows an old black-and-white photograph of a Klansman in full regalia, his hood cradled in his right arm, gazing proudly into the camera.

I’m furious at Pamela. What she did was awful, unforgivable. But in a strange way, I feel bad for her too. Her name is mud not just around here, but thanks to ReelTok, all over the world. Kids are lining up to denounce her. She’s probably going to be expelled from school.

Was it worth it to mess up your whole life for the sake of a few dozen lines scrawled on walls and lockers and garbage dumpsters?

I always knew ReelTok was sleazy, but this is a whole new level of sleaze.

I’m standing atop the scaffolding at the abandoned silo at the Beaverton farm, feeding an endless chain of paper links through the intake window.

“My mother was alive when the Americans liberated our camp. But when she learned that all my brothers and sisters were gone, within a week, she was dead of grief...”

Without even thinking, I blurt, “Yes! Of course! Anything!” It makes no sense—what “favor” can a bunch of Colorado kids possibly do that could have any value to the survivors of such an atrocity? But we all know we have to try.

It takes some doing. The European names are unfamiliar and hard to spell. Dana, Caroline, and I set up shop by the Smart Board, painstakingly listing parents and siblings, relatives and friends. We agonize over every vowel and consonant.

It takes some doing. The European names are unfamiliar and hard to spell. Dana, Caroline, and I set up shop by the Smart Board, painstakingly listing parents and siblings, relatives and friends. We agonize over every vowel and consonant.

Next stop is the art room, where we divvy up these forty-two precious names and transfer them onto strips of colored paper, to be formed into loops and added to the chain.

He looks at me, his eyes bleak with misery. Then he gets up and storms out into the hall. I hesitate. I should probably see what’s bugging him. But is it really any of my business?

“You’ve certainly got a lot of hats,” Grandma comments. The stacked kippot completely cover Dad’s scale model of the surrounding mountains, showing where Dino-land is supposed to go.
“They’re called kippot, or yarmulkes,” I tell her.

The reason the service vehicles are out on the road looms up on the right—the municipal garage.

The reason the service vehicles are out on the road looms up on the right—the municipal garage.

She goes on. “I was seventy-three years old when I finally learned the truth about my parents, my family. I can only imagine their anguish when their one hope for any kind of future was to save the life of their infant daughter...."

She takes a tremulous breath. “I wasn’t able to mourn my parents, because I couldn’t see them.”

She holds up her arms. “Now I know that they’re here, among the links of your wonderful chain. And what you’re doing, this bar mitzvah, is to reclaim my family. Our family. You’ve done something for me that I never could have done for myself. And I love you so much for it.”

All I can think of is that this makes me the greatest seventh-grade president in the history of student government. Those hard times when Chokecherry Middle School couldn’t sell enough raffle tickets to even pay for the prize might as well be a hundred years ago. This is the top. The pinnacle.

Our staid, dignified principal blurts, “No way!”
“Yes way!” Pouncey bellows right in his face.
And the party starts up again, led by Mr. Brademas.

I get swarmed and thanked by kids who are usually bombarding me with spitballs.

Spying us, ReelTok reaches outside the tent and switches off the generator. “What’s up, kidlets?”
“We’ve got news!” I announce, relishing the big reveal.

When you've got seventeen million followers, it's never hard to find a competent hacker who's willing to do you a favor.