Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (17 page)

I ignore his hand and sit in a wingback chair across from the couch. Jesse points to my bandaged hand. “So, what happened?”

I look down at my hand. “I burned it.”

“How?”

“Fireplace.”

“Ouch.” He moves closer to me, lifts my burned hand to his face, kisses my wrist. I let my eyes close for a second, then pull away.

“Wait.”

“What for?”

“You can't just kiss me.”

“You weren't complaining last week.”

I scoot back in the chair and pull my knees into my chest. “What about Brooke?”

Jesse groans and drops his head into his hands. “Can we forget about her?”

It's so quiet I can hear my watch tick. Jesse rubs his forehead.

“I saw you leave the party together,” I whisper.

“Yeah, that was a mistake.” He looks up at me and smooths his damp hair off his forehead.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means it was a dumb thing to do.” We're talking softly, almost as if this conversation isn't happening.

“I—I don't understand.”

Jesse sighs and lifts his head. “Look, she's your friend and I don't want to bad-mouth her.”

“So what were you doing?”

Jesse sighs. “Okay, she calls and asks for a ride to the party. And I think, she's your friend—right?—and we talk at school and all, so sure, I can drive her. I think maybe you'll be coming with her too.”

I hug my knees tighter to my chest as he continues.

“Brooke says Chantal and Kelly need a ride too, but when I get to her house, it's only her. So fine, we get to the party and we're hanging out in the backyard and everything's cool. Then she gets pretty drunk, and she asks for a ride home, which is weird, 'cause it's early, but I figure maybe she isn't feeling so great. So I ask the other girls if they want to go, but they say no. I look for you, to see if you want a ride, but you've disappeared. And so I drive her home.”

“And that's it?”

“Well…” Jesse reddens. “She tried to—you know, come on to me, but I was like,
Whoa, no thank you
. I mean, she's your friend.”

“I'm not sure we're friends anymore.”

“Really?”

I nod.

“So that's it. I'm not interested in Brooke or any other Smoker chick. They wear too much eye crap. I'm interested in you. So stop being mad at me, okay?” Jesse takes my hand and pulls me onto the couch next to him, kissing my wrist again. I feel my pulse start to race. He looks up at me. “Okay?”

“Um, okay,” I whisper. Jesse squeezes my arm with both his hands, leans in to kiss my neck. I want to say,
Stop
a minute, let me think this all through
, but Jesse's kissing my throat now, making little shivers scurry through me. I'm imagining Jesse fighting off Brooke because he likes me, not her. I feel myself smiling under the little ticklish kisses he's laying on my lips. “You like that?” he says. I murmur yes and kiss him back. Jesse pulls me onto his lap and I wrap my arms around him. We could go for another run, and kiss by the beach again, and maybe even hold hands at school. I could come to his house and do this again. I run my hands through his hair. Jesse's kisses are moving away from my throat and down the V-neck of my sweater. He doesn't like Brooke, and he's not a Nazi. Then I remember the armband. I stop playing with his hair and open my eyes. I slowly pull away from him. He smiles at me and picks up my hand. “So what really happened to your hand?”

“It got burned,” I say.

“You shouldn't play with fire.” His hands slide up my thighs.

“I have to go.” Suddenly, I can't hold all the thoughts in my head.

Jesse flops back on the couch. “Girls always do that, just when it gets exciting.”

I stand up and swallow back a nervous smile. “I need to get home and deal with my bandage, and Zach's doing this hunger strike.”

Jesse crinkles his forehead. “For, like, world peace or something?”

“No, it's more complicated.” I straighten my sweater. “I'll have to explain another time.” I start backing up.

“Wait, I want to ask you something.” Jesse stands up and put his hands around my waist. “Can we stop with the not talking at school? It's too weird.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And you could, like, eat lunch with me too.”

“Um, sure.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Okay, tomorrow.” I duck my head as my cheeks heat up.

“Wait, don't leave yet.” Jesse pulls me closer and kisses me. It lasts forever, and I don't want it to stop. “Are you sure you need to leave?” he whispers.

“I'm sure.” I sound unconvincing, but I manage to turn and walk out of the room.

Jesse and I walk to school together the next morning, holding hands under a stark fall sky. An early frost makes the grass crunch under our feet as we walk across the park. I let go of his hand as we walk into school, and he rolls his eyes at me.

“What?” I say.

“Chicken.” He squawks and flaps his arms. I smile weakly, but I'm so nervous I can't think straight.

I walk to biology with Jesse, and we sit next to each other on our stools. When Brooke and Chantal come in, I see Brooke glance at us, then turn away. Jesse squeezes my good hand under the desk. I take a few deep breaths and try to think about Zach, still in the garage in his sleeping bag. He refused to eat or come in yesterday, and Mom and Dad had a huge fight about it. While they were yelling, I sneaked Zach a cheese sandwich.

Mr. Saunders starts class and I think, I can do this. I can do the rest of my life—Brooke, Jesse, the armbands—and then the phone in the class rings, and Mr. Saunders answers. He listens, nods and then hangs up. “Tyler Muller, Mac Thompson and Jesse Summers, you're wanted in the office,” he says.

The class collectively says, “Ooh,” and my stomach plummets. Jesse smiles self-consciously as he packs up his binder and textbook. Everyone is staring at him, Tyler and Mac. After they leave, Mr. Saunders continues lecturing, but I'm not listening anymore.

Jesse isn't in English class. Mr. Willoughby has us act out a scene from
The Tempest,
and luckily he doesn't ask me to read. Right before the period ends, he reads out a note. “Oh yes. Tomorrow, period three and four classes are not being held as regularly scheduled.” Someone lets out a cheer. Mr. Willoughby puts up his hand. “Instead, you are to go to the auditorium for a special guest lecture by Professor Mark Yanofsky. Dr. Yanofsky is an acclaimed Holocaust historian and a dynamic speaker. It is hoped that all students will benefit from his lecture and accompanying film.” He puts the paper down and takes off his reading glasses. “I understand there was some sort of incident, something about Nazis in the park.” He winces with disgust. “Please take a notice with you on your way out.” The bell rings and Mr. Willoughby says, “Off you go.”

Students stream around me, but I can't get out of my chair. This is worse than I could possibly have imagined. Not only do all the grade eleven and twelve classes have to attend a lecture on the Holocaust, but it's being given by my father. My father! This is the final proof that there is no God. God couldn't be this cruel to an innocent girl.

Mr. Willoughby stops me on the way out. “Lauren, are you related to Dr. Yanofsky?”

“Um, yeah, he's my dad.”

“Interesting. I've heard him speak before, at my church. He is an excellent speaker.”

“Oh, thanks.”

At my locker, I find Jesse sitting on the floor, knees bent, head resting on his arms. My fingernails dig into my good hand as I clench it into a fist. “What's going on?” I slide down the locker and sit next to him on the floor.

Jesse turns his head sideways to look at me. “Aw, someone ratted us out about the Nazi game. Mr. Petrovic had one of the armbands, and someone had written all our names on it.”

I should act surprised. And shocked. Horrified? That would be overdoing it. “Wow, that's crazy,” I manage to say.

“Yeah, we got an in-school suspension and we had to write letters to our parents explaining what we did. My parents are going to kill me.”

“Oh.” I swallow.

“Shit.” Jesse pounds my locker. “They'll probably start talking about boarding school again.”

I catch Chloe looking at us, but she looks away when our eyes meet. “Did you hate it there?” I say quietly. I draw my knees up to my chest so I'm sitting like Jesse. Neither of us pays attention to the kids moving down the hall for lunch.

“Aw, it was all right, it's just not the same as here.”

I nod and relax a little now that we're not talking about the armbands. Then I see Justin, Tyler and Mac coming down the hall, holding notices about the assembly.

“This is totally stupid,” Mac says, crumpling up the paper. He bats it down the hall.

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “They should thank us for making fun of Nazis.”

Mac elbows Tyler. “Hey Muller, you Germans should sit in the front row.”

“Hey, shut up. Your grandparents are lederhosen too.”

Mac grabs Tyler's ballcap and throws it down the hall like a Frisbee. “No way, loser, they're Polish.”

Justin looks over at me. “Hey, Lauren, is this your dad or something?” He holds up the notice.

I nod, and Jesse kneads his temples.

Mac grabs the paper. “Let me see that. Yanofsky? Oh shit, our moms are in book club together. My mom's gonna freak.”

I cringe and lay my head on my knees.

Jesse pulls at his hair. “For those guys, it's their first time getting into trouble, so it's just a slap on the wrist. But me, I could get kicked out of school for, like, hate crimes. And your dad is friggin' going to hate me.”

Justin, Mac and Tyler head down the hall, still swearing and jostling each other. Jesse watches me watch them. “Don't worry about them. They're just pissed off about getting caught.” Jesse stands up. “Let's get out of here, go for a walk or something.”

I stay sitting. “I don't feel so good. I think I'll hang out here.”

Jesse nods and lopes down the hall after the guys. As soon as he's out of sight, I slip into the bathroom and dial Alexis. She picks up after the first ring.

“Hey Lauren, can I call you back? I'm—”

“No, this is an emergency.”

“Okay, hold on a second.” I hear her saying something, probably to Eric. “What's going on?”

“I did what you said, and now it's crazy. My father is coming to the school to talk about the Holocaust. My father!”

Alexis sighs. “Maybe they need to hear it.”

“Are you nuts? No one needs more Holocaust.”

“Take a few deep breaths and calm down.”

“Lex, I'm beyond calming down. I've spent the last three years of my life trying to avoid the Holocaust, and now it's coming to my school. And it's my own fault!”

“It's not your fault those idiots pretended to be Nazis. Look, I think you're making way too big a deal about this. Kids will learn about hate crimes and then it will be over.”

“It won't, and Jesse…”

“What about Jesse?”

“Forget it. I have to go now.” I can't tell her the truth. It's too late, and I've told too many lies already.

When I get home, Zach is still in the garage. He's sleeping, so I leave a bag of chips and an apple beside his pillow. He hasn't eaten the sandwich I made him yesterday, but I guess he's been in the house eating whatever he likes. My parents aren't home yet, so I log on to Facebook. Alexis has posted a stupid picture of her cheer squad in uniform. I scroll past Chloe's and Em's
Grease
comments, and then I see a post from Mike Choi:
I smell a rat.
Twenty-seven people “like” this, and there are an additional thirty-five comments, some from kids at school I don't know, kids who weren't at the park. Tyler comments,
People should
keep their mouths shut.
Mac says,
Wonder who the bigmouth
is?
I take a sharp breath in. What if someone says,
I bet it
was Lauren
? I read more comments about
a rat
and
a fun
game being ruined
. None of the comments are from Jesse. I check his status, but all it says is
grounded, again
.

T
hirteen

T
he next morning I go straight to biology without going to my locker. Jesse is not in class because of his suspension, so I sit alone and work on an assignment.

In English class, Mr. Willoughby shows a film of
The
Tempest
, but I can't concentrate. I haven't decided what I'm going to do this afternoon. Sit through my father's presentation? Get the hell out of here? I'm so anxious, I have a hard time sitting still. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and choose the farthest one away so I can walk off some of my nervousness. It's not far enough; I have to get out of here now. I go back to class, gather up my bag and coat and explain to Mr. Willoughby that I feel sick.

“No vomiting in the room, thank you,” he says and shoos me out. I trot down the closest stairs and burst out of the building. The cool air calms me a little, and I take a few massive breaths. It's a gray, damp day, the light flat, the mountains totally socked in.

I decide that if I stand under the trees at the edge of the field, I might feel better, might be able to make a clear decision about this afternoon, but as I start walking across the grass, I hear someone call my name.

I turn and see Brooke walking toward me, her bag in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“Hey, where you going?”

“Oh, just away,” I say.

“You're skipping?”

“Sort of.” I start walking across the field.

Brooke jogs to catch up to me. “You never skip.”

“Yeah, well, my dad's never been the guest lecturer at school either. Aren't you going?”