The Assignment

by Liza Wiemer

  I guess it has to be. Cade and I nod.

  “Good. Will I see the two of you at the dance?”

  Cade’s eyes flicker to me. “Uh…we’re not—”

  “Going,” I finish. “We have other plans.”

  Principal McNeil smiles. “Well then, enjoy your evening.”

  * * *

  Principal McNeil Friday, 4:52 p.m.

  To: LoganMarch@riviereschools.org, CadeCrawford@riviereschools.org

  Re: Assignment

  Thank you for coming to speak with me regarding your concerns about your History of World Governments assignment. Mr. Bartley and I would like to meet with you on Monday before school at 7:00 a.m. to discuss this further. If you are unable to make it, please let me know immediately.

  Principal McNeil

  * * *

  —

  There’s something about Principal McNeil’s email that’s unsettling. I shove aside the pile of clean laundry I dumped on my bed, flop down on my stomach, and reread it slowly, trying to decipher the message behind the message. He didn’t say Mr. Bartley would retract the assignment. But he did say we would “discuss this further.” My gut tells me Principal McNeil isn’t siding with us. Just because they’re in a position of authority shouldn’t mean we have to accept this flawed assignment, right? Yeah, right.

  Frustrated, I pick up my phone to text Cade, then chastise myself for forgetting how much he hates texting on his flip phone.

  I dial his number.

  When he finally answers, he sounds breathless.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I just hauled a couple bags of salt from the shed. Can’t have ice on the sidewalks or parking lot. What’s up?”

  “So I’m guessing you haven’t seen the email?”

  “What email?”

  I go to my desk and read Principal McNeil’s message to Cade. “Something about it bothers me.”

  “It doesn’t say much of anything.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  I get up and walk into the hall. “It’s more of a gut feeling. I’d say we have a slim to no chance this is going to go our way. We need to be ready.” I trail my fingers along the wall, stop, and straighten a photo collage I made Dad for Father’s Day.

  “What do you think we should do?” Cade asks.

  “I’m not sure. I need to think about it.”

  I wander into the living room and look out the front window. Across the street, Kyle and Myles are building a snow fort. Police officer Shawn Sullivan and his wife, Wendy, recently told me that I’m their eight-year-old twins’ favorite babysitter. Myles starts a snowball fight, and I’m tempted to go outside and join them.

  Cade brings me back to reality. “I said I’d take an F. But what about you? You have a lot to lose.”

  An F will definitely impact my GPA. For sure, Mason would become valedictorian. I could live with it. But what about Georgetown? Could there be ramifications? Ironically, it was Mr. Bartley’s glowing letter of recommendation that helped get me into their Early Action program. I swallow the lump that forms in my throat and say, “We’re in this together. If there’s no alternative, I’ll also take an F.”

  Alternative. It sparks an idea. “I’ve got it! We need to present an alternative assignment, not just for the two of us, but for everyone. We need to walk into Principal McNeil’s office Monday morning with a detailed outline, expressing our arguments and offering a better assignment that fulfills Mr. Bartley’s requirements.”

  For a few beats, Cade doesn’t say anything. I check my phone to make sure the call didn’t drop. “Cade?”

  “I was just thinking. I have to work tomorrow and Sunday. But I guess we could start on it tonight. What time?” I hear resignation and disappointment in his voice.

  “No. We’re going out. I promised you amazing and tonight is going to be amazing.” I bite down on my tongue. I have no idea what we’re going to do.

  “You made plans?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.” I pick up a throw pillow from the couch and bang my head with it, then gaze out at the twins. They’re back to building their fort. Its walls are nearly as tall as them, at least four feet.

  “So, when are we doing this research?” Cade asks.

  “I’ll come over with my laptop early Saturday and Sunday morning or after work. Maybe both.” Whatever it takes. However long it takes. I expect it will take every free minute we have this weekend, but Cade doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll need coffee, and if you save me two of Nana’s cinnamon rolls, I’ll type the whole thing.”

  “Only two?”

  “I didn’t want to be greedy.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll also save a couple pierogies for you.”

  I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs. I even sit. “Potato and cheese?”

  “Yup.”

  “I might have to kiss you.” I slap a hand over my mouth, then grab the throw pillow and whap my head with it. Die, just die.

  “Well then, I just might let you.”

  “You might—?”

  He’s laughing. Oh. The heat that spread from my head to my toes dissipates. My smile turns into a grin, and I’m laughing, too, until it floats away. “So,” I say, drawing it out.

  “So, what are we doing tonight?”

  “Nice try, buddy.” Silence pours out the phone. I pull it away from my ear, checking to make sure I didn’t accidentally hang up. Nope. Cade lets out a long sigh.

  Ugh. Buddy. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself or Cade.

  I flip around, kneel on the couch, and watch the twins smooth snow over their fort’s walls. It gives me an idea. If I can pull it off, I can give Cade that adventure. I get up, open the front hall closet door, and grab my coat. “I’ll pick you up at seven,” I tell Cade. “Dress warm.”

  “We’re here,” Logan finally announces, pulling into an empty snow-covered parking lot.

  A sign reads: “Welcome to Fort Ontario. Closed for the season.”

  “Why exactly are we here?” I ask, since it’s only open to the public May through October. We have Fort Ontario brochures at the inn, and I recommend it to guests who love historic sites. The only time I came here was on a bus for our end-of-the-year sixth-grade field trip. Until now, I haven’t returned.

  Logan laughs, pops open the trunk, and climbs out of the car with her backpack swung over her shoulder. She removes a thick, coiled rope and stuffs it into her backpack. Burrowing under a blanket, she pulls out two sets of snowshoes. She hands me one set.

  “We drove forty minutes to go snowshoeing? Couldn’t we have done that in Riviere?”

  She hip-bumps me. “This will be fun. I promised amazing, and I will deliver.”

  “Right. And why do we need a rope?”

  “If you don’t stop asking questions, I’m pulling out the duct tape and I will enjoy using it on you.” She pats her backpack.

  “You know, kidnapping is a felony.”

  “So is breaking and entering.” She grins wickedly.

  I clamp my mouth shut. She can’t be serious, right? I follow in her footsteps, leaving a trail through the pristine snow surrounding the massive stone walls of Fort Ontario. With each step, I seem to grow smaller like an ant at the base of a canyon. The stone walls are at least three times the height of an ordinary chain-link fence. We’ll need more than rope. We’ll need a cannon or two. Or a catapult. I could totally see Logan launching me over or making me climb a tree, except I don’t see any trees close enough to the fort. We’re the only ones here. I’m not sure what Logan’s up to, but I don’t exactly have a good feeling about it.

  To slow her down, I scoop up snow, pack it into a tight ball, and aim for a low-hanging branch of a birch tree some twenty feet in f
ront of us. I nail it, sending an explosion of snow over the ground.

  “Bet you can’t do that again,” Logan says.

  “What will you give me if I do?”

  “That depends on what you want?”

  You. It’s the first thing that pops into my head, but since I’m not a fan of self-inflicted torture, I keep my mouth shut. I take my time answering. I could ask to find out where we’re going, but that’s hardly a reward. Nothing special comes to mind, at least not anything I have the guts to ask for. Then it comes to me, and if I hit the target, I’ll win the biggest stuffed bear at this carnival. “Sometime, someday, I want to know what you’re thinking. And when I ask, you need to tell me exactly what’s going on in your head.”

  She digs her snowshoe into the fresh powder and kicks out like a punter. The spray blows back into her face, and she laughs. “Okay. If you lose, same goes.”

  “Done.” I take off my glove and extend my hand. Skin to skin, we shake on it, and then I nail that spot not once, but twice.

  Logan stares at me, wide-eyed, mouth gaping. “How did I not know you could do that? You should be playing baseball for the Riviere Rockets.”

  I shrug. “I played in elementary and middle school, but after Grandpa died, we couldn’t afford to hire summer help. Practices and games were during our busiest times. So I quit.”

  “But didn’t you love it?”

  The tiny fissure scarring my heart aches. I can’t afford to let it matter. I keep my voice steady and expression neutral because my answer isn’t only about baseball, it’s also about her. “I’ve wanted a lot of things I can’t have. It’s how it is, Logan. I try not to think about what I can’t do or what I can’t have because it doesn’t change a thing.” Sympathy fills her face, and that only makes things worse. I’ve shut down every fantasy I’ve had of having more than just friendship between us for so long, that this feels dangerously close to a confession. I can’t have that. I form another snowball and aim for another branch, then say, “Giving up baseball wasn’t a huge sacrifice. I love the inn more.”

  She nods. It’s slow and contemplative. “Sometimes I envy you. How settled and sure you are of your future. I don’t have that. Studying history at Georgetown is just something to do until I figure things out.”

  Logan’s right. Since I was a little boy, I’ve imagined growing old like my grandparents and running the inn with my own family. More recently, that dream has included her.

  I shut that thought down and say, “It’ll work out, and whatever you choose will be amazing.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  I smile. “A hundred percent.”

  She starts walking and once again I trail behind. She turns away from the fort, and I breathe a sigh of relief as we trudge along a plowed road. We pass three old brick-and-stone buildings that Logan tells me were built in 1905 and were originally used for army provisions and for baking bread. Given her love of all things history, it’s no surprise she knows these details. When we approach a fourth, smaller building, Logan shuffles up a snow-covered ramp, then removes her snowshoes. She motions for me to do the same.

  The building is dark. I try the door, but it’s locked. “What is this place?” I whisper, not out of reverence, but because I’m 99 percent certain we shouldn’t be here. What is Logan up to?

  She whispers back, “Welcome to the Safe Haven Museum and Education Center.”

  A museum. From the outside, it doesn’t look much bigger than a nice-size house. We have brochures for it, but it has never crossed my mind to visit. “And, again, why are we here?”

  Logan pulls off a glove and riffles through her small backpack pocket. “You’ll see.”

  “Logan.” I lean against the door and stuff my gloved hands in my coat pockets as if we have all night. Maybe we do?

  “Sometimes you’re such a pain,” she says.

  “And sometimes you’re a bigger pain.” I grin at her.

  “Fine.” She makes a sweeping motion with her arm. “Many people don’t know that Fort Ontario was the only place in the United States during World War Two to house European refugees.”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  “This is the museum for that temporary refugee center.”

  Like in a game of Clue, I put it together. World War II. The assignment. Research. Adventure. This is so Logan. Of course she would figure out a way to incorporate the assignment into our night.

  “I’ve never been to a museum when it’s been closed before. We’re not breaking in, are we?” I let out a short laugh, but I’m only half joking.

  “Not exactly.” She holds up a set of keys. “One of these should work.”

  “Wait, what do you mean by ‘not exactly’?”

  “I borrowed the keys.”

  “How? From who?”

  She inserts one key after another and comes up short. “Sometimes the less you know the better.”

  She tries a fourth key. The lock gives way and she pushes the door open. I nearly have a heart attack when the alarm starts flashing and screeching, but Logan sprints to the lit panel and pushes a sequence of numbers into the keypad. The incessant noise stops along with the blinking lights. I stand statue-still like the cutout figures I notice along the sidewall.

  Turning to me, she lifts her arms in victory. “Genius. I gotta say I’m a genius.”

  I pull off my gloves, stick them in my pockets, and unzip my jacket. I rub the ache in my chest. “More like a genius criminal. In case we get arrested, I’m testifying that you were the mastermind behind this…whatever this is.”

  “Come on, Clyde. If we go down, we go down together.”

  “I hate to say it, Bonnie, I could do without this kind of adventure, but props for unforgettable.”

  “Admit it, you love this. I know you do.”

  “I love something,” I mumble, jerking back a little. To my relief, Logan’s several feet away, far enough that it’s a safe bet she didn’t hear me. Her focus is on the first in a series of black-and-white photographs along a sidewall.

  With my eyes adjusted to the dim light I take in more of the room. We’re in a lobby with a small gift shop filled with books and T-shirts. There are easels with paintings, a piano, maps, and a large diorama in the center of the room. I take a few steps closer to the diorama. It shows the entire layout of Fort Ontario and all the buildings.

  Logan motions me over. She holds her phone’s flashlight up to the first photo. “Imagine we’re those two.” She points to an emaciated young man and woman standing in a large crowd. “By some twist of fate, after surviving unimaginable hell in different concentration camps, we escaped. We found each other in a forest. ‘I’m Hannah,’ I said. ‘And I’m Josef,’ you said. And from that moment on, we traveled together, hiding from Nazis and scrounging for food and shelter.”

  The back of my hand brushes Logan’s, sending sparks to my fingertips. For a few seconds, she doesn’t move away, and then I follow her to photo number two.

  The caption says: “The USS Henry Gibbins: The Ship That Brought the Refugees from Naples, Italy, to America. July 21, 1944, to August 3, 1944.”

  The ship’s deck is packed with refugees, some still wearing the striped clothes of prisoners from concentration camps.

  Logan continues. “We made our way to Naples because we heard there would be a ship bringing refugees to America. Freedom! And again by some miracle, out of three thousand desperate people, we were two of the nearly one thousand lucky chosen to go on the journey.”

  Logan’s arm presses into mine, our hands dangling at our sides. I inhale, slide my fingers between hers, and exhale.

  Photos three to six: “Life on the USS Henry Gibbins.”

  With our hands clasped together, Logan continues. “Our first meal, there was so much food! I ate and ate until my stomach hurt. We watched, helpless, as
crew dumped leftovers overboard. All those starving people we left behind.”

  She squeezes my hand.

  Photo seven: “Nazi Bombers and U-Boats Scouting the Mediterranean Sea.”

  “One night, the angel of death came, hovered as fear spread among us. The ship’s engines stopped dead. The air raid alarm went off, men ran to guns, and black smoke filled the air to shield us from the enemy. The drone of Nazi warplanes above left us paralyzed with fear. No one made a sound, not even the babies held tightly in their mothers’ arms. We barely breathed until they disappeared. Disaster averted. The angel of death left empty-handed.”

  Photo eight: “Lady Liberty Welcomes Refugees.”

  “After so much misery and loss, can you imagine what it must have been like to see her?” Logan asks. The hairs on my arms stand on end.

  We move from photo to photo. Logan continues to narrate a tale of hope and despair. Once in the United States, the refugees were tagged like luggage and transported on trains that, for some, triggered terrifying memories of German cattle cars. When they arrived at Fort Ontario, the barbed wire surrounding the fort sent another fissure of fear. “Many locals were kind and generous. They tossed clothes, toys, and candy over the fence to the refugees.” One hollow-eyed boy holds a brand-new pair of sturdy shoes to replace the scraps on his feet.

  “They were safe and well fed, received medical care, learned English, gave concerts and plays, learned trades, attended religious services. The children left the fort every day to go to local public schools. But the refugees also called the fort their golden cage, since they weren’t free.” Logan leans in to get a better look at one of the last photos, then lets out a breath. “Here we are again.”

  It’s the two people from the first photo—now a somber bride and groom.

  She releases my hand, walks over to her backpack, picks it up, and sets it on a table. I curl my fingers into my empty palm, wondering if I’ll ever get to hold her hand again.