Linked

by Gordon Korman

“Maybe you’re the kind of kid to light a spark in the barn just to watch it burn. One thing I’ve learned in my years in law enforcement: If you commit to any one theory of what’s in a perp’s head, you’ll miss what’s right in front of your face—that’s cop talk for perpetrator.” He hands me his business card from the Shadbush County Sheriff’s Department. “Any time you feel like talking,” he invites. “Oh, and your parents already have my card, just in case you ‘lose’ yours.”

  Perpetrator. I never thought I’d hear that word being used to describe me. Perpetrator of a poster, maybe. Not perpetrator of a crime.

  I swear I feel like an ax murderer, even though I’m totally innocent. I would make the world’s lousiest crook.

  Which brings up the ultimate question: If I’m not doing it, who is?

  I almost feel like I have to solve the mystery myself, just to get the sheriff off my back. The problem with mysteries is they’re mysterious; if any bozo could figure them out, then they wouldn’t be mysteries, would they?

  So I think long and hard: Who’s behind the swastikas? Who in this school could have a motive for doing something that’s so upsetting to so many people?

  It’s such an awful thing to accuse a person of that I almost can’t do it. As soon as I come up with a suspect, I think, no, not possible. I feel so bad that Sheriff Ocasek seems to think it’s me that I hesitate to try to pin it on anybody else. Then I picture myself being blamed for something I absolutely didn’t do, and I force myself to put together a list.

  Christopher Solis is the first name that comes to my mind. He’s just the worst kid in school, mean to basically everybody. If in-school suspension gave frequent-flyer miles, he’d be in Bali by now, probably drawing swastikas on the beach. He picks on the art club, but I can’t really take that personally, because he also picks on the science fair kids and the mathletes. He’s an equal-opportunity moron with the disposition of a honey badger. Plus the whole town saw him whitewashing the curse words he painted on the parking lot of St. Basil’s, so it’s not like vandalism isn’t already in his bag of tricks.

  Clayton Pouncey. He’s kind of an oddball. His dad is locally renowned as a jerk and a bigot, and there’s a rumor that his grandfather was involved with the KKK and the Night of a Thousand Flames. A lot of people say that never happened. Pouncey isn’t one of them, but he still has to be a prime suspect.

  Jordie Duros. I’ve overheard him putting people down. It’s usually not racist, but sometimes he gets pretty close to the line. I used to think he was just one of those popular kids who lets it go to his head. Then I heard that the swastika on the dumpster was painted in roofing tar. And everybody knows Jordie’s family runs the only roofing business in town.

  Caroline McNutt. This sounds crazy, and I’m probably wrong. Caroline doesn’t have a racist bone in her body, and she’s not a vandal, or any kind of evil person. But she’s always talking about how brain-dead our school is, and how we have zero spirit and never get involved the way other middle schools do. She practically lost her mind with happiness when the student council meeting got a decent turnout. Would she go so far as to paint swastikas just to rally the troops and get us all riled up to work on some project? Maybe not. But I can’t rule it out.

  The eighth graders. Well, not all of them, obviously. Still, whenever you hear grumbling about how tolerance education is worthless and what’s so bad about a few swastikas, it almost always comes from them. True, eighth graders are pretty negative—I might be that way too next year. But Christopher Solis is an eighth grader. And Erick Federov, alpha jock, legend in his own mind. And Liza Guilfoyle, queen bee of the school. I’m just getting started here.

  Mr. Kennedy. Who says Sheriff Ocasek is right that the “perp” has to be a kid? The custodian was in the building when the first swastika was painted. He could have done the deed and waited for someone to find it. And while I doubt Mr. Kennedy has a connection to the KKK or any hate groups, he is a pretty crabby guy. I almost don’t blame him. Any time somebody barfs in the hall, or there’s a food fight in the cafeteria, guess who has to clean it up. And let’s face it, middle school students aren’t the politest people on the planet. What if the swastikas have nothing to do with racism? What if they’re Mr. Kennedy’s way of getting even with us kids?

  It’s a lot of possibilities to juggle—especially for someone as busy as I am. Caroline appoints me official art director of the paper chain, which means I’m going to have to do most of it and supervise the rest. She makes herself project manager, positioning herself perfectly to boss people around, including me.

  Mr. Brademas officially kicks off the paper chain on the morning announcements Thursday. By lunch, it’s on everyone’s lips. All anybody’s talking about is how we’re going to be up to our butts in paper links thanks to a kid named Link. That’s what passes for comedy in this school. Caroline is complaining that the cool people get credit for everything around here. Like Link being popular has anything to do with what we’re making our paper chain out of. Sometimes I worry about that girl.

  If you’re older than about six, you’ve probably made a paper chain or two in your life. It’s not the hardest thing in the world to do. First, you take construction paper and cut it into strips about two inches wide and eight or nine inches long. You can do that with scissors, but it’s a lot faster if you use those guillotine things schools have. Then you just glue the ends together so they form a loop. Presto, a link. You do the same thing with the next one, only this time you thread it through the first link. And so on until you hit six million, or until your fingers fall off.

  We start after school. I’m impressed with the team that shows up—most of the art club, a lot of kids from the meeting, and about twenty sixth graders. You know how eighth graders are anti-everything? Well, sixth graders are the opposite of that. They’re super gung ho, since being in middle school is still a big deal for them. Give them a year—they’ll wise up.

  I’m surprised to see Pouncey and Jordie among the crew, and I question whether I was wrong to put them on my suspect list. On the other hand, those two are tight with Link; where he goes, they usually follow. Besides, there’s no law that says you can’t paint swastikas and still be part of the group making a paper chain to fight against them. Actually, it could be the perfect plan to keep suspicion from falling on you.

  Anyway, it’s a good turnout. Almost too good, since we’re bumping into each other in the art room. Even though we’re making one giant paper chain, we’ve actually got about a dozen of them under construction. We’ll hook everything into a single unit later on.

  I’m expecting the usual art club squabbles—arguments over who’s a cutter and who’s a gluer, or whether it’s too clashy to put orange next to red. This is different. Jordie refers to Pamela’s designer yoga pants as leggings, and she storms out, ripping one of the chains under construction right down the middle. Pouncey refuses to work unless he’s in charge of the guillotine, and he gets pretty obnoxious about it. Andrew slips in a puddle of spilled glue and knocks himself unconscious on the floor. By the time the nurse gets there to take him to the emergency room, his shirt is stuck to the tiles, and he has to be cut free with an X-Acto knife.

  The sixth graders are determined to make more links than everybody else, so they skimp on the glue and their chain comes apart. One of them cries. Tabitha gets a paper cut and freaks out. Link gets on a Zoom bar mitzvah lesson, and we have to turn off the music so he can hear his rabbi. For the rest of the afternoon, we work to the tune of a Hebrew chant and Link struggling to repeat it.

  Around five o’clock, kids start leaving to go home. Our production actually improves, since the art room isn’t so crowded anymore and we’re not getting in each other’s way. Link’s lesson ends, so we’ve got the music back on. It’s even starting to be kind of fun when Pouncey comes running back from a bathroom break, his face grave.

  “Guys—they found another swastika. It’s burned into one of the lab tables in the science room. Mr. Ken
nedy says they used acid.”

  Caroline turns off the music, and we just stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

  When I found that original swastika, I was terrified, almost like I believed it could peel itself off the wall and squeeze the life out of me like a boa constrictor. But, sad to say, we’re used to them now. They make us feel helpless. Frustrated and angry. They create something in the pit of our stomachs that stirs up those emotions and more. And sure, fear is a part of it, but not the biggest part. Not anymore.

  At first, I assume everyone is just going to leave. It’s late, and the mood is definitely broken. But that’s not what happens. Instead, we get back to work: silently, efficiently, and with purpose. The blade arm of Pouncey’s guillotine moves like a piston. Dollops of glue land on colored paper, and fingers form loop after loop. Our chains grow faster and faster, until it seems as if we can churn out our six million in one day.

  The swastika in the science room hasn’t stopped us; it’s given us rocket fuel. The worst part of what’s happening to us has always been that we have no way to fight back. Until now. This is how we fight back.

  There’s a cry of protest when Mr. Brademas comes to kick us out at six. He looks around the room, his eyes widening in surprise. “You’ve done all this? Amazing!”

  It’s almost like we’re coming out of our trance and noticing it for the first time. Lengths of colorful paper chain hang from hooks all around the room. They pool onto the floor and stretch across tables.

  “How many do you think we’ve got?” Link asks.

  As art director, I’ve been keeping count in a notebook. I log in the last few links of production to make sure I’m up to date, and deliver the answer. “Nine hundred and seventy-three links.”

  It seems like an awful lot for just one day. But when six million is the number you’re up against, it’s pretty puny.

  I do some quick calculating on my phone. “At this rate we’ll reach six million in a little under seventeen years.”

  The sound of everybody’s hopes deflating is almost a sucking inside the room.

  “We’ll never get there!” Jordie exclaims.

  “I’ll be, like, thirty!” Sophie muses mournfully.

  “Remember what we talked about,” Mr. Brademas puts in. “We’re not going to get obsessed with the numbers. This is incredibly impressive, and it’s only the first day. You should be proud of yourselves. I’m proud of you.”

  “Plus we’re not the whole school,” says Caroline, who always has something to add. “If we could get everybody working on this, who knows how high we could get?”

  Everybody perks up.

  “You all look exhausted,” the principal informs us. “Go home, have a good dinner and a restful sleep. We’ll get back to this tomorrow.”

  Out in the hall, I watch closely as Mr. Brademas locks the art room door. I know it’s just a bunch of paper links, but for some reason, they feel really important.

  One of the problems of living in Colorado is the time zone. When my friends in the east text me in the morning, my phone can start going off as early as five a.m. As scientists, Mom and Dad have a scientific solution: power down my phone at night.

  Right. Like that’s going to happen.

  I’m fast asleep when the ping goes off. Delirious, I roll over and tap the screen. Yikes—5:53. I don’t have to even open my eyes for two more hours. But they open on their own when I see that it’s a text from my camp friend Angela in New York. We go to sleepaway together every summer.

  CampAngie: OMG! Just realized! I’m SO sorry!

  DinoDana: ????

  CampAngie: Chokecherry, Colorado! That’s you, right?

  DinoDana: So?

  In answer, she texts me a link. I click on it and it takes me to the YouTube channel of the vlogger ReelTok. His extreme close-up unibrow glares out at me, looking like it’s been crammed into a too-small jam jar.

  “Here’s the latest from Chokecherry, swastika capital of Colorado. News flash: This idyllic American small town, where you can smell the apple pie cooling on the windowsill, used to be a hotbed for the KKK! We’ve been threatened with a lawsuit, TokNation, by the chamber of commerce of Chokecherry, Colorado. Why? For telling the truth! For daring to mention the Night of a Thousand Flames, when the entire town was encircled by burning crosses.”

  I click out of the video and stare at the conversation with Angela, suddenly aware that I’m breathing hard. Well, of course Angela thinks I’m trapped in a neo-Nazi horror town if ReelTok is her only source of information. But even in the middle of all this business with the swastikas, Chokecherry doesn’t feel like a racist place. True, somebody must be racist—because the swastikas are obviously coming from somewhere. But most of the kids at school hate what’s been happening. Every day, a larger number of volunteers show up to work on the paper chain. There are so many of us now that Caroline and Michael had to move production from the art room into the gym, and parts of the chain are draped over everything. You can barely see the climbing apparatus. We’re already up over six thousand links.

  But how can I explain all that to Angela? She’s never lived in a place that didn’t have a large Jewish community. So I text her back:

  DinoDana: You can’t believe everything you hear from Adam Tok.

  CampAngie: But I’m worried about you! You’re the only Jewish family in that town.

  DinoDana: Not true. There’s this one other kid

  My finger freezes over the send button. Am I really saying what I think I’m saying?

  DinoDana: He’s studying for his bar mitzvah.

  It’s weird. Nothing is funny about Chokecherry. But for some reason, I’m laughing too hard to get back to sleep.

  My father is still driving Ryan and me to school every morning. That’s one ongoing effect of the swastikas no matter how many times I tell Angela everything’s la-di-da.

  “How’s the paper chain coming along?” Dad asks after we drop Ryan at the elementary.

  I’m surprised. “You know about that?”

  “The school sent an email blast to all the families,” he explains. “Interesting idea. As a parent, I’m behind it one hundred percent. As a scientist … well, the math doesn’t exactly seem realistic.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Brademas reminds us of that about every eight seconds. It’s supposed to be more about trying than succeeding.”

  “So long as you understand that,” Dad confirms. “Because six million is an impossible task.”

  “The whole point,” I tell him seriously, “is so we can see how big a number six million really is.”

  He goes kind of quiet digesting that. My dad’s a smart guy, and it takes a lot to make him rethink something. This whole paper chain project is starting to get under my skin, in a good way.

  There’s a traffic jam at student drop-off. Caroline spread the word that the gym would be open early for paper-chaining, and I guess a lot of kids are taking her up on it. I strand Dad in the line of cars and run into the school.

  The hall outside the gym is crowded with a mix of volunteers and spectators, and when I make it to the doors, I can see that the inside is a mob scene. It all revolves around Michael, who is standing at the center circle, clipboard in hand, shouting at Caroline.

  “If the workers don’t check in their output, then I can’t count it! And if it doesn’t get counted, how are we going to know how many we have?”

  I can see what Michael’s worried about. It’s total chaos in the gym. There must be a hundred kids, probably more. Five of those guillotines—borrowed from the public library, the community college, plus our own elementary and high schools—slice construction paper with machine-like efficiency. No sooner have the strips been cut than fists fight over them. They’re looped into shape and glued together, added to dozens of mini chains all around the room. Eventually, the mini chains are attached to bigger chains, as poor Michael scrambles around, desperately trying to keep up with the count.

  I’m getting exhaust
ed just watching it happen. It’s impressive and a little bit scary at the same time. Spectators ring the gym, cheering on friends.

  “Check out Sarah! Her hands are just a blur!”

  “More glue! More glue!”

  “Link and Jordie have the best crew! They’re churning out chain twice as fast as anybody else!”

  “Whoa—Oliver’s bleeding all over the construction paper!”

  “Too much glue!”

  “What a waste of time! All this over a few swastikas!”

  I feel like I’m on a leash, and somebody yanked it. Some tall eighth graders are standing behind me. I identify the speaker right away. This kid Erick Federov. He’s supposedly the Link Rowley of the eighth grade, Mr. Popularity, basketball star.

  I eavesdrop on their conversation. They’re big complainers—“their” gym is being hogged by a bunch of do-gooders; where are they supposed to shoot around before school; sixth and seventh graders will volunteer for anything; blah, blah, blah. It’s Erick who keeps bringing the topic back to two points: (1) the paper chain project is stupid, and (2) the swastikas are no big deal.

  I must flinch, because they notice me.

  “What’s her problem?” I hear Erick whisper behind my back.

  And one of his buddies supplies the answer. “That’s Dana. You know, the Jewish girl.”

  Nothing’s changed. I’m still watching the paper chain activity. But my neck is stiff, my jaw is clenched, and my good feeling about the project has turned to acid in my mouth. All I can think of is this is the town where the KKK found a home forty-plus years ago. This is the school someone is defacing with swastikas practically every day. For all I know, it’s Erick himself, or one of his obnoxious friends.

  The nine o’clock bell can’t ring soon enough for me.

  I sleepwalk through my morning classes. When I head for my locker to dump my books and get my lunch, Link is standing there waiting for me.

  “Didn’t see you in the gym this morning.” He says it like it’s an accusation.