Linked: Chapters 1–5

I blink and blink again, struggling to wrap my mind around what I’m seeing. It’s spray-painted in red on the blank expanse of wall above the staircase leading to the second story—that large X with each arm continued at a right angle.

“What did you forget this time?” the custodian asks in exasperation.

Why would the only Dominican kid in the whole school be the one to draw a racist symbol?

But way back in the Jurassic period, some Stegosaurus went to the bathroom in our mountains. And a hundred million years later, Jordie Duros, Clayton Pouncey, and I are teetering across a darkened parking lot, struggling under the weight of an eighty-pound bag.

Why does a snooty college in Massachusetts have an office more than two thousand miles away, in Chokecherry, Colorado? That’s where the dinosaur poop comes in. This is where they found it, all neatly fossilized.

Sophie holds open the mail slot, and we insert our makeshift spout. Then we hold the bag high, tilt it, and begin shaking it until we feel the fertilizer starting to pour out.

“They’re not so smart,” Pouncey scoffs. “What’s a diploma? A fancy piece of paper. That’s what my dad says.”

We’re caught in the act, lit up like performers on a stage.
Jordie bellows, “Run!”

Everybody around here knows my father. He’s kind of like the stealth mayor—although Mayor Radisson has nothing to worry about.

Thinking of the others, I quickly amend my answer to “I thought it would be funny.” I’m no snitch...even though my friends ran out on me.

Our town is destined for greatness, and the real estate in it is destined for greatness too.

When Jordie, Pouncey, and I spread lard across the Fourth of July parade route, we were just trying to wipe out the marching band.

There was no point in describing to him how awesome it was going to be to watch the musicians floundering all over the intersection. My father has the sense of humor of a loaf of bread.

“George!” Mom hangs on to the dashboard for dear life. “Where are you going?”
“That was Principal Brademas,” he replies grimly, leaning on the gas pedal. “There’s trouble at the school.”

The main atrium is more crowded than usual. Mr. Brademas, the principal, is urging everyone to move on to their lockers, but nobody’s budging.

Two custodians are perched on the stairs, working furiously behind the billowing sheet with long-handled mops.

At that moment, the duct tape separates from the plaster, and the tarp peels away and drops to the floor. I stare at the wall that’s now revealed. I gawk. I goggle.

As I gaze in shock at the swastika in the atrium, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen one firsthand before. Oh, sure, in World War II movies and in books about the Nazis and the Holocaust. But not in my school, in a spot where six hundred kids walk under it every day.

One thing about a small town like Chokecherry: Nothing ever happens. So when it does, it’s big news. A few people look kind of solemn and tight-lipped, but most have their phones out and are comparing swastika pictures.

Excited speculation buzzes through the halls. Who did it? And why? Is there a racist in our school? A neo-Nazi?

If the kids are all staring at me, Mr. Slobodkin is doing the exact opposite. His effort to look anywhere else but in my direction is giving him a crick in the neck.

In the six months since we moved to Chokecherry, I’ve seen Principal Brademas furious, elated, stern, excited, and even emotional.

Today the swastika has only one meaning: pure hatred. Most notoriously, it is the symbol of Nazi Germany, an evil regime that killed millions. It screams not just anti-Semitism, but every other kind of racism and intolerance.

Today the swastika has only one meaning: pure hatred. Most notoriously, it is the symbol of Nazi Germany, an evil regime that killed millions. It screams not just anti-Semitism, but every other kind of racism and intolerance.

Today the swastika has only one meaning: pure hatred. Most notoriously, it is the symbol of Nazi Germany, an evil regime that killed millions. It screams not just anti-Semitism, but every other kind of racism and intolerance.

"...It is an attack against not just our minority students, but against every single one of us. And it’s a hundred percent unacceptable.” A smattering of applause greets this.

“Our custodians are in the process of removing that repulsive symbol from our atrium,” Mr. Brademas goes on. “We won’t have to look at it anymore, but that doesn’t mean it will be gone...."

None of us know the Wexford-Smythe kids that well, but Dana stands out in at least one way. She’s Jewish—in fact, she’s the only Jewish student in our school. It makes sense that she’d be extra touchy about the whole swastika thing.

“If you ask me, showing that we take this seriously makes the town look good,” she retorts.

The dinosaur dig is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There’s no limit to how much prosperity it could bring in. Kids love dinosaurs, and kids bring parents with their tourist dollars.

"...The Wexford-Smythe dig is an opportunity for us, but the window won’t stay open forever. If we scare away our whole future dithering over a little bit of paint on a wall or some ancient history, we’ll deserve what we get. Which will be nothing.”

Caroline McNutt is mystified. “You guys aren’t Jewish.”

Thanks to the tolerance education unit, we’ve seen pictures of swastikas on flags, on walls, on hats, on cars, on banners, on armbands, and on book covers. We’ve been shown film footage of Hitler’s Third Reich and rallies by vicious hate groups and white supremacists. We’ve pored over the images in our textbooks and in handouts.

I absentmindedly doodled one on my homework last night and had to tear it into a billion pieces and flush them down the toilet.

“By the time the dig’s over, you’ll be in high school. You’ll be stressing over SATs and ACTs and college admissions. Middle school should be the best years of our lives. And we're wasting them obsessing over something almost all of us didn’t do that will probably never happen again.”

Each morning, when Mr. Brademas announces a new project we’re going to do, a new lecture we’re going to listen to, or a new film we're going to screen, the groan coming from every classroom in the building is enough to rattle the windows. Nobody’s rude—there are no curses or catcalls or anything. We’re just done. Our tolerance for tolerance education has reached its limit.

I know something’s up when Brademas calls me to the office during my lunch period on Friday. He wants the art club to do a mural-size poster for the wall outside the office commemorating these past three weeks.

It’s time to unfurl the banner honoring the Chokecherry Cheetahs.

I console myself with the thought that it’s probably not going to happen again for a while.

The banner reads: SOUTHWESTERN COLORADO MIDDLE SCHOOL BASEBALL LEAGUE CHAMPIONS. But that’s not what anybody sees. Covering the length and breadth of the fabric is a stark swastika painted in splotchy black gunk.