Mallory has better places to be. It’s not true—she’s an eighth grader with exactly nowhere to go—but it’s what she keeps thinking, what she wishes for herself. At least she got her dad to back out of being a field trip chaperone.
The buses pull up to a black-and-white building and everyone shuffles inside. The lobby is dark, lit like a medieval dungeon or one of those fancy fondue restaurants Mallory’s parents love so much. Welcome, a sign reads, to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. Mallory whispers in Angie’s ear, “Wasn’t Schindler’s List scary enough?” Angie snickers.
Mrs. Carsten, wearing the shoes of a marathon runner, shouts over the heads of her students, “Jackets, everybody! Take off your jacket and move to the right!”
One by one, the eighth graders peel off their coats and stuff them in plastic bins, stuffing those along a black conveyor belt. Once the whole class has cleared security, including Jackson in his unfortunate metal back brace, Mrs. Carsten corrals them down a cement hallway. Mallory’s classmates run their hands up and down the walls and she wonders if the field trip is almost over yet.
That morning, Mallory’s dad fixed her a bowl of yogurt and granola for breakfast. As she sat down, her hair half falling out of her ponytail, he grinned at her from across the counter.
“Big day today,” he said.
“Is it?” Mallory asked, and he laughed.
“I think you’re going to have a great time. Just wish I could’ve joined.”
He pulled out his phone to take her picture and she lifted her head, yogurt on her lips.
“Not today. I told you,” she said.
“Am I...
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