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  “To tell you that the bar mitzvah is still on,” he replies. “I confessed the whole thing to Rabbi Gold, and he was really cool about it. I know you can’t come anymore—I don’t expect you to. But I wanted to let you know it was happening, because I really couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  After the revelation about the first swastika, I didn’t think I could ever be surprised again about Link. But this stops me in my tracks. He’s having the bar mitzvah? Seriously?

  He picks up on my amazement. “I get how weird it is. Still, how could I not after what I learned about my grandmother? Her whole family was wiped out by the Nazis and I’m the guy who drew the first swastika? It’ll never make that right, but I have to do something.”

  He’s 100 percent sincere, blinking constantly, like he’s trying not to cry. When the truth came out about what he did, I assumed that every word he’d told me was an out-and-out lie. That the whole thing—the grandmother, his heritage, the bar mitzvah—was just the latest and most elaborate of the series of unfunny pranks that he and his idiot friends are famous for. Like the fertilizer in the mail slot on a much larger scale.

  But now the joke’s over … and it turns out it was never a joke at all. That he was always working toward a bar mitzvah because he wanted one. And he still wants one in spite of everything that’s happened and the fact that nobody’s going to go to it.

  I gawk at him. “You mean all that stuff about your grandmother—that’s true?”

  He stares at me in shock like I’ve just slapped him. Then his shoulders slump and the rest of him deflates like a balloon. “Yeah, I get it,” he tells me in a quiet voice. “I guess I don’t deserve any better.” He steps off the porch and disappears into the night.

  I’m standing in front of my door feeling like I just kicked a friendly dog. Unbelievable! He painted the swastika, and I’m the one buried in guilt!

  He’s having a bar mitzvah because that’s what Jewish kids do.

  “Mazel tov, Link,” I whisper into the darkness. “I hope you find a way to earn it.”

  Dana once told me that the worst night of her life was the night before her bat mitzvah. She barely slept a wink, and when she finally did doze off, she was haunted by nightmares about forgetting her part, breaking an ankle in her high heels, and making an idiot out of herself in front of everybody she knew.

  I don’t have to worry about any of that. I won’t be wearing high heels. And as for making an idiot out of myself, I took care of that long before the bar mitzvah could even get started. There’s something about hitting bottom. The one thing you can be sure of is that things can’t possibly get any worse and the only direction is up. I could mangle every single word of my Torah portion and I wouldn’t let down anybody’s expectations. Who would dare to expect anything but absolute zero from a painter of swastikas? And as for humiliating myself in front of people—what people? The only non-strangers who will be there are Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa. If I did the whole thing in Norwegian instead of Hebrew, they’d never know the difference.

  Even if it hadn’t come out that I painted that swastika, I don’t think anybody in town would be in the mood to drive to Shadbush Crossing for a bar mitzvah tomorrow. Chokecherry is pretty embarrassed by the discovery of all those burnt crosses. The Night of a Thousand Flames. No one can claim that it never happened now—not with the scientists digging up the final evidence. So half the town is embarrassed and sulking, not to mention ticked off at the other half, who are wagging their fingers to say I told you so. Everybody’s in such a weird mood that they’re ignoring the six-million-link paper chain that’s stashed all around town. Probably the greatest achievement in Chokecherry history, and we’re treating it like a dirty little secret.

  Dad might be the unhappiest of all. Instead of digging up spectacular dinosaurs to put our town on the map, the Wexford-Smythe paleontologists are digging up proof that we’re not worthy of an anthill, much less the theme parks and golf resorts that will make us the next Orlando. At this point, I think he’s actually grateful to have a bar mitzvah to distract him from the fact that his dream of Dino-land is circling the drain.

  And guess who’s making sure the whole world knows about it—ReelTok. He’s still here, minding everybody’s business and vlogging his head off. He even claims he’s coming to my bar mitzvah tomorrow. I have no idea how he found out it’s still on. Maybe TokNation really does have members everywhere—including inside Temple Judea of Shadbush Crossing, Colorado. He’s not allowed to livestream the service like he originally planned, because Rabbi Gold won’t let him. But we can’t keep him out. A synagogue is no different from a church or any house of worship—open to anybody.

  Dad offered to drop the chamber of commerce lawsuit if he’d just go away, but no dice. That’s something Dana didn’t have to worry about on her big day: a vlogger in the audience waiting for her to make a mistake so he can blab about it to millions of followers.

  She was right about the not sleeping part, though. I’m lying in bed, wired and wide-awake. I’m nervous about my performance, sure, but that’s only a small part of it. Who would’ve believed it was possible to feel bad about so many things at the same time? Like the swastika I painted, and all the ones Pamela drew, because she was inspired by mine. And the role I played in creating the funk that hangs over the town like a fog. And the undeniable truth that my swastika brought ReelTok down on our heads. And the fact that Dad’s dino dreams are probably never going to happen. They might not have happened anyway, but I definitely didn’t help.

  And then there’s letting down Dana. She didn’t want to help me at first. Why should she—it’s not like any of us locals went out of our way to make the egglets feel welcome. But she did it anyway, because she’s nice. She didn’t give up on me, even though I knew as much about being Jewish as I know about building a nuclear power station out of Popsicle sticks. The moment I started to believe in myself was the moment I saw Dana starting to believe in me. And how do I repay her? Well, everybody already has the answer to that question.

  It seems like a million years ago that I was an ordinary kid who thought nothing was more important than some upcoming sports season and my next dumb prank with Jordie and Pouncey. I barely even noticed the scientists’ kids, and Jewish was something somebody else was in places far away from Chokecherry. I’m not sure I was happier then, but my life was a lot less complicated.

  I get out of bed, pad to the window, and peer out into the darkness. It’s the same town I’ve known for thirteen years, but I’m a stranger in a strange land.

  A lone snowflake dances past the window, wafting on an air current. I watch it, wondering if I’ll ever truly be home again.

  I wake up after a fitful night to the sound of urgent whispering on the other side of the door. My parents, engaged in the world’s quietest argument.

  “Let the poor kid sleep. There’s nothing anybody can do about it now.”

  “We have to tell him. He’ll find out eventually.”

  I roll out of bed and swing my legs to the floor. “Tell me what?”

  That’s when I tap my phone screen and get the shock of my life. It’s 7:18! We were supposed to be on the road to Shadbush Crossing almost twenty minutes ago!

  “We’re late!” I wheeze in a panic.

  “We’re not late—” comes my mother’s voice.

  I cut her off. “I have to shower! And put on my suit! And tie the tie—you know it takes forever to get the tie!”

  Dad comes into the room and wordlessly raises the blinds.

  The world outside my window looks nothing like it did eight hours ago. You know that snowflake I saw last night? Well, it had about a gazillion babies. The first big storm of the winter must have started right after I went to bed. Chokecherry is buried under at least two feet of fresh snow.

  I’m babbling. “We can still make it! You have an SUV! Those drive in snow, right?”

  Dad shakes his head sadly. “Not this much snow. And it’s even
deeper in the mountains. The passes are all closed. No one is going anywhere.”

  Mom has a suggestion. “Maybe the rabbi will let us reschedule for next weekend.”

  “That’s not how bar mitzvahs work!” I explain in agitation. “The part I learned from the Torah—that’s only good for today. If we postpone till next Saturday, that means I spent all this time studying the wrong thing!”

  Eventually, Dad gets us all calmed down enough to put a call through to Rabbi Gold.

  The rabbi is out of breath when he comes on the line. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Lincoln. I was outside, shoveling.”

  I’m stunned. “Rabbis shovel?”

  He sounds amused. “Moses parted the Red Sea. I’m not nearly as talented when it comes to my driveway.”

  “Rabbi,” I exclaim, “the roads are all closed! I can’t get there!”

  His response is no help at all. “Our people have an old saying. It translates to ‘Man makes plans and God laughs.’ This is a perfect example of what it means. We made our plans. We did everything right. The one thing we can’t control is the weather.”

  “Yeah, but what are we going to do?” I howl.

  “That’s the whole point of the saying,” he explains patiently. “Try as we might, some things are beyond our capacity to change.”

  I’m almost in tears. “But I wanted it so much.” The instant the words are out of my mouth, I realize that they’re 100 percent true. Now that it’s all falling apart, I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life.

  The long silence on the other end of the line makes me feel even worse than I already do.

  “Perhaps,” the rabbi says thoughtfully, “we’ve been shown a way.”

  I’m stunned. “You mean, like, a miracle?”

  “Not precisely. But if the phone lines work, chances are the internet does too. We can have this bar mitzvah virtually. We bring the synagogue into your living room via Zoom. And we can set up a screen so our congregation can watch you.”

  “And that’s legal?” I blurt. “You know, Jewishly?”

  “Well, it isn’t in the Bible,” he admits. “You won’t find too many references to Zoom in the Torah. But if our modern age offers us a way for you to join our congregation today, we should be grateful for it. It may not be an official miracle, but it’s a miracle of technology.”

  For the first time since Dad raised the blinds, I allow myself to hope. Okay, it isn’t what I planned. I pictured myself at Temple Judea, surrounded by family and friends. Now Grandma and Grandpa won’t even be able to get here through the mountains. They booked a hotel in Shadbush Crossing so they wouldn’t get snowed out … and now they’re snowed in.

  On the other hand, has anything gone according to plan in my life lately? Not since I put that swastika on the wall. If you go by what I deserve, this makeshift Zoom-bar-mitzvah-buried-in-snow is more than I ever could have hoped for. Not only am I going to take it; I’m going to be grateful.

  Rabbi Gold and I set it all up. I was supposed to be called to the pulpit at Temple Judea at 10:15, so that’s when I have to be dressed and ready in the living room. The rabbi wants the Zoom connection to be online and running before the service starts so no one has to fiddle with electronics during a Sabbath service. I help Mom and Dad move some of the furniture around—it won’t look great if the entire congregation of Temple Judea sees me tripping over an ottoman and knocking myself unconscious.

  As we work, we detect signs of life outside our bay window—a plow clearing the main road, the scrape of shovels up and down the street, the spinning tires of a stuck car, the shouts of little kids having a snowball fight.

  Dad and I drag in a high cocktail table to use as a podium—I have to be standing when I do my part. We put my laptop on a nearby shelf, and make sure that I’m on camera. Dad brings all these extra lamps down from the attic, until our living room is glowing like a TV studio.

  “It’s fine, Dad,” I tell him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. They just have to be able to see me.”

  He’s stubborn. “Any son of mine who’s having a Zoom bar mitzvah is going to have the best Zoom bar mitzvah it’s possible to have.”

  Honestly, seeing my father supporting me like this after everything that’s happened makes me feel almost human again.

  Then he ruins it: “Days like today. Problem-solving, thinking on your feet, dealing with the unexpected—these are the life skills that will help you find success in your future.”

  Barf.

  We pause for a quick breakfast and scramble to get dressed for the main event. The tailor would be proud of me. Here it is, December 4, and I didn’t have a growth spurt. I ruined my life fifteen different ways, but the suit still fits perfectly. It takes me four tries to get the tie on, and Dad still redoes it when he sees me.

  “You look beautiful!” Mom says with a catch in her voice.

  Ding-dong!

  I experience a moment of excitement. I know it can’t be Jordie, since he’s banned from me. But maybe Pouncey managed to drag himself through the snow to support me. He probably thinks the bar mitzvah is off, and he’s here to offer consolation. Still, it’ll be great to have one friend on hand—assuming Pouncey can get through it without trying to make me laugh.

  Dad has another theory. “Must be some kid trying to make money shoveling driveways.”

  My heart sinks. Dad’s probably right. I did it myself last winter. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  Trying to ignore the squeeze of my starched collar, I head downstairs and throw open the front door.

  It isn’t a kid with a shovel. It isn’t even Pouncey. It’s the last person I expect to see at this moment.

  Dana Levinson.

  “Good. You’re dressed,” she says briskly.

  I start to explain about the plan-B Zoom bar mitzvah. Dana leans in past me and calls, “Mr. and Mrs. Rowley—we’re in a hurry.”

  I look beyond her to the SUV parked in the driveway. It has heavy snow tires and a plow attachment in front. The Wexford-Smythe University crest is painted on the door. Dana’s parents are in the front seat, and I can see Ryan in the back.

  “What’s this about?” I ask. “I have to be on Zoom at ten fifteen.”

  “Change of plan,” she informs me. “Get your coat on. It’s freezing out here.”

  I’m starting to get annoyed. “Aren’t you listening? Because of the weather, I’m doing my bar mitzvah by video chat.”

  “That’s still on. It’s just been switched to the school, that’s all. I called Rabbi Gold. He’s totally on board.”

  I don’t get it. “Why would I want to do this at the school? I don’t even go there anymore.”

  “When you have a bar mitzvah,” she lectures, “you’re supposed to be surrounded by the people who care about you. They won’t fit in your house.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I snap. “These days, the people who care about me would fit in a phone booth and still leave room for the guy talking on the phone.”

  Mom and Dad appear at my side. They have their coats on, and my father hands me mine.

  “We just got off the phone with Rabbi Gold,” Mom supplies, pushing my bar mitzvah folder into my arms. “He explained the whole thing.”

  “Which is what?” My voice is rising.

  “We’re moving everything to the school,” Dad tells me. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time if we hurry.”

  “How come I’m the only person who doesn’t understand what’s going on?” I complain. “I’m the one having the bar mitzvah.”

  I shrug into my coat, and we all pack up our shoes and kick into snow boots. Dana hustles us out to the SUV.

  I’m a little nervous getting into the truck and facing the Levinsons. After all, I’m Swastika Guy. But for some reason, they seem happy to see me.

  Dana’s mother wishes me “Mazel tov.”

  “You must be so excited,” her father adds.

  “Thanks for inviting me to you
r bar mitzvah,” Ryan pipes up. “You’re invited to mine too. It’s in six and a half years.”

  Mom and I end up squashed in next to Dana in the third row. “I understand it was you who put all this together,” Mom says to Dana.

  “She sure did,” says Dr. Levinson behind the wheel. “Ever since she got up and saw the snow, she’s been driving the whole town crazy. She’s a born event planner.”

  “Yeah, but what event?” I whine. “Me Zooming the temple? Why does that have to happen at the school?”

  Dana smiles the almost smile of the Mona Lisa. “You’ll see.”

  The town roads have been plowed, so we have no trouble crossing Chokecherry. I can’t help noticing that, the closer we get to the school, the busier the roads seem to be. That’s unusual for the morning after a blizzard, when everybody stays home, drinking hot chocolate, and if you go out, it’s for sledding, or maybe building a snowman.

  When the school comes into view, I leap to my feet, smashing my head into the roof of the SUV. The place hasn’t been this crowded since the championship game of the basketball tournament last spring. Mr. Kennedy is in the school district’s mini tractor, plowing the parking lot to admit an endless stream of cars.

  “What are all these people doing here?” I blurt, mystified.

  “They’re coming to a bar mitzvah,” Dana replies. “Duh.”

  “Mine?” Nobody bothers to reply to that. There are no other bar mitzvahs happening at Chokecherry Middle School today. There probably hasn’t been a bar mitzvah in this town since the beginning of time.

  I try a different tack. “But how did everybody know about it? I didn’t even know about it!”

  “I have my methods,” she says evasively.

  We avoid the traffic jam in the parking lot and pull around the circular drive right up to the front entrance. We get out and join the river of people heading into the building. A lot of eyes are on me, but my eyes are riveted to a section of brick wall above the double doors. If I had X-ray vision, I’d be looking right through it at the atrium wall where I first spray-painted that swastika. Why are all these people coming to my bar mitzvah when everybody knows full well what I did?