Free Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust by Leanne Lieberman Page A

house, not stopping until I get to our garage, where I slam myself against the wall and try to convince my heart to stop thundering in my chest. I start counting breaths and then try to send each breath all the way down to my toes.
    When I’ve calmed down a little, I pop some spearmint gum in my mouth to cover up any alcohol on my breath, walk around to the front of the house and let myself in. Mom is waiting in the front hall for me. “Where were you?” she says.
    I jump. “God, Mom, you scared me.” My pulse picks up again. “I was out with Brooke and Em and Chloe.”
    â€œAnd where are they?” Mom looks pissed off, like I’ve missed my curfew, even though it’s only nine thirty.
    â€œThey went to DQ.” I twist my fingers behind my back. “What’s the problem?” I try to sound calm, even though I feel like I’ve had six cups of coffee.
    Mom’s lips tighten into a grim little line. “Justin Ferguson’s mom called. She saw Justin getting into the trunk of Mike Choi’s car, so she followed them to the park, where the kids were all drinking and smoking.” She says trunk like it’s a swear word.
    I suck in my breath. “I don’t know anything about guys in the trunk of a car.” I try to concentrate on standing still.
    â€œAnd the drinking?”
    â€œChloe, Brooke, Em and I were just there for a little while.” I start to sweat in my jacket.
    â€œWhy were you in the park at night?”
    â€œOh, just hanging out.” I take off my jacket and hang it in the closet, trying to act casual.
    â€œAt night? Since when do you girls hang out in parks at night?”
    â€œOh, we were only there for a bit, to meet up.” I kick off my shoes.
    â€œI don’t want you hanging out in parks at night. It’s not safe.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble.
    â€œLauren?”
    I turn to face her. “Okay. I heard you.”
    Mom sighs, and I head down to the basement, where I sit in the workshop and hug my knees to my chest. Maybe the boys just saw the Nazis on the History Channel and thought it looked cool or funny to goose-step. Maybe they don’t actually know about the Holocaust, about what the Nazis did. I hold my breath for a moment and try to imagine this. Can there actually be people who haven’t heard about the Holocaust? I try to imagine what it would be like to be a guy like Justin: white, male, smart enough, a good athlete, oblivious to genocide. His parents are still together, and he lives in a nice house near Chloe. What would it be like to grow up and only be part of regular culture: Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving?
    But what if the guys do know what the Nazis did? Maybe they think white supremacy is actually a good idea. Maybe next week’s game will be about rounding up the geeks at school, or tormenting the Chinese kids. My heart starts going so fast, it feels like it’s going to take off like a rocket. I try to focus on my breathing, but I feel like I can’t get enough air. “Okay, this is just a panic attack,” I whisper aloud. “I’m not dying.” Still, tears form in my eyes, and I feel like smacking my fist against the wall to stop the building anxiety. I’ve had barely any panic attacks since that first big one in grade eight. The doctor said there were meds I could take if they got really bad, but I’ve always managed to calm myself down on my own. I force myself to think about five things for five senses. Okay, I feel the cold floor, I see the workbench, I smell the carpeting, and, um, my mouth tastes awful. Okay, what’s the other sense? Right, hearing. Okay, I hear the hum of the furnace. I start over again. I feel the wall behind me, and I can hear leaves rustling outside. My mouth tastes vaguely of gum, and if I try hard, I can smell the paint cans. I keep going until I’m digging for smells and tastes and I’ve