I Kill the Mockingbird (15 page)

“I know,” she says.

“Elena and I were talking,” says Michael.

“The more we talked,” says Elena, “the more we started to realize that the bonfire is not a good idea.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell them.

Elena points toward the bandstand.
“Look. All those people are having a great time. They’re making music and talking about books and making new friends. It’s exactly what Mr. Nowak was talking about when he told us about being good readers. And we made that, Lucy. If we light this fire, that party is over.”

“But what about I Kill the Mockingbird?” I ask. “How can we end it?”

Michael steps forward and takes my hand. “I think you
know.”

Elena takes my other hand. Together, the three of us cross the Green. From the bandstand, David Donovan and his friend Soo Bee see us coming. They wave us forward until we are on stage with them. “Hey!” says David. “Are you having fun?”

“Do you play an instrument?” Soo Bee asks me.

I shake my head. “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?” she asks.

I spot the megaphone at her
feet. “Can I use that?” I ask.

“There’s no rule that says you can’t.”

I pick up the bullhorn and turn toward the Green. I push a button on the handle and assault the crowd with an ear-splitting squeal.

“Not that one!” David yells. He reaches over and points to a switch that activates the megaphone.

“Hello?” I say. My voice echoes across the field. The crowd is surprisingly quiet and attentive.
So I begin. “We wanted to do a good thing,” I say. “And I think we mostly did.”

There’s some scattered applause.

“No,” I say. “You don’t understand. I killed the mockingbird…”

Elena leans toward me and speaks into the microphone. “And I killed the mockingbird.”

Michael joins us too. “I killed the mockingbird.”

“I kill the mockingbird!” somebody shouts from the crowd.

“And I kill the mockingbird!”
a second person adds.

“I kill the mockingbird!” several more folks shout out.

“No!” I say. “Stop!”

The crowd goes quiet again.

“Here’s what really happened.”

And then together, Michael, Elena, and I confess everything.

23

Spanking the Critics

The next morning, we’re inside a gray, windowless meeting room at the West Glover police station. I’m perched on a rickety, metal folding chair, which is making my bottom cold. Mom’s on a creaky wooden seat to my right. Dad leans on the table in front of us and stares at his hands. Across from me, Michael, Elena, and Mort sit uncomfortably, too.

“How are you doing?”
Dad asks quietly.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You don’t look okay,” says Mom. I notice that her cheeks have color now from spending time in the summer sun. Her hair is wild but not in an angry, unhealthy hospital bed kind of way.

“I’m just tired.” I was up for most of the night. After we told our story, the crowd at the Green decided we were heroes. Except for Mort. He decided that we were not. He
made his way to the bandstand, shoved Santa Claus into Elena’s arms, and ordered us home.

Mom, Dad, and Mrs. Buskirk met us at the bookshop where Mort turned on his computer, and we watched the I Kill the Mockingbird comments roll in. According to the Internet, we were inspired geniuses, selfish pranksters, spoiled brats, leaders of an organized-crime syndicate, and a new type of action-oriented
literary critic. The online world agreed that we should be sent to jail, offered movie deals, awarded medals, featured on our own reality TV show, and given spankings.

“Everybody always wants to spank the critic,” said Elena.

“Everybody might not be wrong,” said Mort.

“What were you thinking?” asked Mrs. Buskirk.

“We were thinking about how to get everybody to read
To Kill a Mockingbird,
”
Michael explained.

I turned to my dad. “We were thinking about Fat Bob.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You did this for Mr. Nowak?”

Now, Michael’s mother enters the interview room and takes the chair at the head of the table. She places a folder on the tabletop. “Thanks for coming in,” she says. “Who is going to explain what’s been going on?”

Michael raises his hand. “Can I ask a question?”

“You
are not at school,” his mother says sternly.

He lowers his arm. “Is anybody under arrest?”

Elena sits up straight. “Nobody should be talking if we’re under arrest.”

Officer Buskirk shakes her head. “Nobody is under arrest.”

“Promise?” says Michael.

His mom nods. “I promise.”

“Wait a minute.” Elena leans forward. “It is a well-known fact that police officers can lie to suspects.”

Officer
Buskirk sighs impatiently. “You are not a suspect, and I don’t lie.”

“You could be lying right now,” Elena replies.

Officer Buskirk’s eyes narrow.

“Elena,” says Michael, “my mother doesn’t lie.”

Mort puts a hand on Elena’s arm. “Let’s hear what everybody has to say.”

Elena crosses her arms and leans back in her seat.

“Start with the book burning,” Officer Buskirk tells us.

A fluorescent
bulb in the center of the ceiling flickers on and off as if this is a scene from some old-time TV crime drama.

“There was no book burning,” says Michael.

His mother raises an eyebrow.

“We got paper from the recycling bins at the library,” Elena explains.

“And we never actually set it on fire,” adds Michael.

“Can we get our garbage can back?” Dad asks me.

I realize that the trash can is one
of a million loose ends that I didn’t think about. “I’ll do my best,” I promise.

“What about the mob scene at the park?” asks Officer Buskirk.

Mort gives an unexpected laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asks him.

He shakes his head. “I was there. There were ukuleles.”

“So?”

“It can’t be a mob if it comes with ukuleles.”

“Fine,” says Officer Buskirk. “Let’s talk about the string of robberies
that’s been taking place at virtually every bookstore in the area.”

Mort stops laughing. “Not every bookstore.”

“There were no robberies,” says Elena.

Michael shifts in his chair.

“Not locally,” she adds.

I clear my throat.

Elena sighs. “Not that we’re aware of.”

Officer Buskirk lifts her manila folder off the table. She opens it, pulls out the poster with our little, dead mockingbird,
and waves the sheet of paper at us. “I’ve got printouts from a dozen different websites and discussion groups all talking about I Kill the Mockingbird this and I Kill the Mockingbird that. But they’re not just talking about West Glover. They’re talking about activity all over the country. How did you do this?”

Above us, the lightbulb makes a loud snap, crackle, and pop. I shuffle my feet beneath
the table. I’m trying to think of a good answer to Officer Buskirk’s question, but nothing comes to mind. “You know,” Elena finally says, “it really wasn’t that hard. It was like opening a jar of lightning bugs. They all just came flying out.”

Dad leans forward. “Have any laws been broken?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“No,” says Elena.

“We don’t think so,” says Michael.

Elena turns to Mort.
“I’m sorry we didn’t steal your books.”

Mort sighs. “It’s okay.”

Officer Buskirk rolls her eyes. “What am I supposed to do with you three?”

“We did confess,” I say.

“In public,” adds Elena.

Mort laughs. “It’s true. The three of them looked like they were going to pee themselves up on that bandstand.”

“It was really scary!” protests Elena.

“Good,” Mort tells her.

We sit around the table
for a long time without speaking. Finally, Michael breaks the silence. “What’s going to happen now?” he asks.

Officer Buskirk still has our flyer in her hand. She glances at it one more time then pushes it toward the center of the table. “That’s a good question,” she says. “It’s up to you three to come up with a good answer.”

24

Ordinary Time

Elena stands on the Federal Green bleachers and jumps up and down. “Let’s go, Michael! Let’s see what you can do!”

It’s the ninth inning, and Michael is at bat. It’s the last game of the summer season, and the sun is slipping low in the sky. It’s been over a week since Mockingbirdpalooza, and there’s no evidence in the park to suggest that anything special has happened
here this summer. But I know better.

Down on the field, the pitcher goes into his windup and release. At the plate, Michael watches the ball without taking a cut. “Good eye!” yells my father who is seated behind me.

Mom, Mort, and Mrs. Buskirk are here too. “Lucy,” Mom says to me, “guess what I got at the snack stand?”

I turn to look.

“Vanilla ice cream with a strawberry on top,” Mom says
proudly.

“A real strawberry or a strawberry Peep?”

She laughs. “That sounds kind of good.”

Meanwhile, Michael is waiting for the next pitch. A moment later, the ball comes flying toward the plate. “You can kiss that one goodbye,” says Dad.

Michael takes a small step forward. He swings his hips around. His arms, shoulders, and bat follow. There is a loud
PING!
and the ball springs off the end
of the aluminum bat as if it’s loaded with dynamite.

“All right!” shouts Elena.

“They’re going to have to send a boat to get that one,” says Mort.

“The river is half a mile away,” Elena tells her uncle.

“Who said anything about a river?” asks Mort. “Look out Moby Dick!”

“Do not ruin this ball game by talking about literature,” says Mrs. Buskirk.

“Sorry,” says Mort. “All mentions of the great
American novel shall cease and desist.”

Michael crosses home plate, and the opposing players begin to yell encouragement at their pitcher.

“We’re still up by one!”

“Give ’em the cheese.”

“Let’s end this thing!”

The street lights around the Green begin flickering to life, which makes a bird in a nearby tree start to complain.
Squack! Cheep! Chirrrrrupp! Tweee-twee-twee. Squack! Cheep! Chirrrrrupp!
The song goes on and on.

“That sounds like a mockingbird,” says Mort.

Officer Buskirk throws up her hands. “Did you hear what I was saying to you, old man?”

“I’m serious!” says Mort.

Mom puts a hand on Mrs. Buskirk’s arm. “Stephanie,” she says. “It
is
a mockingbird.”

“You can’t arrest him for being right,” says Dad.

Mrs. Buskirk gives my father a dirty look.

“Maybe she can,” says Mort.

“Do they always have to be this annoying?” Mrs. Buskirk asks Mom.

She nods. “They do.”

Over the last few days, Michael, Elena, and I have personally contacted every store and library within a hundred miles. We’ve apologized to everybody and also put all the books back where they belong. Actually, there were a few we couldn’t find so we had to pay for them. We’ve also reached out to other bookstores
and libraries around the country. We offered to pay for any of their missing books, too. We’ve received some harsh replies, but only a few places have asked for money so far. Finally, we met with Mr. Dobby around a table in his bookstore coffee shop. “What you did was very wrong!” he told us.

“Mr. Dobby,” said Elena, “I don’t think—”

“What she means to say,” said Michael, “is that we are very
sorry.”

“I do not accept your apology!”

“You don’t?” I asked.

“There’s no need to apologize! We’re selling books like hotcakes! Our corporate office is building next summer’s marketing campaign around your concept. We’re calling it I Harpoon the Whale dot com. What do you think?”

“I think you should pay us for that,” said Elena.

“I think not,” said Mr. Dobby.

There are two outs now, a man
on base, and honestly, I’m ready for this game to be over. I’m even ready for summer to be done. School starts in a couple days, and I want things to get back to normal. As Dad likes to say, it’s time for some ordinary time. In our church calendar, Ordinary Time is when we’re supposed to be living our lives without feasting or penance or other drama. It’s not a quiet time exactly. It’s more like
the days are supposed to be filled with expectation. That sounds about the right speed for me at the moment.

Elena turns to face the bleachers behind us. “Mr. Jordan,” she says to my father, “do we really have to take English from Miss Caridas again this year?”

Dad keeps his eyes on the game. “Actually, no.”

This is news to me. “Oh?”

“She got married over the summer. When she comes back, she’ll
be Mrs. Peckett.”

“But she’ll still be the same teacher,” I say.

“Not exactly,” says Dad. “She heard about everything you did this summer for Mr. Nowak.”

“Uh oh,” Elena mutters.

“All the teachers have been talking about it,” Dad continues. “If you’re a teacher, you dream about having students who will try to change the world someday because of something you do or say in the classroom.”

Elena
grins and nudges me with her elbow. “That’s us. We did it.”

Dad nods. “Yes,” he says. “But do me a favor and don’t do it again until you’ve graduated from college.”

“What about Mrs. Peckett?” I ask.

Dad raises an eyebrow. “I have a feeling that class with Mrs. Peckett will be a little different than class with Miss Caridas. I’ve noticed that she’s one of several young teachers carrying planning
books inscribed with the initials W.W.F.B.D.”

I turn to my father. “Where did those come from?”

“From me,” he says simply.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“Say thanks to Fat Bob,” he replies.

“Do you think he’s listening?”

Dad shrugs. “Saying thank you never hurt anybody.”

Just then, the
ping
of the bat interrupts our conversation. It’s a long, fly ball to right field. If it clears the split rail
fence that divides the ballpark from the rest of the Green, Michael’s team will win the game. The opposing team’s center fielder sprints away from his pitcher. Runners are racing around the bases and toward home. The fielder reaches the fence and leaps. His foot lands on the top rail. He springs up and executes a pirouette-like spin in midair. He stabs his glove high into the air. Miraculously, the
baseball smacks into the leather.