“It’s up to you,” Michael says. He places his copy of Fahrenheit 451 on the bleachers then reaches into the Star Wars backpack and pulls out two more paperbacks. “Do you want David Copperfield or To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Elena takes Fahrenheit 451. Michael turns to me. I don’t speak. I just hold out my hand. Michael smiles. “One Mockingbird coming up.”
5
A Mob. A Horde. A Multitude. A Throng.
Here’s the thing. To Kill a Mockingbird is my favorite novel of all time. When Mr. Nowak announced that it was his only choice for summer reading, I wanted to jump up and cheer. There are long sections of the book that I know completely by heart. Last year, Michael and Elena even helped me read the whole thing out loud to my mom when she was too sick to do anything but lie down. We sat beside her bed and took turns. Once, when Elena was reading, Mom lay so still that we thought she might be dead. None of us knew what to do. Elena was reading the scene where Atticus Finch, the main character’s father, has to shoot a dog that’s got rabies. It is a very tense moment, and when Atticus finally pulled the trigger, I burst into tears. Mom opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was thick and groggy.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“Why are you crying?”
“The book,” I said. “The dog—”
Elena shifted in her chair near the foot of Mom’s bed. “Mrs. Jordan,” she said, “we were afraid that maybe you were—”
“What?” said Mom.
“A little dead,” admitted Elena.
Mom took a sip of water. “Don’t buy a box for me yet.”
My face burned red. Mom wasn’t going to get a box. Dad already let me know that he and Mom wanted to be cremated one day. “You can spread us around the graveyard at St. Brigid’s,” he told me. “We’ll be good for the grass, and it will be nice to be near the church.”
Mom was in the hospital the day Dad shared that bit of news with me. It was cold outside, and Dad and I were carrying groceries from the car into the house. “Haven’t you had enough church?” I blurted out.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he told me. “That’s why I keep going.”
“Why else?” I asked him.
Dad put the groceries on our kitchen table. “Life is a gift. Going to church is like sending a thank-you card.”
At our house, thank-you cards are a big deal.
“Mom’s cancer isn’t a gift.”
Dad started putting food away. “Remember when you chipped your tooth last year?”
Without thinking, I ran my tongue over my front teeth. One of them is mostly plastic now. I cracked it during a soccer game in the middle of seventh grade. The boys called me snaggletooth for a week, and I cried myself to sleep every night. “I remember.”
“Did you know that I went to high school with your dentist?”
“Dr. Sullivan?”
Dad nodded. “Mary Sullivan was my date to the junior prom.”
“I didn’t know that,” I admitted.
He passed me a bag of fresh broccoli, which I carried to the refrigerator. “I wore a powder-blue, polyester tuxedo with lapels the size of the Bermuda Triangle,” Dad recalled. “There was also a matching ruffled shirt and a bow tie that looked like I stole it off Ronald McDonald.”
I turned around just in time to catch the red pepper Dad threw my way. “I don’t think Ronald McDonald wears a bow tie.”
“Now you know why. In any case, Mary and I are still friends. That’s why I told her I was worried that your mother had been losing weight. She’s the one who called Mom and convinced her to make an appointment with the doctor who found the cancer. I wouldn’t have seen Dr. Sullivan if you hadn’t broken the tooth.”
“So?”
“So did you think that your chipped tooth was a gift from God?”
“No.”
Dad waved a roll of paper towels at me. “And yet—”
“There’s a big difference between cancer and a chipped tooth.”
“I’m not saying that cancer is a gift. Neither is a chipped tooth. But you don’t know what will come of it. Personally, I don’t believe that God has motives that we are supposed to understand or enjoy.”
“But you still say thank you.”
“Good manners never hurt anybody.”
A sudden, strong breeze cuts across Federal Green and knocks the cap off Michael’s head. He grabs for the hat and drops David Copperfield into the grass. Elena takes the book, opens to the beginning, and reads aloud: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”
Michael returns the baseball cap to his head. “Charles Dickens is awesome.”
“Are you kidding?” Elena holds up David Copperfield. “This book is like a sleeping pill.”
Michael’s mouth drops open. “What are you talking about? Dickens novels are like roller coasters. You have to enjoy the ride.”
Roller coaster rides make me want to vomit, but I don’t mention that.
“Plus,” says Michael, “he puts the whole story right there in the first sentence. That’s real writing.”
“You want real writing?” says Elena. “You want a first sentence? ‘Where’s papa going with that ax?’ That’s Charlotte’s Web. That’s real writing.”
Michael shakes his head. “You are not seriously comparing Charlotte’s Web to David Copperfield.”
“I can’t,” Elena tells him. “Charlotte’s Web is a good book.”
“You are insane,” says Michael.
Elena sticks her nose in the air. “My lack of sanity has no bearing on the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Even in kindergarten, Michael, Elena, and I obsessed about books. Not only that, the three of us believed that characters like Winnie the Pooh and Ramona Quimby and Despereaux Tilling actually existed. We fully expected to meet all our favorite characters in person one day. Books carried us away. They’d definitely carried me through this past year.
Michael takes David Copperfield out of Elena’s hands. “Just so you know, Charles Dickens was more popular than The Wizard of Oz and Harry Potter combined.”
I glance over the top of To Kill a Mockingbird. “I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true,” says Michael. “Dickens’s novels came out in monthly installments. People couldn’t wait for the next chapters to arrive. Mobs would gather at train stations and shipyards so they could be first in line to get the next part of the book.”
“Mobs?” I say.
“Hordes. Multitudes. Throngs.”
“I know what a mob is.”
“People don’t feel that way about books anymore,” Elena says sadly.
“Some people do,” I say.
“Not around here,” she replies.
“Elena,” I say, “we live around here.”
“Lucy,” she tells me, “we’re weird.”
Just then, we hear the umpire’s call from behind home plate. “STRIKE!” A smattering of applause and cheers makes it clear that the game is over.
Michael stands. “I don’t mind being weird.”
He jogs toward the dugout where one of the coaches greets him kindly. I see the man nodding and patting Michael on the back. It looks like things are going to work out baseball-wise. In the meantime, Elena climbs back aboard the tricycle. “You know,” she says, “we should start a mob.”
“A what?”
“A horde. A multitude. A throng.”
I glance up at the blue sky above us. On the horizon, a few puffy clouds look like they might be carrying rain, but right now it’s a perfect summer day. “I know what a mob is. What are we going to do with one?”
“We will speak for the books.”
“Like the Lorax?” When we were little, The Lorax was our favorite Dr. Seuss book.
“Exactly.”
“The Lorax speaks for the trees,” I remind her.
“Books are made out of paper.
Paper is made out of trees.”
“What about e-books?”
“We can speak for them, too.”
“Audiobooks?”
“Audiobooks speak for themselves.” She grins. “Get it?”
Michael returns to the bleachers. “It’s settled. I’m moving up.”
“Do you want to be in our mob?” Elena asks him.
“When did we get a mob?” he says.
“We don’t have one yet. I’m working on it.”
Michael turns to me.
“It’s got something to do with books.”
“In that case,” says Michael, “I’m in.”
“You don’t even know what it is,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “My mom says that ignorance rarely stops anybody from doing anything. I guess she’s right.”
6
Jesus, Ginger Ale, Norse Gods, and Wiener Dogs
It’s late in the morning, and I can’t remember what day of the week it is. That’s one of the things I love about summer vacation: it doesn’t matter what day of the week it is. I do know it’s a weekday, because Dad is at school. He’s at St. Brigid’s Monday through Friday doing principal stuff all summer long. Meanwhile, Mom’s asleep in a chaise lounge on the back porch. She looks quiet and comfortable. Dad will be home for lunch soon, so I let her sleep and head for Mort’s bookshop.
When I arrive, Mort is speaking with Officer Buskirk on the sidewalk in front of the store. “Morning, Lucy,” says Mort. “How is your mother?”
“Lots better,” I report.
Mrs. Buskirk puts her hand on my shoulder. “That’s good news. You give a shout if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “We will.”
Inside, Elena is sitting behind the cash register. She’s got her head buried in a novel while Michael steps out of the storeroom with two big cardboard boxes in his arms. Mort, who follows me into the shop, points Michael toward the counter near the cash register. “Right there will be good.”
Michael squeezes around tables and chairs covered with magazines and books. He finally makes it to the front of the store and drops the boxes onto a chest-high shelf.
“Lucy,” says Mort, “you’re just in time.”
With his gray beard and gray hair pulled back into a long ponytail, Mort looks like an aging rock star. According to my parents, he’s raised Elena as half princess and half business partner. In other words, she can do pretty much anything she wants as long as she helps out at the store and treats the king kindly. From what I’ve seen, both the king (a.k.a. Mort) and the princess have a pretty good deal.
“In time for what?” I ask.
“The big reveal.” Mort pulls a Cub Scout knife from his front pocket and slices open a box.
Elena lowers the paperback she’s reading. It’s a novel called Franny and Zooey. I’ve read it before, but I don’t remember it that well. I point at the book. “Isn’t that the one about the girl who lies around the house crying all the time?”
Elena nods. “She stops eventually.”
“She stops when Jesus shows up,” says Michael.
Elena shakes her head. “Jesus doesn’t show up.”
“He does too.”
“Does not.”
“Jesus comes into the kitchen and asks for a glass of ginger ale,” Michael reminds her.
“It’s only a small glass,” I recall.
“I don’t even like ginger ale,” says Elena.
Michael shakes his head. “You’re missing the point.”
“If Jesus comes over,” says Mort, “you can ask him to turn your ginger ale into grape soda.” He reaches into the cardboard box and pulls out several books. They are all brand new copies of To Kill a Mockingbird.
“That’s on our summer reading list,” I say.
“I know.” Mort opens the remaining boxes. “I’ve also got Ender’s Game, David Copperfield, Fahrenheit 451, and all the others, too.” He stacks the books neatly on the counter. “I’ve been thinking about doing some kind of online thing to let kids know they can get their summer reading books here. Do any of you know how to do that?” Mort is not much of a computer guy.
“Maybe we could get everybody’s e-mail addresses from school?” Michael suggests.
“I don’t think my dad gives that stuff out,” I tell him.
Elena tosses Franny and Zooey onto a nearby shelf. “Nobody reads e-mail,” she says. “We need to get everybody’s cell numbers and text them.” She walks around to the front of the counter. “Or maybe we could use Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and all that.”
“What are you talking about?” Mort says to her.
Before Elena can answer, the front door swings open and a small, dark-haired girl steps into the shop. She’s wearing a too-big baseball cap stuffed over a mess of wild, dark curls. A sky-blue T-shirt reaches down to her knees, and she’s got a tiny dachshund stuffed into the crook of one arm. The dog has a red, white, and blue collar attached to a long, green leash that’s dragging on the ground behind them. “My name is Ginny,” the girl says in a very loud voice. “Do you have any dog books?”
Her dachshund squirms and wiggles and wags his tail like a wind-up toy plugged into a nuclear power plant.
“Sure,” says Elena.
Ginny examines Elena. The two of them are nearly the same height. “Do you work here?”
“I live here.”
Ginny, who can’t be more than eight or nine years old, turns around in a circle to take in the entire store. When she’s done, she puts her free hand on her hip as if she owns the place. She returns her gaze to Elena. “So do you have dog books or not?”
Elena narrows her eyes. “I just said we did.”
“What kind of dog books?” I ask. “Books with stories about dogs? Books about raising puppies? Books about dog training?”
“My dog is very well trained.” Ginny places her dachshund onto the floor. Unfortunately, nobody seems to have let the dog know that he’s well-trained. The moment his feet hit the ground, he sprints full speed toward the back of the shop. The dachshund’s tiny toenails sound like toothpicks spilling across a table top. His leash skitters behind him like a skinny snake trying to catch its supper.
“Hey!” yells Elena.
“Balder!” hollers Ginny.
“Balder?” says Michael.
Ginny glares at him. “That’s his name.”
Mort laughs.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Balder is the Norse god of beauty, light, and joy,” says Mort.
“So?”
“So that’s a wiener dog.”
Just then, Balder’s leash snags beneath a knee-high pile of self-help books. Balder gives a loud YIP! and a tug. The books topple over, and the dog is off to the races again.
“Could somebody please stop him?” Mort asks calmly.
“Balder!” Ginny shouts again. The dog glances back over his shoulder, offers another excited YIP! and keeps going. The dachshund skids around another bookshelf, knocks over a pile of old LIFE magazines, and then stops to chase his tail for a moment. He is obviously having the time of his life.
“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” Ginny moves toward Balder, but before she gets too close the dog sprints away.
“Run, run, run,” says Mort, “as fast as you can. You can’t catch Balder, he’s—”
“—a small Norse god trapped in the body of a wiener dog,” I say.
Mort laughs. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
The dachshund appears at the end of a row of murder mysteries. At the other end of the row, Elena squats down so that she is at eye level with the little canine. “Balder!” she yells. “Stay!”
The dog skids to a full stop.
“Come!” says Elena.
Balder stares at Elena’s face for a moment as if he’s considering the request.
“You heard me,” Elena tells the dog.
Suddenly, Balder puts his head down and races toward E
lena at top speed. At the last moment, he leaps into her arms and proceeds to cover her face in licks and kisses.
“Nice job, Frigga,” Mort tells Elena.
“Who’s Frigga?”
Ginny sits on the floor next to Elena and begins to pet her dog. “Frigga is Balder’s mom. She was a queen. She could see the future, but she wouldn’t tell anybody about it.”
“How do you know that?” asks Elena.
“I read books,” Ginny says as if this should be obvious.
Mort reaches down and takes the dachshund from Elena’s arms. “I will hold on to Balder,” he says to Ginny. “Our friendly staff will help you find some dog books.”
“Thank you,” Ginny says politely. “I’d like that.”
Michael, Elena, and I spend the next half hour assembling a stack of titles featuring great canines. We find used copies of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Lassie Come Home, The Phantom Tollbooth, Because of Winn Dixie, The View from Saturday, and Babe the Gallant Pig.
Ginny examines the pile. “Are you sure these are dog books?”
Mort points to a picture book called Noodle. Its cover features a simple, bright painting of a sleeping dachshund. “This is a macaroni cookbook.”
“I don’t believe you,” says the girl.
Mort shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Ginny digs a handful of paper money plus a bunch of coins from her pocket. She holds it out toward Mort. “This is all I’ve got.”
Mort takes a five dollar bill and two quarters from Ginny’s palm. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Ginny puts her change away and retrieves Balder from Mort’s arms. “Thank you,” she says.
“Come back soon,” says Michael.
“And your little dog, too,” adds Mort. Once the door swings shut, he sighs. “I love my job.”
“You just love chasing wiener dogs,” says Elena.
Mort’s mustache perks up. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Elena takes one of the To Kill a Mockingbird copies that are still stacked on the counter. “We forgot to give Ginny one of these.”
“That’s not a dog book,” says Michael.
I Kill the Mockingbird Page 3
