I point at the building. “You need pictures of this?”
“Not really.”
“But you asked me for help.”
“I lied.”
“Then why are we here?”
Mom lowers her camera. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“Lucy,” says Mom, “here’s the thing…”
I feel my heart begin to speed up. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t like hummus.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hummus,” says Mom. “It’s like garlic peanut butter except it’s made out of beans.”
“Okay,” I say.
Mom continues. “I don’t actually like salads or soups or lentils, either. Also, I wish you’d stop trying to get me to eat so much fresh fruit. It gives me a stomachache.”
My mother has just listed most of the foods that I’ve been trying to put in front of her since she got home from the hospital. “But—”
“And there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Lucy,” says Mom, “I am going to die.”
Suddenly I feel like I can’t catch my breath. “What?” I say again.
“You heard me.”
A cicada’s whine splits the air. A pair of swallows darts past my head. “You brought me into a cemetery to tell me this?”
Mom reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It seemed appropriate. But that’s not all.”
“There’s more?”
“I am not going to die today.”
I pull my hand away from her. “What are you talking about?”
“Of course I could get hit by a school bus or accidentally electrocute myself or something, but that’s unlikely. It really would take some kind of weird, long-shot mishap for me to be dead by tomorrow or even the next day.”
“Are you going to die or not?” I ask my mother.
Mom points at the gravesites all around us. “We all die, Lucy. Me. You. Everybody. But you know what we do first?”
I shake my head.
“We pretend that it’s not going to happen. We make believe that we’re never going to die. Do you know what that’s called?”
“Lying?” I say.
“Living, Lucy. It’s called living. That’s what I’m going to do now. So please stop tip-toeing around the house because you’re afraid that loud noises might disturb me. Please stop giving me carrots and granola and organic skim milk. Please stop looking at me like I might fall and break into a million pieces any minute. It’s depressing.”
“Milk is good for your teeth!”
“I had cancer,” says Mom, “not cavities.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“A hot dog would be nice.”
“Hot dogs? Why don’t we just go buy a bag of chemicals so that you can gobble it up with a spoon?”
“We did that,” says Mom. “It was called chemotherapy. It saved my life. Now I’m going to eat what I want.”
“What exactly are you trying to tell me?” I say.
Mom stares at me for a moment before answering. “Be happy.”
“Be happy?”
“Be happy,” she says again.
“That’s it?”
Mom shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.”
I lean against a nearby grave marker. Mom swings her camera up and before I can protest, she snaps a couple of pictures of me. “Can you please stop?” I say.
She lowers the camera.
“I mean can I say something?” I ask.
“Of course you can,” Mom tells me.
“Would it be so hard for you take a little better care of yourself?”
“I take care of myself.”
“You don’t!” I yell at her. “You eat junk. You don’t sleep. No wonder you got cancer!”
“Lucy,” Mom says, “you don’t catch cancer.”
“You don’t seem to be trying to avoid it either.”
“That’s not fair,” says Mom. “Do you think I wanted to get sick?”
“Of course not, but—”
“But what?”
“You were dead!” I holler. “The doctors told us that you were going to die. You don’t remember, but we were in your hospital room, and we kissed you goodbye.” I start to cry. “And now you’re alive. It’s like a miracle. It should mean something. It’s like a second chance. When something like this happens to people, they change their lives.”
“You want me to change my life by eating more fruit?” Mom says.
“I don’t know what I want.” But then I think about what Michael said about me, and I realize that I do know what I want. I just have to say it. “Mom,” I begin. “I love you. And Dad loves you.” Now I’m sobbing as if my mother really did die. “And I want you to take care of yourself as if you really believed it.”
“Oh, Lucy,” says Mom.
A gentle wind moves through the cemetery and rustles the trees so that a soft shhhh, shhhh, shhhh fills the air around us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You were so sick. I was so scared.” I’m just blubbering now, but I can’t stop. “I’m still scared.”
Mom opens her arms and I rush into them. “It’s okay to be scared,” she whispers to me. “I’m scared, too. But we can get through this.”
“How?” I ask.
“Together, Lucy. We get through this together.”
18
The Secret Circus
Michael lifts a cardboard box filled with used books onto Mort’s counter, and I start sorting through them. People are always leaving cartons and grocery bags filled with worn titles at the shop’s door. I guess they feel bad about throwing books away. Mort asked Michael and me to see if this week’s contributions include anything worthwhile, but I can already see that most of it is going to end up in the recycling bin.
“My mother is asking Mockingbird questions,” Michael whispers to me.
“I know,” I say.
Elena ran out to get us some lunch. Mort is assembling a new set of bookshelves along the store’s back wall. There are Christmas carols on the record player again, and a bluesy, big-voiced soul-singer is belting out I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. For some reason, the way the singer draws out the word I … makes me think of St. Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, and, God forgive me, I laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Michael asks.
“The song,” I tell him.
Just then, Elena enters the shop with our lunch. “What’s going on?”
“Lucy thinks that kissing is funny,” Michael tells her.
I toss an old Scrooge McDuck comic book at him. “I do not.”
“It is kind of funny if you think about it,” says Elena. “Who decided that smashing faces together would be a good way to improve a conversation?”
“You think it’s a conversation?” Michael asks.
“It is if you’re doing it right,” Mort hollers from the back of the store.
“Remember when Mr. Nowak told us that being a good reader is like having a good conversation?” says Elena. “I bet good readers make good kissers.”
“That’s not what I was laughing about,” I tell my friends.
Elena places a bag of sandwiches on the counter then heads toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back. In the meantime, maybe the two of you want to have—” She makes air quotes. “—a conversation.”
She leaves the two of us alone at the counter. Suddenly, we both find the pile of used books incredibly interesting. Around us, tiny specks of dust sparkle in the summer sunshine that’s pouring through the bookshop windows. Meanwhile, the Ronettes or the Crystals or the Bobby Soxers are still singing about Santa.
The lunch bag between us reminds me of Mr. Nowak who said I should enjoy every sandwich and be brave and pay attention to the world and share beautiful things. Somehow, those thoughts lead me to Mom who wants me to be happy and eat more hot dogs. And then there’s Michael who believes that I am brave and that I
should say what I want. And he’s right.
“So…” Michael finally says.
Before he can continue, I lean forward and just barely brush Michael’s lips with my own.
“Hey!” Mort yells at us. “That’s enough of that!”
I feel my face turn beet red. “We were just—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” says Mort. “You’ve got work to do.”
I push a strand of hair out of my face. I feel a little bit breathless. I don’t even know if what just happened counts as a real kiss. If it was, it was the tiniest kiss in the history of the world. On the other hand, it felt pretty big to me.
A moment later, Elena returns with napkins and water bottles and chips. “What did I miss?” she asks.
I feel my face begin to burn again. “Uh…” I say.
“Ummm…” offers Michael.
Elena nods. “You kissed him, didn’t you?” she says to me.
“I—”
Elena holds up her hand. “Stop,” she says. “Don’t talk.”
“But—”
“I’m serious,” she says. “If you talk, you’re going to ruin the moment.”
I open my mouth, but before I can speak Elena pops a chip into it. Suddenly, my tongue is on fire, my eyes are watering, and I feel like I’m going to gag.
“Smoky jalapeño bacon,” Elena says to me. “Do you like it?”
I shake my head. “No!”
She holds the bag toward Michael. He pushes it away. “I’m good.”
I take several huge swigs out of my water bottle. “You’re not just saying that?” I finally ask him.
“I’m not saying anything,” he replies.
My heart is pounding. I’m not sure if it’s from the kiss, the conversation, or the snack food. “Why not?”
“I’m trying to not ruin the moment.”
I grab a napkin and try to wipe the taste of pork rind, hot pepper, and house fire off my tongue.
Elena rolls her eyes. “It might be too late for that.”
Michael smiles. “It’s not.”
We eat the rest of our lunch mostly in silence. When we’re done, I glance at the clock and realize that a transit bus will be heading to the mall in just a few minutes. Somehow, this seems like a better idea than hanging out shoulder to shoulder inside Mort’s shop for the rest of the afternoon. “Anybody want to visit Mr. Dobby?” I ask.
“If you’re going, we’re going,” Elena says. “We’re the three musketeers.”
“Or the three stooges,” offers Michael.
“Or the three little pigs,” I say.
Elena crumbles up the sandwich wrappings and tosses the balled-up paper at me. “Who are you calling little?”
A few minutes later, we step inside the mall. I wish I was holding Michael’s hand, but we’ll be heading in different directions once we get inside. Over the summer, we’ve learned that a teenager shopping alone gets almost no attention—and no assistance—from your average retailer. On the other hand, three teenagers shopping together make some people want to call in a SWAT team.
Once we get to Mr. Dobby’s bookstore, I wander into the children’s section. To Kill a Mockingbird copies are shelved there sometimes, but today I find nothing but titles and characters that are like old friends to me. There’s Because of Winn Dixie, Officer Buckle and Gloria, Ella Enchanted, Harry Potter, The Tiger Rising, the Grinch, Emma Jean Lazarus, Pictures of Hollis Woods, Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, Shark Wars … Elena and Michael tease me about my love for Shark Wars, but I don’t care what they think. Talking sharks are cool, and not every book has to be a classic.
In the meantime, I’m still sort of shocked at what I did back at Mort’s. I kissed Michael Buskirk. At least I think I did. I wonder if he thinks that I did. If Elena is right, Michael and I have started a conversation. But haven’t we kind of been having a conversation for our whole lives? That’s what friends do. But this is something new.
I take a picture book off a shelf and stare at the cover. Its title is The Secret Circus. I laugh out loud. This whole summer has been a secret circus. On the book’s cover, a group of tiny, smiling mice peer over the edge of a hot-air balloon basket as they soar over nighttime Paris. Behind them, the city and the sky and even the brightly lit Eiffel Tower are simply drawn. I don’t see a circus anywhere. I’m guessing that the story inside this book is not really about the circus at all. I bet it’s about all the ways that those mice love each other and care for each other and even make each other crazy. That’s my favorite kind of story. It strikes me that I’m living that story—secret circus and all—right now.
A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. “Hello there!”
I turn and see Mr. Dobby heading toward me. “Oh,” I say. “Hello.”
Behind Mr. Dobby, Elena pokes her head out from the other side of a tall bookshelf. Just across the aisle from her, Michael does the same thing. The expressions on their faces are part terror and part—okay, it’s all terror.
“Hello,” I say again to Mr. Dobby.
“I remember you!” he says. “You’re the young lady that crashed into Romance.”
“True Crime,” I tell him.
“No,” he says. “It was definitely Romance. What are you doing here?”
“Umm…” I wave The Secret Circus at him. “… shopping?”
“Alone?”
“I … uh … Why do you ask?”
He glances around as if somebody might be spying on us. Michael and Elena duck behind cardboard displays. “Have you heard about the Mockingbird conspiracy?”
I stare at him blankly. “Are you talking about To Kill a Mockingbird?”
He nods. “That’s right. The whole thing has me keeping a very close eye on school-age shoppers this summer. I’m sure that a good girl like you is not involved, but—”
“What whole thing?”
Mr. Dobby steps back. His eyes open wide. “You don’t know?”
“Know about what?” I ask innocently. At the same time, I look over the store manager’s shoulder and catch a glimpse of Elena and Michael quickly stuffing books behind nearby shelves. I’m not sure whether to laugh out loud or run for my life.
Mr. Dobby lowers his voice. “There is a secret and ongoing plot to prevent people from reading To Kill a Mockingbird!”
“There is?” I say.
He taps a finger on the picture book in my hand. “Never mind The Secret Circus. This is a conspiracy!”
“To Kill a Mockingbird is on my school’s summer reading list,” I say.
“Do you have a copy?” Mr. Dobby asks me.
I nod. “It’s my favorite book.”
“You are very lucky.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Not everybody has been able to get their hands on the novel,” he explains.
Behind Mr. Dobby, Michael and Elena finish their shelving and head for the exit. “Do you have copies available?” I ask the store manager.
“I do,” he says proudly. “A shipment arrived earlier today. It’s the first time we’ve been able to carry the book in weeks.”
“I know that some of my friends haven’t read it yet,” I say. “Do you think I could get a copy for them today?”
“You can!” exclaims Mr. Dobby. “Just follow me!” He leads me past history and electronics and rock ’n’ roll. I see shelves filled with philosophy and baking and war and ballet. There’s even a display dedicated to zombie and vampire defense. I hope I never need one of those books, but I’m glad they’re here in case I do. In fact, I’m glad that all the books are here. The whole store reminds me just how much I love to read.
In front of me, the store manager comes to a very sudden stop. “Mr. Dobby?” I say. “Is everything all right?”
Mr. Dobby says nothing.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Mr. Dobby points at an empty shelf in front of us. “They’re gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gone!” The
little man is on the verge of tears. “They’re all gone!”
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”
He nods.
“Maybe somebody bought them,” I suggest.
Mr. Dobby shakes his head. He reaches out and pulls down the paper flyer that’s taped to the wall behind the empty shelf. He hands the little poster to me. I read the page aloud.
“I Kill the Mockingbird.”
19
The Second Most Exciting Funeral of All Time
“That was a close one,” Michael says once we step aboard the bus heading back to West Glover.
Elena points at the bag I’m holding. “It couldn’t have been that close. Lucy had time to shop.”
I take a seat as the bus lurches forward. “You weren’t standing next to Mr. Dobby when he started to cry. I had to buy something.” I pull The Secret Circus out of my bag. “Also, I really wanted this book.”
Elena plops down beside me. Michael sits in the row ahead of us. He turns to face Elena. “Where did you hide your Mockingbirds?” he asks.
“Ornithology,” she replies.
“You hid To Kill a Mockingbird with the bird books?” I ask.
Elena shrugs. “I was being ironic.”
Michael pulls out his phone and punches at the screen. “I put mine behind True Crime.”
“We are not criminals,” I say.
“Not true criminals.” Elena leans into me as the bus swings out of the mall parking lot.
I point at Michael’s phone. “Who are you calling?”
“I’m not calling anybody. I keep a list on my phone of all the places we’ve hidden books in case we ever get a chance to put them back.”
Elena shakes her head. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men—”
“—probably wouldn’t be enough to put all these books back where they belong,” Michael says.
They’re both right. Books are going missing all over the country now. I can’t imagine how we’ll ever be able to put them all back. This morning, we found online newspaper reports of I Kill the Mockingbird activity in Montgomery, Alabama; Salt Lake City, Utah; Madison, Wisconsin; and Spunky Puddle, Ohio. “If we’ve made it there, we’ve made it everywhere,” Elena said when we saw the news from Spunky Puddle.
I Kill the Mockingbird Page 9
