I Kill the Mockingbird

by Paul Acampora

  Michael’s reaction was a little different. “This is seriously out of control.”

  Neither Elena nor I could disagree. On the bright side, every one of those articles mentioned a surge of renewed local interest in To Kill a Mockingbird. In Madison, the disappearing books inspired a local theater group to stage To Kill a Mockingbird in a public park. In Montgomery, the local library announced plans to host a day-long, community-wide To Kill a Mockingbird read-aloud. Anybody can stop in, step up to the podium, and recite a few pages. There are rumors that Harper Lee herself might be there, if not in person, then in spirit. In Spunky Puddle, the mayor invited all one hundred seventy-two Spunky Puddle citizens to join him for the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, which he’ll be showing on the back of his barn on Saturday night.

  But then I think about Mr. Dobby. The look on his face was devastating. He was totally crushed when he found the empty shelf covered in I Kill the Mockingbird flyers. Not only that, even though we don’t want to admit it—not to the world and not to ourselves—there are people out there who are stealing books under the I Kill the Mockingbird flag. We started this whole thing to do something good, but now bad things are happening, too. “You know it’s time to end this,” I say to Michael and Elena.

  Michael looks up from his phone. Elena turns in her seat to face me. “Lucy,” she says, “we can’t just shut it off.”

  “We have to,” I tell her.

  “But it’s not just the books. It’s all the people who joined us online too.”

  I look at Michael. “How many do you think there are?”

  He shrugs. “Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands … Who knows?”

  Outside, cars and trees and people glide by our windows. They are unaware that the fat, blue bus rolling past them contains a trio of radicals, rebels, and literary terrorists.

  “We have to end it,” I say.

  “What if we can’t?” asks Elena.

  “We can,” I promise.

  The bus goes over a big bump as if the road beneath us disagrees.

  Elena sighs. “But how?”

  “We’ll just have to figure it out,” I say.

  “We’ll need a big finish,” she tells me.

  “We’ll need to not get caught,” says Michael.

  “That would be good, too,” Elena agrees.

  The bus takes a sharp corner then comes to a stop beside the Federal Green. It’s late afternoon, the sky is blue, and the air smells like freshly cut grass. We’re the only ones getting off in West Glover, so we thank the driver then head over to the bleachers at the baseball field. A couple of T-ball teams are playing something that looks like baseball. I see Michael’s mom kneeling next to a little girl who is wearing a batting helmet the size of a spaghetti pot. Officer Buskirk, still in her police uniform, whispers into the girl’s ear, and then the two of them break into laughter. A moment later, the child steps into the batter’s box. With her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, she stares at the ball, which is resting on a black tee in front of home plate. Suddenly, the girl swings clean and fast. The ball leaps off the end of her bat and flies far and deep into center field.

  “What did your mom say to that girl?” I ask Michael.

  He shrugs. “She says something different to everybody.”

  “Is it always the right thing?” Elena asks.

  He gives a little smile. “Pretty much.”

  We cheer for the little girl as she sprints around the bases. By the time she tags third, we are jumping up and down and screaming out loud. Michael’s mom sees us and starts to laugh. “SAFE!” we all shout when the girl slides into home.

  Officer Buskirk gives us a big smile and two thumbs up. “Your mom is proud of you,” I say to Michael.

  He nods.

  “Is that why you’re so good?” Elena asks him.

  “I’m better than I’d be without her.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to get in trouble?”

  “Probably,” he admits.

  A loud PING! from another aluminum bat connecting with a baseball interrupts our conversation. The three of us turn to watch several small fielders run around with no apparent destination. Finally, the ball turns up in one of their gloves. From there, the game quickly turns into a mix of catch and tag and brawl. “I’m beginning to understand why they call this America’s pastime,” I say to Michael.

  Elena shakes her head. “It’s like you can’t look away.”

  “It’s because you don’t want it to end,” Michael tells her.

  “You know,” Elena says after a moment, “I really don’t want to go to high school.”

  “High school will be fine,” I promise.

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re tall and smart, and now you’ve got a boyfriend.”

  “Right,” I say. “Everybody in high school wants to be friends with geeky girls shaped like skyscrapers. As far as having a boyfriend, we hardly kissed.”

  “But you will.”

  I shift uncomfortably on the hard bleacher seat. “We’ll see,” I say.

  “Hello,” says Michael. “I’m sitting right here.”

  “I just mean that it’s too soon to call you my boyfriend,” I explain.

  “Fine,” says Michael, but he sounds annoyed.

  “I wouldn’t mind calling you my boyfriend one day,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Really.”

  Elena rolls her eyes. “Well that didn’t take long.”

  “Elena,” I say, “you’re pretty, you’re smart, and you’re funny. High school boys are going to fall all over you.”

  “That’s because they’ll trip on me before they notice I’m there.”

  “You’ll cut them down to size,” I say.

  “And then you’ll have them where you want them,” Michael tells her.

  That makes Elena laugh.

  “If you want them at all,” I add.

  Elena sighs. “You really think it’s going to be all right?”

  “I know it will.” I remember what Mom told me back at the cemetery. “Because we’re going to do it together.”

  The three of us sit quietly for a while. We watch the tiny T-ball players skip and run and laugh as they chase a bucket of tennis balls that Officer Buskirk has tossed onto the infield. Suddenly, Elena blurts out a question. “What if we throw a party?”

  “For what?” says Michael.

  “That’s how we can end the whole Mockingbird thing.”

  “A funeral for the Mockingbird?” I ask.

  Michael looks up at the sky. “We weren’t supposed to kill it.”

  “We didn’t,” says Elena. “And it won’t be just a funeral. It will be more like a festival.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Remember what Father Wrigley told us at Mr. Nowak’s funeral. It wasn’t just an ending.”

  “It sure wasn’t,” says Elena.

  “How are we going to throw a funeral?” Michael asks.

  “We’ll send out invitations,” says Elena as if it’s obvious. “And we’ll post it online, too. People from school and around town can come. Maybe our friends on the Internet will come, too. Even if they can’t, we’ll let them know that it’s time to put everything back where it belongs.” She looks around the Green. “We can do it right here!”

  Michael looks at Elena as if she’s lost her mind. “What happened to not getting caught?”

  That stops Elena, but only for a second. “We’ll just have to do it in secret.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Elena stands and points at the park around us. “There’s picnic tables. There’s plenty of parking. There’s a playground. There’s a bandstand. This will work!”

  “She’s serious,” I say to Michael.

  “First we kill the mockingbird,” says Elena, “and then we throw the most exciting funeral of all time. What do you think?”

  I think back to the day we buried Fat Bob. “Elena,” I say, “the secon
d most exciting funeral of all time will be just fine.”

  20

  Put Back Your Books or Boo Radley Will Get You

  We decide that it will all come to an end at the Federal Green on the final Saturday in August. “That’s less than two weeks away,” Michael says.

  “And then summer’s over, and then school starts, and then we’re in high school, and then we’re grownups, and then we die,” says Elena.

  “I think what she means,” I say, “is that we’re running out of time.”

  We begin by posting messages online, which is tricky because we know that Michael’s mom, my dad, and apparently a large part of the world is keeping a close eye on I Kill the Mockingbird now. Our website has been overwhelmed by comments and questions and notes from all over the universe. Some of them are encouraging, some are scary, and some are just weird.

  it is NOT a sin to #killthemockingbird

  #ikillthemockingbird MUST DIE

  If that #ikillthemockingbird doesn’t sing, I’m going to buy you a diamond ring.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asks Michael during one of our late night meetings at the bookshop.

  “I think somebody wants to marry us,” Elena tells him.

  “I’m starting to hate the World Wide Web,” I say while we respond to several dozen new Twitter messages and Facebook notes.

  “Is it the ability to communicate easily, directly, and cheaply that you hate?” asks Michael. “Or is it the way that the Internet enables a free and unfettered worldwide exchange of information and ideas that brings you down?”

  While we’re talking, Michael uploads a photo of one of the paper signs we’ve been posting on phone poles and shop windows and community bulletin boards around West Glover. We sneak around after midnight and slip them beneath windshield wipers of parked cars, too. The signs feature the same cryptic message with a bird at the center of the bull’s-eye. But this time, the bird is dead.

  Weirdly, it seems like there are a lot more signs around town than just the ones that we’ve been putting up. “People are helping us,” says Elena.

  “Who?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “This has taken on a life of its own.”

  Actually, that’s not totally true. We’ve discovered several good strategies for giving ourselves more life than we really deserve. First, we communicate every day with anybody and everybody who stops by one of the Mockingbird sites. We also send notes to folks who haven’t visited in a while. Second, we spend as much time as possible on various online book discussion groups where we comment often and include links back to our own pages. Finally, we start flame wars with ourselves. Basically, we use fake accounts to say really stupid things on our Twitter feeds and Facebook comments. Because so many smart people are our friends and followers now, dozens of them immediately jump in to correct misinformation and come to our defense. Getting a really good flame war started can bring in a hundred new fans. Our biggest success occurred when Elena suggested that Forrest Gump was actually a sequel to the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird. Nearly a thousand angry people joined that conversation. More than half of them stayed with us when the shouting was done.

  In any case, slowly but surely, a new kind of I Kill the Mockingbird message is starting to spread.

  #ikillthemockingbird RETURN POLICY = YES.

  PUT BACK UR BOOKS OR BOO RADLEY WILL GET U #ikillthemockingbird

  HOW R #ikillthemockingbird BOOKS LIKE SWALLOWS, BOOMERANGS, ZOMBIES, AND JESUS? THEY COME BACK.

  Online, we post a link to the Mockingbird Manifesto at least once a day.

  WE SUPPORT ALL ACTIONS THAT LEAD TO THE JOY, THE FUN, THE REWARD, THE CHALLENGE, AND THE ADVENTURE OF READING. WE DO NOT CONDONE THIEVERY, VANDALISM, OR CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR … WE FIGHT FOR THE BOOKS!

  I’m not sure that it will be enough.

  In the meantime, we’re starting to hear a general buzz and questions around town. Several strangers start to drop by Mort’s bookshop. They are mostly young and smart and friendly. They come into the store to buy books, and they take photos of our novel-killing Santa with their cell phones.

  “Do you know anything about the Mockingbirdpalooza?” a college-age boy asks me the day before the party. He’s wearing plaid shorts, plastic sandals, and a brown concert T-shirt from some band called The Loom. A big, black gym bag is slung over his shoulder.

  I glance at Elena who is pushing a broom near the shop’s front door. “Mockingbirdpalooza?” I ask.

  “We think your town is sort of the epicenter.” The boy is cute, but not as cute as Michael, who has a baseball game today. “A bunch of us drove in from Providence to see what it’s all about.”

  Mort looks up from his computer. “Whatever it is, it’s been great for business.”

  A tall Asian girl joins the boy at the counter. She’s wearing a long, baggy blouse over a halter top and black leggings that stop at her knees.

  “Soo thinks it’s some kind of locavore movement for books,” the boy explains.

  “Loco-what?” asks Mort.

  “Are you part of the event?” she asks.

  “We think there’s going to be a free concert or something,” says the boy.

  Mort eyes the college kids. “Why would there be a concert?”

  “To focus attention on so-called great books,” says the girl. “But not all of them are necessarily that great.”

  “I Kill the Mockingbird is about killing off a few classics and making room for new ones,” says the boy.

  Elena turns to face him. “I don’t think that’s what it’s about.”

  “Whatever it is,” he replies, “it got us to read the novel again.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Definitely.”

  “Did you like it?” I ask him.

  “I totally lost it when Atticus shot that dog.”

  “Me too!”

  “Then you’ve got to come to Mockingbirdpalooza.” The boy turns to Mort. “And bring Santa too!”

  “I don’t do paloozas,” Mort says.

  “Check this out.” The boy unzips his bag. First he pulls out a ukulele. Next he finds a small tablet computer. He stuffs the ukulele back into the bag then places the tablet onto the counter. We all gather around him as he uses his computer to pull up our website. Michael has added lots of bells and whistles to the website since summer began. As soon as the page loads, a big, bold drum-driven tune begins to play while a message scrolls across the screen.

  JOIN A POWERFUL WEST GLOVER GATHERING TO KILL THE MOCKINGBIRD.

  “I love this song,” says the girl.

  “Hmmm,” says Mort.

  The boy clicks over to our Instagram page where a dozen different photos show Santa Claus in Mort’s window. “Who took these?” asks Mort.

  The boy shrugs. “Lots of people. Your Santa is a total online celebrity.”

  In addition to Mort’s shop, there are also several pictures showing I Kill the Mockingbird bookstore displays that have popped up around the country. A few of them feature their own Santa Claus dolls.

  “Interesting,” says Mort.

  In the comments sections of the pages, people are debating the merits of various novels. They’re yelling at each other and suggesting alternate summer reading plans. There are also bunches of links to articles and essays and book reviews. In addition to all that, it looks like a lot of folks are planning to visit West Glover soon. Mort points at the little computer. “This looks like part Woodstock and part military invasion.”

  “And part dumb luck,” I mutter.

  Elena jabs an elbow into my ribs.

  “What?” says Mort.

  “Nothing!” we say.

  But for just a moment, I consider confessing everything. There’s a part of me that wants the whole thing to be over. And part of me simply wants to brag. I’m glad that all our work has convinced people—even if it’s just two college kids from Providence—to read To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “Promise you’ll be there,” the bo
y says.

  “It will be fun,” says the girl.

  Mort considers the college kids. “What are your names anyway?”

  “I’m David Donovan,” says the boy. He points at his friend. “This is Callie Soo Bendickson.”

  The girl holds her hand out to Mort. “My friends call me Soo Bee.”

  Mort shakes her hand. “When is this palooza thing happening, Soo Bee?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “On Federal Green,” I add.

  Everybody turns toward me. Elena gives me a dirty look.

  I feel my face burn red. “That’s what the signs say.”

  “Do you want to go?” Mort asks Elena.

  She shrugs. “Soo Bee says it will be fun.”

  “Soo Bee Soo Bee Soo,” says Mort. “Okay, we’ll be there.”

  “Santa Claus, too?” asks David.

  Mort laughs. “Sure. Santa will be there.”

  “Excellent!” says David. “It wouldn’t be a palooza without Santa.”

  21

  Kindling Words

  I’m sitting at the end of the Federal Green bleachers on the morning of the big party. Or the funeral. Or the palooza. Or whatever we’re calling it now.

  Down on the field, Michael is playing baseball. The air above the outfield has that wavy look that happens when too much heat gets mixed with too much humidity. Even the bench beneath me is warm. I didn’t tell Michael or anybody that I was coming to the game. I don’t even know what inning it is or who’s winning. I don’t really care. I just like watching Michael play.

  At the plate, a batter takes a sharp cut and fires a line drive. The ball ricochets off the pitcher’s glove which turns it into a high, spinning pop fly. Michael, who is playing second base, turns away from the pitcher and breaks into a sprint toward the outfield. “I GOT IT!” he yells. Without looking back, he sticks his glove up. The ball lands in his palm with a solid smack!

  “He’s not bad,” says somebody nearby.

  I turn and find my mother standing beside me. She’s got a camera around her neck and another one dangling over her shoulder. She’s also carrying a fat, black equipment bag and several lenses in holsters around her waist.