I Kill the Mockingbird

by Paul Acampora

  “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 Mockingbirdpaloo
za, 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.

  “Wow!” says Dad.

  We watch as the boy floats backward then tumbles into the grass. He lies there for a moment then pops up with the ball in his hand. Every person—spectators and players alike—leaps to their feet and cheers.

  “That was awesome,” says Mort.

  “Good catch,” says Mrs. Buskirk.

  I look down at the dugout and find Michael. He is shaking his head and smiling. Even though the game is over and his team defeated, he hops onto a wobbly bench near the dugout and applauds the player who is jogging back toward the infield with the ball. Michael turns his attention to the stands, catches me staring at him, and waves.

  “I’ll be right back.” Before Mom and Dad can answer, I hop down the bleachers and trot toward the dugout. I find Michael standing near home plate watching me approach. “Good game,” I say when I reach him.

  “We lost,” he points out.

  Around us, players from both teams gather up gloves and bats and balls. Most of them smile and laugh when the outfielder who made the magic catch gets wrapped up in a big hug from a woman who must be his mom.

  “Of course,” says Michael, “if you have to lose, it’s not a bad way to go.”

  “That’s how I feel about our summer,” I tell him.

  He nods. “Except that we didn’t lose.”

  “No,” I say. “We really didn’t.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by a couple older boys who approach Michael and give him high fives. “We wish you were on our team next year,” they tell him.

  Michael just smiles.

  “Won’t you be playing with them in high school?” I ask when they walk away.

  “They’re in college,” he explains.

  “Oh.”<
br />
  Michael reaches out and takes my hand. We start walking toward the bleachers together. “So what happens now?”

  I think about what Officer Buskirk said at the police station. “That’s up to us,” I remind him.

  “That works for me,” says Michael.

  “Me too,” I tell him.

  I look around the park. I see family and friends everywhere I turn. Mom has an arm around Dad as they work their way down the bleachers. Elena is making Mort and Mrs. Buskirk laugh. The sky above us is turning dark blue, and Michael’s hand is warm and strong in my own.

  As we walk off the field, a light breeze lifts a scrap of white paper off the ground. It blows against the leg of a nearby baseball player. He picks it up, reads it, and then waves it at his friends. I recognize the bull’s-eye and the bird from here.

  “Hey!” the kid hollers, “did anybody read that Mockingbird book this summer? It was awesome!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The very first spark for I Kill the Mockingbird began with a conversation about summer reading lists that started on blogs including Pam Coughlan’s Mother Reader, Colleen Mondor’s Chasing Ray, Leila Roy’s Bookshelves of Doom, and Elizabeth Bird’s A Fuse#8 Production among others. Barely a day goes by that I don’t learn something new and also laugh out loud because of these fantastic writers and their peers in the incredible community of kidlit bloggers. I was also inspired by friends and fellow writers who encouraged me to read early pages of the manuscript aloud at the wonderful Kindling Words retreat in Vermont. Thank you to Marnie Brooks, Allison James, Tanya Lee Stone, and all my KW friends. Your overwhelming kindness, enthusiasm, and laughter turned a small spark of an idea into a bit of a bonfire.

  My heartfelt thanks go to super friend, co-conspirator, and remarkable editor, Nancy Mercado. Somehow, in a few slap-dash lines and notes, she saw an entire novel. Not only that, she believed that I could write it. Nancy is truly a co-creator in this work. Thanks also to Simon Boughton and the entire team at Roaring Brook and Macmillan for bringing this book to life.