“Oh yeah?” Mr. Thompson smiles. “They’re gonna wake up from their nap and finally play a game?”
“Burn!” shouts another kid.
The next several minutes are a pandemonium of ribbing between Mr. Thompson and fans of the Minnesota Vikings. At the center, he deflects barbs and dishes them out in equal measure.
“Okay—okay, enough.” He laughs, but his voice holds a note of authority. “We’ll continue this discussion next week after my Packers kill the Vikings. Right now we have to start class. With a show of hands, how many of you have read To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Only a few hands are raised.
“Okay, then.” He raises an eyebrow. “How many of you were supposed to read it at some point and didn’t?”
This time, nearly every hand rises.
“Good to know.” He smiles.
Mr. Thompson weaves through the aisles of desks, passing out copies of the book as he goes. “I realize most of you were assigned this title in eighth grade English, but it’s clear most of you also ditched the reading part.”
A few students chuckle.
“Over the next several weeks, we’ll study it again—this time more closely. We’ll examine the lessons Harper Lee gives to readers. Among those are themes of compassion, courage, understanding, and forgiveness. Life lessons, if you will.
“At the end of this section, you’ll select one character and write a paper outlining the lessons you’ve learned from that character. You’ll need to identify what those lessons are and how you can apply them in your own lives. Because you’re seniors—which implies you have a higher level of understanding than you had a few years ago—I’ll expect more than a regurgitation, or retelling, of the story. I’ll want to know what you think—not what you think I want to hear, but how you feel about what you’ve read. You’ll need to know your character so well you can anticipate how he or she might react to various situations. Basically, I’ll expect you to know your character as well as you know yourself.”
All around me, students groan.
“Okay, okay—enough grumbling. Here’s the good news: any student who gets an A will be excused from the final exam at semester’s end. Any questions?”
Mr. Thompson glances around the room, making eye contact with each student. Satisfied, he nods. “Okay. You have the rest of this period to get started. Your assignment is to read the first five chapters and be ready to discuss them tomorrow. I’ll expect active participation from each of you. Remember: the only wrong answers are those not given, and I’ll deduct points from anyone who fails to contribute to our discussion. So get started.”
The room is silent, the only sound that of pages crackling as they turn. I study the book’s cover, smoothing my fingers over the title and cover art. I’ve loved this book since the first time I read it years ago. My mind flashes back to the bookcase I left behind. Where is it now? Have my favorite books been given to someone who will love them as I have, or did the landlord dump them in some landfill? I cringe. I left my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on the second shelf, right between copies of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and Eleanor and Park, the pages of each novel well-worn and their covers showing the abuse of overuse that stands as a beacon of pride for every well-loved novel.
I look at the copy in my hands, its cover smooth and barely used. Compared to the one on my bookshelf, it looks sad—neglected by those who didn’t understand its value. I flip to the first page and savor the first words.
“When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.”
Just like that, I’m swallowed into the world of Scout Finch, her brother, Jem, and their summer friend, Dill. A half hour later, I’m so completely absorbed that I resent the bell signaling the end of the school day. Tearing off a piece of notebook paper, I place it between the pages then sling my bag over my back. A rogue hand waves inches from my nose, startling me.
“Earth to Abby.” Zach grins.
“I’m sorry?” I offer a distracted smile. “Did you say something?”
“I asked how far you got.”
“Oh—almost three chapters. You?”
“Just two. Have you read it before?”
“Yeah.” I blush. “A few times at least.”
“At least?” He laughs.
“Well, yeah. It’s sorta my favorite book.”
Zach’s forehead creases. “Why?”
“Have you read it yet?” I ask as we enter the hallway.
“Nope. It was assigned in eighth grade, but I never got around to it.”
“Then you have no idea what you’re missing. Give it a chance. I bet you’ll love it.” I look up to smile at Zach, but my blood runs cold. Trish is walking straight toward us.
“Hey, Zach.” She ignores me and sidles up next to him, weaving an arm through his like she owns him.
Anger colors my vision. For a few short minutes, I allowed myself to feel normal—to forget that nothing will ever be normal again.
“Hey, Trish. Have you met Abby?” Zach asks.
“Um…” She eyes me up and down then turns her attention back to Zach. “Yeah. We have history together.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he says. “I forgot you were in there.”
I wish I could forget she’s in there.
I tilt my lips in a smile and turn it full-force on Zach. “I gotta run. My little sister is waiting for me. Catch up with you later?”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Later,” Trish coos.
Anger burns inside me and I rush away before I explode. I leave the building and step into the student parking lot where I’m brought up short by an SUV parked about twenty feet in front of me. The vehicle is empty, but what catches my attention is the window paint covering the glass.
Happy Birthday, Kannon!
Happy 18th!
Finally legal!
Other kids might find this flattering, but I can’t. The hairs on my neck prickle and, despite the cool outside air, sweat trickles between my breasts. My breath comes in short gasps, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. I try to turn away, but I can’t. All I can do is stare at the car in front of me and remember…
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
I wander down the quiet halls of my high school alone. I’m alone a lot these days. Each day I arrive early and hide in the library until first bell, and return at day’s end until the building is mostly empty. It’s easier this way and Mrs. Stephenson, the school librarian, doesn’t mind. She and Mom were good friends in that period of time I refer to as BS—Before Snapchat. Since then, though, I’m not sure Mom has any friends left. I sure as hell don’t—even Emma and Sarah have bailed. They stuck around for a while, but what’s that saying about your friends being a representation of yourself? Yeah—neither of them wanted anything to do with me after Mom’s scandal. Just like I’m guilty by association with Mom, Emma and Sarah were guilty by association with me. So they left me to fend for myself.
If there’s one positive, it’s that I don’t have to run into Mom at school anymore. When the school board learned about the Snapchat, she and Coach Hawkins were given the “opportunity” to resign. I don’t know where he went, but I sure as hell know where Mom is. Right now she’s probably sitting at home, scanning the newspapers for a job. What does she think is going to happen? Does she really think people will forget? There’s no chance in hell she’ll get a teaching job anywhere near here, and nobody else wants a woman who’s spent the last fifteen years in the classroom. At this point, I don’t even care what she does anymore.
I run the steps from the third floor to the first, then fast-walk to the student parking lot and my outdated Jeep Liberty. The lot is almost empty and, like me, my Jeep stands friendless. I’m about ten feet away when I notice both driver-side tires are flat. My shoulders deflate—I should’ve expected this. My life has been one big practical joke since that afternoon in the cafeteria. I scan for more damage. As I
take in the full picture, my hands shake and my backpack falls to the pavement. It’s not just two flat tires, but all four of them—slashed. As if that isn’t enough, red window paint covers every inch of the glass with the words, WHORE and SLUT.
“YOU OKAY?”
A hand touches my shoulder, and I swipe at the hot tears racing down my cheeks. I must look like an idiot, crying in a parking lot over someone’s car.
“Abby, right?” the voice says.
I swipe again at my eyes then smile up into the concerned brown eyes of Mr. Thompson. I hiccup a laugh. “I’m sorry—I’m fine. Really—I feel stupid. I was just missing my friends. At my old school, ya know? It just sorta hit me all of a sudden.”
He smiles. “Ah, yes. It’s hard leaving friends behind. Were you at your old school long?”
“My whole life.”
“Even harder,” he sympathizes. “But how was your first day here? Were the kids good to you?”
“They were great,” I say, excluding Trish from the equation. “I think I’ll like it here.”
He nods. “Good deal. Well, if you’re okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your Mockingbird homework.”
“Not a chance,” I reply.
He crosses the parking lot and waves as he leaves, but I stand there staring at the window-painted SUV, remembering.
CHAPTER FIVE
AMBER’S SCHOOL IS ONLY A FEW BLOCKS AWAY AND I ARRIVE WITH TIME TO SPARE. I TAKE A SEAT IN A chair next to an Asian woman holding a toddler in her arms. The little guy can’t be older than two, but his bright eyes shine with intelligence and interest. He peers into my green eyes, and I have the sensation he’s trying to discover all my secrets. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth and reaches his hand toward me, but his mom catches his slobber-covered fingers and rescues my face from his saliva. She smiles apologetically, but I give her a smile I hope says, “It’s okay—no apology needed.”
At exactly three thirty, the bell pierces the silence and the foyer becomes a buzz of activity. Classroom doors are thrown open and students race into the hallways, eager to escape the school’s prison-like walls.
I’m not sure where Amber will emerge, so I’m stationed near the front doors, forcing her to pass me to get outside. I wait while children of different sizes rush by, none of them Amber. When I’m about to give up, I catch sight of her blond head bobbing along behind three boys who block her path. Our eyes meet and I don’t need to see her grin to know she’s happy. She’s one of those people whose smile starts with her eyes. I let out a relieved breath and smile back.
“How was school?” I ask when she stands in front of me.
“Fun! Mrs. Ekman’s really nice, and I have a new boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend? You’re in first grade!”
“I can’t help it.” She shrugs and beams a toothless grin. “I’m irresistible.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“So where’re we going?”
“To the library. Mom and Nick will get us in a couple hours. Do you have homework?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, but I do. You can pick out a few books and read quietly while I do mine. Deal?”
“Deal.” She holds up a fist and I bump my knuckles against hers.
Amber walks beside me through the parking lot, down the residential streets, and onto the main sidewalk leading to the library. We’ve barely gone three blocks when she falls behind, her stride now a bizarre sort of hop-walk.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She frowns. “My toes are squooshed and it hurts to walk.”
I blow out a breath of irritation—not at Amber, but on her behalf. Once again, this is Mom’s fault. Everything that has brought us to our current situation is part of the spiraling effect of her selfish actions. Mom’s affair meant losing her job. Losing her job meant less money for the things we need. And right now Amber needs new shoes. Six-year-olds have a right to shoes that fit!
“Let’s sing,” I suggest. “It’ll make the walk seem faster.”
“Can you carry me? Please?”
I breathe in and out to a count of five. Amber weighs roughly fifty pounds and we still have at least another mile to go. If I carry her today, it’s a sure bet I’ll have to carry her every day. But how can I not? I squat low and put my hands on my knees. “Jump on. I’ll carry you until you get too heavy, then you gotta get down. Deal?”
“Will you still sing?”
“Only if you sing with me.”
“Deal!” Amber climbs on my back and wraps her arms and legs around my shoulders and waist. When she’s firmly anchored, I stand upright and begin walking.
“Okay, then. What’re we singing?” I ask.
“How about that song about being free?”
“‘We Shall Be Free?’”
“Yeah, that one.”
I smile and ruffle Amber’s hair. “You’re a weird kid, ya know that? You’re probably the only six-year-old in the world who even knows who Garth Brooks is, much less a song that old—it’s older than I am.”
Amber grins. “I learned it from the best!”
I smile down at her, remembering how Nick likes to jack up the stereo to some of the best classic country and rock music—Garth Brooks, George Strait, Johnny Cash, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Queen…
“Okay, then. Garth Brooks it is.” I belt out the first few bars and Amber’s voice joins mine. Together we sing for the next full block then segue into Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
There’s no doubt Amber’s heavy, but sometimes you have to pick your battles. She’s content, so I carry her until two blocks from the library then set her down to walk on her own.
THE ROCHESTER PUBLIC Library is surprisingly busy, with a steady stream of people going in and out its doors. It’s larger than expected and I gape at its size. It might be similar in size to our local library in Omaha, but the high ceilings and glass windows around the front side make it feel cavernous.
On the main floor, between the front desk and the children’s section, are two rooms located side by side. The first is enclosed in glass walls and features a bank of computers nestled between private carrels. The sign above the door glows with neon letters reading, “Teens.” Next door, in another room also enclosed by glass walls, is an arts and crafts room clearly intended for use by children. The two rooms are close enough that I can supervise Amber while doing my homework. This won’t be so bad after all.
“Check this out.” I point to the arts and crafts room. “Would you rather create or read for a while?”
Amber’s eyes light up. “Create!”
“Okay. I’ll be in the room next door. Don’t go anywhere else, and find me if you need something. Mom and Nick shouldn’t be too long.”
I leave Amber and find a carrel in the media room next door. I enjoy the room’s quiet emptiness for a moment, then pull out the school’s copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from my backpack. Alone with no distractions, I’m fully immersed in the world of Scout Finch when, what seems like only seconds later, I catch a glimpse of Nick from the corner of my eye. I wave, drawing his attention. He approaches the media room and leans through the doorway.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Where’s Amber?”
I nod in the direction of the craft room. “Next door.”
“Okay—grab her and let’s head out. Your mom’s waiting in the van.”
CHAPTER SIX
“WHERE’RE WE GOING NOW?” I ASK, CLOSING THE VAN’S DOOR ON MY SIDE.
“Dinner.” Nick says. “While you were at school, your mom and I stopped by the Salvation Army to check out the services they provide. We’re headed back there now for their free dinner. It’s first come, first served so we need to get there early.”
“Okay, then what?”
“We have a lot to discuss,” Mom interrupts. “Let’s get there and we can talk while we eat.”
I’m anxious to know what they discovered, but I bide my time. We arrive before the doors open and wai
t near the head of the line. Behind us, the line grows and extends down the main hall and around a corner. I wonder where it ends, and whether it continues all the way outside. I’m surprised at the number of people. How are there so many?
At exactly six p.m. the doors open and we advance to a short assembly line where volunteers serve food. I assess the tray I’m handed: noodles in some kind of cream sauce with pinkish-brown meat mixed in, peas, and a hard dinner roll. I can’t tell the origin of the mystery meat, but I’m too embarrassed to ask the server. I guess I’ll find out.
“Is there any butter?” Mom asks a volunteer.
“We’re out. Sorry,” she says with a sympathetic smile.
Mom nods her thanks and follows Nick to a table near the back of the room. I sit beside Amber and discreetly study the people around me. The room holds the distinct scent of unwashed bodies and, while the odor itself doesn’t surprise me, I’m shocked at the variety of people assembled. I’ve always imagined homeless people as unkempt vagrants in rags. What I find, instead, is a collection of people who look like us—normal.
At the end of our table, four elderly women huddle together in quiet conversation. Though their clothing is as aged as their wrinkled skin, their appearances are neat and tidy. They don’t look homeless, exactly—just tired, maybe, and a little defeated. At the next table is a girl about my age. Her hair is dyed blue and is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. She wears a Minnesota Wild hockey T-shirt that’s seen better days, and she holds an infant in her arms. The baby nurses at his mother’s breast from under a bunched-up edge of her T-shirt, and part of me is shocked. I know breastfeeding is natural, and it’s not like the girl is flashing anyone. It’s just that I’ve never seen it done in public. I should look away, but part of me is fascinated. The girl, however, seems too tired to care so she feeds her baby while navigating a fork to her mouth, careful not to spill food on her child. She chews as though savoring the meal and, except for her baby, she’s alone.
It strikes me that—besides Amber, the girl, her baby, and me—there are no other kids here. It’s weird and I want to ask someone about it, but I don’t know who or what I’d say, so I file the question away.
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