I Kill the Mockingbird (13 page)

I think back to the day we buried Fat Bob. “Elena,” I say, “the second 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 boy 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.

“Did
Sports Illustrated
send you?” I ask.

She grins. “Something like that.”

I nod at all her gear. “Do you need a hand?”

“I’m good,” she says.

“You look good,” I tell her. And it’s true. She really does. She is tan and healthy and strong, and suddenly I want to cry because I’m so happy to see my old mom again. Of course, I’m not going to utter the words
old mom
out loud.

She leans forward
and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ve got to run. I have plans to shoot soccer, basketball, softball, volleyball, skateboarding, tennis, and lacrosse today. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a horseback rider, some boaters, badminton, and some stuff I haven’t thought of yet, too. I already got a fisherman, a cyclist, a jogger, and now baseball.”

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

“Some editor thought it would
be a good idea to photograph a whole day’s worth of sports in one small town.”

“That is a good idea,” I say.

She nods and smiles. “Especially since I got the assignment.”

“Good luck!”

As Mom heads away, I realize that even though West Glover is not a very big place, there’s an enormous amount of activity going on around me pretty much all the time. There are Little League games, literary terrorists,
crazy families, cancer patients … and that’s just at my house. The thought makes me laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?”

I look up and find Michael beside me. The game must be over. Before I can speak, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Elena.

“This place is crazy,” I say to Michael.

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

I glance down at my phone.

I HAVE AN IDEA, says Elena’s message.

WHAT
KIND OF IDEA? I type back.

A WONDERFUL, AWFUL, GRINCHY IDEA.

AND? I ask.

MEET ME AT BOOKSHOP. BRING THE TRIKE.

“We’re off,” I say to Michael.

A few minutes later, he and I roll to a stop in front of the store. Michael is on the tricycle, and I’m peddling my faithful, pink three-speed. Elena meets us on the sidewalk. “We’re going to the library,” she announces.

“The West Glover Library?”
says Michael.

Elena nods.

Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He scans the screen, lowers his voice, and tells us, “
To Kill a Mockingbird
is hidden behind the taxidermy section there.”

“Taxidermy?” I say.

“We’re not going inside,” Elena tells us.

“Taxidermy?” I say again.

Elena ignores me. “We’re going behind the building.” She steps into the tricycle’s storage basket.
“I’ll ride back here for now.”

Michael turns around in the tricycle seat. “This isn’t
Driving Miss Daisy
.”

Elena laughs. “Just go,” she tells him.