The Day They Came to Arrest the Book
Read The Day They Came to Arrest the Book Online
Authors: Nat Hentoff
“No group should have veto power over what books we can read,” Barney volunteered.
“Exactly.” The librarian nodded her head. “Think, Kate. If
Huckleberry Finn
is going to be thrown out of school because it offends some black parents, what’s to stop other groups of parents from getting up
their
lists of books they want out of here? Catholics, Jews, feminists, antifeminists, conservatives, liberals, Greeks, Turks, Armenians. Where does it end, Kate?”
NAT HENTOFF is a well-known staff writer for
The Village Voice
. He is the author of
Jazz Country, I’m Really Dragged but Nothing Gets Me Down, This School Is Driving Me Crazy
, and
Does This School Have Capital Punishment?
.
HOOPS
,
Walter Dean Myers
WHIRLIGIG
,
Paul Fleischman
HEROES
,
Robert Cormier
TUNES FOR BEARS TO DANCE TO
,
Robert Cormier
BREAKING BOXES
,
A. M. Jenkins
THE KILLER’S COUSIN
,
Nancy Werlin
FOR MIKE
,
Shelley Sykes
HOLES
,
Louis Sachar
HATE YOU
,
Graham McNamee
CLOSE TO A KILLER
,
Marsha Qualey
YEARLING BOOKS
are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.
FOR
KATHY RUSSELL, IRENE TURIN,
SUSAN MAASZ, AND JUDITH KRUG
“He’s going to be right inside the door,” Luke said to Barney as they neared the entrance to George Mason High School. “He’s going to be standing there with that big phony smile and that chocolate voice.”
Luke, sticking out his stomach as far as a lean sixteen-year-old could, deepened his voice in imitation of the man behind the door—Michael Moore, also known as Mighty Mike, the principal of the school. “ ‘Welcome back, Luke, good buddy. Have a good summer? Yeah, you look like you had a great summer. Raring to get at the books, good buddy? Har, har, har, I
bet
you are.’ ”
Turning to Barney, who was shorter, a year older, and the incoming editor of the
George Mason Standard
, Luke said, “Why don’t we go in the back way?”
Barney laughed. “He’ll get us sooner or later. Might as well be now.”
As they reached the front door, Barney opened it
and gestured for Luke to precede him. “After you, good buddy.”
Luke scowled, poked his head in, and stiffened as a large man in his late forties, with a magnificent mane of prematurely white hair, fixed his pale-blue eyes on the boy. “Well, look who’s here.” Mr. Moore placed his hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Cool Hand Luke. Have a good summer, good buddy?”
“I got possessed,” Luke said tonelessly. “Somebody else is inside me now.”
“Har, har, har.” The principal dug his hand into the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I hope
he
gets his papers in on time. Look who else is raring to get at the books. And at the
news!
Barnaby, you look like you had a great summer. That still is you, isn’t it, Barnaby?”
“We switch,” Barney said solemnly. “Sometimes what’s in Luke gets into me.”
“That’s nothing new.” The principal clapped Barney on the back. “Well, look who’s here.” Mr. Moore moved in on a group of students who had just opened the door. “Have a good summer, good buddy?”
“Let’s
move,”
Luke whispered to Barney. “He could do it all over again.”
“I’m going in the library,” Barney said. “I want to say hello to Mrs. Salters.”
“Mrs. Salters, she’s gone,” said a cool, clipped voice behind them. “Checked out for good.”
Barney turned. “Hey, Kate!” he said to the thin, crisp girl with jet-black hair and large round glasses. “You were supposed to write me this summer.”
“I started to a couple of times”—Kate smiled—“but it was all so boring. Except for Mrs. Salters, and I didn’t want to spoil your summer.”
“What happened to her?”
“Well,” said Kate, “she told my mother—you know, my mother went to college with her—that if she stayed another year, she’d kill him. She’d take a butcher knife, march right into his office, and cut out his tin heart. It was either murder or quit. So she quit.”
“Who?” Barney and Luke asked in unison. “Who was she going to murder?”
“That yo-yo over there,” Kate said impatiently, pointing to Mr. Moore, who waved cheerily back at her.
“Why? What did he do?” Barney asked.
Kate shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s all I heard. My mother was telling the story to my father until they realized I’d come into the room. She said she couldn’t tell me the details, because if the story got spread all over school, that yo-yo would make it hard for Mrs. Salters to get another job.”
“You don’t know
anything
more?” Barney shouted.
“Summer’s
over!”
the principal shouted from across the lobby. “Keep it down!” He grinned at them.
“Nothing,” Kate whispered.
“Who’s the new librarian?” Barney said glumly.
“Fitzgerald.” Kate looked at her watch. “Something Fitzgerald. My mother says she feels sorry for her.”
Deirdre Fitzgerald looked around the library that morning with satisfaction. It was all so inviting. The
boldly colored posters, the newly polished tables (she’d done the polishing), the parade of magazines in the racks, and the books. Ah, the shelves and shelves and shelves of books.
Tall, slender, with long, lustrous brown hair and sharp features that might have been forbidding had her eyes and voice not been so soft, Deirdre walked along the shelves, opening books at random, reading a paragraph or two, and then putting them carefully back.
Stopping at her desk, she stood in reflection, remembering the day—she was sure it had been a Friday—when, as a little girl, she had gotten her first card at the public library branch near her home. She could still feel the excitement. And the delicious frustration. Would she ever be able to read all the books in that astonishingly clean, bright, orderly room? The white-haired librarian had laughed and said, “Don’t count, Deirdre. It’s not a contest. Enjoy them one at a time.”
But she had counted, and indeed she had read a rather enormous number of the books in that library. As a child she had wanted to stay there all her life. And in a way—Deirdre Fitzgerald smiled—she had.
“My, you’re in good spirits.” A brisk, chunky blond woman in her early forties came into the library. “I feel like the bad fairy at the christening.”
The librarian, frowning in puzzlement, looked at her. “I’m Deirdre Fitzgerald.”
“Sorry, no manners. Me, I mean,” said the blond woman. “When I’ve got something on my mind, I have no manners. I’m Nora Baines. I teach history in this
amusement park. We’ll be working together a lot because I am notorious among students for insisting that supplementary reading lists be taken seriously.”
Deirdre motioned for Nora Baines to take a seat.
“No, thanks,” said the history teacher. “I don’t like to get too comfortable in this school. Makes it easier for them to ambush you.”
“Them?”
“Everybody. Students. Fellow faculty members. Mighty Mike Moore, our magnetic principal. Parents. And various other citizens who consider public education to be the public’s business. They’re right, of course. It is the public’s business. Still, I wish they’d all take a long sabbatical and keep their noses out of our affairs for a while. God, what a time we had last year.”
“I heard something about a little trouble last year,” Deirdre Fitzgerald said, “but Mr. Moore told me that it was just that—a few complaints about library books and textbooks, and they were all resolved okay.”
“Ha!” Nora Baines snapped. “You’ll see how he resolves complaints. That’s why Karen Salters left. Listen, I’ve got to get to first period. We’ll talk later. You need a crash course in how to survive around here. Hey, you a fighter?”
Deirdre smiled. “Only when my back is against the wall. Then I’m so terrifying, I scare even myself.”
“Good,” said Nora Baines from the door. “You don’t know it yet, but that’s exactly where your back is.”
“This is a history course.” Nora Baines was speaking, later that morning, with her customary staccato energy. “But we shall also be reading novels. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Because fiction,” Barney said, “is sometimes more real than fact. I mean, it can tell you more than facts. It can tell you more about what ordinary people were like in certain times and places than laws and battles and things like that.”
Nora Baines peered at Barney. “And why is that?”
“Well, because fiction is imagination. The novelist can suppose, and so he can get inside people’s heads. Like, if he’s writing about the past, and he knows a lot about the past, he makes you become part of it because you get all involved with the story and the people in it.”
“He. He. He.”
Kate turned around and said dryly to Barney, “All novelists are males?”
“I expect Barney is willing to agree,” said Nora Baines, “that his use of ‘he’ encompasses women as well.”
Barney nodded in genial agreement.
“Why can’t he say
‘she’
then”—Kate turned back to the teacher—“and agree that ‘she’ encompasses men as well?”
“Because it doesn’t feel right,” Barney said.
“Uh-huh!” Kate’s voice was triumphant. “Sure, sexism is comfortable, just as racism is. Why change when you’re on top?”
Luke and some of the other boys guffawed.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kate said angrily, “and you know I didn’t. Bunch of yo-yos.”
“Kate has just made her point.” Nora Baines looked at Luke. “That was such a comfortable bray, Luke Hagstrom. You will be right at home in our journey through the nineteenth century—until you meet Susan B. Anthony. She’ll give you a good shaking up.
“Now”—Nora Baines was pacing in front of her desk—“about ‘he’ and ‘she’ and all that. You can avoid the pronouns, Kate, by using ‘novelist’ or ‘writer’ instead of ‘he’ in what Barney just said. For instance, ‘If it’s about the past, the novelist makes you become part of it.’