Mockingbird

by Kathryn Erskine

  Let me read the names, he says.

  I close my eyes.

  He speaks slowly but loudly. Julianne Denise Morris.

  There’s a murmuring in the crowd for a moment until it’s quiet again.

  Roberta L. Schneider, the principal says.

  I hear Michael beside me. Mommy, he says. That’s my mommy.

  I look over at him and he’s staring up at the principal with his Bambi eyes.

  Mr. Schneider is blinking and covering his mouth with his hand.

  And I hear the next name. Devon. Joseph. Smith.

  My Heart that has been pounding this whole time suddenly seems to stop.

  I hear Dad swallow.

  The auditorium is silent except for the rustling of the principal’s jacket as he turns away from the microphone and then the slow squeak squeak squeak of his shoes as he walks over to Mrs. Brook’s side of the stage. He puts his hand on the blue fabric shape and turns to face the audience. And he starts to speak. Even though he doesn’t have a microphone his voice booms across the auditorium.

  This beautiful Mission-style chest was started by Devon for his Eagle Scout project—his voice stops for a moment—and then finished and donated to our middle school by his beloved father. Harold Joseph Smith. And his little sister whom he adored. Caitlin.

  The principal pulls the fabric off of the shape like he’s a magician and everyone says, Oh! and, Ah!

  And there it is.

  Devon’s chest.

  With SCOUT carved and hidden underneath.

  And the Mockingbird on top that I can’t see from here but I know it’s there.

  His chest is good and strong and beautiful. Just like Devon.

  Everyone is clapping. Even Josh. Dad blows his nose and wipes his eyes but he’s smiling. The clapping is so loud it hurts my ears but it’s a good hurt and I feel the crowd looking at me but it’s not in a bad way so I don’t mind so much.

  Michael smiles and points at me and says, It was her! and I don’t mind that either because he’s happy and I’m glad that Devon’s chest is bringing him Closure too.

  Mrs. Brook is at the podium and she talks but I don’t know what she says until I hear her talking to me. Caitlin. Caitlin! Please stand up. I think everyone wants to see you. She smiles at me.

  So I stand up but I don’t turn around and look at the audience because I want to see—really see—the Mockingbird on Devon’s chest so I stand on my tiptoes and stare at it. I can hear the cheering and clapping though.

  Dad says, It’s okay, and I tell him, I know.

  Over all the noise in the auditorium I can still hear in my head what Devon told me. I have to go now Scout. I’ll be up there. You’re going to be just fine.

  I don’t know how long I stand there before Michael is pulling on my hand saying, Caitlin there’s cake and lemonade on the lawn!

  What? I ask him. Why would they put it on the grass?

  He giggles and says, It’s on TABLES on the grass. Come on! Let’s get some!

  I look back at Dad who has stopped gripping the armrests and his lips curl up on one side and he says, Go on Caitlin, and I run after Michael up the aisle and out the back door of the auditorium and into the sun.

  Michael and I are the first ones to the table and we both get edge pieces of cake that have lots of blue and white frosting. Josh gets one also. Some grown-ups smile at us and tell us we look like middle schoolers with all the blue and white on us. Michael grins and when I see how blue his teeth are I laugh. Even Josh smiles.

  Mr. Walters the art teacher comes over while I’m sucking the last glob of blue frosting off of my finger. He hands me a sketchbook and a big box of pastel crayons.

  I Look At The Person.

  He smiles. These are for you Caitlin.

  How come?

  You gave us all something very special today so I want to give you something.

  Thank you, I say, and take the sketchbook. I don’t grab the clear plastic box of pastels right away.

  I know, he says, you don’t like colors. But I thought you might be ready to give them a try.

  I stare at the colors for a moment. There are three different shades of orange AND lots of reds and yellows so you can make your own orange. And with pastels you can blur them if you want to move from one shade to another. Mr. Walters Gets It. Maybe I can too. Slowly I reach out and take the colors.

  Mr. Walters winks. See you in August.

  Pass it here! Josh shouts, and I turn to see Michael’s dad throw Josh a football. After Josh tosses it back Mr. Schneider throws the ball to Dad and he catches it. I forgot that Dad could catch a football. Dad and Devon used to throw a football in the backyard. Sometimes I played too even though I can never catch it until after it hits the ground.

  Michael is still next to me but he’s stepping from one foot to the other. I can tell that he kind of wants to play football too so I tell him he should follow his empathy and go play. I watch him run and tackle Josh and they both laugh and roll in the grass.

  I look down at my shoes and socks. Slowly I push off my shoes and let the cool grass tickle my feet through my socks. Then I bend down and pull my socks off and stand right on top of the grass and the earth and I feel a shiver run up my legs and all the way to my neck and it gives me a little chill. But after I move my feet from side to side a little bit I get used to the prickly cool feeling and it starts feeling softer and more like an okay touch than a tickle.

  I walk barefoot over to a big oak tree and sit underneath it. The breeze blows the leaves around so it’s partly shady and partly sunny. I put the sketchbook on my lap and open my new box of colors. Now I’m ready to use them because I figured out how I’m going to draw the whole complete picture. I smile and begin.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The shootings of thirty-three people at Virginia Tech University in Blacksburg, Virginia, on April 16, 2007, were horrible and devastating. While I may not have known those involved personally, it happened in my own backyard. It was the deadliest shooting by a lone gunman in United States history. And wherever or whenever this kind of tragedy occurs, it affects us all. How could something like this happen? Why? What, if anything, could we have done to prevent it? Who knows. But I am certain of one thing. If we all understood each other better, we could go a long way toward stopping violence. We all want to be heard, to be understood. Some of us are better than others at expressing ourselves. Some of us have severe problems that need to be addressed, not ignored, no matter what the cost. Saving society money is a travesty if the cost of that savings is in human lives. Ignore and ignorance share the same root.

  This book was inspired by the events at Virginia Tech as well as my own need to try to explain what it’s like for a child to have Asperger’s syndrome. The two themes are related in my mind because I believe strongly in early intervention, whatever the disability. Understanding people’s difficulties and—just as crucial—helping people understand their own difficulties and teaching them concrete ways to help themselves will help them better deal with their own lives and, in turn, ours. In this novel, the main character has Asperger’s syndrome but is receiving early intervention through the public school system. She has only one parent and he is far from perfect. Her brother was the family member who really listened to her, tried to understand her, and taught her helpful behavioral skills. Unfortunately, he is killed in a school shooting, and now, but for her school counselor, she is on her own. I hope that, by getting inside her head, readers will understand seemingly bizarre behavior. And I hope that readers will see that, by getting inside someone’s head, really understanding that person, so many misunderstandings and problems can be avoided—misunderstandings and problems that can lead to mounting frustration and, sometimes, even violence.

 

 

 
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