Windfall (7 page)

Niall and I drew up a schedule that breaks our mission into half minutes. We move quickly and quietly. After the planting is done, we spread wood shavings to keep the roots warm. Cars pass by, but no one slows down. We're done in forty minutes.

Half a block away we stop and consider our work. We've planted ten young apple trees. They look like humble umbrellas. It's a sweet orchard. We planted garlic, chives and leek around the trees as companion plants. They will help the apple trees grow. Afareen painted a beautiful sign that reads:

Apples for All
A community orchard

A second sign explains that all are welcome to help care for and reap the rewards of this orchard, which will bear fruit in two years. It is signed
GRRR! and BRRR!

I take Niall's hand and squeeze it. He squeezes back. Then we're back on our bikes, whooping for joy as we pedal down the dark roads. That night, a soft rain falls on the house. I imagine the trees lapping up the fresh water.

Chapter Fifteen

Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing.
I lift my head from the pillow and think,
There is something new and wonderful
in the world, stretching its branches.
Mom gets the phone. A second later, she's in my room.

“Liza! What have you done?”

“It's beautiful, Mom,” I murmur sleepily. “It's for everyone.”

“Mrs. Reynolds is calling it vandalism. She mentioned expulsion.”

“Expulsion?”

“As in getting kicked out of school. For trespassing. Destruction of property.”

“All we did was plant fruit trees. That dirt wasn't being used. It's not like we broke windows or set fire to a garbage can.”

“Why didn't you get permission?”

I sat up. “We tried, Mom. Many times. Reynolds wouldn't even listen. She's been dying to expel someone since day one.”

“Your fingernails are dirty.” Mom moans as if I'm a criminal with blood on my hands. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. A sudden thing. Sudden beauty.”

“What gave you the idea?”

I thought this over. “The earth did,” I finally say. “That patch of dirt. And—Richard.”

Mom's face crumples with sympathy. “Richard?” she whispers.

I tell her about the apple Leland left on Richard's bench. Then I talk about food banks and the non-food I found under the tree and how Richard tried to gather windfall. How apples are shipped from as far away as Mexico and Australia when we could grow all we need here. I talk about how kids who live near gardens are happier.

“But how did you? Where did you get the trees?”

“We just did,” I mumble, shrugging.

“
Liza.
”

“Okay. Okay. Imogen. The money came from BRRR! From Niall.” I get a thrill saying his name, and I feel in less trouble.

“I have to think about this, Liza. Mrs. Reynolds wants to meet with all the kids involved.”

“When?”

“
Now
.”

Silas and Leland have been standing in my doorway listening. “Are you in trouble, Liza?” Leland asks.

“I guess so. For planting a garden. A small orchard.”

“That sounds nice,” says Silas.

“You should have asked, Liza,” Mom scolds.

“I
did
ask. You're the one who always says, ‘Don't take no for an answer.' You're the one who threw eggs at the Department of National Defence when Canada helped invade Iraq.”

“That was a long time ago,” Mom says.

“Well, I'm a long time ago!” I say.

Mom looks at me. “They do say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“Unless there's a really big breeze?” Leland asks.

Silas and I laugh. Mom doesn't. She sends me a look that's like a blast of cold wind.
Then
she smiles.

When we reach school, our orchard is surrounded by parents as well as kids. A police officer is taking notes. She makes my heart lurch. Niall looks as confident as ever. He's even smiling. It feels good to have a partner in this.

“Wow,” Leland breathes when he sees the orchard. “So that's sudden beauty.”

Niall, Emma T., Afareen, Melissa and I, and a few parents file into Mrs. Reynolds's office. Her hands shake as she draws the blinds.

“I do all I can to run a tidy school,” she rages. “I expect to be respected. But you! You vandals think you can trespass and destroy.”

“It's a
public
school,” I say. “Public means we have some say in how things are done. We asked for a composting program and for a solar hot-water system on the roof and for this garden. We asked for some way to do something green. You don't even hear us. You just say, ‘Get to class.' This isn't about destruction. It's about the amazing taste of an apple grown in your own neighborhood.”

“Students could learn about pollination and photosynthesis with this garden,” Niall argues. “About soil and seeds.”

“They'd learn that food comes from plants, not packages,” I add.

“I have called in a bulldozer,” says Mrs. Reynolds.

“You will destroy the plants,” Mom muses, “and then plant grass?”

“ We will remove the trees, ” Mrs. Reynolds says. “I am talking with the district supervisor about what to do with you lot.”

Melissa starts crying. Hayiko nervously runs the zipper of her hoodie up and down. I glance at our viceprincipal, who is normally nice. I raise my eyebrows to encourage him to offer some perspective. He clears his throat and says nothing.

There is a quick knock on the door, and Mr. Moyle hurries in, talking. “I didn't know you were putting in fruit trees,” he says to Mrs. Reynolds. “Great idea! They look fantastic!”

Niall elbows me. A couple of the kids giggle. Mrs. Reynolds gives a sickly smile. On his way out, Mr. Moyle gives me the quickest of winks.

“Everyone out,” Mrs. Reynolds barks. “We'll meet here at recess.”

But we never have that second meeting. Recess is a five-ring circus. Silas spent the morning in the bathroom making protest signs. Then he got all his buddies to “defend the trees.” A hundred kids are circling the orchard chanting, “We love apples.”

At one point, Mme. Falette gives me a quiet thumbs-up. Pretty soon, news cameras arrive.

We lift the TV onto the end of the dining table so we can watch while we eat supper. There I am, standing in the schoolyard, looking into the camera: Liza Maybird, “Guerilla Gardener.” I say that what we did was harmless and was meant to raise awareness as much as to grow apples.

Mrs. Reynolds appears sharp and humorless.

In our kitchen Silas and Leland boo when she appears on the screen, but Mom tells them to be respectful.

Reporters ask Mrs. Reynolds if she'll let the children keep the orchard. She says “no.” Then her cell phone rings. On camera! “Excuse me,” she says sourly. A moment later she turns off her phone. “That was the school board,” she says through clenched teeth. “If the students can look after it, the orchard can stay.”

We whoop and holler. “Shhh,” Mom says.

On the television, Mrs. Reynolds is still talking. “You can bet the kids who did this will be doing the bulk of the weeding and watering and pruning. That will be their punishment!”

After supper, I chat online with my old friend Jamaica, an activist in the United States who keeps tabs on the oil industry. She says that what we did was called proactive activism and civil disobedience.
Civil disobedience is when
people
—
usually peacefully
—
disobey a
law or a government's command because
they see it as unfair
, she writes.
Proactive
activism is when you do something toward a more sustainable, just world. Rather than just complain, you build
something good. Way to go, Liza!

Niall and I talk on the phone for thirty-eight minutes.

“Were you ever scared?” I ask.

“I was only scared that you might back out and leave me holding the watering can!” he said. “Were
you
ever scared, Liza?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I was scared when Richard died. He left a hole. I was afraid we'd all fall through.”

After I hang up, Silas says. “I heard what you said about Richard. It's true. He was a like a knot that held our neighborhood together.”

“The plug that keeps the water in the sink,” Leland adds. A while later he taps me on the shoulder. He has made a sign that says
Richard's Orchard.
His letters are kind of messy, but they look alive.

Olive reports through the speaking tube that her family is making a bench for the orchard out of shipping pallets they scavenged.

“My parents want to help, even if they aren't sure they agree with what you did,” Olive says.

“I'm not sure
I
agree with what we did,” I confess. “But I'm glad we did it.”

It's spring again. Imogen, Mom, Leland and I watch as Silas sweeps aside the grass and locates the circle of stones we left as a marker. Imogen digs up the scions, then binds three of them to three root stocks. We've decided we can fit three apple trees in the backyard. They'll have each other for company.

“How soon before the scion and root stock become one tree?” I ask.

“As soon as their sap meets,” Imogen answers.

The trees won't produce apples this year, and probably not next year either. But the following year, it will. And for many years afterward.

“These trees could be producing apples long after we're all laid in the ground,” Imogen says, standing back to survey her work.

“Good,” I say. I think of Richard. I take in the whole moment—the air, the earth, my brothers, Mom, Imogen, even myself. “Good,” I say again.

Sara Cassidy has worked as a professional clown, a youth-hostel manager, a tree planter in five Canadian provinces, and as a human-rights witness in Guatemala. Her poetry, fiction and articles have been widely published.
Windfall
is Sara's second entry in the Orca Currents series. Her first Current,
Slick
, also features Liza and the girls of GRRR!

o
rca
currents

978-1-55469-352-8 $9.95 pb
978-1-55469-353-5 $16.95 lib

Liza is determined to prove that her
mother's boyfriend is no good. When she discovers that the oil company Robert works for has come under criticism for its actions in Guatemala, she's certain she's struck gold—or rather, oil. Liza decides to expose Robert's evil ways by exposing his company's actions. She puts together a girls' group called GRRR!—Girls for Renewable Resources, Really!—and learns just how much power can be generated by a pack of girls.

o
rca
currents