Windfall by Sara Cassidy Page A

to think about this, Liza. Mrs. Reynolds wants to meet with all the kids involved.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œ Now .”
    Silas and Leland have been standing in my doorway listening. “Are you in trouble, Liza?” Leland asks.
    â€œI guess so. For planting a garden. A small orchard.”
    â€œThat sounds nice,” says Silas.
    â€œYou should have asked, Liza,” Mom scolds.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThat was a long time ago,” Mom says.
    â€œWell, I’m a long time ago!” I say.
    Mom looks at me. “They do say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
    â€œUnless 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.
    â€œWow,” 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œStudents could learn about pollination and photosynthesis with this garden,” Niall argues. “About soil and seeds.”
    â€œThey’d learn that food comes from plants, not packages,” I add.
    â€œI have called in a bulldozer,” says Mrs. Reynolds.
    â€œYou will destroy the plants,” Mom muses, “and then plant grass?”
    â€œ 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.
    â€œEveryone 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