The Landry News (9 page)

There was no name at the beginning, just the title “Lost and Found.” The story began with this sentence: “When I heard that my parents were getting divorced, the first thing I did was run to my room, grab my baseball bat, and pound all my Little League trophies into bits.”

Cara was hooked. The person in the story was a boy, and Cara was amazed at how similar his feelings were to the ones she'd had when her dad left. The same kind of anger, the same kind of blind lashing out. And finally, there was the same sort of calming down, facing facts. The story did not end very hopefully, but the boy saw that life would still go on, and that both his dad and his mom still loved him just as much, maybe more.

When Cara finished reading, she was choked up and her eyes were wet. She noticed that there was no name at the end of the story either. That's when it hit her that this was not fiction. It was real life. It was Michael Morton's own story.

Cara slid off her bed and went out to the living room, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. Her mom was on the couch, watching the end of a show, so Cara sat with her for about five minutes.

When the show ended, Cara picked up the channel changer and shut off the TV. Then she handed her mom the story. “Would you read this for me, Mom? Someone wants me to put it in the next edition of the newspaper.”

Joanna Landry took off her glasses and said, “Why sure, honey, I'd love to.”

Cara watched her mom's face as she read, and she saw her mom's eyes fill up with tears when she got to the end.

Blinking back her tears, her mother turned toward Cara on the couch and said, “If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you wrote this sad little story yourself, Cara honey. I think it's
awfully
good, don't you?” Cara had brought a copy of each edition of
The Landry News
home, and Mrs. Landry had proudly taped them all onto the wall in the kitchen. She was thrilled to see Cara doing something so good—and good-hearted—enjoying herself and using her talents. Handing back the smudged pages, her mother asked, “So are you going to put it in the paper?”

Cara said, “I'm not sure. I think I'd better talk to Mr. Larson about it.”

And after the long Thanksgiving weekend, Cara had her mom drop her off at school early so she could show
the story to Mr. Larson before school.

Mr. Larson adjusted his reading glasses and took the pages over by the windows where the light was better. Three minutes later, he was finished, and his eyes were shining. “This boy has certainly caught the essence of a hard experience here,” he said, reaching for his handkerchief.

Cara nodded and said, “So maybe I shouldn't put it in the newspaper, right?”

Mr. Larson looked down at the story again, then handed it back to Cara. “Tell me what
you
think about it, Cara.”

Cara was quiet while Mr. Larson walked over to his desk, sat down, and picked up his coffee cup. “Well, first of all,” she said, “I'm just sure this is a true story, so it's like telling the whole school about some family's private business. Someone might not like that—like the mom or the dad, for instance. Divorce is a pretty messy subject, don't you think? I mean, that part about him running away, and the police coming and everything—”

Cara paused, waiting for Mr. Larson's reaction. He took a sip of coffee, looked out the window, and then back to Cara's face. “You said you are sure this is a true story. Is it trying to hurt anyone?”

Cara shook her head and said, “No—in fact, it really helped me,” and then she blushed at what she'd said.

Mr. Larson pretended not to notice and quickly said,
“Well, it helped me, too.”

“So I should put it in the newspaper, right?” said Cara.

Mr. Larson said, “I appreciate your talking to me about it, but that's a decision that the editor in chief should make. I will say that whatever you decide to do, I will support you completely.”

Four days later, the first Friday in December, in the middle of page three of the ninth edition of
The Landry News,
there was a story by an anonymous writer, a story called “Lost and Found.”

It was the same story that Dr. Barnes was so excited about.

ON THE MONDAY after the ninth edition came out, Mr. Larson got a large brown envelope from Dr. Barnes, hand
delivered to him before school by Mrs. Cormier—just in case he forgot to check his mailbox in the office. There were two items in the envelope. The first was a copy of a letter from Dr. Barnes to the school superintendent and each of the seven members of the school board. It requested an emergency meeting concerning “a disciplinary proceeding against Mr. Karl Larson.” The letter stated that “Mr. Larson allowed the attached article to be published in a classroom newspaper under his supervision, and over three hundred copies were distributed throughout the school and community.” Other phrases in the letter included, “lack of professional judgment,” “disregard for individual privacy,” “unprofessional behavior,” “inappropriate use of school
resources,” and “insensitivity to community values.” A photocopy of the third page of the ninth edition of
The Landry News
was stapled to the letter, with the story about the divorce circled.

The second item in the envelope was a letter to Mr. Larson from Dr. Barnes, informing him of the intended disciplinary action. The letter told Mr. Larson that this would be a public hearing and he might want to have his own lawyer present at the meeting. The secretary of the teachers' union at the school had been informed about the hearing. Dr. Barnes also reminded Mr. Larson that, if he wished, he could choose to resign. If he resigned, there would be no need for a disciplinary proceeding. He could quietly retire, and that would be the end of it. Dr. Barnes ended the letter by saying that publication of
The Landry News
must cease immediately.

Mr. Larson slumped back in his chair, his long arms hanging limp at his sides. He felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. The threat of losing his job was certainly real. Ever since Dr. Barnes arrived at Denton seven years ago, Mr. Larson had known that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. And Mr. Larson thought, “Maybe I deserve this. I've been a rotten teacher, more like half a teacher, for a long time now. Maybe this school will be a lot better off without me. I've probably got this coming.”

But Karl Larson was absolutely sure of one thing. The
kids
did not deserve this one little bit.
The Landry News
had become something wonderful. And the thing that hurt him the most was that because of
his
problems—not the kids' problems—Dr. Barnes was going to use this innocent little newspaper as the whip to send him packing.

But sitting there on his chair in his cluttered room, Mr. Larson turned a corner.

He forgot about his own problems. He began to think about how he could protect his students from the ugliness of this situation. He wanted to be sure that not one of them was harmed or upset in any way. As he began to think about the kids, all the heaviness and burden seemed to drop away. Then all at once, Mr. Larson got an idea, and he sat bolt upright in his chair.

And the thought that formed clearly in his mind was incredibly simple. It was a plan that would protect all the kids, and it would protect him, and it might even protect Dr. Barnes as well.

And one word summed up the whole solution:
teach.

The newest copy of
The Landry News
lay there on his desk next to the letters from Dr. Barnes. Mr. Larson looked from one to the other, and he smiled. Everyone else could get as upset and angry and worried as they wanted to, but he was not going to worry. Why?
Simple. Because his kids were going to see this whole thing as one large, exciting, learning experience about the First Amendment and the freedom of the press.

And who was going to transform this mess into a thing of educational beauty?

Mr. Larson, Teacher.

CARA FELT AWFUL. Mr. Larson had just told the class that
The Landry News
could not be published anymore—at
least, not right away. He had made transparencies of the letters from Dr. Barnes and put them on the overhead projector so the whole class could see them while he explained what was happening. Then he showed a transparency of the story about the boy and the divorce.

Mr. Larson said, “Now, it's important for each of us to think very clearly about all this.” Glancing over the twenty-three faces looking up at him from the darkened room, his eyes met Cara's for a moment before looking back at the screen. “Some of you might be tempted to think, ‘Oh, if only we had not published this
one
little story, everything would be all right.' But is that true? No, it's not. Because if it wasn't
this
story, it would have been some
other
story or some review of a movie or a review of a book that someone does not like. You have to
remember that publishing
this
story was the right thing to do. It's a wonderful story and a brave story, and I know that it was very good for a lot of people to read it and think about it—and a lot of people have told me that it's the
best
thing
The Landry News
has published so far. So that's the first thing—the paper just told the truth.”

It
sounded
good—hearing Mr. Larson say it like that—but it didn't make Cara feel any better. She had a copy of the newspaper on her desk, and her thoughts went round and round.
I should have known better—I should have thought about Mr. Larson instead of the stupid newspaper. I should have just handed that story right back to Michael Morton. I should have known better.
The classroom snapped back into focus for Cara as Mr. Larson turned off the overhead projector and Sharon flipped on the lights.

As the kids squinted and blinked, Mr. Larson said, “So someone thinks that divorce is too personal to write about in a school newspaper. I'm the teacher in charge, so I'm the one responsible, so it looks like I am suddenly in trouble. But
am
I?”

Picking his way over to the bulletin board, Mr. Larson tapped the Bill of Rights poster and then rested the pointer on the First Amendment. “Am I in trouble here, or is something
else
in trouble?”

Mr. Larson could see by their faces that all the kids got the idea. It was Cara who said it. She said, “It's the
First Amendment that's in trouble—the freedom of the press is in trouble.” Then she frowned and said, “But I still think
you're
in trouble, too.”

Mr. Larson grinned, touched by Cara's concern. “Well, I am perfectly sure that there's nothing for any of us to worry about. We've all been doing good work here, and now, thanks to this situation, we're going to get to learn about the freedom of the press in a way that very few teachers or kids will ever get to. Besides, I've been in trouble before, and let me tell you—I think this is the
best
trouble I've ever been in.”

A few of the kids laughed a little when Mr. Larson said that, but not Cara. Walking toward the front of the room, Mr. Larson glanced at her. She sat stiffly in her chair, glaring at her copy of
The Landry News,
biting her lower lip.

Back at his desk, Mr. Larson picked up a stack of stapled handouts and passed them around. “This is your study packet for this unit. Take a look at page one with me.”

For the next ten minutes, Mr. Larson walked the class through all the steps in the process—things that would happen before the hearing, at the hearing, and after the hearing. He wanted to make sure there was nothing mysterious, nothing scary about any of it. He did not paint Dr. Barnes as a villain or himself as a victim. It was not us against them. It was just a contest between two
different ideas of what was right, what was the greatest good for the greatest number.

As Mr. Larson calmly explained everything, Cara relaxed a little. He wasn't just pretending to be brave—Cara could tell he was truly excited about all of this. And when Mr. Larson squinted and rubbed his hands together and said, “It's like we get to mess around in our own private democracy laboratory!” even Cara had to smile.

She flipped ahead to look at the last page of the handout, looking for a clue about where this whole thing would end up. There was only one word on the last page:
Conclusions.
The rest of the page was blank.

That blank page was actually comforting to Cara. She was used to looking at blank pages, and she was used to filling them up with things that were true and good. To Cara, that final page looked like hope.

JOEY SAT NEXT TO CARA on the bus that Monday afternoon. He was quiet, and so was Cara. Even after all the
explanations, she still felt responsible for the whole mess, especially for what was happening to Mr. Larson. There was a lot to think about.

Joey broke the silence with a question. “So you're going to keep on publishing the paper anyway, right?”

Cara's ponytail wagged as she shook her head. “We can't, Joey. If we don't obey the rules, it will just make it harder for Mr. Larson.”

They were quiet again, looking out the windows on opposite sides of the bus for the next two stops. Then as if a puppet master had rotated their heads at exactly the same moment, they faced each other and both started talking at once. “But the letter said
The Landry News!”
said Cara. “It didn't say stop making
all
newspapers!”

“I know, I know!” blurted Joey. “As long as we don't make a newspaper at school or pass it out there, we can publish anything we want to—as long as it's true!” Joey was practically shouting. “And why? Because it's a free country, that's why!”