To Kill a Mockingbird was not my favorite novel the first time I read it. Like all good love affairs, this one would take time, distance, and a bit of persistence. Back in 1972, when it was required reading for my 9th grade English class, I was far more interested in historical romances that featured beefy hunks and petite-yet-plucky heroines than the goings-on of a tomboy in a small town in the south. Also, I was a notorious procrastinator, so I treated the To Kill a Mockingbird assignment as I did all the others. I read the CliffsNotes. A decade later, after hearing people proclaim this their all-time favorite, I decided to pick up a copy at the library. By the time I returned that book, three weeks overdue, pages worn and tattered from my reading and rereading, it was a full-on love affair. So, when it was announced that a sequel to the novel had been found in Harper Lee's safe-deposit box, it felt as if long-lost friends were coming home. Unfortunately, those friends brought with them more than nostalgia. They brought the good, the bad, and the ugly.
