Civil disobedience

We've been busted, sort of. Mirabell came over to speak with me and Charles Wallace after the play workshop yesterday.
"Try to make it a little less obvious, you two. That Patterson moron found his script."
"What was wrong?" Charles Wallace isn't very good at being disingenuous.
"Wrong? The bloody explosions, that's what! He didn't notice the line changes, but the explosions--just tone it down." Mirabell stormed off and Charles Wallace and I walked home.
"Well, what should we do now, Sandra? He's taken all the fun out of it."
"Saturday's Canada Day, so you can light off as many fireworks as you like. We'll just stick to fixing the script," I told him. For one thing, the ending had to go. And the middle.
My father's planning the whole North American holiday thing for the weekend, so we're having a barbecue on Saturday after the England game. Every night this week after dinner he's asked Charles Wallace if there's anything incendiary in the backyard, and where it is. My mother's invited the Andersons, with the added lure of Arne being ready to go on some sort of tour with Torvald McGuire and thus being out of commission. I told her to tell Mrs. Anderson to tell Duncan to bring April. Maybe Charles Wallace and I can quiz her on ways to fool her brother.