“You can just take that back!”

This demand, made by me to Cecil Jacobs, marked the beginning of a tense period for Jem and me. My fists were clenched, and I was ready to swing. Atticus had warned me that if he caught me fighting again, there would be consequences; he felt I was too old and too big for such childish behavior, and the sooner I learned to control myself, the better it would be for everyone. I soon forgot his warning.

Cecil Jacobs made me forget. He had announced in the schoolyard the day before that Scout Finch’s father defended African Americans. I denied it, but I told Jem.

“What did he mean by that?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Jem said. “Ask Atticus; he’ll explain.”

“Do you defend African Americans, Atticus?” I asked him that evening.

“Of course I do. But don’t use that term, Scout. It’s not respectful.”

“‘s what everybody at school says.”

“From now on, it’ll be everybody less one—”

“Well, if you don’t want me to use that term, why do you send me to school?”

My father looked at me mildly, amusement in his eyes. Despite our compromise, my campaign to avoid school had continued in one form or another since my first day: the start of last September had brought on various ailments, including dizziness and mild stomach issues. I even paid a nickel to rub my head against Miss Rachel’s cook’s son’s head, who had a noticeable ringworm. It didn’t work.

But I was preoccupied with another concern. “Do all lawyers defend African Americans, Atticus?”

“Of course they do, Scout.”

“Then why did Cecil say you defended them? He made it sound like you were doing something wrong.”

Atticus sighed. “I’m simply defending a man named Tom Robinson. He lives in a small settlement beyond the town dump. He’s a member of Calpurnia’s church, and Cal knows his family well. She says they’re good, upstanding people. Scout, you’re not old enough to understand everything yet, but there’s been some talk around town suggesting I shouldn’t be defending this man. It’s a complicated case—it won’t come to trial until the summer session. Judge Taylor kindly granted us a postponement…”

“If you shouldn’t be defending him, then why are you doing it?”

“For a number of reasons,” Atticus said. “The main one is, if I didn’t, I couldn’t hold my head up in this town. I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, and I couldn’t even ask you or Jem to respect me.”

“You mean if you didn’t defend that man, Jem and I wouldn’t have to listen to you anymore?”

“That’s about right.”

“Why?”

“Because I could never ask you to respect me again. Scout, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him personally. This one’s mine, I guess. You might hear some unpleasant talk about it at school, but do one thing for me: hold your head high and keep those fists down. No matter what anybody says, don’t let it get to you. Try using your head instead… it’s a good one, even if it’s a bit stubborn.”

“Atticus, are we going to win?”

“No, honey.”

“Then why—”

“Just because we might not win doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Atticus said.

“You sound like Cousin Ike Finch,” I said. Cousin Ike Finch was Maycomb County’s sole surviving Confederate veteran. He wore a General Hood-style beard of which he was very proud. At least once a year, Atticus, Jem, and I visited him, and I would have to kiss him. It was uncomfortable. Jem and I would listen to Atticus and Cousin Ike talk about the war. “Tell you, Atticus,” Cousin Ike would say, “the Missouri Compromise was what defeated us, but if I had to do it again, I’d walk every step of the way there and back just like I did before…”

“Come here, Scout,” said Atticus. I climbed onto his lap and tucked my head under his chin. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. “It’s different this time,” he said. “This time we aren’t fighting outsiders; we’re fighting our friends. But remember this, no matter how tough things get, they’re still our friends, and this is still our home.”

With this in mind, I faced Cecil Jacobs in the schoolyard the next day: “You gonna take that back?”

“You gotta make me first!” he yelled. “My folks said your daddy was a disgrace!”

I focused on him, remembered what Atticus had said, then dropped my fists and walked away, “Scout’s a coward!” ringing in my ears.

It was the first time I ever walked away from a fight.

Somehow, if I fought Cecil, I would let Atticus down. Atticus so rarely asked Jem and me to do something for him; I could take being called a coward for him. I felt very proud for having remembered, and stayed proud for three weeks. Then Christmas came, and things changed.

Jem and I had mixed feelings about Christmas. The good parts were the tree and Uncle Jack Finch. Every Christmas Eve, we met Uncle Jack at Maycomb Junction, and he would spend a week with us.

The less pleasant side was Aunt Alexandra and Francis.

I suppose I should mention Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Alexandra’s husband, but as he never spoke to me except to say, “Get off the fence,” once, I never thought much of him. Neither did Aunt Alexandra. Aunty and Uncle Jimmy had a son named Henry, who left home as soon as he could, married, and had Francis. Henry and his wife would drop Francis at his grandparents’ every Christmas and then go off on their own.

No amount of pleading could persuade Atticus to let us spend Christmas Day at home. We went to Finch’s Landing every Christmas in my memory. Although Aunt Alexandra was a good cook, it was still challenging to spend the holiday with Francis Hancock. He was a year older than I, and I avoided him on principle: he enjoyed things I disapproved of and disliked my simple pleasures.

Aunt Alexandra was Atticus’s sister, but when Jem told me about siblings and family changes, I decided she must have been swapped at birth. If I had ever had mystical notions about mountains, Aunt Alexandra would have been like Mount Everest: distant and always there.

When Uncle Jack arrived on Christmas Eve, we had to wait for the porter to hand him two long packages. Jem and I always thought it was funny when Uncle Jack pecked Atticus on the cheek; they were the only two men we ever saw do that. Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high, but not very high: Uncle Jack was a bit shorter than Atticus and younger than Aunt Alexandra. He and Aunt Alexandra looked alike, but Uncle Jack was more personable.

He was one of the few people of science who never scared me, probably because he never acted like a typical doctor. Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem and me, like removing a splinter, he would explain exactly what he was going to do, how much it might hurt, and the use of any tools he used. One Christmas, I hid in corners nursing a splinter in my foot, not letting anyone near me. When Uncle Jack found me, he kept me laughing with a story about a preacher who disliked going to church so much that he gave five-minute sermons to passers-by from his gate. I kept asking Uncle Jack to let me know when he would pull it out, but he held up the splinter and said he had done it while I was laughing, calling it relativity.

“What’s in those packages?” I asked, pointing to the long thin parcels.

“None of your business,” he said. Jem asked, “How’s Rose Aylmer?”

Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat. She was a beautiful yellow female whom Uncle Jack said was one of the few creatures he could stand all the time. He showed us some photos, and we admired them.

“She’s getting fat,” I said.

“I should think so. She eats all the leftovers from the hospital.”

“Aw, that’s just a story,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Atticus said, “Don’t pay any attention to her, Jack. She’s just testing you. Cal says she’s been using strong language for a week now.”

Uncle Jack raised his eyebrows but said nothing. I was hoping that if Atticus found out I had picked up such words at school, he wouldn’t make me go anymore.

But at dinner that evening, when I asked him to pass the ham, Uncle Jack pointed at me. “See me afterward, young lady,” he said.