I freeze as I finish taking a picture of the word traitor, and without saying anything, walk back inside, go up to my room, and slam the door. I know everything is all about Rob right now, but has Dad completely forgotten that I’m running for class president and that’s a political position? Does he not approve of that because he thinks politicians are untrustworthy and dishonorable?
I’ve been raised my whole life hearing from my parents how military service upholds our democracy and the American way of life. But is that the only way to do it? It seems to me like there are many types of service, and I still don’t know which is the right one for me. Can I serve my country without being in the military like my parents and my brother?
I’d like the opportunity to try—if my brother hasn’t destroyed any chance of that before I’ve even started.
But, based on what Dad just said, I wonder if he’d ever be as proud of me as he is of my brother, if that’s the path I choose?
Sighing, I text the pictures of the graffiti to my friends.
ME: Look what happened on lovely Maple Street last night.
ME: At risk of sounding like a coward again … Do you think I should quit?
It only takes a few seconds before I hear back.
ADAM: That’s messed up. Are you okay? And no way. Don’t back down!
Farida sends an angry face and a tear emoji and a firm agreement with Adam. That’s so horrible. But NO WAY!!! You can’t give in to the haters!!!!! We’ve got your back!!!!!
Ken is next with an entire row of alternating angry face and flame emojis followed by: WHO WOULD DO THAT? OH WAIT! LET ME GUESS …
Does he mean Chris and his friends? But …
ME: Chris’s dad is running for governor. I don’t think he’d risk this. He might be a jerk, but he’s not stupid.
KEN: But his friends …
He’s got a point. It’s not enough that Rob’s been arrested and faces charges. With Mayor Abbott making angry speeches about immigration and using the incident with Rob as a reason to get people riled up, I wouldn’t be surprised if Wade and Jed and the rest of their crew might be inspired to do some retaliatory artwork.
Just then I hear cars pulling up on the street outside our house. I look out the window and see Frank Meyers getting out of his old woody station wagon. Three cars and four pickups pull up behind him.
Got to go, I text my friends.
When I get outside, my parents and Rob are standing on the lawn, talking to Mr. Meyers.
“As soon as I heard from you, I started calling people from the Legion,” he says, gesturing to the people getting out of their vehicles armed with rags, brushes, and buckets.
One of them is Mr. Neustadt, who walks up with two big bags from Home Depot.
“I’ve got some special graffiti remover,” he tells us. “And some paint. Don’t worry. We’ll have this cleaned off in no time. But I don’t want to get it cleaned off too quickly, because I called the local TV station and they’re coming out.”
“TV?” Dad says. “Should we be—”
“Fighting fire with fire? Yes,” Mr. Neustadt says.
“Thank you,” Mom says, even though Dad still looks worried. “Really, we can’t thank you enough.” She glances over at Rob, waiting for him to say thank you, too, but my brother’s arms are folded over his chest and he’s staring down at his feet.
“I’ll go put some more coffee on,” she says, obviously trying to cover for my brother’s lack of appreciation and Dad’s concern. “Robert, come inside and help me.”
Rob follows her inside like a huge reluctant puppy.
He’s about to get himself a major dressing down. Mom has our six through thick and thin, but she’s not to be messed with when it comes to bad manners.
Mr. Meyers hauls a box out of the trunk of his car. He walks up to the flagpole and pulls a flag out of the box. It’s seen better days, like maybe it should be retired on the next Flag Day. As he’s putting it on the flagpole, he tells Dad and me, “I brought this flag home with me from Vietnam. It’s been in the attic ever since.”
When it’s up, he takes a few steps back. Then his bearing changes. He stands, ramrod straight, eyes ahead, and snaps a salute.
My father joins Mr. Meyers in his salute, and then the other Legionnaires come and stand next to them, saluting, too. I put my hand over my heart like I do for the Pledge. My heart beats strong and true under my hand, and I wonder if underneath the hateful graffiti, my country’s heartbeat is still there, too. I always thought I knew the things we believed in our hearts held us together, but now I’m not so sure. Not after this.
But the men here fought for America, just like Rob. Not just the men. Women like Mom.
And these people are volunteering to help us clean off the hate defiling our house.
After a minute, Mr. Meyers drops his salute. “These walls aren’t going to clean themselves,” he says, his voice husky.
Mr. Neustadt and a few of the other Legionnaires clap him on the shoulder, and they start to get to work.
I grab a rag and Mr. Neustadt makes me put on some safety goggles and rubber gloves so I don’t get any chemicals on me. Mr. Meyers sprays some of the graffiti remover on a patch of wall and I start scrubbing, channeling my feelings into it.
It’s hard to get the paint to shift, but it feels good to rub the hateful words off our house, surrounded by people who care enough to help us do it. I work until my arms hurt from scrubbing, and Die Sc is only faintly visible.
The TV reporter from the local station arrives and starts filming an intro with the house in the background. I take a break so I don’t have to be in the shot. Mom’s making ice tea to take outside for the volunteers.
“Can you get those plastic glasses and a tray?” she says. “And see if we have any chips or pretzels in the cabinet. I wasn’t counting on company today.”
“I wasn’t counting on waking up and seeing Traitor and Die Scum spray-painted on our house,” I say, grabbing a bag of pretzels from the pantry. “But that happened.”
Mom stops stirring the ice tea mix and turns to look at me.
“This is upsetting for everyone, Stella. But it’ll be easier to get through if you could put a lid on the snark.”
It would be easier to get through if you and Dad actually listened and answered my questions once in a while.
But I know better than to say that right now. I should stay in the race for class president, because I’m demonstrating the ability to show diplomacy under pressure.
When I’ve poured the pretzels into a bowl, Mom hands me the tray of ice tea and tells me to take it outside and serve people.
“I’ve got to hunt around to see what else we’ve got for snacks,” she says.
I head outside and set the tray down on the front steps. Then I start pouring cups of ice tea to hand out.
“How about I pour and you hand them out?” Mr. Meyers says. “Teamwork makes the job go faster.”
That means I have to be in the line of the shot, which is the last thing I want to do, but Mr. Meyers went in the line of fire. I can’t be that much of a coward.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing three cups and taking them to people who are busy scrubbing the front of our house.
I bring one over to Mr. Neustadt.
“Thanks, Stella,” he says.
“Can I interview you about why you’re here?” the reporter asks.
“Sure,” Mr. Neustadt says. He gestures at the ugly black words on our house. “My father fought the Nazis over in Europe during World War Two. I fought in Vietnam. I never thought I’d live to see the day where I’d have to scrub hateful graffiti off the home of an American veteran here in this country. It makes me sick to my stomach.” He looks straight into the camera. “But one thing I can tell you for certain: The Walkers are patriots, not traitors.”
“So you don’t think Rob Walker was radicalized while serving overseas?” the reporter asks.
Mr. Neustadt laughs. “It’s the most ridiculous t
hing I’ve ever heard,” he says. “Almost as ridiculous as any politician who’d make that claim.”
I’ve thought of my family as patriots my entire life until this thing happened. I still do. But it seems like some people view us differently now, and I don’t understand why. I feel just as much an American and a patriot as I did before Rob broke Wade’s nose at the mall, but thanks to Mayor Abbott and his quest to be the governor, this all blew up into a bigger thing than it might have otherwise.
So who gets to decide?
I look around at the people who have come to help us. They apparently don’t think we’re un-American traitors and scum. And that’s when I get the idea. But I have to wait until after the reporter and cameraman leave.
Right now they’re trying to get Rob on camera and he’s not cooperating. Doesn’t he realize that is playing straight into Mayor Abbott’s portrayal of him? Dad and Mr. Meyers are huddled next to my brother, obviously trying to talk sense into his thick skull.
I wonder if I should go get Mom, since she can sometimes get through to Rob when Dad can’t. But I decide to go over instead.
Giving my dad a don’t yell at me look, I pull Rob aside.
“Listen, I know the last thing you feel like doing is talking to a reporter after that stupid interview Mayor Abbott did on the radio. But you can’t just let Wade and Jed and Mayor Abbott let their side of the story be the truth. Because it’s not—I know. I was there.”
“It won’t do any good. People have already made up their minds,” Rob says.
“How can you say that when you haven’t even tried to change anyone’s mind yet?” I say. As I say this, I realize that he sounds like me and I sound like Mr. Walsh. Did Mr. Walsh feel this frustrated by my negativity?
“You think I’ve got a chance now that Mayor Abbott has painted me as a psycho radical vet?” Rob says. “Dream on.”
I’ve always looked up to Rob, but right now I think he’s being an idiot.
“Does it look like all these people helping have made up their minds you’re as bad as Mayor Abbott says you are? I always thought that I was the coward of the Walker family. But I guess it was you all along.”
And I walk away, ignoring his stricken face because I’m so furious with him for letting us all down.
I go back to get some more ice tea. The next thing I know, Rob is standing in front of the camera, looking uncomfortable and awkward, but answering the reporter when she asks, “How did you feel when you woke up to see these words spray-painted on your house this morning?”
“Betrayed,” Rob says. “Angry. Confused. I risked my life for this country. I watched my friends die. And now I’m being called a traitor because I stood up for a guy who was being harassed while he did his job at a mall?”
“You did break someone’s nose,” the reporter says.
“He’s not going to talk about that on the record,” Mr. Neustadt intervenes. “Not with charges pending.”
“What about off the record?” the reporter asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it at all,” Rob says. He pulls off the mic, hands it back to the reporter, and heads into the house. The camera follows him and I want to scream “Leave him alone!” except I know that will only make things worse.
“You’ve got your story,” Mr. Neustadt tells the reporter. “If you need more, ask why a politician running for office is on the air spreading irresponsible hate speech and how that’s affecting our young people. Or talk to the Department of Veterans Affairs about why it’s taking so long to get appointments for young men like Robert Walker who are returning from combat in need of help.”
“Both interesting angles,” the reporter says. “I’ll see which way my producer wants to go. Thanks for the tip.”
“Anytime. You’ll be covering the Veterans Day parade, right?”
“Sure thing. See you then!”
After the TV people leave, everyone gets back to cleaning. Mom and Rob come back out of the house. Mom goes around offering snacks, and Rob goes back to scrubbing graffiti. I decide it’s time to put my plan in motion.
“Mr. Neustadt, can I ask you a question and record your answer? I’m doing a project for school.”
It’s a project that I just made up earlier, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Sure,” he says. He finishes the rest of his ice tea and sets the glass down. “Fire away. If you don’t mind me working on getting the rest of this garbage off your house while you do.”
“No, that’s fine.” I start VOICE MEMO on my phone as he puts his protective goggles back on, sprays the house, and starts scrubbing the graffiti again. “This is Mr. Jack Neustadt, head of the American Legion Post in Argleton, Virginia. Mr. Neustadt, when and where did you serve? “
“I served in Vietnam, US Army, First Infantry, the Big Red One.”
“Mr. Neustadt, what do you think makes someone a patriot?”
His arm stops, and he turns to look at me through his goggles like an amused insect. “I see asking easy questions runs in the family,” he says, a smile quirking his lips.
“That’s why I want to do this project. To tell you the truth, it’s not really for school—at least, not yet,” I confess. “Right now it’s for me. To help me understand.”
“It is getting mighty confusing,” he says, nodding toward the wall of the house. “But to my mind, a patriot isn’t someone who has to blather on the TV about how patriotic they are. They show you, by the way they live. By being willing to put themselves at risk to confront what’s wrong instead of walking past and pretending they don’t see it.”
I glance up at the wall of the house. Traitor is starting to fade, thanks to the work of our volunteers.
“I’m talking about your brother, too,” Mr. Neustadt says. “I’m not saying he had to break the kid’s nose. He lost control of himself, and that was wrong. But he’s not the only guy in the history of the world who came back from war with some anger issues.” He shakes his head, frowning. “And we never learn.”
He starts scrubbing furiously, as if he’s got an anger issue himself all of a sudden.
“That answer your question?”
I press STOP.
“I think so. Thanks.”
But I want to get more ideas, too. So I go around and ask other volunteers the same question. It turns out there are as many definitions of what makes someone a patriot as there are people to interview.
“Plain and simple—someone who loves their country,” Mr. Lee says.
Mr. McNeill agrees. “It’s about respecting our history, but not being afraid to recognize times where we got it wrong, or speak out about what’s holding us back. A patriot is someone who is willing to fight for liberty and justice for all.”
I look over at Rob, who is scrubbing Scum off the siding with so much ferocity I worry about both the shingle and his hand. Whatever it is that my brother is struggling with, I think he’s a patriot, no matter what the graffiti says.
Hey, Roadrunner—
I wish I could have shown you a video of this morning. Maybe you would have changed your mind and decided to stick around. Maybe not. When I saw what they’d spray-painted on our house, I thought for the first time you’d made the right decision.
Because I was embarrassed.
It’s one thing to mess up for myself. But this is home for Mom, Dad, and Stella. And because of me, our house, the place where my family lives and sleeps, was covered with hate.
Then Frank Meyers showed up with a contingent from the Argleton Legion.
At first that made it even worse. That all these older vets, friends of my parents, guys I’ve saluted at every Veterans Day parade growing up, were there to witness it all. I was so ashamed, so messed up in my own head, that I couldn’t even look them in the eye and say, “Thanks for helping out.”
That voice in our head is our own worst enemy. As hard to fight as snipers and IEDS, I think sometimes.
But you know that.
You listened to yours all
the way to the end.
Mom took me inside and read me the riot act. She said she understood I was having readjustment issues, and she and Dad are going to kick up a stink to see what is going on with that appointment at the VA hospital, but right now I needed to get out of my own head and go help the guys who had been gracious enough to come help us, on the double.
So I quick marched myself outside and started scrubbing that crap off the house, and what do you know? Even though every time I looked at those words I felt rage, I was part of a unit again, and we were working together for a common purpose—fighting the hate.
That felt good. Until the TV reporter came. The last thing I wanted to do was get in front of a camera and talk. Dad and Mr. Meyers were trying to persuade me how it was in my best interest to do it, but I didn’t want to hear it. Reporters let that jerk Abbott smear me, based on nothing—how could I possibly trust that the story wouldn’t get twisted again?
Then Stella came over and told me I was a coward. Can you believe? Stella telling ME that I’M a coward.
Some kind of reverse psychology, because of course I HAD to do the interview then.
It’ll probably be a long-term disaster, because the reporter started asking me about punching Wade Boles and Mr. Neustadt interrupted saying I can’t talk about that because of the legal issues. I was pissed that they’d asked the question when all that hateful stuff was on the wall of our house and stormed inside. Didn’t come back out until they’d left.
The strange thing is, I feel better tonight than I have for a while. Who knows if it’ll last, though.
Still, those folks had my six. Just like I’d have had yours, if you’d hung around long enough to let me.
ThunderGeek out.
“This is ridiculous,” Mom says, slamming Tuesday morning’s paper down on the kitchen table. “He’s just trying to make this situation even more absurd. If that windbag tries to build his political career on the back of my kid, I will …”
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