I've always loved the sweet relationship between Atticus and Scout, and the way Atticus guides and teaches his children. I really liked writing this story and getting to explore that a little more. (The plot is stolen from the picture book "Down the Road," by Alice Schertle.) I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I stepped out of our house with a shiny quarter clenched in my fist and my heart thudding excitedly in my chest. As our screen door banged shut behind me, Calpurnia's voice called, for what felt like the hundredth time, "And you mind what I said, Scout. Straight to Mr. Link's store and back, no stops 'long the way, y'hear? And you be extra careful with them eggs!"

I huffed an annoyed sigh. Calpurnia had already given me those instructions so many times that I could've recited them backwards. But Cal had always been the tyrant of our kitchen, constantly asking me why I couldn't behave as well as Jem and calling me home before I was ready. I answered dutifully, "Yessum," then jumped off our porch and set off down the sidewalk before she could give me another order.

At six-years-old, it was an exciting errand for me. Our summertime boundaries were Mrs. Dubose's house to our north, and the Radley Place to the south, and Calpurnia had a strict rule that Jem and I were never to go past them without her or Atticus's express permission. This afternoon, in an rare display of leniency, she had given me her permission, a quarter, and instructions to walk to Mr. Link Deas's store to buy a dozen eggs. I knew Calpurnia had only assigned me the task because no one else could go — Jem was off playing football with some boys from school, and she was in the middle of cooking supper, to have ready when Atticus came home from work — but still, it was thrilling to be old enough to go to the store alone, entrusted with so much money.

So I walked proudly up the street, past Miss Stephanie's house, past the collard patch in Miss Rachel's front yard, past the scuppernong arbor and azalea bushes in Miss Maudie's. It was early summer, but her deep purple azalea blossoms were already over, and one of the great mysteries of my six-year-old world was how a grown-up like Miss Maudie didn't realize that azalea bushes only bloomed for two weeks of the year and looked scraggly for the other fifty.

I knew the way to Mr. Link's store as well as I knew any route in Maycomb. It was in the courthouse square, where Atticus used to have his law office. I rounded the corner post-office — where Jem and I always caught our first glimpse of Atticus, when we waited for him to come home — and from there, it was only a few blocks. The quarter in my hand was warm and slippery with sweat by the time I reached the square, so I tucked it carefully into the bib pocket of my overalls. Somehow, it always seemed hotter back then, and people moved slowly. Men ambled across the square and shuffled in and out of the stores, or sat in the shade and played cards or checkers. A few waved or nodded to me as I made my way to Mr. Link's store, but that was the extent of their greetings.

I didn't know it then, but it was the last summer that I would enjoy such relative anonymity in Maycomb. By next summer, when Atticus had agreed to serve as Tom Robinson's defense lawyer, the sight of me, Jem, or both of us together, would be enough to make people point and stare openly. By next summer, murmurs of "there's his children yonder" or "look, it's Atticus Finch's young'uns" would follow us wherever we went.

Nor did I know then that in just a few days, Dill Harris would arrive at Miss Rachel's house and soon become fixated with the idea of making Boo Radley leave his house. I could never have imagined the course of events that was about to be set in motion.

Like most stores in the square, Mr. Link's had an NRA: We Do Our Part poster in the window and a cowbell hanging over the door. It clanged loudly as I went inside. Mr. Link still employed both Tom and Helen Robinson then; Tom worked on his land, picking cotton in the summer and pecans in the fall, and Helen worked the cash register in his store. She rang me up for a dozen large brown eggs, which came to eighteen cents, and packaged them carefully in a paper bag. "Thank you, mam," I said politely as she handed me the bag and my seven cents of change.

Poor Helen Robinson — for her, too, that summer was the last summer of so many things.

I felt prouder of myself than ever as I walked back. I could hardly wait for Atticus to come home from work. As soon as I saw him round the corner, I was going to run to him and tell him that I'd gone to the store and bought eggs all by myself. And for breakfast tomorrow morning, there would be scrambled eggs and hash browns made from the potatoes that Mr. Cunningham had given Atticus for working on his entailment. I turned the corner at the post office and continued down our block, past hateful old Mrs. Dubose, ranting and raving at the world from her front porch, and I was just about to pass Miss Rachel's front yard when the Lord sent me more than I could bear.

It was a large scuppernong in my path, close enough to the sidewalk that I never saw it coming, and still firm enough that rather than being squashed under my bare foot, it rolled me off balance. I tumbled forward, and the eggs that I had purchased so proudly, that Calpurnia had warned me to be so careful with, fell to the sidewalk with a loud, horrible crack — all twelve of them.

For a long moment, I could only stare in silent horror at what I had done. Then, with the reckless fear of a child, I turned and ran for my life, desperate to distance myself from the evidence. I fled to Deer's Pasture behind our house and sat down behind some thick, brambly bushes, where I would be well-hidden while I gathered the courage to go home empty-handed. There would be no eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning, and even worse, Calpurnia would likely never trust me to go anywhere or do anything by myself again. Why hadn't I seen the scuppernong ahead of time and avoided it? Why did I have to be so clumsy?

Perhaps I should run away and never go home again. Wouldn't that be better than going back and facing Calpurnia's wrath? But where would I run away to? There was nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County.

I don't know how long I sat there behind the bushes, my chin propped on my knees, feeling sorry for myself. But as the sun sank lower in the sky and the afternoon turned to evening, I heard slow, heavy footsteps crossing Deer's Pasture, coming towards me. I knew immediately who it was. I would recognize my father's tread anywhere.

"I was on my way home from work," came his voice, in that calm, conversational tone he always used, "when I spotted some dropped eggs on the sidewalk. Folks are always saying that it's hot enough to fry an egg at this time of year, and at first I thought..." The bushes rustled, and then Atticus appeared from the other side of them. "Ah, there you are, Scout. At first I thought you or Jem had taken the expression literally and tried to fry eggs on the sidewalk. But that's not what really happened, is it?"

He sat down in the dirt beside me, even though he was wearing his best work pants, and I sniffled hard and tried to explain. "Cal sent me to buy some eggs, an' she told me over an' over to be careful with 'em, an' I really did try to be, Atticus. But there was a scuppernong on the sidewalk I didn't see, an' I... I tripped an' dropped the eggs an' messed everything all up."

I buried my face in his vest front before I started crying. Atticus didn't say anything for some time; he simply let me cry and stroked my hair, his one gesture of affection. From behind his starched blue vest, I could hear the ticking of his pocket watch, the steady thrumming of his heartbeat, and the soft, even sound of his breathing. The familiar sounds were comforting, and once I had calmed down a bit, Atticus asked softly, "Do you really think you've messed everything up, Scout?"

I pulled back from him to look him in the face. "Do you really think so?" was my father's check-mate, his most loaded question. I knew as certainly as I knew anything that when Atticus asked you if you really thought something, then whatever you thought, you were wrong. If he was asking me that question now, then I couldn't have ruined everything by dropping those all eggs.

"Well..." I said slowly, trying to sort out exactly how much I had messed up, "now we can't have eggs for breakfast tomorrow."

"Yes," Atticus consented, "I suppose that's true. But we all make mistake sometimes, Scout. Accidents happen to everyone. All that matters is that we face up to them and try to learn from them." He leaned back and tilted his head upwards to study the sky. The western side of it was beautiful in the summer sunset, aflame with deep reds and oranges. Over the eastern horizon, the moon was rising. It was a full moon; tonight Jem and I would be able to see the lady at her dressing-table in it. Atticus went on, "You know, Scout, this pasture is classified as common land in Maycomb County. Do you know what that means?"

"Um... that everyone's s'pposed to share it?" I guessed.

"Well, yes. It's a legal term for any land that, ownership notwithstanding, is available for the use and enjoyment of the public." I didn't know all of the words that Atticus had just used, but I understood his general meaning. I was used to that kind of last-will-and-testament diction from my father. "So I think we'd be well within our rights to pick a few of these blackberries."

I raised my head, still sniffling. Until then, I hadn't noticed that the bushes right in front of us were full of blackberry vines. Other children must have come by and picked berries recently, because there were none left at eye-level, but lower to the ground, where Atticus and I sat, the vines were still full of big, glossy berries. They looked so delicious that I couldn't resist plucking one and popping it into my mouth immediately. It was so sweet and juicy that despite my sorrows, I smiled, my lips stained purple.

Atticus pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and spread it flat on the ground. "If you help me pick some," he said, beginning to fill it with blackberries, "we'll take them home to Cal, and I think she'll agree that this is a sound case of substituted goods due to changed conditions." I immediately joined him in picking berries, and once we had filled his handkerchief, he gathered it up and we walked home across the field together, hand-in-hand, as the golden light faded.

oOo

"I sure am glad you dropped them eggs, Scout," Jem praised me at the table the next morning, as Calpurnia served blackberry cobbler for breakfast. "This is even better." And he was right. Blackberry cobbler warm from the oven with a tall glass of cold milk was the most delicious breakfast we'd ever had. Even Atticus was drinking milk with his slice, rather than the coffee that he usually had with breakfast.

I had learned an important lesson — life wasn't always going to work out the way that I'd planned it. Sometimes life would throw an unexpected scuppernong in your path, and events would happen quite differently. But sometimes, by being different, it was better.

FIN