I used to watch the Finch kids as they played outside; the children, laughing in delight at their games, I, sitting silently in my room as my family walk about. It was the same when I was a kid, too. You know, me, sitting on the sidelines as the other kids had fun. I never questioned it, either. I just remember, one day, my father coming home and telling my mother that I couldn't go outside. Not only that I couldn't, but if she allowed it, he'd leave. After that, she'd dragged him out of the room, but I did hear him yell something about having a daughter. I laughed. I didn't have a sister.
The doctors said something about a syndrome; I never did remember what they called it. Just that I had it and I wouldn't go away. I didn't have it my entire life, you see. Up until second grade, I was a happy, friendly kid who went outside and played. One who smiled, laughed, and talked with others. Then I got the disease, and with that, a wheelchair. My legs couldn't hold me up, both muscle and bone deteriorating, so the church raised enough money for my parents to pay for the doctor's visits and a wheelchair.
The summer that other boy came, pale in complexion, a stranger to Maycomb, their curiosity peaked about who lurked behind the doors of my house. They'd seen Nathan, but they wanted to meet the infamous Boo Radley. Over the years, through my avid people watching, I could differentiate personalities by looking at the way they stood, their stride, or the way their face moved as they spoke.
Jean Louise "Scout" Finch: she'd always been rough around the edges, but she was a lady. Not a lady like my father always said, a lady like my Momma said; one who valued family, and was who she wanted to be, and didn't care. Scout stood tall, smiling wide. She was the best kind of lady you can be. Your own kind of lady.
Jeremy Atticus "Jem" Finch: he was the boy I'd always wished I could be. An athlete. He stood tall, both figuratively and literally, as time went on. He was a gentleman, a persona I, too assumed, my mother having always taught me best, but the confidence he exuded surpassed anything I could ever imagine.
Charles Baker "Dill" Harris: he looked as though even the shirt on his back was something he'd painted. The way he held those books, so close to his body as if they were his lifeline, you could tell he wasn't a stranger to fiction. It was as if it was his family, or a dear friend. His expressions changed enthusiastically as he spoke his dramatic words, exaggerating each one as he went on; selling the product he called his life.
Seeing the three of them interact was always the most entertaining part of my year; it was as if I was watching my own life. Scout's lovely differences from the other girls in the neighborhood, just like my differences from the other kids in the neighborhood. Jem's quiet anger, and gentlemanly behavior, much like my own. I'd spent my life being angry at my father for his threats, and not letting me leave, but I was silent, like the gentleman my mother taught me to be; it made me happy to see her smile, he didn't make that happen often. And then there's Dill's mystery; what's his life really like? Is he wealthy? Poor? Happy? Sad? No one knows. Much like no one really knows about me; they just know what the neighbors tell them, only few know actual facts.