Mom is fierce. She served in Desert Storm. She isn’t fazed by blood or broken bones. She’s a good shot. She’s not scared of mice or snakes or spiders. I don’t think she’s scared of anything, except for something bad happening to one of us.

That’s why the sound of her screaming for Dad on Sunday morning wakes me from sleep instantly. I leap out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t help but assume the worst, running toward Rob’s room, whispering, “No, no, no …” but before I get across the hall, his door opens and my brother emerges in pajama bottoms and an olive-drab T-shirt.

He’s alive.

I’m so happy about that I launch myself at him and throw my arms around his neck.

He shoves me away. “What’s the matter with you, Stella? Don’t you hear Mom?”

He pushes past me, heading down the stairs. I can’t tell him I’m relieved it wasn’t about him, so I follow him instead.

Mom and Dad are on the lawn, staring at the front of our house.

Ugly words in black spray paint.

TRAITOR

TERRORIST LOVER

DIE SCUM

UN-AMERICAN

Our American flag is missing from the pole by the front door.

This is our home.

This is our state.

This is our country.

This is America.

But right now it doesn’t feel that way.

How can this be our country if we can wake up and find our house vandalized with hateful words like this?

How can this be the country my parents and my brother served?

Mom comes and puts her hand on my back to comfort me.

“We’ll get through this, Stella. We’ll be okay,” she says, but the tremor in her voice belies her words.

I don’t know how we’ll get through it. It was bad enough having my posters torn down, but this has used up whatever little crumbs of bravery I had left. I just want to get away from here, to someplace where people don’t hate us.

The question is, where? Farida’s family thought they were safe when they came to America, but they still face prejudice. I guess hatred can appear anywhere, even here in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I think about what Farida said the other day about Ken and me giving up so easily. She has to deal with this constantly, way more than I even know, but somehow, she’s still optimistic about change. I think of all the time she’s spent over the years, trying to get me to understand what it’s like for her, to understand what it’s like for other people. It must be so frustrating, and I feel exhausted just thinking about it. How is it fair that I’m tired already?

I glance over at my brother. His hands are clenched into fists, and he’s got the same look in his eyes that he had at the mall right before he beat up Wade.

Dad walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Rob,” he says. “We’ll get this cleaned up.”

“We shouldn’t have to clean it up,” Rob spits out through clenched teeth. “It shouldn’t be here in the first place. I thought I left the enemy overseas.”

“It’s a blow to the core to realize we’ve met the enemy and it’s us,” Dad says. “People right here in Argleton.”

Rob recoils as if Dad hit him. His face pales and I’m afraid he’s going to keel over. I’m not the only one.

“What is it?” Mom rushes to Rob’s side and puts her arm around him. “Rob, what’s the matter?”

At first Rob says, “Nothing, I’m fine,” and he tries to shake off her arm, like he’s going to escape into the house.

But suddenly he turns back, bends, and lays his head on Mom’s shoulder. His shoulders heave and he emits a strangled sound.

Dad is staring at them, looking stricken and confused. I don’t blame him. I’m as at a loss to understand as he is.

I notice a curtain twitch from across the street—the Kirchmars’ house. Do they think Rob’s a traitor and a terrorist? Their daughter Jana was in the same class as Rob at Argleton High. She knows him. The Kirchmars know us. How could anyone think that?

Mom strokes Rob’s hair as he clings to her like she’s the rock that’s keeping him from being lost at sea.

And then he gasps, “Jason … said … that.”

My parents look at each other over Rob’s head.

“Said what?” Mom asks, pushing his hair back from his forehead.

Rob lifts his head from Mom’s shoulder. His face is pale and his eyes haunted.

“I’d been keeping in touch with him … I knew he was struggling. Like I am,” Rob admits. “The day he … I told him to get help, to go to the ER. And he said …” Rob swallows, like he’s trying to keep himself from losing it again. “He said, ‘I don’t know who the enemy is anymore. Most of the time, I think it’s me.’”

“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault,” Mom says. “You did what you could, but Jason needed professional help. He needed medication, therapy, and a good support group.”

I can’t help thinking maybe Rob needs that, too. I don’t want him to end up like Jason. Or in jail.

Dad glances around. “How about we take this inside?” he says. “I need to make some calls.”

He takes one of Rob’s arms and Mom takes the other, and between them they guide my distraught brother into the house, away from the scrutiny of any watching neighbors who may or may not agree with the ugly sentiments spray-painted on our house.

Once inside, Dad goes to call the police. Meanwhile, Mom and I make breakfast and Rob sits at the table, staring down into a cup of coffee like it holds the answers to the meaning of life.

Mom’s gotten the eggs and bacon ready and I’ve made a stack of toast and am almost finished buttering it when Dad comes back into the kitchen. “Police are on their way to take a statement,” he says. “Frank Meyers is going to be coming by, too, with some of the guys from the Legion. Frank had some choice words to say about what happened.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Mom says. “Come get something in your stomach before the police get here.”

When the food is on my plate, I don’t feel like eating, even though it smells good. I nibble at the crust of my toast and push the eggs around my plate so it looks like I’ve had something.

“You’re not going to let good bacon go to waste, are you, Stella?” Dad asks me as the doorbell rings.

“You can have it,” I tell him. “I’ll get the door.”

A police officer is standing on the porch. He asks to speak to Dad. I invite him into the kitchen, and then I go upstairs to get my phone. I need to tell my friends what’s happening, because inevitably news about this will get out around school and become another subject for flame wars on the Junior Class Facebook page.

When I get outside to take pictures of the graffiti, Dad’s there with the police officer, who is also taking pictures.

“Well, you know tensions are high,” the policeman says. I can’t tell if he’s making excuses or being sympathetic.

“And Mayor Abbott is playing it for all it’s worth. Listening to him, you’d never know my son is a US Marine Corps vet, would you?” Dad says. “Is it any wonder people don’t trust politicians?”

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 thing 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.