To Kill a Mockingbird Play: From Fear to Understanding

Prologue

Staging: A darkened stage. One chair. A single porch light glows faintly. A notebook rests on the chair. A faint projection of Maycomb flickers—porches, trees, courthouse columns.

Lighting: A slow amber dawn spreads as Adult Scout steps forward.

Adult Scout
When you’re a child, the world seems simple. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Safe and dangerous.
(pauses, smiles gently)
I grew up in a town that believed itself simple, too—Maycomb, Alabama. A place small enough to know everybody’s business, and big enough to hold secrets too heavy for children’s pockets.
(beat)
But childhood is a curious thing. It doesn’t just leave you—it follows. The questions you asked when you were young, the things you saw when no one thought you were watching… those shadows stay with you.
(she touches the notebook)
This is the story of how we learned—through a trial, a town, and a neighbor hidden in plain sight—that justice isn’t a word written in law books. It’s a choice written in the human heart.
(beat)
And how a mockingbird’s song—fragile, unarmed—can be silenced by fear, or cherished by kindness.
(gazes out)
Come with me. Let’s walk the streets of Maycomb. You may hear its echoes in your own.

Lighting shift: The courthouse projection brightens, children’s laughter is heard offstage. Scene 1 begins.

Scene 1 — Childhood & Curiosity

Staging: A modest 1930s Maycomb street. Upstage left, the Finch porch with a swing and a pair of worn shoes by the step. Upstage right, a shadowed corner of the Radley yard, its fence slightly leaning, a tree with a visible knothole. Downstage center is a stretch of warm dirt road where children can run and whisper. Afternoon light. The hum of cicadas.

At rise:
Scout kneels, drawing a chalk map on the dirt. Jem paces with a stick, “surveying” their kingdom. Dill sits on the step with a paper fan, eyes trained on the Radley house.

Scout
(squinting at her chalk)
If we put the school here, and Miss Maudie’s flowers over there, that means the Radley place is right where the paper tears.

Jem
That’s about right. Whole town tears there.

Dill
(leaning forward)
You reckon he’s looking at us now?

Scout
If he is, he’s doing it through a knot in the fence.

Jem
He doesn’t need knots. Boo Radley can see through wood.

Scout
He can’t see through wood, Jem.

Jem
Can too. He’s got night eyes.

Dill
And teeth he whittled from mule bone.

Scout and Jem glare; Dill grins—pleased with himself.

Scout
You two make more noise than a thunderstorm and half the sense. Maybe he’s just shy.

Jem
Shy don’t keep you inside for fifteen years.

Dill
Maybe he’s waiting for a sign.

Scout
What kind of sign?

Dill
Something friendly. Like a boy whistling a tune. Or a pie in a windowsill.

Jem
You can’t bake a shy man out of a house, Dill.

Scout
We could ask Atticus.

Jem
Atticus won’t tell you stories about monsters. He’ll tell you to tie your laces.

Atticus enters from the street with his briefcase and a rolled newspaper. He pauses, watching the three in their triangulated positions, the Radley yard like a magnet.

Atticus
Good afternoon.

All three
Good afternoon, Atticus.

Atticus
(placing his things on the porch)
What science is this? Surveying? Cartography?

Scout
We’re drawing the whole town. Only we can’t get the Radley place to sit still.

Atticus
Some places prefer to be visited in the imagination.

Jem
We were thinking maybe we’d… stroll by. See if he’s at the window.

Atticus
The Radleys mind their business. I expect we can do the same.

Scout
We’re not making trouble. We’re… curious.

Atticus
Curiosity’s a good beginning. But it’s a poor excuse for trespass.

Calpurnia appears in the doorway with a dish towel, eyes kind and watchful.

Calpurnia
And it’s a worse excuse for dirty knees on my clean floor. Scout Finch, you come wash up before you make handprints of Maycomb on my stove.

Scout
My hands aren’t that bad.

Calpurnia
Hold them up.
(Scout holds them up; Calpurnia nods)
That’s not hands—that’s two biscuits rolled in the yard.

The kids laugh. Scout rubs her palms on her overalls and grimaces.

Atticus
(to Jem and Dill)
It’s a warm day. Warm days make warm ideas. Keep yours gentle.

Jem
Yes, sir.

Atticus and Calpurnia exchange a look: affection, caution, routine. Calpurnia disappears into the house.

Dill
(softly, to the others)
I’ve got it. A gentleman’s game. No trespassing. Strictly scientific.

Scout
That mean you going first?

Dill
It means we observe and record. Jem, you’re tall—reconnaissance. Scout, you keep the log.

Jem
What are you going to do?

Dill
Inspire.

They creep toward the fence. A breeze lifts a threadbare curtain in the Radley window. The children freeze, then inch closer.

Scout
(whisper)
Jem, do you feel it? Like the air holding its breath?

Jem
It’s just shade.

Dill
No, that’s a feeling. Stories live in shade.

Scout
Maybe he’s lonely.

Jem
He could come out if he wanted to.

Scout
What if the world looks mean from inside? What if you see too much?

Dill
Then you’d want a sign. A good one.

Jem
What, like a letter?

Dill
A gift.

They all glance at the knothole, as if it might answer.

Calpurnia
(calling from inside)
Supper in twenty! Jem, bring in that water bucket. Scout, wash those hands with soap, not wishful thinking.

Scout
Yes, ma’am!

Atticus sits on the step, loosens his tie, opens the newspaper but watches the children over it.

Atticus
Jem, you know what I tell juries?

Jem
They have to listen.

Atticus
They have to listen with more than their ears.

Scout
How do you do that?

Atticus
Same way you read a book without moving your lips. You slow down and let your mind do the work.
(beat)
Boo Radley is a man. Not a plaything.

Jem
We weren’t playing with him.

Atticus
Weren’t you?

The children look at the ground. A beat.

Atticus
(softening)
I don’t understand everything. But I try to give folks the room to be understood. Start there.

Scout
With room?

Atticus
With kindness. It gives you the right kind of close.

Calpurnia reappears with a jar of sweet tea and three chipped cups. She sets them down.

Calpurnia
Kindness tastes better cold.

Dill
Miss Calpurnia, do you think Boo Radley’s scary?

Calpurnia
I think folks get called scary when what they need is quiet. Or time. Or someone to quit telling stories about ’em.
(she looks them all over)
And sometimes, when you can’t meet a person yet, the kind thing is to let them be.

Scout
But I want to know him.

Calpurnia
Wanting and deserving aren’t the same dish, baby.

She hands them tea. They sip, the porch briefly its own small world.

Jem
Atticus, what if we wrote him a note? Just “hello” and “we don’t mean harm.”

Atticus
Then you’d have to ask yourself if the note is for him or for you.

Scout
How would we know?

Atticus
You’d know by who feels better after it’s written.

A child’s shout from offstage; a dog barks; the town inhales and exhales. Jem edges toward the fence again, careful not to disturb anything.

Dill
(eyes bright)
What if he’s already written to us?

Scout
How?

Dill
A sign only we would notice. Something small.
(points toward the tree)
Like a knot where a knot shouldn’t be.

They approach the tree. Jem runs his fingers along the knothole’s rim, hesitant, as if touching the lip of a secret. He finds nothing—yet—but the gesture plants curiosity like a seed.

Atticus
Children—

They turn.

Atticus
We’ll eat early. I’ve a meeting tonight.
(he stands, picks up the briefcase)
One more thought, while you’re building your town there.

Scout
Yes, sir?

Atticus
You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.

Jem
We know.

Atticus
Until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.

The words settle. Even Dill is quiet.

Calpurnia
And if you can’t walk in it yet—don’t trample it.

A hush. The late light turns honey-colored. Somewhere, a screen door claps.

Scout
(softly, almost to herself)
If Boo’s watching, I hope he sees we’re not mean. Just curious.

Jem
We’ll be careful.

Dill
And friendly.

Atticus
That’s a start.

Calpurnia nudges the shoes by the step with her toe.

Calpurnia
Scout Finch, you put those on. A lady can be barefoot, but not at my table.

Scout
I’m not a lady yet.

Calpurnia
Then you can practice. Shoes.

Scout slips into the shoes, making a face; everyone smiles.

Atticus
All right. Wash-up, then supper.

They begin to file inside. Scout lingers, looks once more toward the Radley place. The curtain in the window has fallen still. She lifts a hand in a tiny wave that no one sees.

Scout
(whisper)
Good evening, Boo.

She exits. The stage holds a quiet breath. Cicadas sing. The last sunlight edges the fence and the knothole.

Blackout.
End of Scene 1.

Scene 2 — Gifts in the Tree & Lessons at Home

Staging:
Stage left: The Finch porch and yard, late afternoon light. A school satchel rests on the step, books spilling.
Stage right: The Radley tree with its knothole, spotlighted. A tin box rests partly visible inside.
A projection on the back wall shows faint chalk sketches: a soap figure, a pocket watch, pennies—images of childhood treasures.

At rise:
Scout trudges in with her satchel, scowling. Jem follows, swinging his book halfheartedly like a weapon against the air.

Scout
I don’t see why I have to sit still when I already know what she’s teaching.

Jem
You don’t tell teachers you know better.

Scout
Why not?

Jem
’Cause then you end up writing sentences instead of recess.

Scout
It wasn’t fair. She said Atticus shouldn’t teach me.

Jem
Maybe she’s jealous.

Scout
I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba. Atticus did right by me.

Dill appears, carrying a paper bag of pecans. He plops down, divides them into neat piles.

Dill
Who’s jealous?

Scout
My teacher. Said I read wrong.

Dill
If knowing things is wrong, I’m ruined.

Jem
You’re ruined already, Dill.

Dill
Thank you kindly.

He offers pecans. They take some, chewing thoughtfully.

Scout
(eyeing the tree)
That hole looks different.

Jem
How?

Scout
Like it’s been waiting.

They approach. Jem reaches in and pulls out a small tin box. He opens it. Inside: two carved soap figures, a boy and a girl.

Scout
They’re us.

Dill
Well, they’re somebodies.

Jem
Look—the dress. That’s Scout.

Scout
And the hair. That’s you.

Dill
That means Boo’s been watching.

Scout
Maybe he’s just… noticing.

Jem
What do we do with ’em?

Dill
Keep ’em. If somebody carved me, I’d keep it.

Adult Scout
(voice, overlapping projection)
It was the first time I thought Boo Radley might not be a monster but a neighbor with hands, hands steady enough to carve a child’s likeness.

Calpurnia enters with a basket of linens. She stops, seeing the children huddled over the soap figures.

Calpurnia
What’s that?

Scout
A gift.

Calpurnia
From who?

Jem
The tree.

Calpurnia
Trees don’t whittle soap.

She takes the figures, studies them, then hands them back gently.

Calpurnia
Best remember—gifts can be kindness, and they can be questions. Sometimes both.

Scout
Should we keep them?

Calpurnia
If it was given, keep it. If it was stolen, put it back.

Jem
We don’t know which.

Calpurnia
Then keep it, but carefully.

She leaves them with their treasure.

Scout
Atticus says you never know a man till you walk in his skin.

Dill
Soap’s a kind of skin.

Jem
That’s foolish.

Dill
So’s calling a man a monster when he gives you gifts.

Atticus enters, carrying a bundle of letters. He sets them on the porch table, looks at the children’s solemn faces.

Atticus
What weight are you carrying that makes you three so quiet?

Scout
Atticus… if someone’s different, does it mean they’re bad?

Atticus
Different and bad don’t come in the same box.

Jem
What if the whole town says so?

Atticus
The town has been wrong before. And it will be again.

Scout
But how do you know what’s true?

Atticus
Same way you know if a chair’s sturdy. You sit with it awhile.

He notices the soap figures, picks one up, examines it, then sets it back down.

Atticus
Someone put care into these. Care is never wasted.

Jem
So Boo’s not dangerous?

Atticus
I didn’t say that. I said someone cared enough to carve. People can hold many things at once—fear, kindness, loneliness. It’s our job to look for the kindness.

Scout
Even if it’s small?

Atticus
Especially then.

A sudden shout from offstage: “N——lover!” Scout freezes. Jem bristles. Dill stiffens, his hand tightening on the bag of pecans.

Scout
(angry, to Atticus)
They say it because you’re defending Tom Robinson.

Atticus
Yes.

Scout
Why don’t you tell them to hush?

Atticus
Because it wouldn’t hush them. It would only make more noise.

Scout
But it isn’t fair!

Atticus
Fair doesn’t always live in the mouths of neighbors. Sometimes it lives only in yours.

Jem
What do we do, then?

Atticus
You do what’s right, even if you stand alone. And you hold your head high when names fall.

Adult Scout
I wanted to fight those words with fists. Jem wanted to swallow them down like they didn’t matter. Atticus taught us the harder way—that justice starts in the quiet of your own choices.

Calpurnia returns, wiping her hands, sensing the tension.

Calpurnia
What’s wrong?

Scout
They called Atticus names.

Calpurnia
People who don’t understand will always try to shame what they can’t see clear. But shame don’t stick to you unless you let it.

Scout
But it hurts.

Calpurnia
Hurt’s proof your heart’s working. It’s when you feel nothing that you ought to worry.

She kneels, cups Scout’s chin.

Calpurnia
Child, you got a choice: keep their bitterness, or keep your own kindness. One fits better than the other.

Jem
Atticus… if the whole town’s against you, why keep going?

Atticus
Because Tom Robinson deserves someone who will. And because courage isn’t a man with a gun in his hand—it’s knowing you’re licked before you begin but beginning anyway.

Dill
That sounds like walking into a storm.

Atticus
It is. But sometimes the only way out is through.

The children sit in silence, the soap figures between them, the word “courage” hanging heavy. A dog barks far away.

Scout
(quietly, to herself)
Maybe Boo’s been through storms, too.

She tucks the soap figures into her satchel like relics.

Adult Scout
We thought the knothole would keep giving, that kindness would keep slipping out like marbles from a tilted jar. But kindness is often interrupted. And storms do not wait for children to be ready.

Lighting shift:
The stage dims, leaving only the Radley tree in half-light. The knothole glows faintly as if holding one more secret.

Blackout.
End of Scene 2.

Scene 3 — The Trial of Tom Robinson

Staging:
The Maycomb courthouse dominates stage left: a wooden judge’s bench, a witness stand, and two rows of chairs for the jury. A simple railing separates the main floor from the balcony where Scout, Jem, and Dill sit. Stage right: Adult Scout stands alone with her notebook, serving as narrator and chorus. A large projection behind shows faint images—scales of justice, courthouse columns dissolving into shadows.

Lighting:
Harsh white on the courtroom, softer amber glow on Adult Scout.

At rise:
The courtroom murmurs with voices. The children lean over the balcony rail, peering. Adult Scout speaks.

Adult Scout
The courthouse was Maycomb’s theater. Here, truth wore costumes. Justice had lines to read but no guarantee of applause. We children thought we’d see fairness. Instead, we saw how prejudice can turn a stage into a trap.

Judge Taylor
Order in the court! Call the next witness.

Bob Ewell strides to the stand, hat in hand, a smirk on his face.

Ewell
I seen it with my own eyes. That n—— busted my Mayella up.

Atticus
Mr. Ewell, are you right- or left-handed?

Ewell
Left.

Atticus
Would you demonstrate?

Ewell scrawls his name awkwardly with his left hand. The jury shifts uneasily.

Atticus
Thank you. No further questions.

Adult Scout
Jem’s eyes lit like lanterns. Even a child could see—Mayella’s bruises were on her right side. And Tom Robinson’s left arm hung useless, crippled since boyhood. But grown men don’t always see what children do.

Judge Taylor
Call Mayella Ewell.

Mayella shuffles in, clutching her hands. She glances at Atticus, then fixes her eyes on the floor.

Mayella
He… he attacked me. I tried to fight him off.

Atticus
Miss Mayella, how old are you?

Mayella
Nineteen.

Atticus
Nineteen. The eldest of seven children?

Mayella
Yes.

Atticus
You keep house, care for your siblings. Do you have friends, Miss Mayella?

Mayella
(faltering)
No… sir.

Atticus
Do you love your father?

Mayella
(flinching)
He’s… he does the best he can.

Adult Scout
Her voice trembled, not with hate for Tom, but with fear of her own blood. Loneliness had built her prison. And lies had bricked it shut.

Atticus
Miss Mayella, isn’t it true you invited Tom Robinson into your yard? You asked him to help? And when your father came home, you screamed because you were afraid he’d see what you had done?

Mayella
(angrily, through tears)
I won’t be called a liar!

Judge Taylor
Order!

Mayella
(pleading)
If you fine, fancy gentlemen won’t believe me, then you’re all yellow stinking cowards!

She storms from the stand. Silence lingers.

Judge Taylor
Call Tom Robinson.

Tom enters, humble, steady. His left arm hangs stiff at his side.

Atticus
Tom, did you harm Mayella Ewell?

Tom
No, sir. I never laid a hand on her. She asked me to help with chores. I felt right sorry for her—she looked after them young’uns alone.

Atticus
Why did you run?

Tom
’Cause I was scared. If you was a black man in Maycomb, you’d be scared too.

Adult Scout
His words hung heavier than chains. Even Jem leaned forward, certain this was enough. But truth without power is like a candle in the wind.

Judge Taylor
Mr. Finch, you may close.

Atticus rises, paces before the jury.

Atticus
Gentlemen, this case is as simple as black and white. The evidence is clear. Mayella Ewell was beaten by someone who is left-handed. Tom Robinson cannot use his left hand. He is innocent.

(pause, softening)
But this case is not just about evidence. It is about our hearts. The one place where all men are supposed to be equal—in a courtroom.

(voice rising)
You know the truth. And you know the defendant is not guilty. In the name of God, do your duty.

He sits. The jury avoids his eyes.

Adult Scout
We waited. Jem’s hand squeezed mine till my fingers hurt. He believed justice would come down those steps like Moses with tablets. But the jury filed back with the same faces they’d worn all along.

Judge Taylor
Have you reached a verdict?

Foreman
We have, sir. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

Scout
(whisper, to Jem)
But he didn’t do it!

Jem
(voice breaking)
How could they?

Adult Scout
That was the night we learned Maycomb had two juries: the one in the box, and the one in the street. And both had already made up their minds.

The courtroom empties. Atticus gathers his papers slowly, head bowed. As he leaves, the Black community in the balcony rises silently, standing in respect.

Reverend Sykes
(softly, to Scout)
Stand up, Miss Jean Louise. Your father’s passing.

Scout rises. Atticus walks out, the weight of the town on his shoulders.

Adult Scout
Atticus gave everything—his words, his courage, his faith that men could be better than their fear. But Maycomb was not ready. The mockingbird sang, and the town silenced it.

(beat)
We children carried that silence home. And it echoed louder than any verdict.

Lighting shift:
The harsh courtroom lights dim, leaving only Atticus in a pool of light, gathering his papers. Scout’s voice echoes one last time.

Adult Scout
That night, innocence lost its case. But the lesson was only beginning.

Blackout.
End of Scene 3.

Scene 4 — Fallout and Reckoning

Staging:
Downstage left: the Finch porch at dusk—a table, a single lamp, the newspaper folded, a casserole dish with a note tucked underneath.
Upstage right: a suggestion of town—storefront silhouettes, a courthouse column in shadow, a church doorway with unlit candles.
Far stage right: a school banner on a coat rack, a cardboard ham costume half-built for the Halloween pageant.

Lighting:
Blue-violet evening deepening to night. Porch lamp glows warm; the town remains in twilight.

At rise:
Scout and Jem sit on the steps with untouched plates. Atticus stands by the porch rail, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. Calpurnia moves quietly in the doorway, setting more covered dishes on the table—cornbread, greens, a pie—each with a handwritten scrap pinned to the cloth.

Scout
Who sent all this?

Calpurnia
Neighbors from the quarters. Folks who don’t have much but know how to share it anyhow.

Jem
Because of the trial?

Calpurnia
Because of how your daddy stood in it.

Atticus
(soft)
They mustn’t do this… they need that food for themselves.

Calpurnia
Sometimes thanks is a thing you let people give, whether you think you deserve it or not.

Atticus lifts one note, reads silently, folds it back under the pie. He can’t speak for a breath.

Scout
Atticus… why’d they say “guilty” if it wasn’t true?

Atticus
Because telling the truth and living with it are different labors. Some men can’t lift both.

Jem
It was obvious. Anyone could see it.

Atticus
(looks at Jem)
Not anyone, son. Not everyone yet.

Jem
Then what’s a jury for?

Atticus
For trying. And for reminding us how far we still have to walk.

A figure in shadow crosses upstage—Bob Ewell, a cigarette ember bright in the dark. He spits, a hard click on the wooden walk.

Ewell
(rough, off)
Evening, Finch. Fine job making a show of yourself.

Atticus doesn’t flinch; Jem tenses.

Atticus
Good evening, Mr. Ewell.

Ewell
You think you’re better’n us. Talking pretty, turning folks’ heads.
(steps nearer, voice low)
Watch yourself. You and yours.

He grinds the cigarette under his heel and slouches away.

Scout
(whisper)
I don’t like him.

Atticus
You don’t have to like a man to wish him better than he is.

Jem
Better for who?

Atticus
For himself. For us.

Calpurnia
Trouble announces itself. Then it waits to be invited in.

Atticus
We won’t be taking callers.

Adult Scout
(voice from the shadows, gentle)
Maycomb tried to put the lid back on its pot. Storefronts reopened. People said “morning” in the same old patterns. But when you’ve seen the gears underneath, it’s hard to pretend the clock just tells time. It also tells stories.

Transition:
A church bell tolls once. A few townspeople appear upstage to light small candles, then, uncertain, blow them out. The courthouse column looms like a mute witness.

Jem
Do you think they’ll change, Atticus?

Atticus
People don’t turn by sermon. They turn by steps. Some steps are small as a hand reaching for a door that’s been shut too long.

Scout
Like Boo’s door?

Atticus
Perhaps.

Calpurnia
Or your own.

She sets three forks by the plates with a small clink that sounds like punctuation. They eat a little. Night deepens.

Miss Maudie enters from the street with a covered cake. She’s brisk and bright, the way some folks are when the wind picks up.

Miss Maudie
I brought extra frosting for sorrow. It don’t cure it, but it slows it down.

Atticus
You’re kind, Maudie.

Miss Maudie
Kindness is cheaper than silence and tastes better.
(to Jem)
You looked like you’d swallowed a nail at the courthouse. Nails don’t belong in children.

Jem
They said “guilty.”

Miss Maudie
And yet the world didn’t stop. Means there’s still work. I saw your father push a stone uphill today without moving his feet.

Atticus
Maudie—

Miss Maudie
Hush. I’m bragging on you and you’ll take it.
(to Scout)
You remember this: some folks’ job is to carry the lamp when the weather turns. Your daddy’s one. No use fussing he ain’t the sun. Lamp’s enough to keep good people from tripping.

She squeezes Scout’s shoulder, kisses Jem’s hair, and goes as briskly as she came.

Adult Scout
Miss Maudie made grief taste like honey and grit. We swallowed both.

Transition:
Upstage right, the school banner is raised. Soft, jaunty music. Children’s laughter. A seamstress wheels on the ham costume—comically large, paper-mâché sheen under the work light.

Scout
Look! The pageant!

Calpurnia
(laughing despite herself)
If that ain’t the prettiest dinner I ever saw.

Scout
I get to be pork. Mrs. Merriweather says I’m to say “Pork!” and exit.

Jem
Don’t forget your line.

Scout
It’s “Pork.”

Jem
Exactly. Don’t forget it.

They smile—blessed ordinary lightness.

Atticus
You’ll both go together. Stay on the sidewalk coming home.

Jem
Yes, sir.

Scout
Will you be there?

Atticus
I’ll try. If I’m late, don’t wait up at the school.

Calpurnia
And take a flashlight. Dark’s friendly till it isn’t.

Jem
We’ll be fine.

A sudden cough upstage. Ewell again, half-seen, then gone. The porch lamp hums louder for a moment, as if bracing itself.

Scout
(quiet)
Is he going to hurt you?

Atticus
Bob Ewell can’t hurt what matters. He can only rage at it.
(beat)
But we’ll be careful. All of us.

Calpurnia
I’ll walk ’em to the school and back.

Atticus
No, Cal. We’ll not let fear make rules in our house. Jem knows the way.
(to Jem)
Mind your sister.

Jem
Always.

Adult Scout
We tried to braid ordinary life back together—pageants and pies, jokes about pork and flashlights. But fear is a loose thread. Tug it, and the whole hem comes down.

Transition montage:
— Atticus at the porch table, writing, then pausing, massaging his temple.
— Calpurnia folding the gifted cloths, smoothing the notes into a stack, a private altar of gratitude.
— Jem practicing a gentleman’s bow, then stopping, jaw tight, remembering the word “guilty.”
— Scout twirling around the ham frame, giggling, then peeking toward the street as if the dark might answer back.

The music of a school rehearsal filters in—piano plunking, children reciting.

Scout
(trying on bravado)
If Boo Radley came to the pageant, he’d clap for me.

Jem
He’d clap quiet.

Scout
He’d clap in his pocket.

They laugh again. The laughter drifts upward and fades.

Heck Tate appears at the edge of the yard, hat in hand.

Heck Tate
Evening, Atticus.

Atticus
Evening, Heck.

Heck Tate
I don’t mean to stir worry, but Bob Ewell’s been skulking more than usual. Drunk some. Mean some. I’d as soon he found another county to haunt.

Atticus
Thank you for telling me.

Heck Tate
You want patrol by your place?

Atticus
No. Pride’s a poor guard dog, but fear’s worse. We’ll be prudent. Not panicked.

Heck Tate
All right, then.
(to Jem and Scout)
Y’all shine at that show. I’ll clap loud as Boo Radley.

He tips his hat and goes.

Calpurnia
I’ll sew you into that ham so tight you won’t wiggle.

Scout
I need to wiggle to say “Pork.”

Calpurnia
You can wiggle your words. Not your legs.

Jem
We’ll be careful, Cal.

Calpurnia
Careful is a habit. Wear it.

Atticus
(collects the dishes, pauses with the pie)
I’ll return the plates tomorrow. With thanks.

Calpurnia
I’ll bake a pan to go with the thanks.

Atticus
Make it two. Gratitude should come heavy.

They share a small smile that knows what it’s up against.

Adult Scout
We kept saying ordinary words—plates and pageants, thanks and flashlights—like talismans to turn danger aside. But the road between a schoolhouse and a porch can be long when a man carries spite in his pocket.

Lighting shift:
Night settles fully. The porch lamp is the only warm light. Upstage, the town recedes; the courthouse column is merely a shape. The ham costume glows faintly like a moon.

Atticus
(to the children)
Early to bed. Big night tomorrow.

Jem
Yes, sir.

Scout
Will you listen for us in case we forget our line?

Atticus
I’ll be listening even when I’m not there.

Calpurnia
And I’ll be waiting with cocoa.

Scout
With marshmallows?

Calpurnia
Two. If you come straight home.

Scout
Deal.

They start inside. Jem pauses, looks out toward the road, the fence, the barely-seen Radley porch.

Jem
(to the dark)
Good night.

A movement in the Radley window—maybe a curtain settling, maybe nothing. Jem goes in.

Adult Scout
Some nights, the town feels like a hand that will catch you. Some nights, like a hand that will not. We didn’t know which this one would be.

Blackout.
End of Scene 4.

Scene 5 — Boo in the Light

Staging:
Downstage left: a country road lined with trees. The stage is dark, lit only by a faint lantern glow. Scout wears her bulky ham costume, Jem at her side with a flashlight.
Upstage: the suggestion of shadows moving—Bob Ewell’s figure lurking.
Stage right: the Finch porch, empty, a single lamp burning like a beacon.
Far upstage: the Radley house, dim but watchful.

Lighting:
Night. Heavy shadows. A single spotlight follows the children as they walk. The Radley house window glows faintly.

At rise:
Scout and Jem walk slowly, Scout stumbling under the weight of her costume. The flashlight flickers.

Scout
Jem, don’t walk so fast. I can’t see my feet.

Jem
I’m right here. Just keep to the road.

Scout
I can’t hear anybody. Where’d all the voices go?

Jem
It’s late. Everybody’s home.

From the shadows: the crunch of footsteps. The children stop.

Scout
Did you hear that?

Jem
It’s nothing. Come on.

They walk again. The sound follows. Louder.

Scout
Jem.

Jem
I know.

A figure lunges—Bob Ewell. The flashlight clatters. Scout screams, muffled by her costume. Jem shouts, struggling.

Adult Scout
It happened quick, like thunder. One moment we were children playing at pageants, the next we were prey on a dark road. Hate had been waiting. Hate had followed.

A violent scuffle. Jem’s arm snaps—he cries out. Bob seizes Scout, grappling with the costume’s wire frame. Suddenly, another figure bursts from the dark—Boo Radley. A silent struggle. Bob collapses, knife turned on himself. Silence. Only ragged breathing.

Scout wriggles free, gasping. Jem lies still. Boo kneels beside him, careful, trembling but gentle.

Scout
(whispering)
Jem…?

Boo looks at her. His eyes are pale, frightened, kind.

Scout
You saved us.

He doesn’t answer—only nods.

Adult Scout
Boo Radley was not a ghost, not a monster, not the shadow of Maycomb’s stories. He was a man—thin as a whisper, eyes wide as a child’s, hands steady enough to lift my brother as if he were made of glass.

Transition:
Stage right: the Finch porch. Atticus paces, worried. Calpurnia lights another lamp. Heck Tate enters, hat in hand. Scout leads Boo in, Jem carried by Heck toward the house.

Atticus
Scout! Jem—oh, Jem…

Calpurnia
(urgent)
He’s breathing. I’ll fetch the doctor.

She hurries off. Atticus kneels beside Jem, then looks up at Boo, realizing.

Atticus
And you are—?

Scout
Atticus… this is Boo Radley.

A silence—gentle, profound.

Heck Tate
Bob Ewell’s dead. Knife in his ribs.

Atticus
(sober)
Then the law must…

Heck Tate
The law must bend, just this once. Bob Ewell fell on his own knife. That’s my word.

Atticus
But the truth—

Heck Tate
Would drag this man into every light in town. He’s done enough. Let him be.

Atticus studies Boo—frail, blinking in the lamplight. Scout watches, understanding.

Scout
Atticus, if they made him stand in court, it’d be like… like killing a mockingbird.

Atticus meets her eyes. For the first time, Scout is not only repeating his lesson—she is teaching it back.

Adult Scout
I’d said the words before without knowing their weight. That night, the weight became mine.

Atticus nods. He clasps Boo’s hand—tentative, then firm.

Atticus
Thank you for my children.

Boo bows his head, as if the words are heavier than he can carry.

Transition:
The stage softens. Jem is carried inside, safe. Boo and Scout remain.

Scout
Would you like to see the porch, Boo?

He nods. She takes his hand. They step slowly onto the Radley porch.

Adult Scout
We walked together, just once, his step uncertain, mine certain only for his sake. And when we reached his porch, I saw Maycomb the way he must have seen it, season after season, through curtains and stories and silence.

Scout
(quiet, to Boo)
You were always watching. Always there.

Boo smiles faintly. He touches her hand in farewell, then slips back into the shadows of his house, the door closing soft as a sigh.

Scout lingers, gazing out from the porch.

Adult Scout
Atticus was right. You never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. I had walked only a few steps. But they were enough.

Lighting:
The porch light glows. The Radley house window dims. The projection shows a mockingbird in flight, its wings stretching across both sides of the stage.

Adult Scout
Maycomb had not changed. But I had. Childhood had given me a mystery. That night gave me the answer: empathy is the only light that makes shadows harmless.

Blackout.
End of Scene 5.

Epilogue

Staging: The stage is bare once again. The Radley house stands in shadow upstage, its window dark. The Finch porch lamp glows faintly. Adult Scout steps forward alone, notebook in hand.

Lighting: Pale blue dawn, soft and forgiving.

Adult Scout
The night Boo Radley walked me home, childhood ended for me. Not with a bang, not even with a goodbye. Just the soft closing of a door behind him.
(beat)
Atticus once told me you never really understand a person until you climb into their skin and walk around in it. I thought I understood. That night, I finally took a few steps. And they were enough.
(looks toward the Radley house)
Maycomb never truly changed. Towns rarely do. But I did. Because when you’ve stood in another’s shoes—even for a moment—the world will never look the same again.
(beat; lifts her eyes to the audience)
Fear, rumor, pride—they still whisper under porches today. But so does kindness. So does courage. So does the mockingbird.
(pauses; faint birdsong begins)
And if you listen carefully… you can still hear it sing.

Lighting fades: Only the mockingbird’s song remains as the stage darkens to black.

Short Bios:

Harper Lee(1926–2016) was an American novelist best known for her Pulitzer Prize–winning work To Kill a Mockingbird (1960). Born in Monroeville, Alabama, she drew heavily from her Southern upbringing to explore themes of justice, prejudice, and empathy. The novel has become one of the most influential works in American literature.

Jean Louise “Scout” Finch is the narrator of the story, recalling her childhood in Maycomb. Inquisitive, outspoken, and imaginative, Scout guides the audience through lessons of justice, innocence, and compassion as she grows from playful curiosity to hard-earned understanding.

Atticus Finch, Scout and Jem’s father, is a principled lawyer who believes in justice, fairness, and empathy. Calm and steadfast, he serves as the moral compass of the story, defending Tom Robinson and teaching his children to see the world through others’ eyes.

Jeremy “Jem” Finch is Scout’s older brother. Brave, protective, and idealistic, he struggles deeply with the injustice he witnesses during Tom Robinson’s trial, marking his own passage from innocence to disillusionment.

Calpurnia is the Finch family’s housekeeper and caregiver. Wise, firm, and loving, she bridges the Finch household with Maycomb’s Black community and helps shape Scout and Jem’s understanding of respect, discipline, and kindness.

Charles Baker “Dill” Harris is Scout and Jem’s imaginative friend, visiting Maycomb in the summers. Inspired partly by Harper Lee’s childhood friend Truman Capote, Dill embodies curiosity, play, and the yearning for belonging.

Arthur “Boo” Radley is the reclusive neighbor of the Finch family. Rumored to be a monster, he instead reveals himself as a quiet protector whose hidden kindness teaches Scout the deepest lesson of empathy.

Tom Robinson is a Black field hand falsely accused of raping Mayella Ewell. His trial becomes the central moral crisis of the story, exposing the destructive power of prejudice and the failure of justice.

Bob Ewell, abusive and bitter, accuses Tom Robinson to cover his own shame. His daughter, Mayella, trapped in loneliness and fear, becomes both victim and participant in the injustice. Together, they represent ignorance and the cycle of prejudice.