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speed。
I figured she'd be back。 It was a long ride out to Mayfield Junior High； and once she got over
the tree； she'd start riding the bus again。 I even
caught myself looking for her。 Not on the lookout； just looking。
Then one day it rained and I thought for sure she'd be up at the bus stop； but no。 Garrett said
he saw her trucking along on her bike in a bright
yellow poncho； and in math I noticed that her pants were still soaked from the knees down。
When math let out； I started to chase after her to tell her that she ought to try riding the bus
again； but I stopped myself in the nick of time。 What
was I thinking？ That Juli wouldn't take a little friendly concern and pletely misinterpret it？
Whoa now； buddy； beware！ Better to just leave well
enough alone。
After all； the last thing I needed was for Juli Baker to think I missed her。
The Sycamore Tree
I love to watch my father paint。 Or really； I love to hear him talk while he paints。 The words
always e out soft and somehow heavy when he's
brushing on the layers of a landscape。 Not sad。 Weary； maybe； but peaceful。
My father doesn't have a studio or anything； and since the garage is stuffed with things that
everyone thinks they need but no one ever uses； he
paints outside。
Outside is where the best landscapes are； only they're nowhere near our house。 So what he
does is keep a camera in his truck。 His job as a
mason takes him to lots of different locations； and he's always on the lookout for a great
sunrise or sunset； or even just a nice field with sheep or
cows。 Then he picks out one of the snapshots； clips it to his easel； and paints。
The paintings e out fine； but I've always felt a little sorry for him； having to paint beautiful
scenes in our backyard； which is not exactly
picturesque。 It never was much of a yard； but after I started raising chickens； things didn't
exactly improve。
Dad doesn't seem to see the backyard or the chickens when he's painting； though。 It's not
just the snapshot or the canvas he sees either。 It's
something much bigger。 He gets this look in his eye like he's transcended the yard； the
neighborhood； the world。 And as his big； callused hands
sweep a tiny brush against the canvas； it's almost like his body has been possessed by some
graceful spiritual being。
When I was little； my dad would let me sit beside him on the porch while he painted； as long
as I'd be quiet。 I don't do quiet easily； but I discovered
that after five or ten minutes without a peep； he'd start talking。
……… Page 16………
I've learned a lot about my dad that way。 He told me all sorts of stories about what he'd done
when he was my age； and other things； too—like
how he got his first job delivering hay； and how he wished he'd finished college。
When I got a little older； he still talked about himself and his childhood； but he also started
asking questions about me。 What were we learning at
school？ What book was I currently reading？ What did I think about this or that。
Then one time he surprised me and asked me about Bryce。 Why was I so crazy about Bryce？
I told him about his eyes and his hair and the way his cheeks blush； but I don't think I
explained it very well because when I was done Dad shook
his head and told me in soft； heavy words that I needed to start looking at the whole
landscape。
I didn't really know what he meant by that； but it made me want to argue with him。 How could
he possibly understand about Bryce？ He didn't know
him！
But this was not an arguing spot。 Those were scattered throughout the house； but not out
here。
We were both quiet for a record…breaking amount of time before he kissed me on the
forehead and said； “Proper lighting is everything； Julianna。”
Proper lighting？ What was that supposed to mean？ I sat there wondering； but I was afraid
that by asking I'd be admitting that I wasn't mature
enough to understand； and for some reason it felt obvious。 Like I should understand。
After that he didn't talk so much about events as he did about ideas。 And the older I got； the
more philosophical he seemed to get。 I don't know if
he really got more philosophical or if he just thought I could handle it now that I was in the
double digits。
Mostly the things he talked about floated around me； but once in a while something would
happen and I would understand exactly what he had
meant。 “A painting is more than the sum of its parts；” he would tell me； and then go on to
explain how the cow by itself is just a cow； and the meadow
by itself is just grass and flowers； and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of
light； but put them all together and you've got magic。
I understood what he was saying； but I never felt what he was saying until one day when I
was up in the sycamore tree。
The sycamore tree had been at the top of the hill forever。 It was on a big vacant lot； giving
shade in the summer and a place for birds to nest in the
spring。 It had a built…in slide for us； too。 Its trunk bent up and around in almost a plete
spiral； and it was so much fun to ride down。 My mom told
me she thought the tree must have been damaged as a sapling but survived； and now；
maybe a hundred years later； it was still there； the biggest
tree she'd ever seen。 “A testimony to endurance” is what she called it。
I had always played in the tree； but I didn't bee a serious climber until the fifth grade；
when I went up to rescue a kite that was stuck in its
branches。 I'd first spotted the kite floating free through the air and then saw it dive…bomb
somewhere up the hill by the sycamore tree。
I've flown kites before and I know—sometimes they're gone forever； and sometimes they're
just waiting in the middle of the road for you to rescue
them。 Kites can be lucky or they can be ornery。 I've had both kinds； and a lucky kite is
definitely worth chasing after。
This kite looked lucky to me。 It wasn't anything fancy； just an old…fashioned diamond with
blue and yellow stripes。 But it stuttered along in a friendly
way； and when it dive…bombed； it seemed to do so from exhaustion as opposed to spite。
Ornery kites dive…bomb out of spite。 They never get
exhausted because they won't stay up long enough to poop out。 Thirty feet up they just sort
of smirk at you and crash for the fun of it。
……… Page 17………
So Champ and I ran up to Collier Street； and after scouting out the road； Champ started
barking at the sycamore tree。 I looked up and spotted it；
too； flashing blue and yellow through the branches。
It was a long ways up； but I thought I'd give it a shot。 I shinnied up the trunk； took a shortcut
across the slide； and started climbing。 Champ kept a
good eye on me； barking me along； and soon I was higher than I'd ever been。 But still the
kite seemed forever away。
Then below me I noticed Bryce ing around the corner and through the vacant lot。 And I
could tell from the way he was looking up that this was
his kite。
What a lucky； lucky kite this was turning out to be！
“Can you climb that high？” he called up to me。
“Sure！” I called back。 And up； up； up I went！
The branches were strong； with just the right amount of intersections to make climbing easy。
And the higher I got； the more amazed I was by the
view。 I'd never seen a view like that！ It was like being in an airplane above all the rooftops；
above the other trees。 Above the world！
Then I looked down。 Down at Bryce。 And suddenly I got dizzy and weak in the knees。 I was
miles off the ground！ Bryce shouted； “Can you reach
it？”
I caught my breath and managed to call down； “No problem！” then forced myself to
concentrate on those blue and yellow stripes； to focus on them
and only them as I shinnied up； up； up。 Finally I touched it； I grasped it； I had the kite in my
hand！
But the string was ta