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He sounded desperate to talk to you.”

“What could he possibly have to say? He's already tried to blame Garrett for what he said

about Uncle David, and I'm sorry, but I don't buy it. He's

lied to me, he hasn't stood up for me … he's … he's nobody that I want to like. I just need

some time to get over all those years of having liked him.”

Mom sat there for the longest time, biting her cheek. Then she said, “People do change, you

know. Maybe he's had some revelations lately, too.

And frankly, any boy who tries to kiss a girl in front of a room full of other kids does not sound

like a coward to me.” She stroked my hair and

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whispered, “Maybe there's more to Bryce Loski than you know.”

Then she left me alone with my thoughts.

My mother knew I needed time to think, but Bryce wouldn't leave me alone. He kept calling

on the phone and knocking on the door. He even snuck

around the house and tapped on my window! Every time I turned around, there he was,

pestering me.

I wanted to be able to water the yard in peace. I wanted not to have to avoid him at school or

have Darla run block for me. Why didn't he

understand that I wasn't interested in what he had to say? What could he possibly have to

say?

Was it so much to ask just to be left alone?

Then this afternoon I was reading a book in the front room with the curtains drawn, hiding

from him as I had all week, when I heard a noise in the

yard. I peeked outside and there was Bryce, walking across my grass. Stomping all over my

grass! And he was carrying a spade! What was he

planning to do with that?

I flew off the couch and yanked open the door and ran right into my father. “Stop him!” I cried.

“Calm down, Julianna,” he said, and eased me back inside. “I gave him permission.”

“Permission! Permission to do what?” I flew back to the window. “He's digging a hole.”

“That's right. I told him he could.”

“But why?”

“I think the boy has a very good idea, that's why.”

“But—”

“It's not going to kill your grass, Julianna. Just let him do what he's come to do.”

“But what is it? What's he doing?”

“Watch. You'll figure it out.”

It was torture seeing him dig up my grass. The hole he was making was enormous! How

could my father let him do this to my yard?

Bryce knew I was there, too, because he looked at me once and nodded. No smile, no wave,

just a nod.

He dragged over some potting soil, pierced the bag with the spade, and shoveled dirt into the

hole. Then he disappeared. And when he came

back, he wrestled a big burlapped root ball across the lawn, the branches of a plant rustling

back and forth as he moved.

My dad joined me on the couch and peeked out the window, too.

“A tree?” I whispered. “He's planting a tree?”

“I'd help him, but he says he has to do this himself.”

“Is it a …” The words stuck in my throat.

I didn't really need to ask, though, and he knew he didn't need to answer. I could tell from the

shape of the leaves, from the texture of the trunk.

This was a sycamore tree.

I flipped around on the couch and just sat.

A sycamore tree.

Bryce finished planting the tree, watered it, cleaned everything up, and then went home. And

I just sat there, not knowing what to do.

I've been sitting here for hours now, just staring out the window at the tree. It may be little

now, but it'll grow, day by day. And a hundred years from

now it'll reach clear over the rooftops. It'll be miles in the air!