next neighborhood and the next neighborhood, and not only did I find out that my granddad
knows a lot of stuff, I found out that the guy is funny. In a
subtle kind of dry way. It's the stuff he says, plus the way he says it. It's really, I don't know,
cool.
As we were winding back into our own territory, we passed by the house that's going up
where the sycamore tree used to be. My granddad
stopped, looked up into the night, and said, “It must've been a spectacular view.”
I looked up, too, and noticed for the first time that night that you could see the stars. “Did you
ever see her up there?” I asked him.
“Your mother pointed her out to me one time as we drove by. It scared me to see her up so
high, but after I read the article I understood why she
did it.” He shook his head. “The tree's gone, but she's still got the spark it gave her. Know
what I mean?”
Luckily I didn't have to answer. He just grinned and said, “Some of us get dipped in flat, some
in satin, some in gloss….” He turned to me. “But
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every once in a while you find someone who's iridescent, and when you do, nothing will ever
compare.”
As we walked up to our front porch, my grandfather put his arm around my shoulder and said,
“It was nice walking with you, Bryce. I enjoyed
myself very much.”
“Me too,” I told him, and we went inside.
Right away we knew we'd stepped into a war zone. And even though no one was yelling or
crying, from the look on my parents' faces I could tell
there'd been a major meltdown while my granddad and I were out.
Granddad whispered to me, “I've got another fence to mend, I'm afraid,” and headed into the
dining room to talk to my parents.
I wanted nothing to do with that vibe. I went straight to my room, closed the door, and flopped
through the darkness onto my bed.
I lay there awhile and let the dinner disaster play through my mind. And when I'd totally
burned a fuse thinking about it, I sat up and looked out the
window. There was a light on somewhere inside the Bakers' house and the streetlights were
glowing, but the night still seemed really dense. Like it
was darker than usual and, I don't know, heavy.
I leaned closer to the window and looked up into the sky, but I couldn't see the stars anymore.
I wondered if Juli had ever been in the sycamore at
night. Among the stars.
I shook my head. Flat, glossy, iridescent. What was up with that? Juli Baker had always
seemed just plain dusty to me.
I snapped on my desk lamp and dug the newspaper with the article about Juli out of the
drawer where I'd tossed it.
Just like I thought — they made it sound like Juli was trying to save Mount Rushmore or
something. They called her a “strong voice in an urban
wilderness” and “a radiant beacon, shedding light on the need to curtail continued
overdevelopment of our once quaint and tranquil community.”
Spare me. I mean, what's wrong with letting a guy cut down a tree on his own property so he
can build a house? His lot, his tree, his decision.
End of story. The piece in the paper was gag-me gush.
Except. Except for the places aybe it was just in contrast to the
reporter's slant or something, but Juli's parts didn't come
