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grandfather。 Granddad didn't seem to need any salt；
which was a good thing because I might have thrown the shaker at him。
My sister and dad were all business as usual； though。 Lyta ate about two raisins out of
her carrot salad； then peeled the skin and meat off her
chicken wing and nibbled gristle off the bone； while my father filled up airspace talking about
office politics and the need for a shakedown in upper
management。
No one was listening to him — no one ever does when he gets on one of his if…I…ran…the…
circus jags — but for once Mom wasn't even pretending。
And for once she wasn't trying to convince Lyta that dinner was delicious either。 She just
kept eyeing me and Granddad； trying to pick up on why
we were miffed at each other。
Not that he had anything to be miffed at me about。 What had I done to him； anyway？ Nothing。
Nada。 But he was； I could tell。 And I pletely
avoided looking at him until about halfway through dinner； when I sneaked a peek。
He was studying me； all right。 And even though it wasn't a mean stare； or a hard stare； it was；
you know； firm。 Steady。 And it weirded me out。
What was his deal？
I didn't look at him again。 Or at my mother。 I just went back to eating and pretended to listen
to my dad。 And the first chance I got； I excused myself
and holed up in my room。
I was planning to call my friend Garrett like I usually do when I'm bent about something。 I
even punched in his number； but I don't know。 I just hung
up。And later when my mom came in； I faked like I was sleeping。 I haven't done that in years。
The whole night was weird like that。 I just wanted to be
left alone。
Juli wasn't at the bus stop the next morning。 Or Friday morning。 She was at school； but you'd
never know it if you didn't actually look。 She didn't whip
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her hand through the air trying to get the teacher to call on her or charge through the halls
getting to class。 She didn't make unsolicited ments for
the teacher's edification or challenge the kids who took cuts in the milk line。 She just sat。
Quiet。
I told myself I should be glad about it — it was like she wasn't even there； and isn't that what
I'd always wanted？ But still； I felt bad。 About her tree；
about how she hurried off to eat by herself in the library at lunch； about how her eyes were
red around the edges。 I wanted to tell her； Man； I'm sorry
about your sycamore tree； but the words never seemed to e out。
By the middle of the next week； they'd finished taking down the tree。 They cleared the lot and
even tried to pull up the stump； but that sucker would
not budge； so they wound up grinding it down into the dirt。
Juli still didn't show at the bus stop； and by the end of the week I learned from Garrett that
she was riding a bike。 He said he'd seen her on the
side of the road twice that week； putting the chain back on the derailleur of a rusty old ten…
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。
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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 k