e 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 pea