If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period (18 page)

"He's been watching you for, like, years. He goes to the Y to see you swim."

He stops moving the milk carton. He opens the top and pours the milk on the ground. "No he doesn't," he whispers.

"Yes," I say, "he does."

The moon has a chunk missing. It sits lopsided in the sky with black all around, dark as asphalt. The light from the carport shines on all the cars. Walk has a paper clip he's stretched to an almost straight line. He scoots down under the wheel well of Sylvia's car, takes the end of the paper clip, and scratches tiny letters in the brown unpainted edge.

I AM ME
.

At school my mom turns into the drop-off. I dig for my backpack, which has slid under the seat.

"Hey," Kip says. "There's Walk in front of us!" She rolls down the window. "Hey, Walk! It's me, Kippy!" Kippy squeals like Walk is a rock star. She calls him every day now. I don't know what they talk about. I asked her once and she said, "Infinity."

Walk waves at Kippy. I hop out as my mother opens the door. She has one foot in, one foot out, her eyes intent on Sylvia.

A car pulls up behind us and honks. My mother jumps. Sylvia turns around.

My mother makes a fast motion with her hand. Was she swatting a fly or...?

"Did you see that? Think my mom was
waving
at your mom?" I ask Walk.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

The warning bell rings. "C'mon, we're going to be late," Walk says.

"If we don't get our butts in gear." I huff after him.

"Always a butt involved with you," Walk calls over his shoulder.

"Gonna miss you when you leave," I say. "I'm not the only one, either."

"Guess I can't go, then."

I thunder after him, down the hall, up the stairs, and into class. I grab his arm as he sits down. "You're..."—I double over, out of breath—"kid-ding, right?"

He shrugs.

"You're staying?"

"Looks that way. Just do me a favor," he whispers. "Don't get weird about this."

"Okay, but...," I whisper back, "how do I be normal about it?"

"Just go sit down, okay?"

"I can do that."

"All right, then?" He looks up at me. His dark brown eyes take me inside him. This is something important he's asking.

I nod. "This is good, Walk. You know. This whole thing."

"You're crazy," he whispers.

"No I'm not."

He bites his lip.

"You have to trust me," I say.

"Kirsten." His voice gets suddenly tight. He twists his pencil point into his binder, twists so hard it pops the lead right out. "Not all at once, okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "Okay."

Back in my seat I suddenly understand something I've never understood before. It matters who I am. I fit in the world. I do.

In Ms. Scrushy's class Brianna's elbow is back hangin' on his desk.

"Yes?" Walk asks.

"Just wanted to let you know I am so nice to Matteo's mother. So nice ... you have no idea," she whispers.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm nice to her, okay? Ask Matteo. He'll tell you I've been good."

Walk watches her. "Yeah, so? What do you want, Brianna?"

Brianna shrugs. She runs her hand over his arm. "Hey, I don't want to make you mad."

He yanks his arm away. "Get off me."

"You love it and you know it."

Walk shakes his head. "You are so full of..." He knows he can't tell her what she's really full of.

"Hey." She beckons her finger like Walk should come close. "I want to ask you something."

Walk raises his eyebrows.

"Are you like half white?"

Walk's skin gets tight around him. He grinds his teeth. "No. I'm all white, can't you see?" Walk sticks out his arm. "This arm is all white. The other arm, Taiwanese. My left leg, Venezuelan. My right leg, from Portugal. I represent every ethnicity. Every religion, too, why not?"

"No, really," she whispers. "My mom said Kirsten's mom told some yoga friend who is Maya's mom's cousin that your dad is like Kirsten's dad."

"My dad likes Kirsten's dad?" Walk asks.

"No, he
is
Kirsten's dad."

"Wait, wait, wait. So my dad is Kirsten's dad? Who's your dad?"

"My dad is my dad," Brianna snips.

"Okay, okay. I have this straight now. Your dad is your dad. And my dad is Kirsten's dad. Phew"—Walk wipes his forehead—"thanks for figuring that out for me."

"So is it true or not?"

"Definitely true. Definitely," Walk tells her.

"Really?" she asks in her breathiest voice.

"Yes," Walk says. "And here's something you haven't heard." He beckons her close and whispers in her ear: "Matteo's dad is my mom."

She jerks away and takes her elbow back. "Shut up. Just shut up."

"Anytime you need to know somethin', just check with me, Brianna. Just check with me."

Kippy is sitting outside. We are both home with . the flu, though she has a temperature and I don't. She has her new book,
The Gardener's Guide to Happy Trees,
on her lap and she is reading in a little chair.

The tree guy put some kind of poison on the stump to make it rot so it will be easier to dig out. Kippy cordoned off the stump and the new tree in its pot using an elaborate system of duct tape and bungee cords. She treats the whole area like a Native American burial ground.

"Come on," I tell her. "Mom's going to kill me for letting you sit out here. It's freezing."

"The tree should not still be in the planter," she tells me. "It says right here we could stunt its growth if we don't plant soon."

I shrug. "Maybe it will just be like a bonsai or something."

Kip rolls her eyes. "Does this look like a bonsai?"

"No."

"I'm tired of waiting," she tells me.

"Yeah, me, too. But you know what? It's been better lately. Mom's calmed way down. Dad's home more. They're gonna plant that tree, Kippy. I really think so."

Walker Jones
November 30

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

Yes.

Ms. Scrushy comes by and taps on Brianna's notebook. "At least two paragraphs," she reminds her. Walk keeps writing.

Sorry, Ms. Scrushy, but this question is pretty stupid. Trees don't change. They make the sounds they do whether anyone is out there hearing or not. But to say to a tree: "Hey, tree, you don't exist if nobody hears you..." That's just plain dumb.

A tree is a tree with all its sounds, sticks, leaves, dirt, roots, whatever. Anyone tells you otherwise, they're wrong.

I want to thank the kids at Charles Maclay Junior High (now Charles Maclay Middle School) in Pa-coima, California, for teaching me what I needed to know in seventh grade so long ago. I'm especially grateful to Florence Vivian Hamilton, who never gave a whit what color I was.

I'd like to thank Stephanie Lee, Leah King, Wendy Pitts, Derek McDonald, and Alicia Bell for giving me their frank thoughts on drafts of this manuscript, and members of my Mill Valley Crit Group for their continual help and encouragement with this book.

I'd also like to express my deepest gratitude to my family—Jacob, Ian, and Kai—for giving me what I need every hour of every day.

—G. C.