sidewalk made his teeth ache. He stopped to look around. Gran was at the window, watching. She smiled and nodded encouragement, so he sighed and went on until he was done.
âYou did a great job,â she said when he came inside. He felt good. He felt even better when he saw that she had hot chocolate with marshmallows and two cookies waiting for him.
TWELVE
The snow didnât stop falling, but the icy wind stopped howling, and the small, hard pellets became fat, white, fluffy flakes that fell without stopping. On Monday morning, when Aaron looked out, the garden was white.
A blanket of white, he thought. He had read that in a book somewhere. Thatâs what the garden looked like. As if somebody had tossed a blanket over everything. Or like one of those rooms in the movies where all the furniture was covered by sheets because nobody was going to be home for a long time.
A huge maple tree stood in the back neighborâs yard. It looked stark and black and bare, except for the snow that lay on its branches and the mound of leaves near the top. The leaves were part of a squirrelâs nest. Even though the squirrel lived in the neighborâs tree, Aaron thought of it as his.
His squirrel wasnât like all the other squirrels. It was different. It had a flash of white at the end of its black tail that made it easy to recognize.
In the fall he had watched his squirrel chew twigs off the tree, carry them to the top and stash them into a pile in the fork made by three branches. It collected leaves and huge mouthfuls of dry grasses to add to the growing structure. Sometimes he saw his squirrel pop its head out of the top of the nest and look around, just like the periscope of a submarine.
Sometimes his squirrel chased other squirrels that came into its yard.
âDonât fall. Donât fall,â Aaron had called out once when he saw his squirrel hanging from a twig. The twig sagged, dragged down by the animalâs weight, but the squirrel didnât fall. It dropped to a lower branch, then made a flying leap to the fence. From there it chased the invading squirrel out of its yard.
My squirrel stands up for itself , Aaron thought. It doesnât let anybody boss it around. Nobody. Iâm not gonna let nobody push me around either. Iâm not. Then he sighed, because he knew that wasnât true.
More snow fell. By the time Aaron got to school, everybody was excited.
âJust a reminder, boys and girls,â Mr. Ulanni, the principal, announced over the pa system before recess. âThere will be no throwing snowballs in the schoolyard. Keep the snow on the ground. Teachers on yard duty, please send anyone caught throwing snowballs to the office.â
That day the snow lay deep. It was wet and heavy, and very sticky. In no time, more than a dozen snowballs grew to enormous sizes across the field, each one pushed by five, six, seven kids at a time. Other kids, the ones that werenât pushing, started cheering on their friends, shouting advice and bringing handfuls of snow to pack into cracks and dents to hold the snowballs together and make them evenly round.
Aaron stumbled from one group to another, checking out the progress of each. He watched and laughed, his laughter feeding on the excitement around him.
When the end-of-recess bell rang, nobody wanted to go inside. Handbells clanged as the yard-duty teachers hustled kids toward the building. Aaron was the last one in. Outside, it had been cold and bright. Inside, his glasses fogged up and everything looked dark. He stopped. He couldnât see a thing. He was groping his way forward when he was bodychecked into the wall. âHuh!â he grunted. âWatch it! That hurt!â
âYou wreck our snowball, you die!â a voice hissed.
âIâ¦I never,â he started, not sure who he was talking to.
The yard-duty teacher came through the doors. âYouâll be late for class, boys,â he said.
âYou did a great job,â she said when he came inside. He felt good. He felt even better when he saw that she had hot chocolate with marshmallows and two cookies waiting for him.
TWELVE
The snow didnât stop falling, but the icy wind stopped howling, and the small, hard pellets became fat, white, fluffy flakes that fell without stopping. On Monday morning, when Aaron looked out, the garden was white.
A blanket of white, he thought. He had read that in a book somewhere. Thatâs what the garden looked like. As if somebody had tossed a blanket over everything. Or like one of those rooms in the movies where all the furniture was covered by sheets because nobody was going to be home for a long time.
A huge maple tree stood in the back neighborâs yard. It looked stark and black and bare, except for the snow that lay on its branches and the mound of leaves near the top. The leaves were part of a squirrelâs nest. Even though the squirrel lived in the neighborâs tree, Aaron thought of it as his.
His squirrel wasnât like all the other squirrels. It was different. It had a flash of white at the end of its black tail that made it easy to recognize.
In the fall he had watched his squirrel chew twigs off the tree, carry them to the top and stash them into a pile in the fork made by three branches. It collected leaves and huge mouthfuls of dry grasses to add to the growing structure. Sometimes he saw his squirrel pop its head out of the top of the nest and look around, just like the periscope of a submarine.
Sometimes his squirrel chased other squirrels that came into its yard.
âDonât fall. Donât fall,â Aaron had called out once when he saw his squirrel hanging from a twig. The twig sagged, dragged down by the animalâs weight, but the squirrel didnât fall. It dropped to a lower branch, then made a flying leap to the fence. From there it chased the invading squirrel out of its yard.
My squirrel stands up for itself , Aaron thought. It doesnât let anybody boss it around. Nobody. Iâm not gonna let nobody push me around either. Iâm not. Then he sighed, because he knew that wasnât true.
More snow fell. By the time Aaron got to school, everybody was excited.
âJust a reminder, boys and girls,â Mr. Ulanni, the principal, announced over the pa system before recess. âThere will be no throwing snowballs in the schoolyard. Keep the snow on the ground. Teachers on yard duty, please send anyone caught throwing snowballs to the office.â
That day the snow lay deep. It was wet and heavy, and very sticky. In no time, more than a dozen snowballs grew to enormous sizes across the field, each one pushed by five, six, seven kids at a time. Other kids, the ones that werenât pushing, started cheering on their friends, shouting advice and bringing handfuls of snow to pack into cracks and dents to hold the snowballs together and make them evenly round.
Aaron stumbled from one group to another, checking out the progress of each. He watched and laughed, his laughter feeding on the excitement around him.
When the end-of-recess bell rang, nobody wanted to go inside. Handbells clanged as the yard-duty teachers hustled kids toward the building. Aaron was the last one in. Outside, it had been cold and bright. Inside, his glasses fogged up and everything looked dark. He stopped. He couldnât see a thing. He was groping his way forward when he was bodychecked into the wall. âHuh!â he grunted. âWatch it! That hurt!â
âYou wreck our snowball, you die!â a voice hissed.
âIâ¦I never,â he started, not sure who he was talking to.
The yard-duty teacher came through the doors. âYouâll be late for class, boys,â he said.
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