higher place, and fight like a dog to keep it there. War can be so fierce, you can forget the good. Forget what you’re about in this world, what’s really important. There’s always going to be somebody who wants to try to make you forget it. Don’t let them.”
Tree wasn’t sure how you do that in seventh grade.
He folded a towel and remembered the day his mom moved out.
August twelfth, a bright, sunny day. A day where you wouldn’t think anything bad could happen. He’d just come back from helping her move. There in the dryer was a full load of her clothes she’d forgotten to take. He gathered the clothes in his arms, started up the basement steps, couldn’t handle it. He dropped the pile and ran into his bedroom, crying.
A knock on Tree’s bedroom door.
He was madly drying his face with his sleeve. Grandpa came in.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Convince me.”
Tree told him about the clothes.
“I would have cried, too, if I’d seen that.” He limped over—his leg was so bad—sat on the bed. “It’s the things we don’t expect that just rip the scab off.”
“She was supposed to pack everything.”
“She meant to. It’s been a hard day. People do all kinds of things they wouldn’t normally do when they’re fighting each other. I’ll help you fold that laundry, then you call her, let her know it’s here.”
Tree walked to the basement steps, gathered up the clothes.
His mother had used fabric softener. Her yellow robe was soft and smelled nice. He half buried his nose in it like Bradley snuggled his old towel.
He lugged the laundry to his room. He and Grandpa folded each piece like it had cost a fortune. Tree called Mom at her new house, and she started crying. She’d come over and get it, she said. She hadn’t meant to leave it.
Tree hoped he wouldn’t think about this every time he did the laundry.
“It’s tough around here now, I know.” Grandpa held up five unmatched socks, looked in the hamper for the others. “We’ve all lost a piece of ourselves. War does that—it blows things up and leaves an empty place where something important used to be.”
“Is that how you feel about your leg, Grandpa?”
“Yep. Is that how you feel about your mom and dad?”
Tree looked down. “Kind of.”
“I’ll tell you something about empty places. They don’t get filled in right away. You’ve got to look at them straight on, see what’s still standing. Concentrate on what you’ve got as much as you can.”
Grandpa dug around the hamper, couldn’t find the missing socks. He started laughing. “I don’t need a pair of socks. I just need one. Doing the laundry gets easier when you’re not so particular.”
Tree laughed, too.
You’ve got to love a man who can teach you to laugh at war.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
“Okay, Aunt Peach, so this is my friend Tree.”
Tree was standing in the hallway of Sophie’s apartment. It was cramped and dark.
Piles of laundry all around.
Lassie, the iguana, in a cage on the dining room table.
Cats on the couch; cats in the hall.
Aunt Peach was chasing one of the cats that had just clawed the drapes.
She stopped, gazed up at Tree, way up. “You’re a big one.”
Tree slouched a little.
Aunt Peach ran off. “
Dimples, I’m going to break your furry neck!
”
Tree and Sophie were going to take the bus to the Midas Muffler shop in Baltimore where her dad worked. She was going to give him her Christmas present.
She knew he wouldn’t have anything for her.
“He’s not so good at presents,” Sophie said.
“He’s not so good at life,” her mother added from behind the bathroom door. “Don’t expect much, Sophia.”
Sophie put on her coat, tucked a little wrapped present in her backpack. “I expect the bus’ll get us there, Ma. I expect it’ll be cold outside. That’s it.”
A flush. “Don’t take the wrong bus.”
“I’ve done this before.”
Running water. “Don’t stay long.”
“He gets a fifteen-minute
Tree wasn’t sure how you do that in seventh grade.
He folded a towel and remembered the day his mom moved out.
August twelfth, a bright, sunny day. A day where you wouldn’t think anything bad could happen. He’d just come back from helping her move. There in the dryer was a full load of her clothes she’d forgotten to take. He gathered the clothes in his arms, started up the basement steps, couldn’t handle it. He dropped the pile and ran into his bedroom, crying.
A knock on Tree’s bedroom door.
He was madly drying his face with his sleeve. Grandpa came in.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Convince me.”
Tree told him about the clothes.
“I would have cried, too, if I’d seen that.” He limped over—his leg was so bad—sat on the bed. “It’s the things we don’t expect that just rip the scab off.”
“She was supposed to pack everything.”
“She meant to. It’s been a hard day. People do all kinds of things they wouldn’t normally do when they’re fighting each other. I’ll help you fold that laundry, then you call her, let her know it’s here.”
Tree walked to the basement steps, gathered up the clothes.
His mother had used fabric softener. Her yellow robe was soft and smelled nice. He half buried his nose in it like Bradley snuggled his old towel.
He lugged the laundry to his room. He and Grandpa folded each piece like it had cost a fortune. Tree called Mom at her new house, and she started crying. She’d come over and get it, she said. She hadn’t meant to leave it.
Tree hoped he wouldn’t think about this every time he did the laundry.
“It’s tough around here now, I know.” Grandpa held up five unmatched socks, looked in the hamper for the others. “We’ve all lost a piece of ourselves. War does that—it blows things up and leaves an empty place where something important used to be.”
“Is that how you feel about your leg, Grandpa?”
“Yep. Is that how you feel about your mom and dad?”
Tree looked down. “Kind of.”
“I’ll tell you something about empty places. They don’t get filled in right away. You’ve got to look at them straight on, see what’s still standing. Concentrate on what you’ve got as much as you can.”
Grandpa dug around the hamper, couldn’t find the missing socks. He started laughing. “I don’t need a pair of socks. I just need one. Doing the laundry gets easier when you’re not so particular.”
Tree laughed, too.
You’ve got to love a man who can teach you to laugh at war.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
“Okay, Aunt Peach, so this is my friend Tree.”
Tree was standing in the hallway of Sophie’s apartment. It was cramped and dark.
Piles of laundry all around.
Lassie, the iguana, in a cage on the dining room table.
Cats on the couch; cats in the hall.
Aunt Peach was chasing one of the cats that had just clawed the drapes.
She stopped, gazed up at Tree, way up. “You’re a big one.”
Tree slouched a little.
Aunt Peach ran off. “
Dimples, I’m going to break your furry neck!
”
Tree and Sophie were going to take the bus to the Midas Muffler shop in Baltimore where her dad worked. She was going to give him her Christmas present.
She knew he wouldn’t have anything for her.
“He’s not so good at presents,” Sophie said.
“He’s not so good at life,” her mother added from behind the bathroom door. “Don’t expect much, Sophia.”
Sophie put on her coat, tucked a little wrapped present in her backpack. “I expect the bus’ll get us there, Ma. I expect it’ll be cold outside. That’s it.”
A flush. “Don’t take the wrong bus.”
“I’ve done this before.”
Running water. “Don’t stay long.”
“He gets a fifteen-minute
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