“I　think　the　boy　has　a　very　good　idea；　that's　why。”

“But—”

“It's　not　going　to　kill　your　grass；　Julianna。　Just　let　him　do　what　he's　e　to　do。”

“But　what　is　it？　What's　he　doing？”

“Watch。　You'll　figure　it　out。”

It　was　torture　seeing　him　dig　up　my　grass。　The　hole　he　was　making　was　enormous！　How

could　my　father　let　him　do　this　to　my　yard？

Bryce　knew　I　was　there；　too；　because　he　looked　at　me　once　and　nodded。　No　smile；　no　wave；

just　a　nod。

He　dragged　over　some　potting　soil；　pierced　the　bag　with　the　spade；　and　shoveled　dirt　into　the

hole。　Then　he　disappeared。　And　when　he　came

back；　he　wrestled　a　big　burlapped　root　ball　across　the　lawn；　the　branches　of　a　plant　rustling

back　and　forth　as　he　moved。

My　dad　joined　me　on　the　couch　and　peeked　out　the　window；　too。

“A　tree？”　I　whispered。　“He's　planting　a　tree？”

“I'd　help　him；　but　he　says　he　has　to　do　this　himself。”

“Is　it　a　…”　The　words　stuck　in　my　throat。

I　didn't　really　need　to　ask；　though；　and　he　knew　he　didn't　need　to　answer。　I　could　tell　from　the

shape　of　the　leaves；　from　the　texture　of　the　trunk。

This　was　a　sycamore　tree。

I　flipped　around　on　the　couch　and　just　sat。

A　sycamore　tree。

Bryce　finished　planting　the　tree；　watered　it；　cleaned　everything　up；　and　then　went　home。　And

I　just　sat　there；　not　knowing　what　to　do。

I've　been　sitting　here　for　hours　now；　just　staring　out　the　window　at　the　tree。　It　may　be　little

now；　but　it'll　grow；　day　by　day。　And　a　hundred　years　from

now　it'll　reach　clear　over　the　rooftops。　It'll　be　miles　in　the　air！　Already　I　can　tell—it's　going　to

be　an　amazing；　magnificent　tree。

And　I　can't　help　wondering；　a　hundred　y