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