The next day at school I was trying to get up the nerve to say something to her, but I never even got the chance.
She wouldn’t let me get anywhere near her. Then on the ride home I had this thought.
It kind of freaked me out at first, but the more I played with it, the more I figured that,
yeah, helping her with the yard would make up for my having been such a jerk.
Assuming she didn’t boss me too much, and assuming she didn’t decide to get all gooey-eyed or something stupid like that.
No, I’d go up and just tell her that I felt bad for being a jerk and I wanted to make it up to her by helping her cut back some bushes.
Period. End of story. And if she still wanted to be mad at me after that, then fine.
That was her problem. My problem was, I never got the chance.
I came trekking down from the bus stop to find my grandfather doing my good deed. Now, jump back.
This was not something I could immediately absorb. My grandfather did not do yard work.
At least, he’d never offered to help me out. My grandfather lived in house slippers – where’d he get those work boots?
And those jeans and that flannel shirt – what was up with those?
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