“All right then,” he said, and got to work slicing cheese and onions.
For the rest of the afternoon, I sort of lazed around, reading and daydreaming.
And at school the next day, I couldn’t seem to concentrate. My thoughts kept turning back to David.
I wondered what my grandparents had been like, and what they’d gone through, having a son like him.
I daydreamed a lot about the sycamore tree, too, which at first I thought was because I was feeling melancholy.
But then I remembered how my mother had called the sycamore a testimony to endurance.
It had survived being damaged as a sapling. It had grown.
Other people thought it was ugly, but I never had. Maybe it was all how you looked at it.
Maybe there were things I saw as ugly that other people thought were beautiful.
Like Shelly Stalls. A perfect example! To me there was absolutely nothing to recommend her,
but the rest of the world seemed to think she was the cat’s meow. Me-ow.
Anyway, I sort of drifted through the week like that. Until Thursday.
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