But still, I felt bad. About her tree, about how she hurried off to eat by herself in the library at lunch,
about how her eyes were red around the edges. I wanted to tell her, Man, I’m sorry about your sycamore tree, but the words never seemed to come 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.
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