There was also the decidedly blissful possibility of running into Bryce.
And in the chilly sparkle of a new day, Bryce’s eyes seemed bluer than ever.
The way he looked at me—the smile, the blush—it was a Bryce I didn’t get to see at school.
The Bryce at school was way more protected. By the third time I brought eggs over to the Loskis, I realized that Bryce was waiting for me.
Waiting to pull the door open and say, “Thanks, Juli,” and then, “See you at school.”
It was worth it. Even after Mrs. Helms and Mrs. Stueby offered me more money per dozen, it was still worth it.
So, through the rest of sixth grade, through all of seventh grade and most of eighth, I delivered eggs to the Loskis.
The very best, shiniest eggs went straight to the Loskis, and in return I got a few moments alone with the world’s most dazzling eyes.
It was a bargain. Then they cut down the sycamore tree. And two weeks later Champ died.
He’d been spending a lot of time sleeping, and even though we didn’t really know how old he was,
no one was really surprised when one night Dad went out to feed him and discovered he was dead.
We buried him in the backyard, and my brothers put up a cross that reads: HERE LIES THE MYSTERY PISSER P.I.P.
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