Lily and Dunkin

By the time a police car pulls up, my body is as tense and rigid as Bob’s branches.

At least it’s only one police car. I had imagined a bunch of cars squealing up, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Still, I’m scared. I don’t want to get taken to jail. Or shot at! I probably should have asked Mom or Sarah for help, but I wanted to do this on my own. Don’t cry, I tell myself. And don’t climb down, no matter what they say!

A female officer gets out of the car and talks to me through a bullhorn, which is totally dumb because I’m not that far away. I almost say so, but remember I’m not going to talk to anyone.

“Come out of the tree, little boy,” the officer says through her way-too-loud bullhorn.

I feel my cheeks flame. I’m not little. And I’m definitely not a boy, even though today I happen to be dressed like one—much easier for tree climbing!

“What’s your name?” the officer asks through the unnecessary bullhorn.

Which one?

It doesn’t matter because I say nothing.

“Tell me your parents’ phone number so I can call them,” the officer says. “You won’t get in trouble, but I need to let them know where you are.”

I definitely don’t answer.

“Little boy,” the officer says through the bullhorn. “Come down now or we will have to call the fire department and have you removed. These men have a work order from the city to clear this land. We do not want you to get hurt.”

I squeeze my backpack so hard my fingers bleed white, but I say nothing. Bob’s a part of nature. How can the city own him? How can anyone own nature? If people stood up for trees, we wouldn’t have such a big problem with pollution and melting polar ice caps and vanishing species of animals. Trees are the planet’s lungs, taking in dirty air and releasing clean air. Everyone who’s fond of breathing should protect them.

“If I have to call the fire department,” the officer says, “your parents will be charged for them to remove you.”

I swallow hard and wonder how much it costs to call the fire department. I thought it was free. Don’t taxes pay for the fire department…and schools…and the library? I almost yell down, Liar! because I realize the officer is trying to trick me.

“It’s going to cost your parents hundreds of dollars if the firemen have to remove you from the tree,” she says through the bullhorn. “Maybe more. So come down now.”

I think about how hard it must be for them to pay for my hormone blockers every month and don’t want them to have any extra expenses because of me. But I’m not coming down.

A few people stop and look up. Maybe if people looked up more often, they would have realized how majestic Bob is and that he shouldn’t be cut down to build some stupid playground. I wish the onlookers would leave, though. It’s embarrassing enough to be up here without everyone staring at me.

But then I realize lots of people are exactly what I want. If enough people gather around and see what’s going on, maybe they’ll stop Bob from being cut down. Perhaps they’ll be the difference that keeps Bob standing. Now I’m glad people are pointing at me and talking to each other.

I wave at them. Maybe someone will call the news station. Maybe—

“Move along,” the officer says through the bullhorn as she shuffles people away. “Nothing to see here. Keep moving.”

And they do. Chickens!

While the officer is shooing people away, one of the hard-hat guys comes back beneath the tree and looks up at me.

We lock eyes.

“Just come down,” he says. No bullhorn. No bull. “Please. Come down.”

I shake my head no, and he looks sad, like I disappointed him. And I feel like I have disappointed him, by doing what feels right.

This morning, I thought trying to save Bob would feel heroic, like I’m doing something important and good for the world like Sarah’s Knit Wits Club, but instead, it feels like I’m being a pain in the butt to all these people.

For the first time, I wonder if I should climb down. It would be so much easier. I could go to the bathroom. I could shake out the pins and needles from my legs and butt. I could get something good to eat.

A warm wind whips through the branches, and I hang on tight. Bob’s leaves make a rustling sound, like he’s talking to me. Hang on, the leaves say. Hang on to me.

I remember all the times Bob provided me a safe haven. I think of how happy and relaxed I’ve always felt in his branches. How I named him to honor Grandpop Bob. I think of other kids who might need a place to go when they’re having a hard time, or need a little shade or something beautiful to look at. I think of how defenseless trees are. And how good they are.

Someone needs to be brave for them.

I won’t climb down.

Even when the fire truck pulls up.

SIT STILL

I’m one hundred percent alert and focused while sitting on the sidelines of the game. I’m ready to go in and make big plays. I’m prepared to sink shot after shot under the basket. No mistakes. No excuses. Pure awesomeness!

Even though the game’s going on, I pop out of my seat, pace a few times in front of the other guys on the bench, then return to my seat. Pop up, pace, return. The third time I do this, Coach grabs my arm and forces me into a chair. “Knock it off, Dorfman! I’m trying to coach a game here!”

It’s impossible to stay in my seat, though. How do the other players do it? Aren’t they keyed up, too? My knee bounces like a jackhammer. I remember Dad’s leg used to do that sometimes. His leg used to do that when he was…PUT ME IN ALREADY, COACH!

He doesn’t. Not once the entire game.

By the time we’re back on the bus heading home, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit still a second longer. I get up, walk the aisle, then return to my seat. “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m okay.” I do this repeatedly, thinking I’ll explode if this bus doesn’t stop soon and let me off.

“Dorfman!” Coach screams. “What the hell’s with you tonight?”

“Yeah!” Vasquez yells. “You’re getting on my nerves. Sit down already!”

“And shut up,” Bobby Birch says.

Everyone laughs.

I sit, the echoes of their laughter rolling over me in waves. I stare out the window into the endless night. And I try desperately to keep myself from exploding.

And the Score Is…

I wish I could hear what the firefighter and the officer are saying to each other.

The guys from the tree-cutting company have made themselves comfortable on the lawn, under the shade of Bob. See? I want to tell them. Doesn’t Bob make this the best spot in Beckford Palms?

I’m about to pull out the Pop-Tart I had started earlier—I’m hungry!—when the firefighter walks over. He looks up. He scratches his head. “You coming down?”

I shake my head no.

“Your parents know you’re up here?”

I nod my head yes, even though it’s a lie. This morning, I pretended I was leaving for school, but came here instead. The only one who knows is Dare…and probably, by now, Amy. I didn’t even tell Sarah.

The firefighter goes back to the police officer and says loudly, “I’m not pulling a kid out of a tree. If something were to happen, then—”

“What?” the police officer shrieks.

I knew she didn’t need that bullhorn.

The firefighter moves closer and says something too quietly for me to hear.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The police officer steps back and crosses her arms. “Well, what am I supposed to do? Shoot him?”

My eyes go wide.

The firefighter throws up his arms, like there’s nothing he can do.

The police officer shakes her head, like she’s pissed.

And the firefighter gets in his truck and leaves. Guess my parents won’t be charged for that after all!

I’m so excited I can hardly sit still in Bob’s branches, because I realize I won the first battle of this war.

Score: Lily (representing Bob)—1, Beckford Palms’s Finest—0.

Can’t Win

“I thought I’d find you here,” Sarah says, looking up at me. “You okay?”

I nod, but tears prick at the corners of my eyes because I feel decidedly less okay than I did after the firefighter drove away. That was a couple hours ago. Now I desperately need to pee, but don’t want to do it in a bottle in front of the police officer and the tree cutters and the people who have stopped to stare. I’m super hungry and all I have left are Pop-Tarts. I never thought it could happen, but I’m officially sick of Pop-Tarts. I’m also sick of sitting here. My legs keep getting pins and needles, no matter how much I shake them out, and the rest of me feels like one giant ache. And I’m especially sick of these people who are standing here but doing nothing to help.

The sun is starting to go down, and it’s getting chilly.

“Can you get me something to eat?” I ask, my voice scratchy from not using it.

The police officer walks closer to Sarah, like she’s a shark who smells blood. I can tell she’d stop Sarah from passing anything up to me. I should pee in the empty bottle and drop it on her head.

Sarah looks at the officer, then at me, then at the officer. She bites her thumbnail. “I’m calling Mom.”

Panic rises in my throat, but I realize I could use reinforcements. “Go ahead,” I say.

When Mom’s car pulls up, a wave of relief that I hadn’t expected washes over me. Now it won’t be me against the police officer and tree cutters. Mom will tell them what’s what. She’ll send up food and anything else I need. She’ll take care of everything.

Mom gets out of her car and marches over.

I can’t wait to see her give it to the police officer.

“Lily McGrother!” she screams up at me. “Get out of that tree.”

Mom’s words are a punch in the gut.

“I mean it,” Mom says, hands on her hips.

Where did my yoga-breathing, peaceful-poses mom go?

Sorry, Sarah mouths, but I know it’s not her fault. Mom would have figured out where I was eventually.

“And when we get home, you’re grounded for skipping school today.”

A couple of the tree guys laugh, and I want to disappear like the saltshaker from Dunkin’s magic trick. Even the police officer smiles. I’ll bet she’s loving this. She probably thinks I’m going to slide right down out of the tree and make her job easy.

Well, I’m not.

“Mom,” I say as quietly as I can, feeling my cheeks flame fifteen shades of red. “They’re going to cut the tree down.”

It’s like a spell is broken. Mom finally stops looking at me with her laser-beam eyeballs and glances around at the workers, the police officer, Sarah, the onlookers.

Then she focuses on me again. “And this involves you how?”

“They’re going to cut this tree down today. Right now.” I want to say: The tree we had our picnics under, but instead I say, “Remember? I told you about it. I wrote a letter, but it didn’t work. I put up a sign, but it didn’t work. So now I’m sitting here.” I wish she understood how important this was. “The only thing standing between this tree and their chain saws”—I point to the three hard-hatted guys—“is me.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you, Lily.”

I’m glad she uses my real name.

Mom looks at the police officer. “But I think it’s time for you to come down now.”

I let out a breath and say, “If I come down, the tree comes down, too.”

Mom holds up a finger, then walks over to talk to the workers and the officer.

While she’s talking with them, I try to get my wild heartbeat to slow. I thought Mom would be with me, not against me. How am I supposed to fight the whole world by myself?

Sarah cups her hands around her mouth. “Hey, you okay up there?”

I don’t answer because I’m really choked up. Mom shouldn’t have yelled at me like that, especially in front of everyone.

“I think what you’re doing is awesome!” Sarah screams.

“Me too!” a guy standing nearby says.

“Yeah,” a young woman says, waving her fist. “Stick it to the man.”

I have no idea what that means, but it makes me smile. Maybe I’m not entirely alone, even if Mom isn’t on my side. I have all kinds of renewed respect for Julia Butterfly Hill for doing this for two years. I’m finding it difficult to do this for one day. I know I’ll have to come down sometime. Even though today’s only Friday, eventually Monday will arrive, and I can’t miss another day of school. I can’t stay up here forever.

“Honey,” Mom says, her voice softer. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. I really do. But it’s too late. They have orders from the city.”

“I’m not coming down!”

“Then I’m coming up.”

The police officer and the workers look as shocked as I feel when Mom climbs up Bob’s trunk. Sarah has a stunned look on her face, too. Apparently, Mom’s years of yoga have made her ridiculously strong. And agile.

“Oh, terrific,” the officer says. “Now I’ve got two loonies up there.”

“I can’t stand her,” I whisper to Mom when she settles near me.

“Yeah,” Mom answers. “I can see why.”

We’re quiet as Mom gets her bearings.

“It’s nice up here,” she finally says.

“Right?”

Mom wobbles.

I reach for her.

She steadies herself and nods. “You know you can’t stay up here forever.”

“I know,” I say, surveying the crowd.

“And you really shouldn’t have skipped school. They called me, and I didn’t know where you were and—”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“I know.” Mom reaches out and touches the back of my hand. “I think you’re the bravest person I know.”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously, Lily. You’re an amazing, strong and wonderful human. The world is lucky to have you.”

While Mom’s saying these astonishing things to me, the three tree cutters leave.

“Mom, look.”

She grabs onto a branch and peers down. “Wow. That’s a good sign.”

“Don’t get too excited,” the officer calls up. “They’ll be back first thing in the morning. They have to clock out at a certain time today.”

My stomach drops. They’re coming back tomorrow. I can’t stay here all night! “Mom.” A few tears leak out. “What am I supposed to do?”

Mom looks up at the late afternoon light filtering through Bob’s leafy branches, then into my eyes. “Lily, what do you want to do?”

I take a shaky breath and pat my tree. “I want to save Bob. But they’re coming back tomorrow.” I lean back, defeated. “Guess there’s no winning this war.”

Mom tilts her head. “Are you giving up, then?”

Am I?