Lily and Dunkin

I think I’ll die of embarrassment when Dunkin asks me about needing to pee. I can’t believe when the lie rolls so easily off my tongue, but I don’t think he believes me. I mean, who has a bladder of steel? Maybe Superman, but not a mere mortal. I should have told him the truth—I peed in a bottle. Big deal.

But Dunkin’s asking about peeing is nothing—NOTHING!—compared to the heat I feel in my cheeks when he asks the question. I’m glad Mom respects me enough to call me Lily, but why did she have to do it at that moment in front of Dunkin?

I look at Dunkin, who climbed up this tree to be here with me. He shared his doughnuts with me, too. I could lie and keep lying. Sometimes I feel like that’s all I do.

“Dunkin?”

“Yeah? I’d lean closer, but I’m scared of falling.”

“You don’t have to lean closer,” I say.

“It was just a mistake when your mom called you Lily. Right? A weird mistake.”

Ouch. Am I a weird mistake?

I wish I could stay in this tree forever, but I know someday I’ll have to climb down. Someday I’ll have to go back to school. And someday, I’ll have to face Vasquez and the Neanderthals. It will be infinitely harder to do that if Dunkin repeats a single thing I’m about to tell him.

I take so long to answer that Dunkin says, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure it’s a thing between you two. None of my business.”

The way he says this is so sweet that something inside me cracks. “Dunkin,” I say, loud enough for only him to hear. “You climbed up here with me. You trusted me, even though I could tell you were scared. Of course I’m going to tell you.” You’re my friend. “Remember the first day I saw you?”

“Yes.”

Stars twinkle above, through Bob’s big, leafy branches, and a cool breeze rustles. The air smells clean, with a slight hint of salt from the ocean. And Dunkin and I are sitting in this magnificent tree to save its life.

“Remember I was wearing a dress?”

“Yes,” he says. “You said your sister dared you.”

I look down at Sarah, slumped in the folding chair. She’s so amazing. I can’t believe she’s here, supporting me. Just looking at her gives me the courage to continue. “That’s my sister, Sarah,” I tell Dunkin. “She didn’t dare me.” I wait for a response to my admission, but Dunkin’s quiet. If he had said one word, I might not have gone on, but his silence is allowing me the space to keep going. “I wore the dress because I wanted to.”

In my head, the words come out like cymbals crashing at the grand finale of an orchestra. But in reality, my words are whispered, barely able to be carried on the cool wind.

“But why…” Dunkin doesn’t finish his sentence. I’m sure his face is a picture of confusion, but it’s hard to see it clearly in the dark. I’m glad for the dark, though. Without it, I wouldn’t have the guts to keep talking.

“I look like a boy. I have boy parts.” I can’t believe I said that. “But I feel like a girl. I always have.” I let out a breath. “Does this make any sense?” I wonder how it could make sense to someone who was born into the body that matches who they are.

Part of me knows Sarah and Dare would be proud of me for speaking the truth, but another part is terrified of what the truth might set into motion for me. That part wishes I could take every word I just said and stuff it back into my mouth, especially since Dunkin is silent.

“Are you okay?” I ask, which is a stupid thing to say.

“I, um…” He runs a hand through his curly hair. “It’s just that…”

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling like it’s anything but okay. I’m sure he’ll laugh about this with Vasquez and Birch and the other Neanderthals in school on Monday. I don’t know why I thought I could trust Dunkin. Even my dad is having a hard time with me being me. How did I expect this new boy would understand? Stupid!

Dunkin’s words come like gifts from the darkness. “It’s just that I never met anyone before who was transgender,” he says. “Or at least I don’t think I have.”

I can’t believe Dunkin named it. “Well, that’s what I am,” I say. “Transgender.” I’ll have a lot to talk to Dr. Klemme about on my next visit.

Dunkin’s foot is tap, tap, tapping a million miles a minute, while the rest of him is still as a petrified tree.

I thought this would take longer to explain, be more complicated. But there’s really not much more to it than what I said. “Do you, um, have any questions?”

“Nope,” Dunkin says. “Well, I do have one question.”

Uh-oh! My throat goes dry, and I can barely scratch out the word: “Yes?”

“Do you have any more Pop-Tarts?”

“Pop-Tarts?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m totally starving.”

Ready

When I wake, it’s light out, and I can’t believe I fell asleep in a tree. Every part of me is stiff and sore and numb. I have to pee worse than yesterday. Across from me, Dunkin is awake, his eyelids open wide.

“Hi,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth, which feel thick like fur and taste disgusting. Why didn’t I think of tossing a tube of toothpaste in my backpack?

Dunkin raises his eyebrows. “Hey.”

I melt. Why didn’t I realize how cute he is before? Maybe he didn’t look so cute standing near Vasquez and the Neanderthals. But here, in Bob, he’s adorable.

“I can’t believe I stayed up here all night.”

I blink a few times. “Me too!”

“We did it,” Dunkin says.

“Yeah,” I say, patting Bob’s bark. “I guess we did.” I peek down below. Mom and Sarah are still asleep in their chairs. Dad’s not there. I’m sure he came during the night to check on us, but probably had to get to the shop early to make some mistakes on a few T-shirt orders.

Yesterday comes back to me in unpleasant waves. The nasty police officer. The firefighter who refused to pull me down. The workers who were here to cut down the tree. Mom. Dad. Sarah. And the miracle of Dunkin climbing up here with me, even though he looked terrified to do so—that’s something only a friend would do. I recall the things I shared with Dunkin last night in the dark. Things so few people know about me.

“Dunkin?” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You can never, ever tell anyone what I told you last night. I’m not ready.”

He tilts his head.

“About me being a girl.”

“Oh,” he says. “Are you sure?”

I reel back. “Am I sure you shouldn’t tell anyone or am I sure I’m a girl?”

Dunkin shakes his head. “Never mind. Stupid question. I didn’t sleep much.” He glances over his shoulder. “Or the night before that, or…My brain’s going haywire. But, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. It’s just that…”

“What?” I ask, a little annoyed. Plus I have to pee so much it hurts.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Wow.”

“ ‘Wow’? That’s a dumb name.”

We both crack up.

“Dunkin, that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever asked me.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but it totally is a big deal. That one little question is so respectful and thoughtful, Dunkin has no idea how much this means to me. I had a feeling Dunkin would make a great friend. “You can call me Tim,” I say. “For now. I’ll let you know when that changes.”

“Okay.”

“And Dunkin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks again for asking. That was really cool.”

He shrugs again.

“Hey, won’t your mom and dad be worried about where you are?”

“Oh crap.” The color drains from Dunkin’s face. “My mom will flip if she gets up and I’m not there. But she had a migraine last night, which usually means she sleeps late.” Dunkin looks at me. “And I, um, don’t have a dad right now.”

Do I say I’m sorry? Do I ask a question? I bite my thumbnail.

“I mean he’s somewhere else. He’s—”

“Rise and shine!” It’s the police officer, talking through her stupid bullhorn.

Mom and Sarah startle awake and scramble out of their sleeping bags.

“Oh jeez, there’s two of them up there again now,” the officer says, not through the megaphone, but I hear her loud and clear.

Mom stands beside the officer, cups her hands around her mouth and asks, “You two okay up there?”

Dunkin nods, so I answer, “We’re great.”

“Still here?” the officer says to my mom.

“Yup,” Mom answers, folding her sleeping bag. “Still here.”

“Not for long,” the officer says. “The mayor’s coming.”

“Well, whoop-di-do,” Mom says.

Sarah laughs.

Go, Mom!

I make sure everything’s in my backpack and whisper to Dunkin, “I hate to say this, but we’ll probably have to climb down soon.”

“Lily,” he whispers, like he’s trying it on for size. “This was the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.”

I can’t help but smile. “I guess it was kind of fun. But you don’t have to call me Lily. Yet.”

“Sorry,” Dunkin says.

“Totally okay.”

Dad pulls up in his car, gets out and walks to the base of the tree. “How are you?”

“Fine, Dad. We’re fine,” I say. “Did you hear? The mayor’s coming.”

Dad runs a hand through his wiry, red hair. “Of course she is.”

The tree-cutting guys return. It’s the same three from yesterday.

“Holy mackerel,” one guy says. “There’s two kids up there now.”

I see one of the workers smile, but he covers his mouth with his hand.

When Mayor Higginbotham arrives, she plants her hands on her hips and takes in the situation. Then she approaches Bob. “Did one of you write me a letter?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice catching because my throat is so dry. “I did.”

“Well, you must really love this tree to go to all this trouble.” She doesn’t say it in a mean way.

“Bob’s worth loving that much,” I call down.

“Who?” The mayor looks around.

“The tree,” Dunkin says. “This tree is worth the trouble.”

“Oh.” The mayor shields her eyes and says, “Well, I came here personally to tell you how much I admire your persistence and dedication.”

I bite my lip because I know what she’s going to say next.

“But there’s nothing that can be done at this point.” She pauses. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t believe there’s nothing that can be done. They could build the playground somewhere else or build it around Bob. Or not build it at all. But I don’t say those things because I know their minds are set. Also, I have to pee so badly it feels like my bladder will rupture, and there’s no way I’m peeing in front of anyone, especially Dunkin. Besides, every part of my body hurts. And I’m starving.

I want to eat a big breakfast, brush the fur off my teeth, take a hot shower and climb into my soft bed under the ugly brown comforter and sleep for, oh, the entire rest of the weekend.

There’s a long pause, where everyone is looking up at us.

“Are you ready to come down now?” the mayor asks gently.

I look at Mom. At Sarah. At Dad. There’s so much love in their faces. Then I look at Dunkin, this wonderful new friend, who called me Lily, and he nods.

“Yes,” I say, grabbing my backpack. “We’re ready to come down now.”

Sorry

After we climb down from Bob’s branches, Mom and Sarah give me bone-crushing hugs. Mom even hugs Dunkin. He seems so awkward and tall in her embrace. It’s kind of funny. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“Dunkin, do you think your parents would mind if you joined us for breakfast?” Mom asks.

“I’ll check,” he says, pulling out his phone. “But I’m sure my mom will say yes.”

I wonder what Dunkin was going to tell me about his dad before the rude police officer interrupted. I almost wish he’d told me some deep, dark secret up in Bob’s branches so we could be even. And I can’t wait to tell Dare that the officer is more annoying than Interrupting Cow!

Mom takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here, sweetheart.”

“Just a minute,” I say.

And even though I need to pee desperately and I’m sore and hungry, I stand there, feeling the ache of every limb in my body as the chain saws whir and slice through Bob’s branches.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Branch after branch falls to the ground.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

With each piece, a severed memory of my time in the tree lands, time with Grandpop Bob.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Dunkin and I stand beside each other as one guy climbs up a rope to reach the upper branches and fells them one by one—chain saw whirring and sawdust flying.

Sarah is on my other side, and Mom and Dad stand behind us, their hands on my shoulders.

It’s like they’re all holding me up, in a way I couldn’t hold up Bob any longer.

And I stay—we stay—until the last branch is down and Bob is left an ugly, gnarled stump. A proud stump. I think of how many people won’t know the beauty he was.

“We’ll pull that out Monday,” one of the guys from the crew says.

The mayor thanks the workers and the police officer and even shakes my hand and my family’s and Dunkin’s hands before leaving.

I give her credit for staying and watching the massacre.

It takes Mom and Sarah, each pulling a hand, to uproot me from my spot and get me into the car.

If I weren’t in the backseat next to Dunkin, I’d dissolve into a puddle of tears.

We both look through the back window at Stump Bob as Mom drives us away.

I’m sorry, Bob. I’m so sorry.