My phone buzzed in my pocket as I walked out the door. I pulled it out to read the text I already knew was from Cooper. If I must, I will challenge Lacey to a duel.
I’ll relay the message.
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning after waking up and getting dressed, I surveyed the pantry.
“Are you looking for your sugary cereal again?” Mom asked. “I think Grandpa ate it all.”
“No. I’m looking for a sketch pad.”
“In the pantry?”
“I already searched the rest of the house. It was my last hope.” I hadn’t sketched out my ideas in a long time, but when, despite my frustrations with Cooper, I was left staring at an empty canvas the day before, I knew I needed to try something different.
“I think I saw one. . . .” My mom stood up and went to a bin on the counter she put scrap paper and ads and coupons in. She dug through it and came up with a notebook.
“I know it’s not a sketchbook,” she said. “But will this work?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said, taking it from her.
“That’s my line,” Grandpa said. He’d just come in the sliding door from outside. He carried a watering can and a misshapen cucumber. “What are you begging for?”
I waved the notebook at him. “Nothing anymore. I’m going for a walk.”
“I don’t think . . . ,” my mom started.
“No,” I said, realizing she thought I was going to try to convince her to go with me. “Alone. I want to walk alone this time.”
“Oh.” My mom almost looked hurt. “Okay. Have fun.”
I glanced at my grandpa, who seemed just as confused by the interaction as I was. “Did you want to come?” I asked.
She shook her head, and her normal smile was back. “Not at all.”
“Tell Cooper we said hi,” Grandpa said as I headed for the door.
“Cooper is not going with me. I really am going alone!” I called back and let the door shut behind me. “I can be alone,” I grumbled, walking down the steps.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I’d shoved a few charcoal pencils in the back pocket of my shorts and now pulled one out as I walked. I flipped to a clean page in the notebook, then waited to be inspired.
I had been walking for at least forty-five minutes, and all I’d doodled was a single bird that had been sitting on a fence. It wasn’t even a very good doodle. I was about ready to give up and head back home when across the street I saw Tree Man, chain and all.
I looked both ways, waited for a car to pass, then walked across. I approached him with a wave. “Hi. You’re still here.”
He pointed to the bulldozer. “I’ll be here until that isn’t.”
He looked younger than what I had thought he was. Definitely not my grandpa’s age, but maybe close to thirty. It was hard to tell. His long, stringy hair was receding, leaving him a large expanse of forehead. His skin was tanned and looked slightly leathery, which made me assume that before becoming Tree Man he was definitely Beach Man or at the very least Long Walks Man.
“Can I sit up there or is that missing the point?” I nodded toward a low-hanging branch.
“Be my guest. I used to sit up there all the time.”
“Like when you first started your save the tree mission?” I asked, taking my pencils out of my back pocket and tucking them into my ponytail.
“No. Growing up. I have history with this tree.”
“Did you grow up on this lot?” I set my notebook on the branch, then tried to swing up to join it. It was harder than it looked.
“Twenty acres. My parents owned it and sold it six months ago. They made a verbal agreement with the purchaser that he wouldn’t tear this tree down. It’s a hundred years old. But they didn’t get it in writing. So . . .”
“That sucks.”
“It does. Are you a reporter?” he asked, nodding to my notebook.
“Oh.” I was surprised by the question. “No, I’m an . . .” I paused, then finished with determination. “Artist. I’m an artist.”
“Cool,” he said, like he meant it.
I’d finally managed to hoist myself onto the branch and sat against the trunk, my feet dangling. “Have you been getting lots of reporters?”
“Sadly, no. I was hoping for some buzz to get more support.”
I stared up at the branches above me. They were heavy with leaves dancing in the breeze. It made the tree look alive. I pulled a pencil out of my hair and grabbed my notebook. “It’s a beautiful tree. When is it scheduled for death?”
“I’m sure they would’ve done the deed already if I weren’t here.”
“Isn’t there a way the housing development can build around it?”
“I guess when they drew up the plans they realized the road would have to come right through here.”
“And the tree is in the way.”
“Yeah.”
My conversation with Elliot came to mind, how we’d talked about what we loved enough to chain ourselves to. “You must have some great memories that involve this tree.”
“I do. I have read no less than fifty books in the exact spot you are sitting.”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever read in a tree. It seems like the best place to read though.”
“Now I just knit by the tree.” There was a green reusable grocery bag by his feet that he kicked as he said this.
“You knit?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never knit. What are you knitting?”
He reached down, more easily than I thought he’d be able to, being chained to a tree and all, and picked up the bag. He pulled out a multicolored hat that looked close to completion. “I’m making this.”
“Is knitting hard?”
“At first, it can be. But with practice, it gets easier.”
“Like most things.”
“Exactly.”
My phone rang in my pocket and I looked at the screen. Cooper. “Hold on a sec,” I told Tree Man. I didn’t know his name. Why had I not asked his name? I answered the phone and said to Cooper, “Wait.” Then to the man chained to the tree I said, “What’s your name? I’ve been calling you Tree Man in my head.”
He laughed. “I’m Lance.”
“Lance. I’m Abby. Okay, hold on.” To Cooper I said, “Hey.”
“Who’s Lance?” he asked.
“The man chained to the tree.”
“You’re hanging out with Tree Man?”
“Yes. I am sitting on a branch that I climbed to.”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
“So you’re actually staying there?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know. Until after bulldozing hours.”
“Bulldozing has hours?”
“I assume they work during the day. Gotta run. I’m sketching.” I hung up before he had time to respond. Had I ever hung up on Cooper like that before? I thought about calling him back to make sure he wasn’t mad about it, but didn’t. I really did need to sketch. I’d call him later.
For the next thirty minutes I sat on a branch sketching, and Lance sat on the ground knitting. As my hand moved across the page, I realized it had been a while since I hadn’t felt pressure across my shoulders while creating. The pressure of expectation. I was happy, relaxed. So I kept going. My first drawing had been of the leaves above me. Now I was focused on a one-inch section of bark and was drawing a close-up version of it.