“Too much Wise Old Tree,” Bongo confirmed, as everyone retreated into their homes in a huff.
“They’re all a bit tense,” Bongo said. “Worried about your … your situation.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m worried, too,” Bongo said in an almost-whisper.
“I know,” I said gently. “But every cloud has a silver—”
“Red,” Bongo interrupted.
“Sorry.”
“There must be something I can do,” Bongo said.
“You’re a good friend, Bongo. But sometimes all you can do is stand tall and reach deep.”
“Red!”
“Sorry,” I said again.
“What will I do without you, Red?” Bongo said softly.
“You’ll be fine, my friend. I promise.”
We both fell quiet.
At last Bongo shook herself, feathers fluffing. “In any case. Maybe not the best time to be granting wishes, is my point.”
“Seems to me this is exactly the right time,” I replied.
Bongo groaned her little-old-man groan.
She knew I wasn’t backing down.
And with that, we began to plan.
22
We executed Plan Number One an hour and a half later, when Stephen headed off to school.
He’d gotten only as far as the sidewalk when Bongo dove straight toward his backpack. Poking at the zipper with her beak, she cawed frantically.
When crows want to be loud, they can be extremely loud.
“What?” Stephen cried. “What is wrong with you, bird?” He dropped his backpack to the ground.
Bongo landed on the backpack, looking up at him hopefully. “Chip, please,” she said.
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Hello,” Bongo said. “Chip, please.”
Stephen put his hands on his hips. “Okay. Fine. I’ve seen you in action, working the bus line.”
Bongo hopped to the ground as Stephen unzipped his backpack. “You rock,” she said politely.
Stephen pulled out his lunch bag and opened it. “Let’s see. I’ve got a tuna fish sandwich. Carrot sticks—”
But before he could say anything more, Bongo plunged into the backpack, grabbed a sheet of paper, and flew skyward.
“Hey! That’s my English homework!” Stephen cried. “Come back here, you thief!”
Bongo flew high into my branches and landed with a victorious caw.
Stephen stalked around the bottom of my trunk, where the yellow police tape encircled me.
“Please, crow,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you my whole sandwich. Please?”
Bongo perched on the paper, freeing her beak. “No way,” she replied.
A few more minutes of grumbling, and Stephen gave up. “Great,” he muttered as he grabbed his backpack. “Ms. Kellerman is never going to believe me when I tell her a crow ate my homework.”
23
When Samar exited her house, it was time for the rest of our plan.
She paused, as she always did, to say hello, and Bongo, as she always did, said hello back. But this time Bongo surprised Samar by landing on her shoulder and presenting her with a mangled piece of paper.
Samar took it from Bongo. “This has Stephen’s name on it. Why on earth do you have it?”
“No way,” Bongo said, by way of an answer.
“Well, I’ll be sure he gets this,” Samar said.
Bongo gave a little caw and headed back to me.
Perfect. A simple plan, beautifully executed.
Samar would give the homework to Stephen. They’d strike up a conversation about the crazy crow in the big oak tree. They’d laugh. They’d share. They’d realize they have a lot in common.
Voilà. Friendship.
It was a great plan.
Except for the part that came just seconds later. The part where Samar noticed a friend of Stephen’s walking by. She dashed over and asked him to give Stephen the piece of paper.
And that was that.
“Meddling isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” I confessed to Bongo.
“Hey, I did my part.”
“You were wonderful,” I said. “Well, we’ll just have to try again. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Red,” Bongo said with a sigh, “please don’t remind me.”
24
That afternoon, we tried Plan Number Two.
“This isn’t going to work, Red,” Bongo said, strutting back and forth on the lawn.
“Pessimist,” I said.
“Optimist,” she replied.
Secretly, I had my doubts, though. Our second plan required help from one of the babies.
There’d been much bickering over which baby would get to assist us—but then, there’d been plenty of bickering ever since Francesca’s threat to cut me down. It frustrated me to see my residents, the ones who’d miraculously been getting along so well, turn on one another when faced with a problem.
Granted, it was a big problem. But if I could handle it, it seemed like the least they could do was behave during our last days together.
Bongo flipped a penny she kept in her collection of treasures, and we arrived at our helper: the smallest baby opossum, Flashlight.
“Let me get this straight,” said Bongo. “You’re afraid of flash—?”
“Shh,” HairySpiders hissed. “We try not to say that word around him.”
“So what do you actually call him?” Agnes asked.
“He answers to ‘Flash,’” HairySpiders explained.
“Well, Flash,” said Bongo, “you understand the drill, right? You pretend to be dead. You guys are good at that, right?”
Flash nodded excitedly. “Opossums are the best dead pretenders in the world.”
“So you play dead, Samar and Stephen see you as they’re coming home from school—”
“We’re hoping they come home at about the same time today,” I interrupted.
“—and they freak out,” Bongo continued, “see the cute little maybe-dead baby, talk about what to do—”
“Are you certain this is safe?” asked HairySpiders. “I’m feeling a little faint just thinking about it.”
“We’ll all be watching. And Stephen and Samar are smart kids,” I reassured her. “They’ll know not to touch a sick animal.”
“So they go get their parents, call a wildlife rescue place or maybe a vet, and while they’re busy,” Bongo continued, “little Flashli—er, Flash—runs back to his den. Samar and Stephen come back out, have a good laugh about the vanishing opossum, maybe the parents even get to talking—“
“I really think You would do a better job,” BigYou complained. “She’s a born actor. Or You or You.”
“This has been officially decided,” Bongo said firmly. “We flipped the penny, remember?”
“Just saying,” BigYou muttered.
Down the street, the school dismissal bell rang. “Places, everyone!” Bongo urged.
“This is totally going to work,” I said.
“This is totally going to fail,” Bongo said at the very same instant.
25
“And action!” Bongo whispered.
Little Flash waddled out to the middle of the lawn.
He lay down on his side and curled up. He closed his eyes. He drew back his lips, revealing tiny, needle-sharp teeth.
“Perfect,” Bongo said.
“Try foaming at the mouth, dear,” HairySpiders called.
Down the street, we could see Stephen approaching. Luckily, Samar was just a few yards behind him.
Flash leapt up. “How am I doing, Ma?”
“Wonderfully, my baby,” said HairySpiders. “Mommy’s so proud of her little bitty opossum!”
“BE DEAD!” Bongo cried.
“Oh, yeah.” Flash shrugged. “I kinda forgot, Aunt Bongo.”
“I’m not your aunt,” Bongo said. “I’m not even a member of your species.”
“Well, that doesn?
??t really matter,” I chided.
“BE DEAD!” Bongo cried again.
Flash hiccuped.
“Oh, my,” said HairySpiders. “He does that when he’s nervous.”
“How come I can’t be dead, Mom?” asked RosePetal.
“NEWBIES, QUIET!” Bongo commanded. “FLASH, STOP HICCUPING, DUDE!”
“Here they come!” I whispered. “Stephen and Samar!”
The hiccups got louder.
“FLASHLIGHT!” Bongo said. “NOW!”
“Don’t call him that!” his mother cried.
Flashlight froze. He stopped hiccuping. Foam dripped from his mouth. His half-open eyes were glazed and unseeing.
“The works!” Bongo whispered. “Brilliant!”
Stephen found Flash first. Samar was close behind.
“What should we do?” Stephen asked.
Success, I thought. They were actually talking to each other.
“Don’t touch it,” said Samar. “It might be rabid. Or it could just be playing dead. I read that opossums will do that.”
“I’ll go get my mom. Maybe she can call someone.”
“Sounds good,” said Samar.
To my disappointment, Stephen and Samar nodded at each other and promptly went into their separate houses.
And once again, that was that.
All that work, for just a few moments of conversation?
How, exactly, did people make friends? How hard could it be?
Still, I reminded myself, Stephen and Samar had spoken to each other. And that was a good first step, wasn’t it?
“Flash?” Bongo called. “Time to go back to your den, buddy. Before they come back.”
Flash remained frozen in a little opossum ball.
“Flash?” I called.
“Flash? Baby?” HairySpiders yelled.
“Oh, my,” said BigYou. “I don’t think your baby’s acting.”
“My baby! My precious Flash!” cried HairySpiders, and Flash’s brothers and sisters began to wail.
“You really should have used one of my Yous,” BigYou said.
“FLASH! STOP BEING DEAD!” Bongo yelled. She hopped over to Flash and gently poked him with her beak.
“How dare you peck my son!” HairySpiders yelled. “Flash! I’ll save you, baby!”
HairySpiders dashed out of her hollow, scrambled down my trunk, and promptly fainted.
“Oh, great,” said Bongo. “Just fantastic. Like mother, like son. What now, Wise Old Tree?”
“You grab Flash,” I instructed. “FreshBakedBread and BigYou, can you rescue HairySpiders? Pull her over to Fresh’s den, under the porch.”
“HairySpiders called my children ‘boisterous,’” BigYou said.
“BigYou said my children stink,” FreshBakedBread said.
Over two centuries of life, and I’d hardly ever raised my voice.
This was one of those times.
“NOW!” I commanded, just as the door to Stephen’s house opened.
You’d be surprised how fast raccoons and skunks can be when they’re motivated.
26
Stephen and his mother eventually gave up trying to find the mysterious baby opossum. Samar watched them from her living room window, but she didn’t venture out.
After about an hour, HairySpiders and Flashlight woke up and returned, on wobbly legs, to their den.
And that was that. Again.
“Don’t worry,” I told Bongo. “Third time’s a charm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just something people say.”
“Charm,” Bongo sneered. “Did you know that’s what people call a bunch of hummingbirds?”
“No, actually.”
“Hummingbirds! Which, let’s face it, are pretty much just overdressed flies. But a bunch of us crows together, guess what we get to be called?”
“What?”
“A murder! A murder of crows! Can you believe it? A bunch of trees, you’re a grove. A bunch of raccoons? A gaze.” Bongo flapped her wings. “But crows? We’re a murder.”
“Are you quite finished?” I asked.
“Sorry. I’m worried about you. And I get grumpy when I’m worried.” Bongo plucked out a piece of new grass and tossed it aside.
“I have one more plan to get Samar and Stephen talking,” I said.
“How about a plan to get you not turned into a picnic table?”
“I can’t control everything in life, Bongo,” I said gently. “And if I could, what fun would that be? But this little thing. This wish of Samar’s. I can make it happen.” I hesitated. “At least, I think I can.”
“I don’t understand why this matters so much to you.”
“She reminds me of a little girl I knew a long time ago.”
“You’re a buttinsky,” said Bongo wearily. “But I love you anyway.”
She looked at me with something like the crow version of a smile—beak open, head cocked, eyes gleaming. “So what’s Plan Number Three?”
27
Once night had fallen, I sent Bongo on her next mission.
“All you have to do is untie Samar’s wish,” I instructed.
“Oh,” she said. “Is that all?”
Bongo flew to the low branch where Samar had tied her pink, dotted fabric scrap. She yanked on it with her beak several times. “Easier said than done,” she reported.
“You’re a crow. Use a tool.”
Crows are well-known for making and using tools. They’re probably the brainiest birds around.
“Hmm.” Bongo poked and considered. “I have a paper clip in my collection. I’ll give that a shot.”
“It’ll never work,” Agnes predicted from her nest.
I think owls are secretly a bit jealous of crows.
One by one, heads poked out of my hollows, as well as the skunk den under the porch, to watch Bongo at work.
“What’s Bongo doing, Ma?” asked one of the Yous.
“It’s called tool use,” said BigYou. “No big deal.”
“Folks, if you can’t say something helpful,” I said, “please don’t say anything at all.”
Bongo returned with a small piece of twisted metal. “Straightened paper clip,” she explained. “Found it on the school playground.”
With great effort, she managed to slide the straight end of the paper clip into the knot. But try as she might, she couldn’t pull the knot free.
“Almost … got … it,” Bongo muttered between her clenched beak.
“Why is Bongo doing that?” Harold asked Agnes.
“There’s no explaining crows,” Agnes said.
“Because I asked her to,” I said. “Because it’s important to me.”
With a frustrated groan, Bongo let the paper clip fall to the ground. “It’s no use, Red,” she said.
“Maybe it’s time to give up on this idea,” I said with a sigh. “I’m not meant to help. I’m meant to sit here. Just sit.”
A gentle wind rippled my leaves. No one spoke.
“Wait just a minute,” said BigYou. “Maybe I can lend you a paw.”
“You’re awfully heavy for that branch,” Agnes pointed out.
“Let her try,” I said.
Carefully, BigYou inched her way out onto the limb where Samar’s wish was tied.
She was indeed heavy, and my branch bowed under her weight, but I held firm. She toyed with the knot, using both front paws. Before long, she’d pulled the strip free.
“Ta-da!” she cried, clutching the fabric in her right paw.
“Well, I did the hard part,” Bongo sulked.
“It was a joint effort,” I said. “Teamwork. And much appreciated, both of you.”
“You have the wish,” said Agnes. “Now what, Red?”
“Now we wait until Samar comes to visit,” I said. “And then Bongo works her magic.”
28
The moon bathed us all in cool blue light as we awaited Samar’s nightly visit.
She
came out in her robe and slippers. Sitting on her blanket, she waited patiently as the babies scrambled over to see her. Around her neck, she was wearing the beribboned key that Bongo had given her.
“Where’s my crow friend?” she whispered, as the Yous somersaulted in front of her. She looked up into my branches, and I was glad I’d instructed Bongo to hide on Stephen’s roof.
Right on schedule, Bongo flew to Stephen’s bedroom window. She settled on the sill. Samar’s fabric scrap dangled in her beak.
Carefully, she tapped on Stephen’s window.
Nothing happened.
I’d told Bongo to be as quiet as possible. We didn’t want Samar to see what we were up to.
Tap, tap, tap. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
Stephen, apparently, was quite a sound sleeper.
Bongo looked at me. Her eyes said “Now what?”
She tried again. TAP, TAP, TAP.
Samar started. “What was that?” she asked.
Fortunately, Harold distracted her with an attempt to fly onto her arm. It was more awkward hop than flight, and Samar giggled.
Good going, little Harold, I thought.
Bongo dropped Samar’s wish onto the sill. TAP. TAP. TAP.
Nothing.
She paced back and forth in front of the window. Then she froze.
Her eyes glinted in the moonlight.
Bongo leaned close to the glass and performed her very best fire engine siren.
By the time Stephen’s window flew open, Bongo was already back on the roof, watching her efforts pay off.
Stephen peered out. He rubbed his eyes. He noticed the scrap on his sill. Frowning, he held it up, catching the moonlight in order to read the words written on the fabric.
He looked down at the lawn.
There was Samar, looking up at him, surrounded by an odd collection of baby animals.
“You rock,” said Bongo.
29
When Stephen eased out the front door, he was wearing red pajamas and a gray sweatshirt. His light brown hair was mussed, his eyes bleary. The flashlight he was carrying sliced through the darkness.
The babies turned toward him and froze. Their eyes glowed like little moons.
Flash squealed in fear.