A dozen kids. Fifty. A hundred and more.
Every person seemed to be carrying an index card. Each card had a hole punched in it, with a piece of string looped through the hole.
Stephen high-fived many of them. Hugged his principal. Waved to his teacher.
Samar just sat on the steps with her parents, a quizzical expression on her face.
One by one, the children tied their wishes to me. The principal and assistant principal and janitor and teachers all helped.
My boughs had never been more laden.
My heart had never been more hopeful.
Because as each child, as each neighbor, as each stranger, placed a wish upon me, they looked at Samar and her parents and said the same thing:
“STAY.”
47
Within an hour, I was covered with the word “STAY.” Extra wishes lay on the ground beneath me, piled like blossoms. Wishes made their way onto the porches, the railings, the sidewalk.
After two hundred and sixteen rings, I thought I’d seen it all.
Turns out, you’re never too old to be surprised.
Soon it became clear that the “STAY” wishes had been Stephen’s idea. With the help of his teacher, Stephen’s whole class had secretly worked much of the previous school day making the index cards. Word spread quickly about the project. Before long, the whole school had joined in.
“So this was your idea?” Samar asked Stephen.
“I had a lot of help,” he said. “It’s a miracle we kept it a secret from you.”
Samar looked over at her parents. “I don’t know if this will change anything,” she said.
Stephen looked over at his parents. “Me either.”
“Thank you, though,” Samar said. “For trying.”
Stephen started to reply, but just then, the Timber Terminators truck pulled up.
The end of my story was coming.
Well, it had been a beautiful story. How lucky was I to have seen a day like today?
But Stephen and Samar weren’t giving up so easily. They ran straight to Francesca, who was busy untangling the kittens wound around her right leg.
“Please,” Samar begged, “you can see how much people love the wishtree. Please don’t cut it down.”
“Child,” Francesca said firmly, “it’s time.”
Stephen pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a small leather-bound journal.
“So you found it,” said Francesca. “In the shed?”
“Yep,” said Stephen, handing the worn diary to her.
“It’s a little damp,” said Francesca.
Samar pressed the key, its long ribbon dangling, into Francesca’s palm. “You should read it.”
“Maybe someday.”
“How about now?” Stephen urged.
Francesca sighed. “You children need a hobby, you know that?”
She put the key in the silver lock, and the journal clicked open. The pages were yellow, the ink faded. “Let me guess. It’s about a tree that can talk.”
“Actually, it’s about this neighborhood,” Stephen said. “It’s about us.”
“Please?” Samar said.
“Dear, it won’t change anything,” Francesca said.
“Please,” Stephen said.
“Oh, fine.” Francesca rolled her eyes. “Gotta wait for the tree guys to finish getting set up. Sure. I’ll glance it over. Maybe then you’ll leave me in peace.”
Dragging Lewis and Clark behind her, Francesca went to Samar’s porch, sat on the top step, and began to read.
48
It isn’t easy cutting down a big tree.
It takes careful planning and people who know what they’re doing.
I’d seen neighboring trees cut down. I knew how things went.
While Sandy and Max moved people to a safe distance, Stephen’s parents watched from their porch and Samar’s from theirs. Meanwhile, the tree people put ropes around my trunk and consulted with one another.
A man and a woman carried over a huge chainsaw, followed by the stump grinder.
The grinder looked a little like a hungry animal.
Actually, it looked a lot like a hungry animal.
“All those critters gone?” Dave called to Francesca.
“Haven’t seen any,” she answered.
Dave climbed a ladder and peered into my hollows as well as he could. He didn’t seem to notice Bongo, who was hiding deep in the owls’ former home.
I sat patiently, awaiting my fate, while around me the world buzzed. A huge crowd, filled with old neighbors and new friends, had gathered, it seemed, to see me off.
Near the curb, some kids were making music.
I don’t know if it was good music. But it was, most definitely, loud music.
I realized it was the garage band Bongo liked.
The whole thing was almost like a party. A going-away party.
There it was, surrounding me: my wild and tangled and colorful garden.
It wasn’t such a bad way to leave the world, I decided.
Not bad at all.
49
Dave had a megaphone, and through it he reminded the crowd to stay behind the barriers that had been erected.
“This is a big tree, folks,” he said. “And when it goes, we don’t want anyone else going with it.”
“Bongo,” I said in a voice that only she could hear, “you need to get to a safe place. You heard him: I’m a big tree. You don’t want to be in the way when I fall.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied in a stubborn whisper. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. But I’m staying with you, Red. And that’s final.”
Dave turned to his workers. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Please, Bongo,” I said, softly but urgently.
The saw moved closer.
I waited, expecting to hear the painful roar of the chainsaw engine.
Instead, a small but intense sound filled the air, something like a puppy growl mixed with a kitten hiss.
It was a baby opossum.
Darting through the huge crowd, across the muddy lawn, past Dave and his crew, around the massive saw, beneath the stump grinder, and finally, triumphantly, up my trunk, was none other than Flashlight.
He climbed straight to his former hollow and settled there, his tiny head poking out. He was panting and trembling and hiccuping. But he did not seem to be in any danger whatsoever of fainting.
“I missed you, Red,” he said, in a voice so small that only Bongo and I could hear it.
“Hold off on the saw!” Dave yelled. “Some dang animal just ran up the trunk.”
Bongo popped out of her hollow. “Flash!” she hissed. “You can’t be here! It’s dangerous. They’re about to … you know.”
“You’re here,” Flash pointed out.
Across the grass streaked HairySpiders, with her other babies trailing. She went straight to the opossum hollow, where she proceeded to scold Flash as she snuggled him close.
In the sky, little Harold suddenly appeared, frantically flapping his wings like a fuzzy butterfly. Agnes and the rest of her brood followed. They settled into their old home as if they’d never left.
Bongo moved to Home Plate to make room for the owls.
The Yous came next, trotting across the lawn. Last to join the group was the skunk family, who quickly scrambled up my trunk.
Seven opossums, four raccoons, five owls, and six skunks had waddled, scooted, dashed, and fluttered from their various homes, just to see me off.
My residents.
My friends.
The crowd was delighted. People applauded. They cheered. They laughed.
Francesca, straining to get a look, accidentally let go of the kittens’ leashes, allowing Lewis and Clark to escape.
They ran straight to me, clambering up my trunk to join the gang.
It wasn’t all perfection. The babies and parents were grumbling, but softly enough that none of the human
s could hear.
“Ouch!” muttered HotButteredPopcorn.
“Your tail is in my mouth!” cried one of the Yous.
“You smell like skunk!” someone complained.
“I am a skunk,” came the reply.
“Mom?” asked Harold. “Should I be afraid of a cat?”
“As a rule, yes,” said Agnes. “But this is a special circumstance.”
It took some effort, but eventually the entire group settled in together above the highest wishes. They gazed down calmly at the fascinated crowd below.
One of the tree cutters took off his helmet and scratched his head. “This just don’t happen,” he said to Dave. “Those animals oughta be eating each other.”
“It’s some kinda crazy critter miracle,” said another worker. He pulled out his smartphone. “This is going on Facebook.”
Lots of other people seemed to have the same idea. Cameras clicked away. Ignoring the barricades, the reporters dashed over, microphones extended, as if they were hoping to interview the animals.
Bongo, always a bit of a ham, was happy to comply. “Chip, please,” she said to the microphone waving beneath her.
Dave gestured helplessly at Francesca. “What is up with the menagerie, lady? How are we supposed to cut this tree down?”
Francesca, wiping away tears, stood. She put her arms around Stephen and Samar. Slowly, they made their way across the muddy grass.
When she reached me, she pulled a bookmark from Maeve’s journal before handing the book to Stephen. It was a strip of cloth made of blue-striped fabric, frayed and faded.
Maeve’s wish.
Carefully, Francesca tied it to my lowest branch, already crowded with wishes. She stared, long and hard, at the animals. Lewis and Clark purred happily.
The crowd quieted. The only sound was the rustling of my leaves.
Finally Francesca spoke. “Look. I don’t do speeches. That’s not my way.” She patted my trunk. “But here’s the thing. Until today, I’d almost forgotten how important this old tree is to my family story. And from the look of it”—she pointed to my residents—“it’s important to a few other families as well.”
Many people smiled. A few laughed.
“I hate this word,” Francesca continued, running her hand over my carved bark. “Hate it. My great-great-grandmother Maeve would have hated it just as much. Here in this neighborhood, we’re better than this.” She looked over at Samar’s parents. “We don’t threaten people here. We welcome them.”
Francesca reached for Samar’s hand. “This tree is staying put. And I hope your family will, too.”
50
That night, many hours after the crowd had scattered, Samar slipped out the front door of the little blue house. Stephen, who’d been watching from his bedroom window, joined her moments later. They sat, silent, beneath my wish-laden boughs.
The slightest breath of wind sent the index cards fluttering like huge moths. Moonlight was everywhere, it seemed: on the wishes, on my branches, on the downy-headed owlets, in the upturned gazes of Stephen and Samar. How beautiful we all were, bathed by the soft and silver light.
“Do you think your family will stay here?” Stephen asked. “After everything that’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” said Samar. “I hope so.”
The breeze kicked up. Cards chattered. Ribbons danced. A scrap of notebook paper, loosely tied with red yarn to my lowest branch, broke free.
Samar snatched it as it swooped past. She squinted at the scribbled writing. Then she stood, carefully tying the paper back onto my branch.
“What was the wish for?” Stephen asked.
“An invisible robot that does homework.”
“Seems unlikely.”
“True.” Samar leaned against my trunk and smiled. “But then, so does a talking tree.”
51
If this were a fairy tale, I’d tell you there was something magical about that Wishing Day. That the world changed and we all lived happily ever after.
But this is real life.
And real life, like a good garden, is messy.
Some things have changed. Some things haven’t. Still, optimist that I am, I’m feeling hopeful about the future.
Samar’s parents decided not to move, at least not for a while.
Stephen and Samar have become good friends. Sometimes they do their homework at the base of my trunk.
Their parents still don’t talk to one another.
I’m not sure they ever will.
The police never found the boy who carved “LEAVE” into my trunk. But a couple of weeks ago, I saw him sauntering by. I pointed him out to Bongo.
Let’s just say she made a very large deposit that day.
All my residents are back where they belong, safe in their hollows.
They still argue sometimes. But they haven’t yet eaten one another.
Francesca applied to the city to make me a “heritage tree.” That means I’m protected forever.
She’s also on a first-name basis with a local plumber, who’s learning to deal with my pushy roots.
Lewis and Clark still haven’t figured out how to walk on leashes.
Bongo’s made a new friend. His name is HarleyDavidson. I suspect we may have some crow newbies in our future.
As for me, I promised Bongo I will never be a buttinsky again. I told her that my meddling days are over.
And yet, here we are, you and I.
What can I say? I’m more talkative than most trees.
Still, if you find yourself standing near a particularly friendly-looking tree on a particularly lucky-feeling day, it can’t hurt to listen up.
Trees can’t tell jokes.
But we can certainly tell stories.
acknowledgments
My eternal gratitude to the remarkable people who helped wishtree take root:
• The amazing Jon Yaged, president of Macmillan Children’s Book Group, and Jean Feiwel, publisher extraordinaire of Feiwel & Friends, for the welcoming garden
• The brilliant team of Rich Deas, senior creative director, Liz Dresner, senior designer, and Charles Santoso, illustrator par excellence, for bringing Red’s world to beautiful life
• Starr Baer, my wonderful production editor, for her TLC, and Gleni Bartels, my wise copy editor, for knowing when to prune
• The fabulous Alison Verost, Caitlin Sweeny, Mary Van Akin, Robert Brown, and Tiara Kittrell, MCPG Marketing and Publicity, for their irrepressible enthusiasm as they help books flourish season after season
• Dr. Lisa Leach, dear and brilliant friend and my go-to expert for all things botanical
• Elena Giovinazzo, my incomparable agent at Pippin Properties, for her unflagging support in all kinds of weather
• Most important, wishtree would not have happened without Liz Szabla, greenest of green editorial thumbs, who provided endless nurturing and boundless wisdom in order to make this story blossom. In the wild and tangled and colorful garden that is publishing, you are indeed a treasure.
• Finally, having exhausted my gardening metaphors, all my love and thanks to my wonderful family, especially my children, Jake and Julia, and my husband, Michael.
You’re everything I’ve ever wished for. And then some.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Crenshaw by Katherine Applegate
1
I noticed several weird things about the surfboarding cat.
Thing number one: He was a surfboarding cat.
Thing number two: He was wearing a T-shirt. It said CATS RULE, DOGS DROOL.
Thing number three: He was holding a closed umbrella, like he was worried about getting wet. Which, when you think about it, is kind of not the point of surfing.
Thing number four: No one else on the beach seemed to see him.
He’d grabbed a good wave, and his ride was smooth. But as the cat neared shore, he made the mistake of opening his umbrella. A gust of wind yanked him into the sky. He missed a seagull by secon
ds.
Even the gull didn’t seem to notice him.
The cat floated over me like a furry balloon. I looked straight up. He looked straight down. He waved.
His coat was black and white, penguin style. He looked like he was heading somewhere fancy in a hairy tuxedo.
He also looked awfully familiar.
“Crenshaw,” I whispered.
I glanced around me. I saw sand-castle builders and Frisbee tossers and crab chasers. But I didn’t see anyone looking at the floating, umbrella-toting surfer cat in the sky.
I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. Slowly.
Ten seconds seemed like the right amount of time for me to stop being crazy.
I felt a little dizzy. But that happens sometimes when I’m hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
When I opened my eyes, I sighed with relief. The cat was gone. The sky was endless and empty.
Whap. Inches from my toes, the umbrella landed in the sand like a giant dart.
It was red and yellow plastic, decorated with pictures of tiny smiling mice. On the handle, printed in crayon, were the words THIS BUMBERSHOOT BELONGS TO CRENSHAW.
I closed my eyes again. I counted to ten. I opened my eyes, and the umbrella—or the bumbershoot, or whatever it was—had vanished. Just like the cat.
It was late June, nice and warm, but I shivered.
I felt the way you do the instant before you leap into the deep end of a pool.
You’re on your way to somewhere else. You’re not there yet. But you know there’s no turning back.
2
Here’s the thing: I am not an imaginary friend kind of guy.
Seriously. This fall I go into fifth grade. At my age, it’s not good to have a reputation for being crazy.
I like facts. Always have. True stuff. Two-plus-two-equals-four facts. Brussels-sprouts-taste-like-dirty-gym-socks facts.
Okay, maybe that second one’s just an opinion. And anyway, I’ve never eaten a dirty gym sock so I could be wrong.
Facts are important to scientists, which is what I want to be when I grow up. Nature facts are my favorite kind. Especially the ones that make people say No way.