“Probably long before that. Whole forests of trees like that one grew around here before loggers cut them down.”
“They needed room to build the city,” Mom says. “Some people think trees just block the view.” She glances up at a high window above the kitchen table. Thick green ferns block most of the light. “Do you remember the beautiful view we had from our dining room in Sandberg? You could see way out into the fields with no trees or shrubs blocking it. And that huge blue prairie sky . . . Not a cloud in sight . . .” She sighs.
“Talking about views,” I say. “From the top of the cedar, you can see the whole city! And Isabelle says on a clear day, you can even see lights on the chairlift across the inlet.”
“The top?” Mom looks horrified. “You didn’t climb to the top of that tall tree, did you? What if you fell? You’d break your neck.”
“No, we didn’t really go to the top. And it’s not so dangerous. There are lots of branches to hold onto. We stayed right near the trunk and held on tight and we were very careful. Some kids even built a tree fort.”
Mom shakes her head and her silver earrings jangle. Before she forbids me from climbing, I realize I’d better change the subject. Fast.
“I’m going to be in the chorus for the winter musical we’re having at school before the holidays,” I announce.
“That’s what you said last night. That’s just great!” Mom smiles at me. “I’m glad you’re getting involved in school activities. It’s the best way to make new friends.”
“I sure miss Josie, though, Mom.”
“I know, sweetie. I miss my friends too. Maybe we’ll be able to go back to Sandberg to visit in the summer. Now, how about homework?”
I groan. Homework. Ugh!
Chapter 9
“WHAT DID THEY SAY?” Isabelle asks the next morning when I meet her under the tree. “Will your dad and uncle talk to the owner about our tree?”
I shake my head gloomily. “My dad said the same thing as my uncle. If a tree’s in the way of new construction, you’re allowed to cut it down. He says there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“But . . . but, that’s got to be against the Charter of Rights for trees!” Isabelle explodes.
All during math and language arts that morning, rain pounds the piles of rubble that used to be the small house. One good thing: the chainsaw work crew hasn’t arrived to cut down the tree. Yet.
“Remember, it’s our spelling test today,” Mr. Grady says. “Right after recess. Now is your last chance to study.”
The class groans. I stare at the words in my spelling book. There’s a bunch I’m not sure about. I try to memorize them all at once. “Drat!” I mutter. I should have studied them last night instead of reading that prairie dog mystery.
At my old school, Mrs. Fan always made up neat puzzles and games with the spelling words. Then we all learned how to spell the words and had fun too.
I doodle a picture of the giant cedar on the back cover of my spelling exercise book, thinking about my friend Josie back home. She’s a real artist. She would have drawn a really beautiful Christmas tree picture.
I put a star at the top and a string of lights around it. I draw a couple of woodpeckers flying around. I’m so engrossed in my drawing I jump when Isabelle pokes my arm.
“They’re back!” she hisses.
A truck’s stopped near the tree. It’s pulling a trailer. With the excavator on it!
I gasp.
“Those darn developers!” Isabelle glares at them.
My cheeks burn. Well, Isabelle’s right. I just wish those darn developers weren’t my family.
The recess bell rings. I still don’t know my spelling, so I grab my spelling book for some last minute cramming.
This time, both Isabelle and I quietly, slowly, carefully get our coats and quietly, slowly, carefully leave the class.
Then we gallop outside like racehorses and sprint through the rain to the cedar. A bunch of other kids follows us.
“Climb the tree,” Isabelle shouts. “They won’t dare cut down a tree with kids in.”
“Let’s go!” Mojo yells. He and George swarm up the tree as fast as two monkeys. Mee-Sue is right behind them.
Isabelle leaps up and is about to swing into the tree as well, but I grab her jacket. “Wait up. That doesn’t look like a chainsaw crew.”
Isabelle jumps down and stares at the workmen. They start loading a pile of rubble into the back of a waiting dump truck.
“Maybe they won’t be cutting the tree down yet,” Mojo says from his perch above our heads. “They’ll probably cart away that other stuff first. Then they’ll come back later and cut it down.”
“If they only knew how special this tree is, they wouldn’t dare touch it.” Isabelle’s green eyes flash at me.
“Maybe we’ll think of something,” I mutter. I really don’t believe we have any hope of saving it. If the owner wants to cut the tree down, he will. That’s what both Uncle Berny and Dad say. How can a bunch of kids stop some developers? Even if those developers are one of the kids’ relatives.
I couldn’t even stop my family from moving away from Sandberg to Vancouver. Though I sure did try.
The other kids climb down from the tree and go off to play soccer.
“Ready for the spelling test?” I ask Isabelle.
“Guess so,” she shrugs. “Mr. G. goes so slow, he practically spells the words for you.”
“Want to test me?” I give her my book.
She notices my Christmas tree doodle on the back cover. “Nice picture. I didn’t know you’re an artist.”
“I’m not. I was just doodling and thinking what a gorgeous Christmas tree this tree would be with a huge string of coloured lights and maybe a twinkling star at the top.” I pat the tree’s rough bark like it’s a giant friendly dog.
“Jeanie!” Isabelle grabs my arm. “That’s it. You’ve got it. A gigantic Christmas tree. We’ll decorate the tree for Christmas!”
“So?” I don’t get it.
“So.” Isabelle stares at me like I’m a dunce. “We get a mass of lights and some huge decorations and spread them all up the tree. Then when the owner sees it, he’s bound to agree that it’s so absolutely, so incredibly beautiful, he wouldn’t dare cut it down.”
My heart skips a beat. Is it possible? Can we save this tree after all?
“You know what, Isabelle? It just might work! It’s sure worth a try. Better than standing around waiting for the chainsaw crew to cut it down.”
Isabelle’s freckled cheeks flush red with excitement. “Hey! Let’s do it. We could even make it a surprise. We’ll light up the whole tree and everyone will be so amazed. We’ll defend our dear tree to the death! I know — we’ll be the Tree Musketeers!”
“Tree Musketeers! How do you like that, old tree?” I pat its bark again. “All for one and one for all. We’d need plenty of lights though. You got any extras at your house?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Isabelle shakes her head. “You?”
I shake my head too. “We used to have plenty, but we had to leave them behind in Sandberg.”
“We could buy some at the mall.”
“What about money? It’d take lots of lights to cover this whole tree. It’s so enormous!”
“I know!” Isabelle’s red hair is electric with excitement. “We’ll ask the kids in the choir to bring extras from home. It’s for a good cause. They’ll go for it. I know they will!”
“It just might work. We’ll have to get the lights soon though.”
“Right. It’s just a week before our concert next Friday,” Isabelle says. “Wouldn’t it be so fantastic if we got the tree ready by then? Then at the end of the concert, boom! We light it all up. Talk about dramatic!”
“You think Mr. G. would go for it?”
“Maybe. He loves dramatic things. The more dramatic, the better. He always loves putting on the musicals. Not sure how he feels about saving trees though.”
The bel
l rings, ending recess. We have to return to class. And the spelling test. And I still haven’t studied.
I end up getting five wrong out of twenty. The worst mark in the entire class, except for Mojo’s. He gets ten wrong.
Isabelle says he always does that on purpose as a protest against spelling tests.
He probably tried to get them all wrong. But by mistake, he spelled ten right.
Chapter 10
AFTER SCHOOL, THE COLD splashy rain soaks into my teddy-bear parka as usual.
I follow Isabelle dashing across the schoolyard to the tree to check how we could decorate it. Under its sheltering branches, we peer out at the big white APPLICATION FOR DEVELOPMENT sign.
I grit my teeth and pull my parka tighter. I wish I had a spray can so I could blot out that embarrassing name: Berny S. Leclare, contractor-builder.
“Don’t worry, old tree,” I mutter silently, patting its rough bark. “We’ll save you yet.”
Mojo ducks into the dry shelter under the branches too. He stares out at the rain pounding the remaining piles of debris that used to be a house. “Dismal,” he says.
“Yep,” Isabelle says. “But we haven’t given up on saving the tree yet.”
Mojo grabs the rope and swings back and forth.
“Achoo!” Isabelle sneezes. She rifles through her pockets. “Drat! No tissue.”
She rubs her nose on the back of her hand. The rain has plastered her hair into red rivulets against her freckled cheeks. She sniffs loudly and tells me, “We should get to rehearsal a bit early on Monday morning, like maybe quarter to eight. Then we can ask Mr. G. if we can talk to the kids about our Tree Musketeers plan.”
“Tree Musketeers plan?” Mojo says. “What’s that?”
“A plan Jeanie and I have to save this tree,” Isabelle tells him.
“Fat chance,” he scoffs. “There’ll be no stopping those guys when they arrive with their chainsaws.”
“That’s what you think,” Isabelle says. “We’re going to decorate this tree like a gigantic Christmas tree with lights and decorations and everything. Then no one will dare cut it down.”
“Where are you getting the lights?”
“We’ll ask the kids at choir practice to bring any extras to school, by Wednesday at the latest. That’ll give us two days to get them up on the tree before the musical on Friday night when we’ll light it all up. It’s for a good cause. I mean, the life of this old tree’s at stake. Plus it’d be good for the environment.”
“Hey, Mojo. You want to help us?” I ask him.
“Might,” Mojo says, twirling around on the rope.
“Think the kids will go for it?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says.
“They’re bound to,” Isabelle says. “Every kid in school loves this tree. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s been here, like, forever.”
“Hope you’re right. See you Monday morning then. Same time, same station.” I give the shaggy trunk one last pat and head home.
“Get here early. Remember?” Isabelle calls out to me.
“Right. I’ll be there.”
I’m really glad it’ll be Isabelle talking to the kids in the gym on Monday morning and not me. I don’t mind helping the whole cause. I want to, in fact. Saving that giant cedar’s important. But making a speech in front of all those kids I don’t even know! That would be way scary. I could never do that in a million years.
But Isabelle won’t mind a bit. In fact, she’ll probably enjoy all the extra attention.
Chapter 11
“IT’S STILL RAINING,” I complain to Mom and Dad at breakfast on Saturday morning. “It’s like it’ll never stop in this town.”
“I know,” Mom agrees. She’s grinding coffee beans. “Makes everything so dreary.”
“But a bit of rain sure is a lot easier to work in than snow and ice,” Dad says.
“Can I get a new raincoat? The rain always soaks right through my parka. The kids at school all have cool waterproof rain jackets with hoods and everything.”
“You’re probably right.” Mom smiles at me. “If this rain doesn’t stop all winter, a raincoat makes sense. And I could use some new waterproof boots.”
After breakfast, we go to the mall. It’s close enough to walk. We set off under umbrellas.
“Could we go past the school?” I ask. “It’s not that much farther.”
“Good idea.” Dad nods. “Then I can show you our building project, Rose,” he tells Mom.
When we get there, the giant cedar waves its arms in welcome.
“Just look at that tree, Dad. How could you even think of cutting down such a wonder?”
He stares at the swaying branches and nods. “You’re right, sweetie. It’s quite exceptional. But in the end, it’s just a tree. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”
“I told you, Dad. The kids at school are crazy about it.
Look, they’ve tied a rope swing on it.” “A swing,” he says. “Right.”
I see he’s not convinced. “Kids climb it all the time and there’s even a tree fort up there. Want to see it?”
“No. That’s fine. I believe you.”
“Let’s get going to the mall.” Mom pulls her coat collar closer. “My feet are soaked.”
“A raincoat for Jeanie and rain boots for us all,” Dad says. He hooks his arm under Mom’s elbow and they start walking away.
I can’t think of any other argument to convince him to fight to save the tree.
Why do he and Uncle Berny have to be so destructive? Don’t they know that they’re ruining my life? When that tree comes down, that will be the end of any chance I have of making friends around here. I’m sure Isabelle won’t ever speak to me again.
I follow along, dragging my feet through the puddles. By the time we get to the mall, my feet are soaked right through.
Chapter 12
EARLY MONDAY MORNING, I gulp down a bowl of Crumbles. Dad’s already dressed for work in jeans and a thick flannel shirt.
“That’s all you’re having for breakfast?” he asks, stirring eggs on the stove. “How about some of my delicious scrambled eggs on a toasted bagel?”
“No time. I’ve got choir practice. I have to get there early this morning.” I pull on my new green rain jacket. “Bye, Dad.”
I grab my lunch bag and scoot out the door. Jogging through the rain, I feel ten pounds lighter in my new coat. It even smells good out here this morning. Fresh, like lemons or mint.
Isabelle isn’t at school yet, so I duck under the cedar to wait for her. I grab the rope and swing back and forth, in and out of the rain. Back and forth. This time I keep my singing inside, in case Mojo and his pal George are around.
My watch says 7:58. Still no Isabelle.
Maybe her mother dropped her off on the other side of the school and she’s already in the gym.
I jump off the rope and sprint to the gym. I arrive breathing hard and glance at my watch. 8:02. Mr. G. glares at my clatter.
I shuck off my jacket and scan the kids on stage. Isabelle isn’t there! Oh no! Something must have happened to her.
I take my place in the chorus line on stage beside Trudy, who smiles a welcome. I try to smile back, but I’m so worried, my mouth won’t co-operate. I stare at the door.
Isabelle doesn’t arrive. And she doesn’t arrive. For the whole practice, she doesn’t arrive . . .
My stomach flips and churns. I can’t concentrate on the songs. What can I do?
If Isabelle isn’t here, who will talk to the kids about our plan to save the tree?
I’ll have to do it myself. There’s no one else. But what can I say?
We have to get the lights by tomorrow. Or the next day, at the latest. It’s our only hope. Now the fate of that tree is all up to me. But will the kids even listen to me?
If only Isabelle were here. She’d stand up on the stage and announce in her loud clear voice that we were all going to save the tree. And she’d raise her fist and tell everyone our
plan. She’d be so convincing, all the kids would be right behind her.
Oh, hurry, Isabelle. Hurry! The tree needs you. I need you! My heart beats so hard, I’m sure Trudy can hear it.
Practice is almost over. Isabelle still isn’t here.
Mr. Grady bangs out the final chorus on the piano. Then he waves at the chorus line. “Well done today, boys and girls. We’re bouncing right along. We’ll have another practice after recess today with the whole cast.” This is the usual signal for the kids to leave.
I take a deep breath. This is my only chance. I raise my sweaty hand.
“Mr. Grady. Excuse me, Mr. Grady. Could . . . could I please ask the kids something?”
Mr. Grady’s caterpillar eyebrows arch, but he nods. “Hold on there a minute, boys and girls. Before you go, our new friend Jeanie has something to ask you.”
My stomach twists. I lurch forward.
What can I say? How should I start?
I stumble to the front of the mob of kids, then turn to face everyone. My mind’s a total blank. Half out the door, the kids turn back and wait, staring at me.
I bite my lip and shake my head. No use. Those kids would never listen to me. They shuffle impatiently.
I swallow hard to clear my throat. I still can’t think of what to say, what words to use. “Um . . .”
“Hey, you guys,” Mojo pipes up. “You know that giant cedar tree beside the schoolyard with the rope swing?”
“Course,” George says. “Only decent climbing tree around.”
The kids stop fidgeting to listen.
“Well, some developer’s gonna chop it down,” Mojo says.
“No! They can’t do that!”
“So some of us got to thinking about a way to save that tree. To defend it.” Mojo goes on, hands in his jeans pockets. He lowers his voice now, like he’s letting the kids in on a secret. Everyone’s eyes are glued to him. “Here’s our plan. We’re going to plaster the whole thing with decorations and lights like some humungous Christmas tree. And we’ll send a petition to the owner to tell him that he can’t cut it down.”
Tree Musketeers Page 4
