Flipped

Maybe it was all how you looked at it. Maybe there were things I saw as ugly that other people thought were beautiful.

Maybe my mother's right. Maybe there is more to Bryce Loski than I know.

Maybe it's time to meet him in the proper light.

maybe I should go over there and thank him for the tree. Maybe we could sit on the porch and talk. It just occurred to me that in all the years we've known each other, we've never done that. Never really talked.

And I can't help wondering, a hundred years from now will a kid climb it the way I climbed the one up on Collier Street? Will she see the things I did? Will she feel the way I did?

Will it change her life the way it changed mine?

I know he's home because he looks out his window from time to time. A little while ago he put his hand up and waved. And I couldn't help it—I gave a little wave back.

A sycamore tree.

Bryce finished planting the tree, watered it, cleaned everything up, and then went home. And I just sat there, not knowing what to do.

I've been sitting here for hours now, just staring out the window at the tree.

Bryce knew I was there, too, because he looked at me once and nodded. No smile, no wave, just a nod.

I could tell from the shape of the leaves, from the texture of the trunk. This was a sycamore tree.

Maybe there's more to Bryce Loski than you know.”