Wishtree(10)

“My point,” Bongo continued, “is that the world’s a tough place. Doesn’t matter if you’re a bunny or a lizard or a kid.”



With that, Bongo started snoring—for real this time—but I was still wide awake.

“Ma, what’s the horrible noise?” came the startled voice of a baby opossum.

“That’s just Bongo sleeping,” her mother replied.

Bongo had been right. I was hatching an idea.

She’d always said I was a busybody, not to mention an optimist.

An optimistic buttinsky.

Well, there were worse things.

Trees are the strong, silent type.

Unless we’re not.





21


“Bongo,” I said early that morning as the last stars faded like weary fireflies, “there’s something I need you to do.”

“Does it involve potato chips?” Bongo mumbled.

“No.”

“Then I’d rather sleep.”

“It’s about Samar.”

“You promised you’d let me sleep in.”

“I didn’t promise.”

“You implied.”

“I want to grant Samar’s wish.”

This roused Bongo. She fluttered down to her favorite branch, the one she’d nicknamed Home Plate. (Bongo likes to watch the kids play softball at the elementary school.)

“Uh, Red, you don’t make wishes happen. You’re the place where wishes go. You’re like a … like a leafy garbage can. In a good way.”

“For two hundred and sixteen rings, I’ve sat on my roots and listened to people hope for things. And a lot of times, those wishes never happened, I’m guessing.”

Bongo tucked a feather into place. “Sometimes that’s for the best. Remember that kindergartner who wanted a bulldozer?”

“I’m passive. I just sit here watching the world.”

“You’re a tree, Red. That’s kind of the job description.”

“This is a good wish. And it’s a wish I can make happen.” I paused. “Well, we can make happen.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s where this was going.” Bongo glided to the ground. “Look, I heard Samar’s wish. How exactly are you going to find her a friend?”

“You’ll see,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

“Red.” Bongo paced back and forth. With each step, her head bobbed forward. “We’ve got more serious issues, pal. Francesca’s talking about turning you into toothpicks. And your residents are frantic about where they’re going to move if that happens.” She came close and nudged me fondly. “Of course, they’re worried about you, too.”

“I know that.”

FreshBakedBread poked her head out from under the porch. It was barely dawn, and only the white stripe running the length of her face was clearly visible.

“I’ve offered to take in one of the tree families temporarily,” she announced. “Preferably the opossums. They’re better behaved than the Yous.”

“That’s very generous of you, Fresh,” I said, but I was interrupted by BigYou, the mother of the three raccoon babies. She was in my large hollow, grumbling under her breath.

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed. “You, You, and You have excellent manners!”

“They’re too … inquisitive,” said FreshBakedBread. “Always poking their noses where they shouldn’t be. Grabbing things with those little paws of theirs.”

“Well, at least they don’t stink!” BigYou cried. “And your children have paws, last time I checked.”



HairySpiders, the mother opossum, peeked out cautiously from her own hollow.

Opossums name themselves after things they fear.

“Stink is in the nose of the beholder,” said HairySpiders. “And while I personally think your children have a delightful odor, Fresh, I’ve already got dibs on the woodpile two doors down. Should anything happen to dear Red.” She patted me. “No offense, love. Just thinking ahead, you know.”

“No offense taken,” I assured her.

“I saw that pile first!” BigYou cried.

“Share the skunk den,” HairySpiders said.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place!” BigYou exclaimed. “Not now. Now that I know my ‘inquisitive’ children aren’t wanted.”

“Well, they are a bit boisterous,” said HairySpiders.

“At least my children have spunk,” said BigYou. “Your kids faint when they see their own shadows.”

“Playing possum is a useful adaptation,” said HairySpiders, her pink nose twitching. “The world is a dangerous place. And in any case, we can’t control it. It just happens.”

“If I may interrupt,” came a cool voice from my highest branches. It was Agnes. “There’s a nice-looking linden tree two blocks away, just vacated by a gray squirrel family. We’re looking at it as a possibility. But there’s a tomcat that runs loose there. Collar, no bell, so that’s an issue. Also a big, slobbery dog.”

“In fairness, all dogs are slobbery,” Bongo observed.