Wishtree(11)

“I really think you should all calm down,” I interrupted. “Let’s not buy trouble. One day at a time, my friends. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?”

The mothers glared at me. I heard a great deal of sighing.

“Too much Wise Old Tree?” I asked.

“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.