Wishtree(24)

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 seconds.

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.

Like the fact that a cheetah can run seventy miles per hour.

Or the fact that a headless cockroach can survive for more than two weeks.

Or the fact that when a horned toad gets mad it shoots blood from its eyes.

I want to be an animal scientist. I’m not sure what kind. Right now I really like bats. I also like cheetahs and cats and dogs and snakes and rats and manatees. So those are some options.

I like dinosaurs, too, except for them all being dead. For a while, my friend Marisol and I both wanted to be paleontologists and search for dinosaur fossils. She used to bury chicken bone leftovers in her sandbox for digging practice.