1
School started on the next day, Tuesday. Linda took Claire that first day and waited for her after school, too. She did it on the second day, Wednesday, as well.
But on Thursday and Friday, because of her work, Linda couldn’t take Claire to school or bring her home.
So I took Claire with me on the bus to school, like Dad asked. And I waited for her after school, like Dad asked.
“You’re a good boy,” Dad told me, ruffling my hair. “Thanks, Patrick.”
Claire trailed silently behind me. Down the driveway to where we got on the bus, and back up the driveway again.
“Here,” I said. I showed her where the cookies were. The milk. The crackers and cheese.
But she just said, “No, thanks,” and went right upstairs. To her room, I guess.
I didn’t know, because that first week, as soon as I could, I went to the tree house. I climbed up the ladder. I looked out into the distance as far as I could see. I took deep breaths. I spread my arms and stretched.
I did my homework there. I sat on the platform and dangled my feet over the edge. I lay back and looked at the leaves on our tree.
On Saturday, Harry came to the tree house, too. We were there all the day long. We made plans. We talked about getting a rope and hanging it from a branch, making a swing. We drew pictures of how it could look. Then we looked in the woods for a big tree stump that we could turn into a table. We looked for smaller stumps that we could turn into stools.
On Sunday, it rained. Trevor asked Claire if she wanted to play Snakes and Ladders, but she said no. Linda asked Claire if she wanted to go grocery shopping with her and Dad, but she said no. When Linda and Dad came back, Dad asked Claire if she wanted to help make the apple crisp for dessert, but she said no.
She just sat at the kitchen table all day long, and it looked like she was drawing.
All the next week, as well, I walked Claire back and forth from the school bus. And all those mornings, and after-school afternoons, and all those evenings, she still didn’t run around the house and make a lot of noise. She didn’t mess up my stuff. She didn’t kick me under the table while we ate.
It was weird. Now that she was living here, she seemed different. Not as much of a pest.
I don’t know what she was doing instead of all those annoying things. But when Harry came over after school on Friday, she was sitting at the kitchen table again, drawing.
Harry stood, looking over her shoulder.
“Hey, Claire,” Harry said. “That’s really good!”
She didn’t say anything.
“I mean it, Claire,” he said. He nudged her. “You’re an artiste,” he said with a grin, “which is artist in French,” and he nudged her again. “Your drawing is really good!”
Claire giggled, squirming away from his elbowing. “Stop it!” she complained, grinning. “You’re tickling me!”
“Come and look, Patrick,” Harry called to me. “It’s really cool.” But I muttered, “That’s okay,” and continued up the stairs.
Later that night, I did see it, though. It came under my door, a flat piece of paper, no folds, covered in pencil markings and eraser shavings. Claire had titled it Patrick’s Tree House. She had drawn the tree house so it looked like it was hugging the tree. No, more than that. It looked like it was growing right out of the tree, like it was part of the tree itself.
I didn’t like Claire or her mom living here. I felt like I’d lost my home. But at least I had the tree house.
I looked at the drawing for a long time. Harry was right. It was really cool. It made me smile. I felt good just looking at it.
Good but bad, too.
Bad because Claire had made it for me, and I guess she’d lost her home, too. And even though I had the tree house and she had nothing, Claire was trying to make me feel better. And I was just trying to make her feel worse.