fter Julian had grabbed some tissues and wiped away every drop of ginger ale, he stared at the computer suspiciously. Did it have a hidden sensor that could somehow read his mind? Surely, he thought, even his uncle’s computer couldn’t translate his inner thoughts directly onto the screen. It was just an ordinary e-mail. An ordinary e-mail calling his uncle a moron and a jerk. Julian tried to imagine Sibley sitting down at his imposing desk and finding this message. It would be as if he came in and found his computer sticking its tongue out at him.

What kind of person, he wondered, would be sticking his tongue out at Sibley? Obviously, someone smarter than Julian was. Someone who wasn’t fooled by his uncle’s smooth manners and slick facade. Not another businessman, Julian figured. In fact, it sounded like a kid. But why would a kid write his uncle an e-mail? He checked the name of the sender: Robin Elder.

Julian reached for the mouse, then hesitated. He’d already opened one of his uncle’s e-mails. But that one had his name on it. It had practically invited him to open it. This one certainly had nothing to do with him.

Then again, what did he have to lose? And what did he owe an uncle who made up lies about him and slandered his parents and was plotting to send him to math camp? Just peeking at one e-mail wasn’t such a crime. Especially when the e-mail couldn’t possibly be about any important business matter, when it was from some tongue sticker-outer.

Julian got up, crossed the room to the open office door, and looked up and down the hallway. Nothing but darkened cubicles. He felt like a cat burglar about to steal some precious jewel. Stealthily, he sat back down in his uncle’s chair, grabbed the mouse, and clicked:

Julian read the e-mail twice. He was puzzled. He had never heard Sibley mention Big Tree Grove, or anyone named Greeley, or anything about redwood trees. His uncle made money. He invested people’s money and somehow turned it into more money. When he traveled, it was to places like New York and Chicago. He certainly didn’t go tramping through redwood forests cutting down trees. Maybe this girl (he thought it must be a girl) had sent her message to the wrong person.

On the other hand, the e-mail had Sibley’s name on it. And obviously, there was a lot about his uncle he didn’t know. The girl said his uncle had bought this Big Tree Grove, and that he was cutting down the redwoods to make money. That made sense. Maybe buying the land and cutting down the trees was just part of some business deal.

Julian had been to the giant redwood trees in Muir Woods on a field trip. He liked the ride across the Golden Gate Bridge, through the Rainbow Tunnel, and down into the shady forest.

Those redwoods would have been cut down a long time ago if people hadn’t put them in a park. Now they stood behind little fences, as if they were in a tree museum. If those trees were in his backyard, he wouldn’t want anybody to cut them down either.

Who was this angry Robin Elder? Julian already had a picture in his mind of her house, out in the country somewhere, with a few chickens running around and some horses. Whenever she wanted, she could walk out her door and into the shade of the giant redwoods. It wouldn’t be like Muir Woods, with busloads of tourists tramping about. They would be her redwoods, a place where nobody could bother her or tell her their problems.

Suddenly a light flickered in the hallway. Julian froze and a wave of fear spread down to the base of his spine. Quickly, he closed the e-mail from Robin Elder. When he looked up, a man and a woman were peering in at him through the glass walls of the office.

The man flicked a switch that flooded the room with light. Julian blinked. The man had dark, slicked-back hair and he stared at Julian, then turned and said something to the woman in Spanish. Now, in the bright light, Julian could see that the woman was carrying a bucket and dragging a vacuum cleaner behind her. With relief, he realized that they were the cleaning crew. They kept talking quietly and looking at Julian with suspicion. Julian had been taking Spanish since the beginning of the year, and now he wished he’d paid more attention.

He wanted to say, “I am sick. I am waiting for my uncle. This is his office.” But he couldn’t remember how to say “sick” or “waiting” or “office” in Spanish. Instead, he said, “Soy malo . . . y mi tío vive aqui.” “I am bad and my uncle lives here.” Close enough, he thought.

The man looked at him, puzzled. “Qué?”

Julian repeated what he now suspected was a very foolish-sounding sentence. The man grinned. He nodded and pointed at the picture of his uncle on the desk.

“Tu tío?”

Julian nodded. He felt like he should say something more. “Me llamo Julian.”

“Soy Victor,” said the man. And pointing at the woman, “Irene.” Then he tapped his watch and said in English, “Your uncle, when he come?”

Julian shrugged.

Irene put her hand on Julian’s forehead. She made a little tsking sound, then unzipped a pocket of her small white backpack and took out a package of peanut-butter crackers. “For you,” she said.

Julian remembered to say “gracias.” As he munched on the crackers, Victor and Irene set to work emptying the ginger ale–soaked tissues from the trash can, dusting the spotless surfaces, and vacuuming. When they were done, they gave a little wave and moved on down the hall.

Julian was suddenly tired. In the cold, bright light, with the vacuum cleaner humming across the hall, he didn’t feel like a cat burglar anymore. He felt like someone who’d been left behind. He wanted to be home. Not in his uncle’s high-ceilinged mansion, but in his own house, where he could read with his feet on the sofa and hear his mom in the kitchen frying potstickers—his favorite food, fortunately, because it was the only meal she knew how to cook. The end of summer seemed impossibly far away. Julian put his head down, feeling the cool wood of the desk against his burning cheeks, and closed his eyes.

Almost instantly, Julian was jolted up by the sound of a phone ringing a few inches from his ear. Probably it was somebody calling for his uncle. But what if somebody was trying to reach him? The phone rang five times, then stopped, and immediately started up again. Julian picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Julian! You answered the phone. Good boy.” Had he only dreamed about the e-mails? His uncle sounded friendly enough.

“Listen, the meeting went later than I expected. Meet me outside the lobby in five minutes. You can find your way out?”

“Sure. I think so.” Julian was not at all sure he remembered the way to the elevator through the unlit corridors.

“Good. I’ll see you in five minutes then,” his uncle said, and hung up.

Julian looked up at the computer screen. The two messages—“JULIAN” and “SIBLEY CARTER IS A MORON AND A WORLD-CLASS JERK!!!”—now both had checks next to them. His uncle would come to work in the morning and know Julian had read them. And he wouldn’t be pleased. There would be somber discussions about “privacy” and “violations of trust” and “responsibility” and “maturity.” There would be “consequences”—one of his uncle’s favorite words. And who knows how many points Julian would lose with Daphne. Julian forced himself to focus. He had less than five minutes. What if his uncle never saw the messages? Then he would never know that Julian had been reading his e-mail.

Of course, Sibley would never receive the message from awcarter. But so what? E-mails got lost sometimes, didn’t they? Anyway, it wasn’t as if it had said much. The line about Daphne. Nothing important.

Julian looked at the clock. Two minutes had already gone by. He didn’t have time to think anymore. He clicked the e-mail titled “JULIAN” and pressed the Delete button. The computer prompted, “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” and Julian clicked Yes.

Now there was only the message from Robin Elder. Julian was sure Sibley would never pay attention to some angry kid, even if he knew what she was talking about. But Julian was curious about this Robin, who wasn’t afraid to stick her tongue out at his uncle, who loved to walk out her back door into the shade of the redwood trees. He couldn’t just let her go.

He pressed the Forward button and typed in Danny’s e-mail address. A brilliant inspiration. Now he was in top form! At the top of the message, he typed as quickly as he could with two fingers: “Check this out. TOP SECRET! We’ll talk later.” Then he deleted Robin’s message. As he was turning away from the computer, he suddenly realized that his message to Danny would appear in his uncle’s out-box. He clicked on Sent Mail, deleted his message, and closed the screen. The original list of e-mails in his uncle’s in-box reappeared. The subject line of the very last message now read: “Draft press release—please review.”

Now everything was in order, exactly the way it had been when he’d come in. Hurrying, Julian slung his backpack over his shoulder and flicked out the light by the door. Where the hallway came to a dead end, he stopped, confused. Right or left? He saw a light and jogged to the right until he came to a small office where Victor and Irene were dusting.

“Elevador?” he asked, holding his hands up uncertainly.

They smiled and pointed farther down the corridor and, with relief, Julian saw the red elevator buttons glowing in the distance.