he day after the boys received Robin’s latest e-mail, Danny had a dentist appointment after school. Alone, Julian climbed the steep hill to his uncle’s house, wondering how he could respond to Robin. Clearly, she still didn’t understand a thing about Sibley. Maybe he should just tell her that her cause was hopeless, that it was ridiculous to think that he could change Sibley’s mind about anything. But then she’d have no reason to write to them at all.
Near the top of the hill, Julian turned down a wide street lined with ornate apartment buildings and enormous mansions. Robin might like these houses, he thought. They weren’t dirty or ugly-looking. They were beautiful and elegant. He tried to figure out why the houses here looked so different from the houses where he and Danny lived. They were bigger, of course, but it wasn’t just their size. It was something about money, he decided, that made them look so solid and harmonious, something he couldn’t put his finger on that made the houses only for rich people, like his uncle.
His mom had never owned a house; they had rented the same shabby flat since he was a baby—the bottom floor in a gray house with a pointed roof and peeling shingles. Upstairs there used to be an old Russian lady, who would babysit Julian when his mom was away, but then Mrs. Petrova moved to Florida. A couple of Japanese graduate students moved in to her place but they were so quiet you’d hardly know they were there.
The inside of his mom’s house was also different from his uncle’s. For one thing, the dishes didn’t match. And the furniture was mostly odds and ends she’d picked up at garage sales. The walls were covered with masks his mother made—painted masks and red clay masks and white papier-mâché masks, and Julian’s favorite, a gnomish green face with horns holding a large purple marble in its mouth. Her portraits—black-and-white photos of brides and grooms and unfamiliar children—littered the hallway and covered the dining-room table.
Sibley’s house was like his office, every surface gleaming and smooth, everything in its place. It was quiet and dustless and cool.
Julian remembered how excited he’d been when he’d first seen the house. All he’d known then was that his uncle had moved to San Francisco and wanted to meet him. At first, his mom hadn’t wanted him to go. She’d said his father never wanted to see his family, and they never wanted to see him. But then she decided it was time to let bygones be bygones.
It was right before Halloween. Glowering jack-o-lanterns lined his uncle’s wide steps. As Julian listened to the doorbell chime, black silhouettes of witches and devils had peered down from the golden windows. Inside, he had been awestruck by the enormous rooms, the gleaming silver, the sophisticated elegance of his aunt and uncle.
They’d set up a formal visitation schedule—dinner on the first Friday of the month—except when Sibley and Daphne had other obligations, which turned out to be often. When his mother got the China grant, Sibley was her only real option. She’d stood, rubbing her slim fingers together, her face nervous and beseeching. Sibley appraised the two of them by the light of the chandelier in the cavernous entryway. “Not a problem,” he’d said after an awkward moment. “Plenty of room here.”
Now Sibley’s steps were lined with urns of gaudy spring flowers. Julian unlocked the front door and found, on the side table, a postcard of a monkey staring at a giant golden Buddha. On the back was scribbled: Working hard! So many things that would interest you—wish you were here! Love, Mom. Julian folded the postcard in half and stuck it in his back pocket, then jogged up the wide main staircase and down the hallway to Preston’s room.
Preston, still in his school uniform, was sitting at his desk, playing a computer game. Julian came up behind him and gently lifted off his headphones.
Preston shot down an alien spaceship. “Gram sent it to me.”
Technically, Julian thought, she was his grandmother too. But she lived in Boston and had never even sent him a birthday card.
“Don’t you have homework, buddy?”
Preston closed the game with a sigh. “I’m supposed to pick a topic for my final project.” He swiveled his chair toward Julian. “On ecology. We were supposed to have one last week, but I don’t know what to do.”
“Ecology’s a pretty big field. There must be a million things you could pick.”
Preston slumped down farther in his chair. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, but I’m stumped!”
Julian laughed. “Well, if you’re ‘stumped,’ maybe you should write about a tree.”
“A tree?” Preston said doubtfully. “I was thinking maybe spiders.”
“Come on, you live in California, land of the greatest trees on Earth.”
“You mean redwood trees?”
Julian had suggested a tree because he couldn’t resist the pun. He hadn’t been thinking about Robin. But if Preston became an expert on redwoods, all the better! His uncle wouldn’t be able to sway him so easily then. Preston’s soul was unformed, and still innocent, he thought. He couldn’t stand to think of him ending up like Uncle Sibley.
“Redwoods might work,” said Preston, thoughtfully. “We went on a field trip to Muir Woods last year. Do you think there’s books on redwoods? We have to make a bibliography.”
“There must be.” Julian sat down at Preston’s computer. “You have Internet on this thing, right?”
Preston nodded.
“You can start there.” He pointed to the set of encyclopedias on Preston’s bookshelf. Preston picked up Volume 21, Ra–Ru, and began looking for “Redwood.” Julian opened the online catalog for the San Francisco Public Library. “Here’s The Ever-Living Tree: The Life and Times of the Coast Redwood,” he said. “And Coast Redwood: A Natural and Cultural History. You’ll definitely have enough for a bibliography.”
He typed “redwoods” into the search engine and clicked on one link promisingly titled “Fun Facts for Kids.” “The magnificent coastal redwood,” it began, “once covered millions of acres, from southern Oregon to the Santa Cruz Mountains in California. Today, experts estimate that about 4 percent of the original redwood forest remains.”
Julian frowned. He pictured ninety-six giant trunks lying on the forest floor and only four trees left standing. That couldn’t be right.
He read on: “Large-scale logging of redwood began after the California gold rush of 1848 and continued steadily throughout the twentieth century. While redwood forests still blanket vast stretches of Northern California, most of these forests are less than 100 years old. Vestiges of the original, or ‘old-growth,’ redwood forest are protected today in areas such as the Redwood National Park and Humboldt State Park in Northern California.”
Julian leaned back in his chair. Was Big Tree Grove, he wondered, one of the last vestiges of the original redwood forest?
Sibley was home early that night, which meant a formal dinner in the dining room at seven o’clock sharp. Sitting at the long, polished table, Julian tried to think of a way to broach the topic of Big Tree. But his imagined questions all sounded completely fishy (“So, Uncle Sibley, any interesting new projects at work lately?”) or too obvious (“So, Uncle Sibley, bought any redwoods lately?”)
Julian gave up and concentrated on the food. Besides the decidedly unvegetarian salmon, there were baked potatoes (acceptable), beet salad (dubious), and lima beans (clearly inedible). He was just trying the beets, which were sour and unpleasantly crunchy, when Daphne suddenly said, “Julian, there’s something we’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” She smiled the smile of a gracious hostess. “You know, summer’s just three weeks away, and we’ve made some plans we know you’re going to be very excited about.”
He’d been expecting this announcement ever since he’d opened Sibley’s e-mail.
“What’s that?” He fiddled with his napkin and tried to look innocent.
“We’ve found this absolutely fabulous camp. It’s going to be a tremendous opportunity for you.”
Of course, she wouldn’t admit she just wanted him out of the way.
“I know you’re going to love it,” Daphne continued.
“Anything but math camp, right?” Julian’s nerves were making him bold. “I heard they actually have such a thing. What a nightmare!”
Daphne blanched. Julian looked at her with a smile of satisfaction that he hoped would pass for one of pleasant anticipation.
Sibley, who was flipping through the business section of the newspaper, looked up at the unexpected silence.
“Well, in fact …” Daphne hesitated and Julian smiled more broadly. “It’s called High Sights Academy. It’s not math camp … I would say more sciencey. Four weeks! Take a look!” She handed him a brochure. “And then, when that’s done—I just finalized this today—you’re off to study Mandarin! I mean, Sibley and I were saying how ridiculous it is that you don’t speak Chinese when you’re half-Chinese yourself! Right, Sibley?”
Something about the way his aunt said “half-Chinese” always made it sound vaguely like an insult—or not an insult exactly, but something that made him less than Preston, who, at least in her view, wasn’t half anything.
“Language of the future,” Sibley said. “In six weeks, you’ll know conversational Mandarin.”
“You could talk to your mother’s family,” Daphne gushed.
“They speak Cantonese,” Julian said. “Well, some of them. But they all speak English anyway.”
“It’s not just to speak to them!” Daphne said with a trace of irritation. “Like Sibley says, it’s a very important language. A billion people! Your mom’s probably learning Mandarin right now. You two can practice together.”
Julian doubted that his mom was learning much Mandarin. She’d tried some language tapes before she’d left and never got past “How are you?” He could still hear the counting in his head: ee, er, san, tse …
“I’m sure your mother will be thrilled,” Daphne continued. “Of course, she hasn’t exactly been in touch. I sent her an e-mail last week, but I haven’t heard back.” She glanced meaningfully at Sibley.
Hearing Daphne talk about his mom always made Julian a little queasy. He looked down at the brochure Daphne had given him, which featured a clump of goofy kids standing in front of a chalkboard, grinning broadly.
“Well, Julian, do you have anything to say to your aunt?” Sibley said.
“Thanks, Aunt Daphne,” Julian responded. “Math camp. Wow.”
Daphne narrowed her eyes, then apparently decided to ignore Julian’s tone. “You leave the Monday after school lets out. There’s a bus that will take you to Fresno. Did I mention it’s through Fresno University? Very prestigious.”
“Pricey,” Sibley added from behind the newspaper. “But worth it.”
Julian stared at Daphne with loathing.
“Of course, before you leave I thought we’d have a little party. Saturday night! We couldn’t let you leave without celebrating!” she said, then added with a saccharine smile, “Celebrating what a great time we’ve all had, of course.”
Preston said, “Can we have ice-cream cake?”
“Of course, darling. Ice-cream cake it is. And we’ll do takeout from Eliza’s. They have that fabulous roast duck and sesame chicken that you love, Sibley.” Daphne took out her BlackBerry and punched a few buttons. “Less than three weeks to go!” she said with poorly concealed glee.