Bryce knew I was there, too, because he looked at me once and nodded. No smile, no wave, just a nod.

He dragged over some potting soil, pierced the bag with the spade, and shoveled dirt into the hole. Then he disappeared. And when he came back, he wrestled a big burlapped root ball across the lawn, the branches of a plant rustling back and forth as he moved.

My dad joined me on the couch and peeked out the window, too.

“A tree?” I whispered. “He’s planting a tree?”

“I’d help him, but he says he has to do this himself.”

“Is it a… ” The words stuck in my throat.

I didn’t really need to ask, though, and he knew he didn’t need to answer. I could tell from the shape of the leaves, from the texture of the trunk. This was a sycamore tree.

I flipped around on the couch and just sat.

A sycamore tree.

Bryce finished planting the tree, watered it, cleaned everything up, and then went home. And I just sat there, not knowing what to do.

I’ve been sitting here for hours now, just staring out the window at the tree. It may be little now, but it’ll grow, day by day. And a hundred years from now it’ll reach clear over the rooftops. It’ll be miles in the air! Already I can tell—it’s going to be an amazing, magnificent tree.

And I can’t help wondering, a hundred years from now will a kid climb it the way I climbed the one up on Collier Street? Will she see the things I did? Will she feel the way I did?

Will it change her life the way it changed mine?

I also can’t stop wondering about Bryce. What has he been trying to tell me? What’s he thinking about?

I know he’s home because he looks out his window from time to time. A little while ago he put his hand up and waved. And I couldn’t help it—I gave a little wave back.

So maybe I should go over there and thank him for the tree. Maybe we could sit on the porch and talk. It just occurred to me that in all the years we’ve known each other, we’ve never done that. Never really talked.

Maybe my mother’s right. Maybe there is more to Bryce Loski than I know.

Maybe it’s time to meet him in the proper light.

A CONVERSATION WITH WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN ABOUT FLIPPED