Tree Musketeers

by Norma Charles

“What’s it about?” I nibble my sandwich. Peanut butter. Sticks to the roof of my mouth. Makes my tongue feel as dry as sandpaper.

  “It’s a musical we’re putting on before the holidays. We’ve already learned all the songs in music class. Some pretty good rap stuff, like ‘Merry Monsters’ Hand Jive’ and ‘Surfin’ Santa.’ It’s the best. Goes like: Surfin’ Santa, Surfin’ Santa, Surfin’ Santa, Santa Claus.” She sings loudly, sort of through her nose.

  Kids stop eating to stare at her. She grins at them. She sure doesn’t mind all the attention.

  Trudy nods at me. “Best thing about being in the musical is you get time off school to practise.” She takes a sip of apple juice from a juice box. “So you’ve got to try out for it. Everyone does.”

  “But I can’t dance or sing or anything,” I say. I’m trying to peel the peanut butter from the roof of my mouth with my sandpaper tongue. Wish I’d brought a juice box like Trudy’s.

  It’s not strictly true that I totally can’t sing. I was Wendy in our musical last spring when we did Peter Pan at my old school in Sandberg and it was quite a big singing part.

  “Try out for the chorus then,” Trudy tells me. “Anyone can get into that. Just jump around the stage and sing along with everyone else. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “I’ve got to get the part of Mr. Biggy-Big-Ears!” Isabelle says. “If I don’t, I’ll probably end up being Boo-boo Peep or something equally stupid. And be forced to wear one of those cutesy dresses like last year when I had to be a fairy princess. Talk about embarrassing!”

  “Okay, I’ll go.” I dump crackers from my bag. “But who’s Mr. Biggy-Big-Ears?”

  “You haven’t heard of Mr. Biggy-Big-Ears?”

  I shrug and shake my head.

  Isabelle stares at me like I’m as dumb as a bowl of bananas.

  Trudy comes to my rescue. “Mr. Biggy-Big-Ears is a sort-of monster who has these really huge ears.” She puts her hands at the sides of her face and waves. “Everyone always makes fun of him, but he finishes up being the hero of the story because at the end, he saves Santa.”

  “You should say, ‘she saves Santa,’ because it’s going to be Ms. Biggy-Big-Ears when I get the part,” Isabelle tells her.

  Talk about confidence!

  “Okay, she’s going to be the hero.” Trudy nods.

  “Anyways,” Isabelle says. “If you guys come to the tryouts after school and clap really loud after my song, the teachers will think I’m just so terrific.”

  “No prob. We’ll hoot and cheer for you too,” the other girl says in a quiet voice. Her name’s Mee-Sue. She’s a tall Asian girl with long shiny black hair and straight bangs that cover her eyebrows.

  I just nod because the crackers have made my mouth even drier. I look around for a water fountain but don’t see one. I try swallowing again and almost gag.

  The other girls get up to leave. I pick up my parka and follow them outside like a timid mouse trailing a band of cats pretending to be nice.

  It’s raining, so we spend the rest of lunch hour hanging out under a covered area attached to the main school building. The girls practise singing the songs from the musical. They’re right that the songs are really catchy. They mostly ignore me, but it’s good not to have to spend the whole rest of noon hour standing around alone.

  After school, Mr. Grady reminds the class about the musical auditions. “But before you leave, hand in your math exercise books, please.”

  “But I’m not finished,” a boy in a back seat says.

  “Who else hasn’t finished their math?” The teacher looks around the class.

  Yikes! I have to raise my hand. So do three other kids. All boys.

  The teacher frowns at us. “It must be done before you go home so I can mark it tonight. You can leave your books on my desk when you’re finished.”

  “See you later in the gym,” Isabelle whispers as she leaves. “Don’t forget to clap really loud.”

  “Right.” I flip open the math book.

  After the teacher’s gone, the boys fool around. But I ignore them and rush through the last six math questions. When they’re done, I drop my exercise book on Mr. Grady’s desk, then scoot downstairs to the gym for the auditions.

  Chapter 4

  ISABELLE’S UP ON stage, singing away when I arrive. The stage is at one end of the big drafty gym, where about fifty kids and a couple of teachers sit on low benches watching Isabelle perform.

  She’s belting out “Sing a Song of Sixpence” in her loud nasal voice while Mr. Grady bangs out the tune on the piano.

  I slouch down onto a bench. Isabelle sure is brave to sing like that, in front of all these people.

  “And pecked off her nose!” She finishes and bows.

  When Isabelle hits that last note off-key, Mr. G.’s eyebrows flinch. But I clap and hoot with the rest of the kids. I even stamp my feet as loud as I can.

  Isabelle notices because when she heads to her seat, she grins in my direction.

  I smile back and give her a thumbs-up.

  “Thank you, Isabelle,” the teacher says. “Now we’ll hear from Megan . . .”

  After a while, it’s time for what I’ve come for. Tryouts for the chorus.

  “All right. If you want to be in the chorus, come up on stage,” Mr. Grady says.

  I follow a bunch of other kids and we line up in a row on the stage. The kids all turn to face the big gym and the audience, so I turn too.

  I’m standing at the end of the line next to Mee-Sue, and my heart is thumping in my chest. It feels so high up here on the stage. Conspicuous. I take a deep breath and tell myself to be calm.

  Why am I doing this? I ask myself.

  “Right,” Mr. Grady says. “When it’s your turn, I want each of you to take a step forward and sing the first thing that comes into your head. Starting . . .” And he points to me!

  I just about faint.

  He nods and stands there with his arms crossed, staring at me, waiting.

  Everyone is waiting.

  I step forward and clear my throat, telling myself, All right. Big breath. Stand up straight and tall. Like Mrs. Fan, the teacher at my old school, always told us.

  I open my mouth and the first thing that comes out is, “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who . . .”

  What a dorky song. Why did I ever choose that one?

  But soon Mr. Grady says, “Thank you, Jeanie. Good job.” And he jots some notes onto his clipboard. “Next. Mee-Sue . . .”

  Mee-Sue’s singing voice is even quieter than her talking voice. “How much is that doggie . . .”

  “Good. Thanks, Mee-Sue.” Mr. Grady nods and jots and listens to each of the other kids while we’re all standing up there. It feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes. Finally, he comes to the last kid in the row. It’s Trudy and her singing voice is even quieter than Mee-Sue’s, which is a surprise because I’ve heard her talking loud enough.

  “Looks like that’s all the time we have for auditions today.” Mr. Grady glances at his watch. “But if you want to be in the chorus, I think we can use you all. Just sign up on this clipboard on your way out.”

  Hey. That means we all made it. I turn and grin at Mee-Sue, and she grins back.

  Mr. Grady picks up another clipboard from the top of his piano. “We’ll meet here every morning at eight o’clock until the day of the concert. So don’t sign up unless you can commit to that. Meanwhile, the leads so far are: Santa: Mojo Desantos.”

  “Right on!” Mojo jumps up and bows to everyone.

  “And Mr. Biggy-Big-Ears will be . . .” The teacher scans his notes. Everyone’s holding their breath. “Maybe we’ll change that to Ms. Biggy-Big-Ears . . . Isabelle Seconi.”

  Isabelle squeals and smacks hands with the girls beside her.

  * * *

  After signing up for the chorus with Mee-Sue and Trudy, I follow Isabelle outside. It’s still raining and already so dark, the street lights in front of the school are o
n.

  I zip up my puffy teddy-bear parka and push my hands deep into the pockets. The rain’s icy on my face and my parka soaks up the drops like a sponge. Again, I wish for a trendy rain jacket like Isabelle’s.

  “Thanks for clapping and stamping your feet,” Isabelle says when I catch up to her. She pulls her hood over her red hair. “I’m sure that’s why I got the Ms. Biggy-Big-Ears part.”

  “They would have chosen you anyway. You’re a good singer.”

  Well, loud anyway, I think to myself. Loud as a farmer’s old combine working full blast in a wheat field.

  “About our tree. Want to see why it’s so special?”

  “All right. I guess.” I follow her to the big evergreen at the edge of the school grounds.

  “For one thing, we built a cool fort in it,” Isabelle says. “Want to check it out?”

  “Okay.”

  “Right this way.” Isabelle ducks under the tree. She catches the lowest branch and swings up into the tree.

  “You mean we can’t see your fort from down here?” I call up to her. I’m not used to climbing trees. In fact, I can’t remember when I’ve ever climbed one. There weren’t many tall trees in Sandberg, Saskatchewan.

  “Course not,” she yells at me from above.

  “All right. Here goes.” I have to jump my hardest to reach the same branch. As I swing my leg over it, my face is showered with icy raindrops. Blinking hard, I manage to pull myself into a sitting position. I grab another branch above my head and cautiously stand. The branches sway like a team of restless horses. It’s like they’re trying to buck me off, so I have to hold on tighter.

  Then I shuffle along the branch to the broad trunk where the branches are thicker and steadier. That feels better. But then I make the mistake of glancing down and see how high I am.

  “Yikes!” I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch the branches even tighter.

  “So are you coming up or what?” Isabelle yells down at me from her higher perch.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.” Hugging the trunk, I slowly follow Isabelle upward. Bits of tree debris fly into my eyes. Now I can’t see anything. I have to stop and rub my eyes. I don’t think I’m cut out for this tree-climbing stuff.

  The fort turns out to be just a few planks stretched across some branches to make a slanting floor, and there’s one wobbly side. I don’t think it’s really much of a fort, but I don’t say.

  “We started building it last summer,” Isabelle tells me. “We even had a pretty good roof, but it got wrecked in a storm last month and we haven’t had time to fix it. Besides, we need more lumber and nails and stuff.”

  “Maybe I could try and get some boards from my dad.”

  “Great!” Isabelle’s smile flashes at me in the dim light. “Then you could be part of our club.”

  “What club?”

  “Trudy, Mee-Sue and a couple other girls. We call it the Tree Climbers Club.”

  “Cool.”

  “We’re building this fort for our clubhouse. But we can’t do much in the winter. The club’s mostly in the summer when it doesn’t get dark so early, you know?”

  “A roof would be good for when it rains. Does it always rain so much in Vancouver? It hasn’t stopped for five minutes since we got here last week.”

  Isabelle shrugs. “You get used to it. My mom says rain’s better than shovelling snow.”

  “But snow’s so fun. We have this great skating rink back home in Sandberg on a pond out behind the school. Practically every day after school all winter, me and my friends, we met there with our skates and . . .”

  “So where’s this Sandberg?”

  “In Saskatchewan. South of Regina, you know?”

  Isabelle shrugs again, obviously bored. “Hey, want to see something really cool?”

  “Sure.”

  “Up here.” Isabelle slides along the broad branch to the trunk and starts climbing again.

  “You mean we have to go even higher?”

  “It’s not far.”

  I catch my breath and follow her, still hugging the trunk. We push through the branches higher and higher. It’s like climbing one of those pole ladders with steps sticking out all around. But as we climb, the trunk gets narrower. The tree sways in the wind and my stomach pitches.

  “Ah, Isabelle, don’t you think this is high enough?” My voice squeaks. My legs are trembling and my mouth’s even drier than when I was trying to eat my peanut butter sandwich at lunchtime.

  “Ever seen a woodpecker’s nest up close?”

  I can’t even open my mouth now. I’m too busy hanging on for dear life.

  “It’s not that much higher.” Isabelle sniffs and wipes her nose on her jacket sleeve. “We climb up here all the time.”

  I swallow hard. If she knows I’m such a chicken about heights, she won’t let me join her Tree Climbers Club. So I take another deep breath and force myself to follow her. The tree is really swaying now. I tell myself if Isabelle’s not scared, it must be all right. But I don’t dare look down. The ground is very, very far below.

  Finally she says, “Here it is. In this hole.”

  I slowly boost myself upward on quaking legs. Clinging to the trunk, I blink until I see a small round hole, the size of my fist. No birds or eggs. Nothing but some dried grass sticking out.

  “Pretty cool, eh?” Isabelle says. “It’s our secret hiding place for private stuff.” She pokes her fingers into the hole. “Nothing’s in there now. Woodpeckers come back every spring to raise a family. But we stay away then, when they’ve got babies.”

  “Cool,” I manage to squeak.

  “Now take a look out there. Have you ever seen such a fabulous view?”

  I pull in a breath and stare out where she points. Way out beyond the school roof, the city lights sparkle like a blanket of stars. “Wow!”

  “When it’s really clear, you can see right across the water to the lights on the chairlift going up Grouse Mountain.”

  An especially strong gust of wind blows by. The tree lurches again and I squeal.

  “Not nervous, are you?” Isabelle asks in a flat voice.

  “No, no.” I hug the tree, my heart pounding. “N-nothing like that.”

  “Good. Because to belong to the club, you can’t be scared of heights. Obviously.”

  “Course. Obviously.” I force the quivering corners of my mouth up into a sort-of smile.

  “Guess we can head back down now.”

  Clinging to the trunk, I feel my way down until finally, I swing from the last branch to the ground. My knees are shaking so hard they crumple under me. I sink down and rub them.

  Isabelle lands with a thump beside me. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Legs a bit stiff. Not used to climbing. That’s all.”

  “So now do you see why we have to stop them from destroying this tree?”

  “It’s something special, all right.” I notice my watch. “5:02! My mom’s going to be so worried!”

  “Better get going then.”

  “Right.” Holding onto the tree trunk, I pull myself up. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Want to meet here for practice at ten to eight? No later. Mr. G. gets real testy if we’re late for practice. And don’t forget you said you’d talk to your uncle about saving this tree.”

  “Right.”

  I watch Isabelle head for home. Now all I have to do is hope that he’ll drop over tonight.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ve found a new friend?

  Now, if only I can get my uncle to say he won’t cut down this giant old tree . . .

  Chapter 5

  OUR NEW HOME is in a basement suite of a big old house about three blocks from school.

  I push the gate open and swish through the fallen leaves to the backyard along the path between our house and the neighbour’s. I skip down the six steps to the basement door and push it open. Mom’s sitting at the table, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  She’s not crying, is she? I’m embarrassed,
so I almost duck back outside.

  But she glances up and smiles a crooked smile. “There you are, sweetie!” She blows her nose.

  Mom has dark curly hair and brown eyes like mine. People say we look alike, but I don’t think that’s true. She’s pretty, but I look, well, ordinary. She usually wears bright, colourful clothes and jingly earrings and always has a friendly smile for everyone.

  I shake off my heavy parka. It’s sodden with rain. I hang it on the doorknob and peer closer at Mom. Today she’s wearing one of Dad’s old denim work shirts. And her hair’s a mess instead of being tucked into a neat ponytail like it usually is.

  “You okay, Mom?”

  “Just feeling a little homesick.” She sips tea from her favourite blue china cup and dabs her nose again. “Must be getting a cold. Isn’t Vancouver’s rain something else? It hasn’t stopped all day.”

  “It soaked through my parka.” I plop down beside her at the table. My T-shirt clings to my back.

  Mom pats my shoulder. “Oh, your shirt’s all wet. Better change it before you catch a chill.”

  I duck into my bedroom off the kitchen and change into a warm fleece hoodie.

  When I return to the table, Mom pours me a cup of tea from the big brown pot. “I was getting worried about you, sweetie. It’s already dark out there. I was about to go out and start searching for you.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I stayed after school to try out for a musical my teacher’s putting on.” I stir some honey into the tea and sip it. Lemon. Makes me start to feel warm all over.

  Mom seems to realize her hair is a mess. She tucks it back behind her ears. “So did you make it? Are you going to be in the musical?”

  “In the chorus.”

  “That’s great! When’s the big production?”

  “The Friday before the Christmas holidays.”

  “Doesn’t give you much time to practise.”

  “I think the kids already know all the music. Mr. Grady’s in charge and he’s taught everyone the songs in his music classes.”

  “Getting involved in school activities is the best thing you can do in a new school. Remember how much you loved being in Peter Pan?”