“So where are you getting all the lights and stuff?” George asks.
“Glad you ask, bud.” Mojo’s eyes flash. “That’s where all you guys come in.”
He points to the kids. “We need plenty of lights. And plenty of decorations. Big ones. So we’re asking you to bring in any extra outdoor lights you have at home and we’ll string them all together and hang them on the tree. Right, Jeanie?”
I nod at him. I try to smile. My cheeks are frozen as stiff as ice cubes. I still haven’t found my voice.
Mojo goes on. “Also, I was thinking we could have a bake sale to raise money for some extra lights and stuff. And I’ll help sell the cookies because you always get free samples. I just love bake sales!” He arches his eyebrows.
The kids laugh.
He goes on in his loud voice. “Anyway, we need the lights and stuff for the tree soon. Like tomorrow morning. No later.”
The kids all talk at once. “Tomorrow! That’s not enough time.”
“A bake sale! Yeah! Mojo’s right. We’ll have to advertise and everything.”
“We can make up some signs today so kids will know to bring money for the cookies tomorrow, and we could ask the office to announce it on the P.A.”
“And we’ll make cookies at home tonight after school. Sure. We can do it!”
“Could we have a bake sale at recess tomorrow, Mr. G.?” Trudy asks. “Would you sponsor us?”
“Fine.” Mr. Grady nods. “Saving that big tree sounds like a worthwhile project.”
“Great! Who’ll make the signs?” Trudy says.
“Our class has art before recess today. Let’s ask if we can make them then.”
“All right!” Mojo shouts, raising his fist. “Tree Musketeers! Let’s go!”
The kids raise their fists too. “All for one and one for all!” they shout.
Finally, I find my voice. I shout with them and raise my fist too.
Although my knees are shaking and my throat’s dry, I’m suddenly so relieved I feel like hugging all those smiling, shouting kids.
Even Mojo.
Chapter 13
BY LUNCHTIME, the hallways are plastered with signs: “Save our giant tree, giant bake sale. Buy a cookie. Buy a dozen. Sign our petition. Recess tomorrow. Help save our tree!”
Trudy and I are taping the last signs to a wall when Isabelle arrives.
She says in a breathless, croaky voice, “Bad cold, but I told my mom I just had to come to school today. I kept bugging her until she finally let me come this afternoon. What’s this about a bake sale?”
The bell rings, so we shuffle up to our classroom, carried along by the crowd while I explain.
“The bake sale is Mojo’s idea to raise extra money for some Christmas lights if we don’t get enough donations. But lots of kids say they’ll bring lights and cookies for the sale to our practice tomorrow morning.”
“Fantastic! I knew you could do it. And all these signs!” Isabelle croaks and grins broadly at me. “Looking good!” “Actually, Mojo did the talking,” I admit. “Which is good, because you know how the kids always listen to him.”
“Oh, that guy! He’s such a show-off,” Isabelle sniffs. “But I’m glad he’s on our side for once.”
“Me too.” I grin back.
Maybe our plan will work. Maybe we’ll stop Leclare Construction from destroying that tree. Tree Musketeers! All for one and one for all!
And maybe, just maybe, Isabelle will be my friend after all.
* * *
Next morning, I’m up in the tree waiting for Isabelle. I straddle the lowest branch and bounce up and down impatiently. It’s like riding a slow-moving farm horse. My grandmother has a big old horse she calls Jake that my cousins and I ride around the farmyard in the summer.
“Hurry, Isabelle. Hurry, Isabelle,” I chant in time with the bouncing.
It’s a soothing tree. The branches sway and drift around me. Yet I feel the solid trunk reaching down with its roots, down into the ground, holding the whole sweet-smelling tree so firmly, so sturdily that it could stand right here forever.
“Dear sweet tree,” I whisper. “How wonderful you are.”
There’s Isabelle at last. I jump down and land with a thud at her feet.
“Hi, you,” Isabelle grins at me. “Remember your cookies?”
“Course,” I say as we jog to the gym. “Cornflake squares in my backpack.”
At practice, lots of kids give us their bags and boxes of cookies. But only a few have any extra lights they could donate to the cause. When we string all the lights together, we see it won’t be long enough. The tree’s so tall, it’ll need plenty of lights.
Mojo says, “I couldn’t bring cookies because my mom had to work the night shift at the hospital last night. So I got the petition ready. And I’ll help you sell the stuff at recess. Any free samples?” He peeks inside a bag.
“Paws off!” Isabelle grabs the bag from him. “No free samples.”
* * *
Recess is amazing! Kids swarm the sale tables like an army of starving ants.
“Twenty-five cents each?”
“Right. Fifty cents for two. And you have to sign our petition about saving the tree.” Mojo sticks his petition in front of each customer.
When the bell rings, ending recess, every cookie and square has vanished and we’ve collected a cookie tin full of coins. While we clean up the crumbs, Mojo counts the signatures on the petition.
“Zoo-ie!” he says, flipping the pages. “A hundred and seventy-nine signatures!”
“I’ll take that,” Isabelle says. “Thanks, Mojo.” She turns to me. “Hey, Jeanie. Can you come and deliver the petition to the owner with me after school? Then we can go to the mall to buy the lights.”
“Sure.”
It’s for a good cause. I’m sure my mom won’t mind.
Chapter 14
AFTER SCHOOL ON OUR way to the mall, we stop at the owner’s apartment. Isabelle found his address in the phone book at the office when we went to call my mom about being late. We want to deliver the petition in person so we can explain to the owner how we feel about the tree. At the front door of the apartment building, Isabelle pushes the button next to his name. D. Johnston, in apartment 306.
“Hello?” An elderly woman’s voice comes through the static.
“Hello. Could we see Mr. Johnston, please?”
“Mr. Johnston? Sorry, he’s not home now.”
“Oh.”
We didn’t think that he wouldn’t be there.
“Um,” Isabelle says. “We have something for him. A petition. Could we bring it up?”
“A fish delivery for Mr. Johnston?”
“No, a petition,” Isabelle says louder into the intercom.
“Okay. I’ll push the button and you can come up. We’re on the third floor.”
“Fish?” Isabelle screws up her face at me. “Where’d she get that idea?”
The door buzzes. I shrug and enter the lobby. Isabelle follows me inside.
We take the elevator to the third floor. When we knock, a friendly-looking elderly woman opens the door. A wave of deliciousness hits me. Ginger cookies.
“Come in,” the woman says. She’s wearing a pink polkadotted scarf around her curly grey hair, and a matching pink polka-dotted apron.
Isabelle shows her the petition and explains how it’s about the cedar tree next to the school.
“Oh,” the woman says. “That’s what you’ve come for. I thought you were our fish delivery. That intercom really needs fixing. There’s so much static. Sorry, but I can’t help you, girls. My husband won’t be home until this evening. How would you like a cookie? I’ve just taken a batch of gingerbread out of the oven.”
The cookies are melt-in-your-mouth delicious, but Isabelle’s still bent on trying to explain about our petition.
“We have all these names of people who want to save that cedar tree.”
The woman shakes her head and won’t even look at the
petition.
“But it’s really important . . .” Isabelle’s cheeks grow red with frustration as she waves the sheets of paper in front of the woman’s face.
“I’m really sorry, dear.” The woman smiles at us. “My husband is looking after that building project. Now, I’ll just put a couple of these cookies into a bag for you.”
Finally, Isabelle gives up and puts the petition back into her jacket pocket. We say goodbye and head for the elevator with our cookies. On our way down, Isabelle’s face is still red with frustration.
“She was nice,” I say, munching a cookie. “Maybe we should have left the petition with her to give to Mr. Johnston.”
“She’d probably just wrap her fish in it.”
“Fish?” A bubble of laughter bursts out of my mouth.
Isabelle stares at me. Then she starts laughing too. We both giggle the rest of the way to the mall.
Chapter 15
ALTHOUGH IT’S MORE than a week before Christmas, the mall is buzzing with frantic shoppers. We rush straight to the department store. After asking for directions to the Christmas lights, we find them in the Dress Your Tree department on the second floor.
“Holy crow! Look at these prices!” Isabelle says. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“But what about saving the tree?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We’ll think of something else. We have to! It’s too late for another bake sale. Maybe our Tree Musketeers plan is doomed.”
We dejectedly thread our way through the crowds and start for home.
As we trudge past Wong’s Second-Hand shop, I notice some dusty Christmas decorations jumbled in the front window.
“Think we could find anything in here?”
“You’re right. Maybe Mrs. Wong has some Christmas lights.” Isabelle turns into the shop.
“Wouldn’t hurt to ask, I guess.” I follow Isabelle. But I must admit, I’m not feeling very hopeful.
“Oh yes. I have a long, long string of outdoor lights,” Mrs. Wong says when we find her. “A big bunch. What do you want them for, girls? You have a big house?”
“No,” Isabelle says. “There’s a tree beside our school we want to decorate. Maybe you’ve noticed it? A huge old cedar? We’re trying to stop them from chopping it down.”
“I know that tree. They can’t really be thinking of cutting it down. It’s been there forever. Oh, those nasty developers! Destroying our neighbourhood. And what about the environment?”
“They want to build a big house there, but we have to show them that tree is too beautiful and important to destroy,” Isabelle goes on.
My neck prickles uncomfortably. After all, my father and uncle are developers. In fact, they’re the very ones planning to chop the tree down! But then I remember. I’m mad at them, anyway.
“Do you think these lights will do?” Mrs. Wong shows us an enormous bundle of coloured outdoor lights.
“They’d be perfect!” Isabelle grins. “But how much are they?”
When she tells us, I’m glad we have enough money.
“Just a minute, girls. I have something else you might be able to use.”
The woman disappears into the back of her cluttered shop. She soon reappears lugging a very large yellow plastic star that comes almost to her waist. It’s a bit dusty and its wires are a tangled mess.
“Perfect for the top!” Isabelle says.
I nod.
“Let’s check if it still works.” Mrs. Wong finds the plug and pushes it into a wall socket.
The star lights up with twinkling LED bulbs inside.
“It’s terrific!” Isabelle says. “We can tie it to the treetop and it’ll look magic.”
“I doubt if we can afford it. After paying for the lights, we’ll have only three dollars left,” I say, quickly subtracting in my head.
“Funny,” Mrs. Wong says, smiling at us. “That’s exactly the price of this star.”
“Oh, that’s lucky.” Isabelle gives her the rest of the bake sale money.
After thanking Mrs. Wong, we carry the lights and star away in two giant garbage bags.
“Look at the time!” I say. “I’ve got to get home. Mom will be so worried.”
“But when can we put up the lights?” Isabelle says. “The musical’s the day after tomorrow.”
“How about after school tomorrow? I could store them at my place until then. And maybe you could take the star?”
“Okay. Tomorrow. For sure.”
Chapter 16
AFTER SCHOOL THE next day, I race home for the lights — those we bought as well as the strings donated by the kids in choir. Mom isn’t home, so I don’t have to waste time explaining our plan. I leave a quick note for her on the fridge that I have to go back to school for something. Then I sprint back to the tree, lugging the plastic garbage bag of lights.
Isabelle is standing impatiently beside the star in a big bag. “I thought you’d never get here, Jeanie.”
The school grounds are deserted and it’s already getting dark. “Where’s everyone else?” I ask. “Where’s Mojo?”
“Said he had a dentist appointment or something.”
“I was hoping at least a couple other kids would be here to help us decorate the tree.” I’m not keen on climbing the tree, loaded down with lights, in this weather. In any weather, actually.
“Guess we forgot to tell anyone else that we’d be putting up the lights after school,” Isabelle says. “Maybe some kids will come by later. Anyways, who needs them? We can do it ourselves. No prob. I’ll climb the tree and you can hand the lights up to me.”
“All right,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Isabelle’s got some good ideas. But she sure can be bossy. As bossy as Athos in The Three Musketeers.
She swings up into the tree and reaches down for the lights. I pass up the heavy bundle. Then I follow her into the tree, sticking close to the broad trunk where I feel safest. Before we’ve gone far, someone else arrives. It’s Mojo.
“Hey,” he calls up to us. “You guys started without me.”
“Thought you had a dentist appointment,” Isabelle calls down.
“Turns out it’s not until five o’clock,” he says. “So I can help you for a while. Want me to bring up the rest of these lights?”
“No, Jeanie and I will get these up. But you can untangle the wires in the star. Then Jeanie will hand it up to me after we’ve got this set of lights up.”
He dumps the star out of the plastic garbage bag. “Woo-ie!” he says. “Now that’s what I call a real mess.” He starts untangling the wires.
Meanwhile, Isabelle and I take turns climbing and passing up the bundle of lights higher and higher. We string them up the trunk, and Isabelle attaches them out along each swaying branch as far as she can reach. The lights make a crooked path toward the top. Past the rope swing, past the tree fort, all the way up to the empty woodpecker’s nest.
“Now for the star,” Isabelle says, on our way back down. “It’ll look so cool at the very top.”
“Right.” As long as I don’t have to climb to the top, I tell myself. Up there, the trunk’s so thin, it could snap right off under my weight. I have to bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling. And my stomach’s bouncing around like a bird’s in there, frantically trying to get out.
“Okey-dokey,” Mojo says as we land beside him. “This star’s all ready to fly.”
“You mean you untangled all those wires already?” Isabelle’s clearly impressed.
“It’s what I do.” Mojo grins in her direction.
“Great,” she says. “Maybe you can untangle the wires for those other lights and get them all set to go up the tree as well.”
“No prob,” he says, dumping the rest of the lights out of the plastic garbage bag. “But after this, I’ve got to go. Don’t want to miss that dentist appointment.”
“Okay, Jeanie. I’ll climb to the first branch and you can pass the star up to me,” Isabelle directs in her usual b
ossy manner as she swings up into the tree.
Grunting, I try to lift the heavy star to her.
“Higher,” she directs from the branch above my head. “I can’t reach it yet.”
Mojo gives me a hand to heave the star up higher until she can grab it.
“Thanks,” I mutter to him. “You want to climb up there?”
“Sorry,” he says. “Not enough time. Got to make tracks now.”
“Okay. See you later.”
I sure wish Mojo could be the one climbing to the top of the tree with Isabelle and that heavy star. But he can’t, so it’ll have to be me. And I know if I say anything, Isabelle will know I’m chicken, and that would ruin everything. She’d never want a friend who’s a scaredy-cat. So I swing up to the branch beside her.
“I’ll go a bit higher and you can pass it up again,” she tells me.
We climb slowly, lugging the heavy star, up past all the lights. Up and up. The higher we go, the louder the wind whistles through the branches. Now the trunk is as narrow as one of my legs and the tree is swaying back and forth.
Is it warning us not to go any higher?
“Um, Isabelle,” I stammer, my teeth chattering. “Aren’t we high enough?”
I can’t let her think I’m chicken. But it sure is scary way up here.
“Think so? I’ll go up to just this next branch. Then you can pass me the star again.”
“Okay. But be careful.” Now my voice is shaking too. I don’t dare glance down. The ground’s miles away.
Isabelle eases up higher. And higher.
The treetop sways dizzily, and the wind whispers through the branches. Unsafe. Too high, it hisses. Go down. Down. Down . . .
I gulp hard, wrapping one arm around the slim trunk and lean into it.
“I’ll pass you the star now. This is high enough, right?” I try to sound as brave as a Musketeer. But my voice ends in a squeak.
“But it’s not the top yet.”
“It doesn’t have to be the very top.”
Tree Musketeers Page 5