Tree Musketeers

by Norma Charles

  Isabelle’s feet are above my head. That means I’ll have to climb even higher to lift the star to her.

  “Okay, okay. Hand it to me. I’ll tie it here. Can’t you hold it steady?”

  “I . . . I’ll try.”

  I catch my breath and ease the heavy star even higher, holding it as steady as I can.

  Maybe if I shut my eyes, it won’t be so scary. But the wind is strong and my stomach dips, so I snap them back open. Eyes shut at the top of a swaying cedar on a windy night is definitely petrifying.

  “I’ll just wind the wires around this branch,” Isabelle says. “There. That should hold it.”

  How can she be so calm? Isn’t she even a bit scared?

  “All right,” she says. “Let’s climb back down now.”

  The trip down is even harder. Going backward in the dark, it’s impossible to see the footholds.

  Hugging the trunk, I mutter, “Come on. You can do it. You can do it.” I feel for a safe branch. My foot connects. I lower myself. Down and down.

  Finally, I reach the lowest branches and swing onto the soft ground. I rub my wobbly legs. Mojo’s gone now. He left the rest of the lights in a long string at the base of the tree.

  “Imagine how amazed everyone will be tomorrow night when we turn these babies on!” Isabelle says as she leaps down beside me. “All those lights. And that star! I can hardly wait to try them out.”

  “What about the rest of the lights?” I ask, pointing to the ones Mojo left for us.

  “We’ll use those for the lower branches.”

  So back up the tree we go. It turns out there aren’t a lot of lights, so it doesn’t take long to spread them out along the lower branches.

  When we’re finished, we drop down onto the ground beside the tree. Before we can stand back and admire our job, a white van turns up the street. It stops in front of the property. Leclare Brothers Construction.

  Chapter 17

  “YOUR UNCLE!” Isabelle squeals. “Let’s ask him for a ride home. Then we can tell him to bring Mr. Johnston to our concert tomorrow night.”

  Oh? I didn’t know that was part of the plan.

  “Uncle Berny!” I yell. “Uncle Berny!”

  He gets out of the van and saunters toward us, holding his baseball cap down in the wind. “Hey, what’s happening, kiddo?” he says in his big cheery voice. “You two on tree guard duty?”

  “Ha ha!” I say. “Can you give me and my friend, Isabelle, a ride home?”

  “Sure thing. Hop in. I’m just picking up some tools, and then I’ll be right there.”

  I climb into the front seat, kicking a thick roll of red plastic tape off a coil of yellow extension cord. An idea pops into my head.

  “Decorations!” I tell Isabelle. “Bright red decorations for our Christmas tree!”

  “Now you’re talking,” she says, nodding. She sniffs and rubs her nose on the back of her hand.

  “Um, Uncle,” I say, when he climbs into the van and starts it up. “This roll of red plastic tape. Could we have it? Please?”

  “Now what would you kids want that for?”

  “For a . . . special project. A sort-of special school project. It’d be perfect!”

  “Well, if it’s for school, all right.”

  “Another thing, Uncle Berny. Can you bring the owner, what’s his name?”

  “Mr. Johnston,” Isabelle reminds me.

  “Right. Can you bring him to our school concert tomorrow night? It’s going to be really good.”

  “Tell him we’ll have a special surprise for him,” Isabelle says.

  “Hmm, a surprise, eh? Wonder what you two are cooking up. Fine, I’ll do my best, but I’m warning you: Mr. Johnston is set in his ways. I don’t know how he feels about school concerts.”

  “But it’s really, really, really important for him to come, Uncle.”

  “I almost forgot,” Isabelle says, rummaging in her jacket pocket. “Here’s a petition for him from the kids at school about the tree. We got almost two hundred signatures. Could you give it to him?”

  “Sure. But I don’t know if it’ll do any good. Now where do you live, Isabelle?”

  When we get to Isabelle’s house, Uncle Berny says, “Before you go, I should show you two this.”

  He pulls a cardboard tube from the dashboard. “Here are the plans for Mr. Johnston’s new house,” he explains. He flicks on the cab lights and unrolls a thick paper from the tube. “This square is where the new house will be built.” Then he points to another smaller square at the edge of the paper. “And right here is where the garage will be. I’m sorry to say, that’s right, smack, where your cedar tree is.”

  I stare at the blue lines and my heart sinks. I blink hard. I see exactly what he means. To make way for the new garage, our tree will have to be removed after all.

  But Isabelle isn’t the least bit worried. “They’ll just have to put the garage somewhere else,” she says breezily. “They can’t cut down our tree. They just can’t. And that’s that.” She sniffs again.

  “As I said, I’ll talk to the owner.” Uncle Berny shrugs. “But, as you can see, we’ve got a problem.”

  We walk with Isabelle into the house because it’s dark out and her mom’s car isn’t there. Uncle Berny is reluctant to leave Isabelle alone.

  “I always get home before my mom,” she insists. “She’ll be here by six after she picks up my little brother from daycare. Really. She will.”

  After we turn on all the lights in the living room and kitchen, Uncle Berny finally agrees to leave her.

  “Spunky kid,” he says as we drive away.

  Spunky! That’s Isabelle, all right. She’s afraid of nothing. And because of her and our Tree Musketeers project, I’ve almost forgotten about missing Sandberg. Almost.

  I stare out at the wet streets and the colourful Christmas lights decorating the houses. It’s hard to believe Christmas is just a week away and there isn’t a single flake of snow anywhere.

  That night after supper, I work at the kitchen table, using up the whole roll of my uncle’s plastic tape tying large red bows onto long pipe cleaners from my craft box. My plan is that we’ll use the wires to fasten the bows to the tree.

  “What are those for?” Mom asks, glancing up from the TV.

  She’s folding a basket of clothes into piles on the coffee table while she and Dad watch a movie so old it’s in black and white. Something about Christmas and angels. I’m too busy to watch it.

  “They’re for a school project, sort of,” I say, stuffing the bows into a garbage bag to take to school tomorrow.

  I haven’t figured out just when we’ll attach the bows onto the tree. But I’m sure Isabelle will come up with a plan. She always does.

  Chapter 18

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, the day of the musical, I wait impatiently for Isabelle under the tree.

  It’s a misty morning, like in our play Santa Lost in Mish-Mash Land. Perfect weather to put everyone in the right mood for the show tonight.

  Also, with this weather, no one will notice the lights and star on the tree. So our secret will be safe until we turn them on at exactly the right moment for the great surprise.

  But what if Uncle Berny can’t convince Mr. Johnston to come to the musical?

  I pace around the tree, dragging the plastic garbage bag filled with my plastic decorations. Isabelle’s late again. I’m about to give up when she finally arrives, her purple raincoat flapping behind her.

  “Bad news,” she croaks. “Laryngitis.”

  “Oh no! How can you sing tonight?”

  Isabelle shrugs. “Hope Mr. G. comes up with something. The show must go on, because of you-know-what.” She looks back at our friend, the giant cedar.

  * * *

  “Me? No way!” I shake my head at Mr. Grady’s suggestion. “Up on stage? Like, all by myself? In front of all those strangers? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I can’t sing!”

  “Sure she can.” Mojo grins at me. “She’s
a real good singer. I heard her out there by the tree last week. Singing loud as a famous opera star.”

  George nods. “I heard her too.”

  I glare at them, but Mojo grins back even wider until his brown face is one big mouthful of grinning teeth.

  “You won’t ever be alone, Jeanie,” Mr. Grady says. “Mojo’s on stage most of the time. Isabelle can still do the dancing. It’ll be a Biggy-Big-Ears team. Might even be effective. I heard about your performance of Wendy in Peter Pan at your old school. This is not so different. How about giving it a try?”

  Isabelle nods at me vigorously.

  “All right. I guess.”

  Because of the tree, I know the show must go on.

  “Great! Let’s try ‘Surfin’ Santa.’ From the top now.” Mr. G. pounds out the tune on the piano.

  The songs are familiar now since Isabelle and her friends are always practising them. I try to remember to pull my breath deep into my chest and open my mouth really wide to let the sound out, as Mrs. Fan taught us at my old school.

  “Just as I suspected. You have a great voice, Jeanie, and excellent projection.” Mr. Grady nods from the piano. “You’ll do just fine. Now let’s get you a costume and we’ll try it together.”

  Mrs. Honey, who helps with costumes and backstage directions, gets another Biggy-Big-Ears costume. Brown fleece sleepers, the kind little kids wear, with the feet cut out.

  My stomach is whirling as I pull on the sleepers over my jeans and zip up the front. It’s prickly under my arms.

  “Here are your ears.” Mrs. Honey gives Isabelle and me each two huge plastic ears with a hairband to keep them in place over our own ears. They’re about the size of my hand and they wobble around whenever we move. They probably look goofy, but at this point, who cares?

  The ears tickle at first, but once I start singing, I forget about them.

  During the practice, I see that my actual singing is two parts, at the beginning of the play and at the end. In the first scene, Santa/Mojo and Biggy-Big-Ears are jogging one foggy morning, trying to get fit before their long trip delivering gifts on Christmas Eve.

  In the last scene, Biggy-Big-Ears, a.k.a. Isabelle/me, finally finds Santa, who has become lost. Because of our big ears and excellent hearing, we can hear the noisy holiday preparations and music, so we are able to lead Santa home triumphantly.

  After several welcome home songs, the choir sings “O Christmas Tree” as Biggy-Big-Ears leads Santa and the other Mish-Mash characters around the twinkling Christmas tree on stage as a grand finale.

  We try out the Biggy-Big-Ears team with Isabelle dancing and me singing. After a few miscues, we get it right and Mr. Grady says it’ll do.

  “Okay, everyone,” he says as we finish our last practice. “Be here promptly at six-fifteen tonight, backstage in the dressing rooms for costumes and makeup. Don’t any of you dare be late.”

  Isabelle drags me to the piano. “Mr. G.?” she croaks. “Could Jeanie and I talk to you about something very important?”

  Mr. Grady’s eyebrows shoot up. “Now what?” he sighs.

  “Tonight, do you think,” Isabelle puts a hand to her throat. “You ask, Jeanie,” she croaks, pushing me forward. “You know, about the tree.”

  “Right.” I take a deep breath and plunge. “Isabelle and I, we were thinking that at the end of the concert . . . Well, remember that big cedar tree out there we told you about?”

  “Oh, yes. How’s your project going?”

  “We’ve put up the strings of lights. And it’ll have decorations and . . . and . . .”

  Mr. Grady drums his fingers on the top of the piano impatiently. Isabelle nudges me. I go on in a rush.

  “My uncle’s asking the property owner to come to the concert. So we’re wondering if, at the end, you know, when we sing ‘O Christmas Tree,’ if we could all go outside. Like the audience and the cast and everyone, and see the giant Christmas tree, you know, with the lights on and the decorations and everyone could see it and . . . and . . .”

  “And the owner will realize the tree’s too beautiful to cut down,” Mr. Grady finishes. “I see. A grand procession. With everyone singing. Hmm. Don’t see why not. Sounds as if it might be a great finale for our musical. Quite dramatic, in fact. You could announce it, Jeanie. Your voice carries well. And you and Isabelle and Mojo could lead everyone outside while I play the piano. Yes. That could make a dramatic finale.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Grady! Thank you!” The birds in my stomach are doing cartwheels.

  Mr. Grady nods and almost smiles at me.

  “Now, Isabelle. You take it easy. No more hanging around trees in rainstorms.”

  Chapter 19

  THE TIME AT SCHOOL DRAGS. It’s a strange misty day. Around noon, a thicker fog silently drifts in over the mist, muffling city sounds. After lunch, Mr. Grady has a good long session reading to us from The Three Musketeers.

  By three o’clock, when school’s out, the fog’s so thick, I can barely see across the school grounds. “Our” cedar tree is a dark grey silhouette suspended in the lighter grey of swirling fog.

  “You got the bows?” Isabelle whispers.

  “Yes. In a big garbage bag behind my coat.”

  I follow her outside, lugging the garbage bag of Christmas bows.

  No one else is around. At least we can’t see anyone with this thick fog. Guess everyone’s gone home to get ready for the concert tonight. We’ll have to hurry.

  I swing up into the tree. It’s easier to climb now. It’s as if the branches are reaching out to lift me, the way my grandfather used to hold out his arms to lift me to ride up on his shoulders.

  Isabelle passes the bag of bows up to me and swings into the tree beside me. We attach them with the pipecleaners onto each branch as far out as we dare reach. We climb only as high as the woodpecker’s hole, where we’ve attached the star cord to the light cord.

  I check the connection. Everything’s solid.

  “Okay, old tree,” I whisper. “Now it’s time to do your stuff.” And I slither down the trunk after Isabelle. “Should we try out the lights?” I ask. “Check how the tree will look tonight?”

  “Sure. But I’ve just had a terrible thought, Jeanie.”

  “What?”

  “This extension cord. There’s no way it’ll reach all the way into the school to plug it in. Look. When we lay it out, it doesn’t go even halfway across the playground.”

  “Oh, rats! Why didn’t we think of checking that before?”

  “Maybe there’s a closer electrical outlet next door. Near the tool shed, maybe?”

  We find an outlet, all right, but no way will our extension cord reach that either.

  “All this for nothing!” Isabelle croaks. “I can’t believe it! The star, the lights, the bows. Getting Mr. G. to agree to lead the audience out here. For what? Nothing! With the dark, plus this blanket of fog, no one will see a thing. Just one big old dripping tree. So much for being Tree Musketeers. It’s one big bust. We’re doomed!” Her voice cracks. “Our tree’s doomed!”

  “We’ll think of something, Isabelle. We’ve got to!” I try to swallow a lump in my throat. “The Three Musketeers never give up. Remember: all for one and one for all. And we’re the Tree Musketeers. There must be something we can do. Anyway, we have to go home now so we can be back by six-fifteen for the concert.”

  “Okay. See you then.” Isabelle trudges away dejectedly into the swirling fog.

  I head home in the other direction. My feet are two heavy bricks.

  * * *

  “What’s the matter, Jeanie?” Mom asks as I dawdle over the chicken stew. “You don’t look very happy. Aren’t you excited about the musical tonight?”

  “Oh, Mom! It’s just that, just that . . .” I almost tell her about our Tree Musketeers plan, but remember that it’s a secret. I bite my lip.

  Then I ask, although I already know the answer, “Do we have an extra extension cord? A really long one?”

  “No.
Sorry. Why do you need an extension cord?”

  “It’s for . . . for our school project, sort of,” I finish lamely.

  “Sorry,” Mom says again. “Eat your stew now before it gets cold. You don’t want to be late for the concert.”

  “Are you and Dad coming?”

  “Of course we are, sweetie. We’ll be right in the front row cheering for you.”

  Chapter 20

  THIS TIME, ISABELLE is waiting for me under our tree. She’s shuffling back and forth excitedly.

  “I’ve got it!” she says in a husky whisper. “I know where we can get a good long extension cord.”

  “Where?”

  “From your uncle! Carpenters always have them. To run their power tools and stuff.”

  “You’re right!” My heart skips a hopeful beat. “Just hope he gets here early enough to ask him.”

  In the dressing room, we yank on the identical Biggy-Big-Ear furry costumes and pull on our gigantic ears. While the other girls plaster on stage makeup to make them look like various monsters and ghouls, Isabelle and I wait for Uncle Berny at the gym’s entrance.

  “Uncle Berny. Where are you?” I mutter as we pace back and forth.

  But when Mr. Grady sees us, he shoos us backstage. “Just ten minutes to curtain time. Get into your places, boys and girls.” He claps at us, his caterpillar eyebrows wobbling wildly.

  The kids buzz with excitement. They shove each other around, practise their hip-hop dance steps, and chant the beginning rap:

  “Once, one day in the North,

  in rolled a nasty old fog.

  That was the day our Santa,

  he up and went for a jog . . .”

  My heart’s pounding as I peek out the curtain to check again if my uncle’s arrived. Mom and Dad are there, right in the front row. Mom waves and Dad’s glasses glint as he smiles up at me. I wave back and look around at the audience. The chairs are filling up.

  But still no Uncle Berny.