by Joan Bauer
TREE.
Now that he was living every other week at different houses, Tree always forgot to pack something.
His warm gloves were at his mother’s house.
His good sneakers were, too. He needed them for basketball practice, but it would take a lot more than sneakers to make him good at the game.
He couldn’t remember if he packed underwear.
Probably not.
A strong, cold wind whipped through the park. He’d been playing here, walking here for so many years. But since his parents got divorced, it felt like a different place.
Up the stairs to the north was where he’d go when he was staying at his mom’s new house.
Across the footbridge to the south was where his dad and grandfather lived.
So much had changed since the summer.
He started walking toward his father’s house, past a lone Salvation Army trumpeter playing Christmas carols. Fished in his pocket, found a dollar, put it in the red bucket.
Mrs. Stench’s dog, Fang, trotted toward him, barking mean.
“Fang, be nice.” Mrs. Stench yanked on the expanding leash, lurched forward.
Fang ran up to the white oak, lifted his leg, and peed on the noble gray bark.
Tree sighed deep; cold air came out.
Being a tree isn’t easy.
Books by
JOAN BAUER
Backwater
Best Foot Forward
Hope Was Here
Rules of the Road
Squashed
Stand Tall
Sticks
Thwonk
JOAN BAUER
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,
Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,
a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004
This edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005
Copyright © Joan Bauer, 2002
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Bauer, Joan. Stand tall / Joan Bauer.
p. cm.
Summary: Tree, a six-foot-three-inch twelve-year-old, copes with his parents’
recent divorce and his failure as an athlete by helping his grandfather,
a Vietnam vet and recent amputee, and Sophie, a new girl at school.
[1. Divorce—Fiction. 2. Grandfathers—Fiction. 3. Size—Fiction.
4. Individuality—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B32615Sr 2002 [Fic]—dc21 2002023876
ISBN: 978-1-101-65790-4
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that
it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
FOR EVAN, MY HERO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Abundant thanks to: Nancy Paulsen, my editor, for her wisdom, grace, and deft handling of this story. George Nicholson, my agent, who read every draft and offered superb counsel during the writing of this book. Jean Bauer, my daughter, who told me I could and would finish this book, despite evidence to the contrary. Marjorie Good, my mother, who has given me a lifetime of inspiration. Pastor JoAnn Clark, Laura Smalley, and Rita Zuidema, who stand firm during the writing of all my stories.
Thanks to all who shared the realities and struggles of Vietnam vets, amputees, and the extremely tall: Colonel Jeffrey Thompson, M.D., United States Air Force, who provided not just medical facts, but profound thoughts on the realities of war. Twala Maresh, Clinical Instructor II, M.S.P.T., University of Central Arkansas—who taught me the day-to-day struggles, victories, and mechanics of working with amputees. Eileen R. Ascher, L.O.T., Coordinator of Rehabilitation Services at The Rehabilitation Center of Southwestern Connecticut, Inc., who showed me the power of rehab at work, and along with physical therapist Laurie Schacht, answered endless questions and introduced me to John DeMaio, a retired fireman and recent amputee. John’s courage and heart inspired many characters in this novel. Don Shirley, a veteran and children’s writer, who forwarded me useful information about VA Hospitals and Vietnam. Vicki Walker at Tall Persons Club of Great Britain and Ireland—her insights as a mother of tall children helped greatly, as did the Tall Persons Club organization. Alex Tarshis, who shared his experiences in the wild world of height.
To every thing there is a season,
And a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born and a time to die,
A time to plant and a time to uproot,
A time to kill and a time to heal,
A time to tear down and a time to build,
A time to weep and a time to laugh,
A time to mourn and a time to dance,
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
A time to embrace and a time to refrain,
A time to search and a time to give up,
A time to keep and a time to throw away,
A time to tear and a time to mend,
A time to be silent and a time to speak,
A time to love and a time to hate,
A time for war and a time for peace.
—ECCLESIASTES 3:1–8
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
CHAPTER ONE
“And where is home this week?”
Mrs. Pierce, the school administrative assistant, asked him this.
His brain blistere
d.
“Your parents didn’t fill out the multiple-residence sheet that we sent to them in the fall. We need to know where you are, and when, for emergencies.”
She handed him a form with multiple boxes for two home addresses, two business addresses, faxes, e-mails, cell phones, beepers.
He handed her the monthlong schedule his mother had given him—color-coordinated for each week (yellow for when he would be living with her, blue for when he would be living with his father).
When life got tough, his mother got organized.
Mrs. Pierce looked at the schedule. “Will this be changing monthly?”
He shifted. “Yes.”
“You’ll be getting a new schedule monthly?” She had a too-loud voice.
He nodded.
“You’ll need to bring that by the office on the first of the month. And we need to know who is the custodial parent—your mother or father.”
“They’re doing it together even though they’re divorced.” He said this quietly.
“If your parents are co-custodians, then that’s a different form.”
She handed him that form.
“Is there one parent who should be contacted with all school issues?”
He sighed. “They kind of take turns.”
She handed him a form for that. “If both parents want to be contacted on any issue, it makes it a little more difficult for us. If they both want to receive your report cards, we need to know that, too.”
He didn’t want anyone to receive his report cards. He wished there was a form for that.
Mr. Cosgrove, the school janitor, was fixing a squeaky door. He took out his little can of oil, squirted a few drops in the hinges. Opened it, closed it. Instantly fixed.
Mr. Cosgrove could fix anything.
“Is there anything else?” Mrs. Pierce shoved her reading glasses low on her nose.
He wondered if oil worked on administrative assistants.
“Oh, yes,” she snipped. “Who will be receiving the invoice for school trips?”
She gazed up at him, way up.
He bent his knees to seem shorter.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“That can be put on this form—form C—which you can attach to form D, which covers any emergency medical care you might require when you are off school property but participating in school activities, like athletics. And if both your parents want to receive an audiocassette of the principal’s nondenominational holiday address, they need to put an X in that box. I think that’s it. The newsletter comes out quarterly and can also be mailed to grandparents and other interested parties.”
“My grandpa lives with my dad.”
“That saves us on postage. I’ll need those back by Friday.”
He looked at the forms in his hand.
There it was in black and white, just how complicated his life had become.
He stood in front of the huge white oak tree in the middle of Ripley Memorial Park. It was tall and thick with serious bark.
An oak with attitude.
He cocked his head, stretched his long arms out, imitating the tree, and froze.
He’d seen a street performer do this in New York City—the man drew a big crowd. Every so often the man would move slightly. People put money in his hat.
Mrs. Clitter walked by with her granddaughter and stopped.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
They looked up at him for the longest time.
He moved his right hand a little.
Then his left.
The little girl giggled.
Mrs. Clitter said, “Now, where’d you learn to do that?”
He said nothing. Part of the act.
Winked at the little girl, who grinned.
He had an itch, but didn’t scratch it. Mrs. Clitter moved off, laughing. He lifted his leg slightly, wiggled it.
“You say a big hello to that grandfather of yours,” she shouted. Mrs. Clitter was in love with his grandfather. “You tell him I’m going to do everything I know to do to help him in his time of need.” His grandfather, currently in the Veterans Administration Hospital in Baltimore, had his right leg removed just below the knee two weeks ago. His grandfather usually hid when he saw Mrs. Clitter coming. This was harder to do with half a leg, but he was working on it.
The little girl waved good-bye and crossed the bridge with her grandmother.
He straightened to full height—six feet, three and a half inches.
He was the tallest seventh-grade boy in the history of Eleanor Roosevelt Middle School.
The tallest twelve-year-old boy anyone in Ripley had ever seen.
Now you know why people called him Tree.
It had been years since anyone had called him by his real name, Sam. Jeremy Liggins had first called him Tree in fourth grade. Jeremy was one of those emperor athletes who got to do whatever he wanted. He’d stood on the baseball diamond and renamed half the class, like Adam named the animals in the Bible.
Jeremy’s friends got the cool names.
Fire.
Boomerang.
When it came to nonathlete nobodies, the names got harder.
Tree.
Mole.
Snot.
He’d gotten used to the name. Considered the white oak.
Some of its roots protruded from the ground—fat roots that wound around rocks.
He had studied the root systems of trees. Figured if he was going to be called one, he should at least know how they worked.
He’d learned this from his grandfather, who could fix almost anything except Tree’s parents’ marriage. “You’ve got to take a thing apart to see what it’s made of,” his grandpa always said.
So he learned how roots could go as deep in the ground as a tree’s branches grow tall.
How they suck up nutrients from the earth like a boy slurps a milk shake through a straw. How the bark protects the tree’s insides like skin protects people.
How being a tree is the best thing going in the plant world. People expect trees to be strong and steady and give good shade.
Tallness is packed with great expectations.
He picked up his duffel bag, remembered what he’d forgotten to pack.
Now that he was living every other week at different houses, he always forgot to pack something.
His warm gloves were at his mother’s house.
His good sneakers were, too. He needed them for basketball practice, but it would take a lot more than sneakers to make him good at the game.
He couldn’t remember if he packed underwear.
Probably not.
His personal park squirrel, Nuts, came a foot away to greet him. Nuts had half an ear, so he was easy to spot. He was more nervous than the other squirrels. Tree always wondered what happened to him. A dysfunctional childhood, probably.
“Hey, Nuts.” Tree took out a bag of almonds, tossed one to the squirrel. “How’s life in the park?”
Nuts shook a little, ate the food.
“You being treated okay? Because if anything’s hassling you, you give me a call.”
He threw the squirrel another nut.
A strong, cold wind whipped through the park. He’d been playing here, walking here for so many years. But since his parents got divorced, it felt like a different place.
Up the stairs to the north was where he’d go when he was staying at his mom’s new house.
Across the footbridge to the south was where his dad and grandfather still lived.
So much had changed since the summer.
Including the white oak.
Its fat green leaves had turned red in the fall, then shriveled up. The acorns had fallen off, picked up by squirrels getting ready for winter.
It was winter in his life, too, and not just because it was December.
He started walking toward his father’s house, past a lone Salvation Army trumpeter playing Christmas carols. Fished in his pocket, found a dollar, put it in the red b
ucket.
Mrs. Stench’s dog, Fang, trotted toward him, barking mean.
“Fang, be nice.” Mrs. Stench yanked on the expanding leash, lurched forward.
Fang ran up to the white oak, lifted his leg, and peed on the noble gray bark.
Tree sighed deep; cold air came out.
Being a tree isn’t easy.
CHAPTER TWO
Tree sat at the computer in his father’s dining room.
Typed in heymom.com.
Up on the screen came the smiling face of his mother. A bouncing bird flitted across a cloud that read Thought for the day.
The cloud morphed into Divorce ended our marriage, but our loving family will never end.
This was a big theme that Tree’s parents were trying to get across.
A little Christmas tree appeared on the screen. An elf was underneath it.
19 Days Till Christmas appeared over the tree. I can’t wait. The elf giggled.
Tree sighed.
This would be the first Christmas since the divorce.
The computer screen flickered.
Up popped his mother’s schedule. She was in Boston for three days teaching computer seminars, but she was reachable by beeper, cell phone, and e-mail for anything he needed.
He pictured his mother beeping, ringing, and whirring all at once.
Remembered all the hours she put in when she was going to school to become a computer whiz. She’d sit at this machine, working late into the night.
Went from teaching aerobics to running computer seminars in three and a half years. Once his mom got interested in something, she’d learn everything about it that she could.
She’d done that with divorce, too.
A letter from his mother appeared on the screen.
Dear Curtis, Larry, and Tree, it began.
Curtis and Larry were his big brothers, both away at college.
I’ve been collecting thoughts about Christmas. I’d like us to talk about our feelings in the midst of so much change.
Tree didn’t like talking about his feelings.
A wreath came up on the screen.
Then the words: Change is part of life. It is the healthy family that learns to adapt to change that prepares each member for our ever-changing, complex world.