Free The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. by Kate Messner Page A

failed to notice it?” His eyes get huge, and I know yes is the wrong answer.
    “No, sir. I, er, climbed over it to get a leaf for my leaf collection.” I look down at the four-foot branch I’m still holding and lift it up a little. “For science class.”
    He makes a noise that’s a cross between a laugh, a snort, and a growl and comes down the back steps toward me. He stops at the base of the big tree, looks down at his rocking chair, and moves it aside. “Do you know what kind of tree this is?”
    “Not yet, no.” I consider explaining about the dichotomous key that we’re using but decide it won’t help.
    “Have you noticed, Miss Zales, that nothing is growing around this particular tree?”
    I hadn’t. But he’s right. The other trees all have little hills of flowers around the bottom. Not this one.
    “Do you know, Miss Zales, why nothing is growing here?”
    I shake my head.
    “I will tell you, Miss Zales. It’s because this tree is a black walnut. A black walnut looks quite attractive, like any other tree. It has lovely foliage.” He looks at the branch in my hand. “But you already knew that, of course.”
    I nod. I wish he would just call the police and have me arrested.
    “But the black walnut is deceiving. It looks perfectly attractive, like a fine addition to a garden. But all the while, it releases a toxin into the soil that kills off other plants; it poisons anything growing nearby.
    “A black walnut, Miss Zales, is like the student who fails to show respect. He—or she —might look like a good person. But underneath, at the roots, he—or she —is spreading the poison of disrespect.” He turns and climbs back up his steps to the glass door. “You’ll leave my yard now.” He points to the other corner of the house. “By the gate.”
    I nod but don’t say anything. I’m out of “yes, sirs.” I consider dragging the black walnut branch along with me, but he’s still standing on his porch, so I leave it and shuffle toward the gate.
    Black walnut.
    I am so not a black walnut.
    He’s the black walnut on this block.
    The glass porch door slides open, then closes with a thump, and I stop, still ten feet from the gate.
    I don’t even check to see if he’s watching. I dash back and yank a handful of leaves off the branch, then run for the gate again.
    These will be easy to identify later.
    I know a black walnut when I see one.

CHAPTER 10
    S brigati , Gianna! Let’s go!” Nonna calls from downstairs.
    “I’m hurrying,” I say.
    But I’m not.
    I stand by the window, buttoning Mom’s maroon sweater, looking out at clouds as dark as the black dress she loaned me for the funeral. What am I going to say when I see Ruby?
    “I am so sorry for your loss.”
    “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”
    “I’m sorry you lost your grandmother.”
    That last one sounds like she misplaced her grandmother in the garage or something. Nothing sounds right.
    Nonna always does the talking. I carry the cookies. She always seems to know just the right thing to say.
    “I’ll think of her every time I hear wind chimes,” she told Mr. Caprici last month. His wife had the noisiest porch in the neighborhood. She made her own chimes out of sea glass she found on their trips to Cape Cod.
    “Her memory will live on in your garden,” she told Mr. LeBelle, whose wife grew roses in ten different shades. And here’s my favorite:
    “He died doing what he loved best,” she told Mr. Salsbury’s wife. He was killed when a rogue salmon pulled him overboard during a fishing trip in Alaska. Nonna always knows what to say. Not me.
    “Ready, bambolina ?” Nonna’s in her funeral wear, her black jersey dress with the charcoal wool sweater. I think there are still cookie crumbs in it from last weekend.
    “I guess so.” I collect my bushy hair into a fat barrette and look in the mirror. Red hair looks so undignified, like you’ve worn the wrong clothes to a formal event.
    “The important thing is that