Free The Birthday Room by Kevin Henkes Page A

down onto the other foot, then back onto the ground. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “They’re really something,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related.”
    â€œI didn’t think they’d be that excited,” said Ben, glancing up at the tree.
    â€œYou mean gullible,” said Lynnie.
    â€œShould I tell them?”
    â€œNo. They deserve it. They were so rude.”
    â€œForget it.”
    Lynnie’s head was bent and her shoulders were slightly stooped. “Was it the worst thing that ever happened to you?” Her eyebrows did a funny lift as she asked the question.
    â€œNo,” Ben answered instantly. He was surprised by how emphatic he sounded. “I don’t even remember it. It happened when I was two.” His hands were still in his pockets. They seemed to be boulders—big, impossibly heavy—attached to his arms. Gravity pulled at them. “Do you know how it happened?”
    Lynnie regarded him with a quizzical tilt of her head and a questioning gaze. “I just met you yesterday. How would I know that?”
    â€œI thought maybe Ian told you.”
    â€œNo. I didn’t even know Ian had a nephew until the day before you came.”
    The back of Ben’s throat prickled. He took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his fingers, and traced tight figure-eights on his legs. He didn’t want to betray his uncle, but he didn’t want to be mysterious either, so he told the story of the accident. He finished by saying, “I guess my mom never really got over it, or something. I guess that’s why I haven’t seen him in so long.”
    A wave of understanding moved the planes of Lynnie’s face. Her mouth opened, forming an O . “I bet that’s why Ian doesn’t want us in his studio, especially Kale and Elka.”
    â€œI guess.” Ben wondered when Lynnie had noticed that his hand was different, but he was suddenly too shy to ask. And he was tired of talking about himself anyway. “What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you? ” he said.
    â€œThat’s easy,” Lynnie responded, the color in her cheeks deepening. “A few years ago, I overheard my parents talking about money problems. How the orchards weren’t doing as well as they should have been. How the truck needed to be repaired—again. How the bills were piling up. You know. So I had this great idea, which was really a stupid idea.” She grimaced.
    â€œWhat was it?”
    â€œIt was spring,” Lynnie told him. “The blossoms were on the trees. And I have to say I love the blossoms even more than the fruit. At peak blossom time, the trees smell perfumey, and they look magical, like giant popcorn balls, drizzled with pink, growing on stems. Even when the blossoms are barely open, they’re pretty. Then they remind me of the rosebuds on my grandma’s bathrobe. A little bit of pink, a little bit of green.”
    While she was speaking, Lynnie had pushed her hair off the back of her neck, and gathered it into a ponytail. She twisted the ponytail and spooled it on her hand and wrist, then let it drop, her hair spilling freely over one shoulder. She sighed in a reflective way. “Anyway, because the trees looked so beautiful, I thought that if I cut some of the branches, I could sell them out on the highway to people in passing cars and make gobs of money for my parents.”
    Ben was nodding politely.
    â€œI chose young trees because they were easier for me to reach, easier to cut. My dad—who loves the trees so much he must have radar—found me hacking away at my fourth tree with his old trusty lopping shears. I kind of ruined them—the trees. Not to mention decreasing the year’s apple supply. He just stared right into me with these eyes that were surprised and then furious and then sad. I had filled a couple of buckets with water for the cut