Fish in a Tree by Lynda Mullaly Hunt

pulled, I think I may love you for that.”

CHAPTER 20
    I s T h i s a G o o d T h i n g ?
    I hear the front door slam and Travis calls for me. He sounds happy. I mean really happy. He appears in the doorway of my room. “Guess what?”
    “What?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He just stands there with a big, dumb grin on his face. And then I notice what he has in his hand and I jump up. “You
got
it?
Really?
”
    He still doesn’t answer. He just shakes the keys like a baby rattle.
    So we run outside, and sitting there at the curb is a surprise. But not the kind of surprise I’d hoped for.
    “I know it doesn’t look like much.”
    But he’s wrong. It looks like a lot. It’s enormous and bright green. I mean seriously. It’s like a pickle with tires. “No,” I say. “It’s cool.”
    “You can’t lie to me, squirt. I know you too well.”
    “Why are there lines on it?” I ask, leaning in.
    “Oh, well, I guess the guy that had the car painted it with a brush instead of a spray gun. I’ll have to sand that out. And strip the chrome on the side. But the engine is good. It’s gonna fly.”
    The only way this thing is going to fly is if he straps it to a giant balloon. A sketchbook picture is already drawing itself in my head.
    “And there are no computers in a car this old. Just a man and his machine.”
    I look up. “Is that really a good thing?”
    He shoves me a little. “You’ll love it when it can take us places. To the beach? Six Flags?”
    I look up quick. “Really?”
    “Wherever you want to go, squirt.”
    I had never imagined that his car would be
our
car. That he would take me places.
    “You want to take it out with me now?”
    “Sure. Am I pushing or pulling?”
    “You’re going to be sorry you dissed this beauty. I’m telling you. You’ve got to be loyal to your car.”
    “Travis, you do know it’s only a car, right?”
    “Only a car?” he asks. “Only a car?” He runs to the other side and slides in. He unlocks the door for me and I get in, too. It’s a big bench seat. The Walking Liberty half dollar hangs from his rearview mirror. It makes me feel like Dad and Grandpa are with us.
    When he turns on the engine, it sounds like a giant with a bad cough. We head up Farmington Avenue past St. Thomas Church.
    It had been raining all morning, and now it starts again. Big drops of rain fall on the windshield like bombs. Travis says a bad word, pulls over, and grabs a silver spring and a piece of wet rope from the glove compartment.
    “What are you doing?”
    He jumps out into the rain, grabbing the windshield wiper on my side and connecting it to something at the bottom of the window with the spring. Then he ties that wiper to the second wiper and throws the rope through his window and jumps in. Laughing and dripping wet.
    “What the heck are you doing?” I ask.
    “Three.
Hours,
” he says.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Three hours after this thing was registered this morning, the wiper motor went. So I went by the hardware store and rigged this up. Watch.” With his left arm, he pulls the rope and the wipers clear the window of water. When he lets go, the spring yanks them back down, slapping the bottom of the window.
    “Hey, I thought you said you were a genius,” I joke.
    “I am. All geniuses deal with bugs in the system.”
    “Isn’t that more like what anteaters do?”
    “Hilarious.” He laughs.
    “Isn’t it a little hard to drive and do that?”
    “You’re right, squirt. You can do the wipers,” he says, throwing the rope into the backseat. “Climb over and sit behind me.”
    “Okay!” I say, climbing over the seat. I give the rope a pull and then let it go, and the wipers slap up and down. It’s kind of fun to see the wiper clear the window—make the blurry clear. And I think about what a great drawing this will be later and I’m happy for the weird pickle-colored car.
    “Wow, this is fun—and hard,” I tell Travis. My arm is getting