Juli Baker Character Analysis

All I’ve ever wanted is for Juli Baker to leave me alone. For her to back off—you know, just give me some space.

My Bryce. The one who was still embarrassed over holding my hand two days before the second grade. The one who was still too shy to say much more than hello to me.

The one who was still walking around with my first kiss.

Mom and Juli’s mom do talk some. I think my mom feels sorry for Mrs. Baker—she says she married a dreamer, and because of that, one of the two of them will always be unhappy.

But all of a sudden my stomach completely bailed on me. Juli loved that tree. Stupid as it was, she loved that tree, and cutting it down would be like cutting out her heart.

“A painting is more than the sum of its parts,” he would tell me, and then go on to explain how the cow by itself is just a cow, and the meadow by itself is just grass and flowers, and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of light, but put them all together and you’ve got magic.

Kites can be lucky or they can be ornery. I’ve had both kinds, and a lucky kite is definitely worth chasing after.

Then a few months ago I found myself talking to the tree. An entire conversation, just me and a tree. And on the climb down I felt like crying. Why didn’t I have someone real to talk to? Why didn’t I have a best friend like everyone else seemed to?

And way up in the tree was a tiny girl looking off into the distance, her cheeks flushed with wind. With joy. With magic.

It was Champ’s time to go, and even though I still miss him, I think it’s been easier for me to deal with his death than it has been for me to deal with the truth about the eggs. I still cannot believe it about the eggs.

He pulled my curtain aside and looked across the street. “One’s character is set at an early age, son. The choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life.” He was quiet for a minute, then dropped the curtain and said, “I hate to see you swim out so far you can’t swim back.”

I even waited for her outside the classroom to say something, anything, about her fixing up the yard and how bad I felt, but she ditched me out the other door, and after that anytime I got anywhere near her, she’d find some way to skate around me.

Where would I be if things had been different? What would they have done with me? From the way my dad was talking, he wouldn’t have had much use for me, that’s for sure. He’d have stuck me in a nuthouse somewhere, anywhere, and forgotten about me. But then I thought, No! I’m his kid. He wouldn’t do that . . . would he?

I’d spent so many years avoiding Juli Baker that I’d never really looked at her, and now all of a sudden I couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t just the yard. It was my dad’s truck, my mother’s car, the family bike that was more rust than steel, and the fact that when we did buy something new, it always seemed to come from a second-time-around store. Plus, we never went on vacation. Ever.

I felt sorry for my father. I felt sorry for my mother. But most of all I felt lucky for me that they were mine.

At last he turned to me and said, “Get beyond his eyes and his smile and the sheen of his hair—look at what’s really there.”

The way he said it sent a chill through me. It was as though he knew. And suddenly I felt defensive. Was he telling me his grandson wasn’t worth it?

I felt as though someone was watching me. I got so spooked I even got up and checked out the window and in the closet and under the bed, but still the feeling didn’t go away.

It took me until midnight to understand what it was.

It was me. Watching me.

He’d crossed the line, man. He’d crossed it big-time.

And what made the whole thing so stinking hard to ignore was the fact that standing right next to him, on the other side of the line, was my father.

“Well, I think you know my heart’s been in the right place, but if you line it up objectively, a man like, say, Mr. Loski adds up to a much better husband and father than a man like me does. He’s around more, he provides more, and he’s probably a lot more fun.”

Standing next to Mr. Baker, he looked small. Physically small. And compared to the cut of Mr. Baker’s jaw, my dad’s face looked kind of weaselly.

And who were we? There was something spinning wickedly out of control inside this house. It was like seeing inside the Bakers’ world had opened up windows into our own, and the view was not a pretty one.

Where had all this stuff come from?

And why hadn’t I ever seen it before.

As I looked around, it struck me that we were having dinner with a group of strangers. We’d lived across the street for years, but I didn’t know these people at all.

I was “the man,” the envy of every other guy in school.

Buddy, I was miserable.

“No, Bryce,” he said softly. “She’s the same as she’s always been; you’re the one who’s changed.” [...] “And, son, from here on out, you’ll never be the same again.”

“Is it a . . .” The words stuck in my throat.

I didn’t really need to ask, though, and he knew he didn’t need to answer. I could tell from the shape of the leaves, from the texture of the trunk. This was a sycamore tree.