Flipped

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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?

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.

“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.”