Number 8 by Anna Fienberg Page B

can’t cope with public transport.
    First thing, we go to the fridge and get another drink. We take apple juice and some rolls and cheese and lettuce outside and sit on the wicker chairs, looking out on the lawn. Mom bought the chairs at a sale last week, and we’ve covered them with some nice Indian cushions with little mirrors like cats’ eyes. Plus there’s an awning over the porch, whichwe’ve decorated with tie-dyed sarongs, so we have shade and atmosphere. Sometimes at night we eat out here, with candles and tall citronella flares stuck in the plant pots to keep away the mosquitoes. Mom says when she’s saved a bit we can have a party for Christmas.
    This is what Asim and I have been doing for two weeks now, sitting out here, watching the grass grow. When we finish eating, we kick a soccer ball, trying for a goal between the mango tree and the maple. Every day we look at the mangoes, and ask ourselves if those right at the top might be ripe. Neither of us has ever climbed a mango tree. I’ve got a feeling that today we might find out what it’s like.
    We go into the kitchen and find a big blue plastic bowl.
    â€œYou climb first,” says Asim. “I’ll hold the bowl.”
    I step up into the hollow near the base of the trunk where it splits off into three thick branches. The wood is smooth and cool under my bare feet but harder than I’d imagined. Hard as steel. Grabbing a thin shoot I lever my other foot onto a higher branch. Up close, I can see wrinkles where the branches bend. There are scars on the smooth gray skin, battle wounds. A green light wraps all around me, the sun filtered through the forest of lime leaves brushing my face.
    â€œCan you reach the mangoes?” Asim calls up.
    â€œAlmost.”
    Where smaller branches have been cut off there are growths like eyes, ringed one circle inside another. I stare, mesmerized. It’s like seeing into the eye of the tree, into its soul. As I look, I get the feeling some wizened creature, something wise like an owl or an ancient reptile, is holding its breath, looking out at me.
    â€œJackson?”
    â€œYou should come up!” I swing my other leg over and sitfor a moment in the heart of the tree. I’ve found a perfect seat. I could sit here forever; the silence is like a secret and I’m right inside it.
    But when I stand, everything is different. My heart starts to hammer. I’m up too high. I can see over the neighbor’s fence (the one who sneezes), right into her window. She’s on the telephone, talking about the new driveway she’s going to put in. Her voice is harsh like a red line. I hold on tight to the branch above me. Two, three, four mangoes are hanging near, but higher than my hand can reach. I go further, pulling myself up onto the next branch. Now my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. My feet must be almost ten feet above the ground!
    I’ve never been this high—well, only in the city, looking out from my window on Trenches Road, or an office block or something. But that’s so different, another world, with that firm floor under your feet fooling you into thinking it’s the ground. Here my toes can bend over the branch, into nothingness.
    I fix my eyes on the mangoes and count them out loud, equal-spaced, in common 4/4 time. If you chant numbers long enough they turn into pure rhythm, a song. I lean against the solid branch at my back. It feels rough but strong as a man’s arm. It doesn’t sway with my weight. I like that. I know it can hold me and suddenly I feel incredibly safe with the hard living wood under my feet and the naturally occurring set of four swinging above me and the common time spreading through my body like warm milk.
    The leaves rustle below me and I see Asim’s face poking up.
    â€œHi! Put your foot here and then swing over to that branch,” I say, pointing to my left. “You can sit there