The tree is a big old walnut tree, about thirty feet high. The action figure, a terrible replica of me, with a black cape and an S on the shirt, hangs from a branch about three quarters of the way to the top. Twenty feet up. Sure. I can do this.
“You don’t have to do this,” whispers Ginny.
She’s pulled me aside. She actually looks concerned for me, which makes me worry what my face looks like. Bean, the little bully Redge, Bean’s grandpa, and an angsty-looking teen named Finick are all here. The grandma is back from the store and in the kitchen making pickles and lemonade for “the show.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I wipe at a line of sweet running down my face.
Granted, when I saw the height of the tree I wanted to turn around and run. I never climbed trees as a kid. And whenever I climbed in
