I'd never been embarrassed by where we lived before. I'd never looked at our house, or even our side of the street, and said, Oh! I wish we lived in the new development -- those houses are so much newer, so much better! This is where I'd grown up. This was my home.

Besides the yard, I also never really wondered about the money, or the apparent lack thereof.

I was aware of the yard, sure. My mother had grumbled about it for years. But it was a low grumbling, not worthy of deep concern. Or so I'd supposed. But maybe I should have wondered. Why let the outside go and keep the inside so nice? It was spotless inside our house. Except for the boys' room, that is. Mom gave up on that after she discovered the snake. If they were old enough to adopt a snake, she told my brothers, they were old enough to clean their own room. Matt and Mike translated this to keep the door closed, and became quite diligent about doing just that.

I knew we weren't rich, but I didn't feel like I was missing anything. Anything you could buy, anyway.

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.

Matt and Mike did ask for things a lot, but even though my mother would tell them, No, boys, we just can't afford that, I took this to mean, No, boys, you don't deserve that, or, No, boys, you don't really need that. It wasn't until Bryce called our home a complete dive that I started really seeing things.

Why was that? My father was the hardest-working man in the world, and my mother worked for TempService doing secretarial jobs whenever she could. What was all that hard work about if this is where it got you?

Asking my parents whether we were poor seemed incredibly impolite. But as the days went by, I knew I had to ask. Just had to. Every day I'd ride home from school on our rusty bike, pull past the broken fence and patchy yard, and think, Tonight. I'll ask them tonight.

I couldn't believe my ears. "What?"

Then one day I had an idea. A way to talk to them about it and maybe help out a little, too.

But then I wouldn't ask them. I just didn't know how.

"It's… it's not?"

"I know how to use a saw and a hammer -- it could be, you know, a project." My mother quit looking at me and stared at my father, instead.

He shook his head and said, "It's Mr. Finnegan's."

"Who's Mr. Finnegan?"

My father cleared his throat and said, "The landlord."

"The man who owns this house."

My father sighed and said, "The yard is not our responsibility, Julianna."

And since my brothers were working at the music store that night, and nobody was saying much of anything at the table, I took a deep breath and said, "I was thinking, you know, that it wouldn't be hard to fix up the front yard if I could get some nails and a hammer and maybe some paint? And how much does grass seed cost? It can't be that much, right? I could plant a lawn, and maybe even some flowers?" My parents stopped eating and stared at me.

"But what about the yard? Why keep up the inside but not the outside?"

They looked at each other, having some private wordless conversation I couldn't decipher.

"You mean we don't own this house?"

"But…"

Finally my father said, "I didn't realize you didn't know that."

Obviously that never happened." He shook his head. "It's a major undertaking, and fencing is not cheap. I can't see putting that sort of investment into a property that's not ours. Plus, it's the principle of the thing."

"But if --"

"Because," he sighed, "it's easier than asking him for help."

My mother reached over and took my hand. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry if this is a shock. I guess we always thought you knew."

"And," my father interrupted me, "it keeps him from raising the rent."

"But… but that doesn't make sense! Aren't landlords supposed to come and do things? Like fix the roof when it leaks and clear the drains when they're plugged? You always do that stuff, Dad. Why do you do it when he's supposed to?"

My father frowned and said, "When we signed the lease, he assured us he would fix the fences, front and back, and plant sod in the front yard.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "tell me."

My father studied me. "Julianna, what happened?"

I knew what he'd say if I told him, and yet I couldn't not tell him. Not with the way he was looking at me. So I took a deep breath and said, "The Loskis have been throwing my eggs away because they were afraid they'd have salmonella because our yard is such a mess."

"But we live here," I whispered, "and it looks so bad."

I looked down. "No, Bryce did."

"Nothing, Daddy," I said, but he knew I was lying.

My father said, "Oh, that's ridiculous," but my mother gasped, "What?" Then she cried, "Did Patsy say that?"

"Trina, you know I'm doing the best I can. I'm sorry about the yard, I'm sorry about the situation. This isn't the picture I had for my life, either, but sometimes you have to sacrifice for what's right."

"But it must've been a family discussion! A boy doesn't come up with that on his own…!" My mother looked for all the world like a doe waiting to be shot through the heart. She covered her face with her hands and said, "I can't go on like this! Robert, things have got to change. They've just got to!"

My mother looked up from her hands and said, "This is not right for our family. Your daughter is suffering because we won't fix up our own yard."

"It's not our yard."

My father let out a deep sigh and whispered, "We've discussed this so many times, Trina. In the end you always agree that keeping him at Greenhaven is the right thing to do."

Then in the back of my mind, it clicked. Everything clicked. It was my dad's brother they were talking about. My uncle. David.

"How can you say that? Robert, wake up! We have lived here for twelve years. It's not temporary anymore! If we ever want to have a decent place with our own yard, if we're going to help the kids through college or do any of the other things we've promised each other, we're going to have to move him into government care."

I wanted to say, Wait! What are you talking about? Who are you talking about? But the conversation was flying so fast and furious that I couldn't seem to break in, and it wasn't long before they were bickering so badly that it was almost like I wasn't there.

So we didn't talk about it. Not at home, not with friends. It was almost like there was no Uncle David.

To me Uncle David was only a name. Someone my parents had explained to me, but not someone I'd ever actually met. And even though I knew my dad visited him, I never knew exactly when. He never talked about it.

Until now. Now he felt larger than life, and I could tell from their argument that he was the reason we didn't have our own house; he was the reason we didn't have nice cars or fancy things. He was the reason there always seemed to be a cloud of weariness hanging over my parents.

You love each other! You do! But I just sat there with tears streaming down my face.

Dad also thought we shouldn't talk about Uncle David to others because David was retarded. "People jump to conclusions," he'd told me. "They assume that, by association, something must also be wrong with you. Trust me, I know."

Why did I have to bring up the yard in the first place? I'd never seen my parents fight like this. Ever. I wanted to grab them and say, Stop it! Stop it!

"I'm sorry, Julianna," my dad said, then reached over and held my forearm. "Don't cry. None of this is your fault. We'll work it out, I promise we will."

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.

My mother stopped suddenly and whispered, "We should not be doing this in front of her!"

That night my parents came into my room and talked to me, one at a time. My father talked about his brother and how much he loved him and how he'd promised his parents he'd always take care of him. My mother talked about how much she loved my father for his strength and kind heart, about dreams and reality, and the need to count your blessings. And she made me cry all over again when she kissed me goodnight and whispered that of all her many blessings, I was her best and brightest.

My mother tried to laugh through her tears, saying, "We always have, and we always will."

And in the morning, as I rode my rusty bike out the driveway to school, I promised myself that when I got home, I'd tackle the yard. Rented or not, this was our home, and I was going to help make living here better.

As it turns out, this was easier thought than done. First it took me half an hour of rummaging through the garage to find a hammer and a box of nails, a saw, and some pruners. Then it took another half hour of standing around to figure out just where to start. The actual yard was just clumps of weeds, but what about the bordering shrubs? Should I dig them up, or prune them way back? Were they shrubs, or just overgrown weeds? And what about the fence? Should I knock it down, or rebuild it? Maybe I should take out the front end entirely and use the wood to fix up the sides.

The longer I looked around, the more I felt like forgetting the whole thing. Why bother? It wasn't our property. Mr. Finnegan should be the one making repairs.

Half an hour later I was keeper of the knowledge that one bush equals many branches, and that the volume of a bush increases exponentially as it's cut and tossed into the middle of a yard. It was ridiculous! Where was I going to put all this stuff?

But then I remembered my mother's words from the night before. Surely, I thought, a few bushes and some dilapidated wood couldn't stop someone's best and brightest blessing! Surely not! And with that, I picked up the clippers and got to work.

By the end of that first day, what I'd made was a big mess. But if chaos is a necessary step in the organization of one's universe, then I was well on my way. At least that's what I tried to tell myself when I flopped into bed that night, dead tired.

"You didn't get that stubborn streak from me," she said, but came back outside with a glass of juice and a kiss for my cheek. Good enough for me!

The man standing on our sidewalk was Bryce's grandfather, I knew that much. But I'd only ever seen him outside one time. All the other times I'd seen him had been through windows -- either one in their sitting room or one in their car. To me he was just a dark-haired man behind glass. Having him appear on my sidewalk was like having someone from TV step through the screen and talk to you.

Mom came home and tried to talk me out of my mission, but I'd have none of it. Oh, no-no-no!

And the next afternoon I was busily expanding the chaos of my little universe when I heard a deep voice say, "That's quite an undertaking, young lady."

I'd already pruned two bushes down to a respectable size, and before long she'd see -- the place was going to look just dandy.

"I know we've seen each other from time to time," he was saying. "I'm sorry it's taken me over a year to come introduce myself. I'm Chester Duncan, Bryce's grandfather. And you, of course, are Julianna Baker."

He stuck out his hand, so I took off my work glove and watched my hand completely disappear inside his as we shook. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Duncan," I said, thinking that this man was way bigger than he looked from the sitting-room window.

Then the strangest thing happened. He pulled his own work gloves and a pair of clippers from a back pocket and said, "Are you pruning all of these to the same height?"

"Oh," I said. "Well, yes. That is what I was thinking. Although now I don't know. Do you think it would look better to just take them out?"

He shook his head and said, "They're Australian tea shrubs. They'll prune up nicely." And with that, he put on his gloves and started clipping.

At first I didn't know what to say to this man. It was very strange to be getting his help, but from the way he was acting, it was as though I shouldn't have thought a thing of it. Clip-clip-clip, he went, like this was something he really enjoyed doing.

He laughed and said, "Oh, I have no doubt about that," then got back to clipping. "You see, Julianna, I read about you in the paper, and I've lived across the street from you for over a year now. It's easy to see that you're a very competent person."

Then I remembered what Bryce had said about our yard, and suddenly I knew why he was there.

"N-no."

"What's the matter?" he asked, throwing his clippings into my pile. "Did I cut it down too far?"

"Well, I don't. I can do this by myself."

"Then why the look?" he asked. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought you might like a little help."

We both worked quietly for a minute, but I found myself throwing the clippings into the pile harder and harder. And before long I couldn't stand it. I just couldn't stand it! I spun on him and said, "You're here because you feel bad about the eggs, aren't you? Well, our eggs are perfectly fine! We've been eating them for nearly three years and none of us have gotten poisoned. Mrs. Stueby and Mrs. Helms seem in good health to me, too, and the fact of the matter is, if you didn't want them, you should've just told me so!"

His hands fell to his sides and he shook his head as he said, "Eggs? Poisoned? Julianna, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Inside I was so angry and hurt and embarrassed that I didn't even feel like me. "I'm talking about the eggs that I've been bringing over to your house for more than two years -- eggs that my chickens laid that I could've sold! Eggs that your family has been throwing away!" I was shouting at him. Shouting at an adult, like I'd never shouted at anyone in my entire life.

His voice got very quiet. "I'm sorry. I don't know about any eggs. Who did you give them to?"

"Bryce!" My throat choked closed as I said his name again. "Bryce."

Mr. Duncan nodded slowly and said, "Well," then went back to pruning his bush. "That probably explains it."

He sighed. "The boy still has a ways to go."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he's a very handsome boy, there's no denying that," he said with a frown. Then he snapped a branch and added, "The spitting image of his father."

I just stared at him, not trusting myself with the words sizzling on my tongue.

"That's right." He gave me a little smile and said, "Renée would've sat up in that tree with you. She would've sat there all night."

I just looked at him, straight in the eye.

"Your wife?"

He nodded, then said, "Because you remind me of my wife."

The last thing in the world I expected was to become friends with Bryce's grandfather. But by dinnertime I knew so much about him and his wife and the adventures they'd had together that it seemed like I'd known him for a very long time. Plus, all his stories made the work seem easy. When I went in for the night, the bushes were all pruned back, and except for the enormous heap in the center of the yard, things were already looking a whole lot better.

"Absolutely."

"Honestly?"

I shook my head. "Why are you over here, Mr. Duncan? If you don't think I need the help and you're not feeling bad about the eggs, then why would you do this?"

And with those two sentences, my anger vanished. "Really?"

He nodded. "And I miss her terribly." He tossed a branch into the heap and chuckled. "There's nothing like a head-strong woman to make you happy to be alive."

"She's… she died?"

I thought that was pretty interesting. And the next day during school I looked around at the people I'd known since elementary school, trying to figure out if they were more or less than the sum of their parts. Chet was right. A lot of them were less.

Chet taught me how to plumb a line for the pickets, how to hold a hammer down on the end of the handle instead of choking up on it, how to calculate an adjusted spacing for the pickets, and how to use a level to get the wood exactly vertical. We worked on the fence for days, and the whole time we worked we talked. It wasn't just about his wife, either. He wanted to know about the sycamore tree and seemed to understand exactly what I meant when I told about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. "It's that way with people, too," he said, "only with people it's sometimes that the whole is less than the sum of the parts."

The next day he was back. And when I smiled and said, "Hi, Mr. Duncan," he smiled back and said, "Call me Chet, won't you?" He looked at the hammer in my hand and said, "I take it we're starting on the fence today?"

But of all my classmates, the one person I couldn't seem to place was Bryce. Until recently I'd have said with absolute certainty that he was greater -- far greater -- than the sum of his parts. What he did to my heart was sheer, inexplicable magic.

But inexplicable was the operative word here. And as I looked across the room at him during math, I couldn't help feeling crushed all over again about how he'd thrown out my eggs. What kind of person would do that?

Then he looked my way and smiled, and my heart lurched. But I was mad at myself for it. How could I still feel this way after what he'd done?

Top of the list, of course, was Shelly Stalls. To look at her, you'd think she had everything, but there's not much solid underneath her Mount Everest hair. And even though she's like a black hole at sucking people in, it doesn't take them long to figure out that being friends with her requires fanning the flames of a wildfire ego.

I avoided him the rest of the day, but by the end of school there was a tornado inside me, tearing me up from one end to the other. I jumped on my bike and rode home faster than I ever had before. The right pedal clanked against the chain guard, and the whole bike rattled and squeaked, threatening to collapse into a pile of rusty parts.

He hesitated but didn't argue. Instead, he said, "I fell in love with her by mistake."

Chet appeared about ten minutes later. "My," he laughed, "you've got an enviable amount of energy today, don't you?"

"Oh, that's a tough one. Did you do poorly on a test?"

"Myself!"

"No! I…" I turned to him and said, "How did you fall in love with your wife?"

The tornado, however, was still going strong when I skidded to a halt in our driveway. So I transferred pedal power into painting power. I pried open the gallon of Navajo White my dad had bought me and started slopping paint around.

"No," I said, brushing back some hair with the back of my hand, "I'm just mad."

He poured some Navajo White into his can and smiled. "Ah," he said. "Boy problems."

"I do not have boy problems!"

"By mistake? What do you mean?"

He produced his own brush and an empty coffee can. "Uhoh. Who at?"

"I didn't intend to. At the time I was engaged to somebody else, and in no position to fall in love. Fortunately for me I saw how blind I'd been before it was too late."

"Blind?"

"Oh, don't be, that's all right." He shook his head and tried on a smile. "Besides, I wasn't thinking of Renée. I was thinking of someone else. Someone who's never been able to look beneath the surface. At this point I don't suppose I even want her to."

"Yes. My fiancée was very beautiful. She had the most magnificent brown eyes, and skin like an angel. And for a time all I could see was her beauty. But then… well, let's just say I discovered she wasn't a fraction of the person Renée was." He dipped his brush in the coffee can and stroked a picket with paint. "It's easy to look back and see it, and it's easy to give the advice, but the sad fact is, most people don't look beneath the surface until it's too late."

We were quiet a minute, but I could see Chet thinking. And from the furrow in his brow, I knew it had nothing to do with my problems. "I'm… I'm sorry I brought up your wife," I said.

Who was he talking about? I wanted to know! But I felt it would be crossing some line to ask, so we painted pickets in silence. 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."

When it was time to go in for dinner, I still didn't feel right, but at least the tornado was gone.

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?

Mom said Dad was working late, and since the boys were off with their friends, it was just the two of us. She told me that she and Dad had talked about it and that they both felt a little strange having Chet come over like he was. Maybe, she said, they should find a way to pay him for his help.

I told her I thought Chet would find that insulting, but the next day she went ahead and insulted him anyway. Chet said, "No, Mrs. Baker. It's been my pleasure to help out your daughter on this project," and wouldn't hear another word about it.

The week ended with my dad loading the back of his truck with all the clippings and scraps before he set off for work on Saturday morning. Then Chet and I spent the rest of the day hoeing up weeds and raking and readying the dirt for seeding.

"Oh, my daughter brought up the possibility at the dinner table last night. She thought that maybe you're fixing up the house because you're getting ready to sell it."

"Moving? Why do you say that?"

Just wait until I got my hands on the backyard! Then maybe I'd even paint the house. I could do it. I could.

It was on this last day that Chet asked, "Your family's not moving, are you?"

Chet was pretty quiet after I told him the story, and when Mom brought us out sandwiches at lunchtime, we sat on the porch and ate without saying a word. Then he broke the silence by nodding across the street and saying, "I don't know why he doesn't just come out and say hello."

Even though Chet and I had talked about a lot of things while we were working, I probably wouldn't have told him about Mr. Finnegan or Uncle David or why the yard was such a mess if he hadn't asked me about moving. But since he had, well, I wound up telling him everything. And it felt good to talk about it. Especially about Uncle David. It felt like blowing a dandelion into the wind and watching all the little seeds float off, up and away. I was proud of my parents, and looking around the front yard, I was proud of me, too.

"That's the third time I've seen him watching."

"Who?" I asked, then looked across the street to where he'd nodded. The curtain in Bryce's room moved quickly back into place, and I couldn't help asking, "Bryce?"

"Really?" My heart was fluttering about like a baby bird trying to fly.

I was happy to finally be planting the yard, but I couldn't help being distracted by Bryce's window. Was he watching? During the rest of the afternoon, I checked more often than I'd like to admit. And I'm afraid Chet noticed, too, because when we were all done and we'd congratulated each other on what was sure to be a fine-looking yard, he said, "He may be acting like a coward now, but I do hold out hope for the boy."

A coward? What on earth could I say to that? I just stood there with the hose in one hand and the spigot valve beneath the other.

He frowned and said, "Let's finish up and get that seed sown, shall we? You'll want the warmth of the day to help with the germination."

And with that, Chet waved so long and walked across the street.

I turned my back on him and concentrated on watering the yard. What a fool I was! What a complete idiot! And I had just built up a nice head of angry steam when I heard, "It's looking good, Juli. Nice job."

It was Bryce, standing right there on our driveway. And suddenly I wasn't mad at me anymore. I was mad at him. How could he stand there like my supervisor and tell me, Nice job? He had no business saying anything after what he'd done.

A few minutes later I saw Bryce coming down the sidewalk toward his house. I did a double take. All this time I'd thought he was inside the house watching, and he was really outside walking around? I was embarrassed all over again.

I was about to hose him down when he said, "I'm sorry for what I did, Juli. It was, you know… wrong."

I looked at him -- into those brilliant blue eyes. And I tried to do what Chet had said -- I tried to look past them. What was behind them? What was he thinking? Was he really sorry? Or was he just feeling bad about the things he'd said? It was like looking into the sun, though, and I had to turn away.

He'd come over to our house. He'd stood on our driveway. He'd said nice things. We'd laughed.

I couldn't tell you what we talked about after that, except that he was nice to me and he made me laugh. And after he left, I shut off the water and went inside feeling very, very strange.

The rest of the evening I bounced back and forth between upset and uneasy. The worst part being, I couldn't really put my finger on what exactly I was upset or uneasy about. Of course it was Bryce, but why wasn't I just mad? He'd been such a… scoundrel. Or happy? Why wasn't I just happy?

It took me until nearly midnight to understand what it was. It was me. Watching me.

But I wasn't mad or happy. And as I lay in bed trying to read, I realized that upset had been overshadowed by uneasy. 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.