My grandfather stood beside me and looked across the street, too. "No, Bryce," he said softly. "She's the same as she's always been; you're the one who's changed." He clapped his hand on my shoulder and whispered, "And, son, from here on out, you'll never be the same again."

She doesn't look the same, she doesn't sound the same, she doesn't even seem like the same person to me!" I stared out the window at the Bakers'. "She's... she's just different."

I liked her.
And every time I saw her, she seemed more beautiful. She just seemed to glow. I'm not talking like a hundred-watt bulb; she just had this warmth to her. Maybe it came from climbing that tree. Maybe it came from singing to chickens. Maybe it came from whacking at two-by-fours and dreaming about perpetual motion. I don't know. All I know is that compared to her, Shelly and Miranda seemed so... ordinary.

"Bryce?" she says, touching my arm again. "Did you hear me? I'm sorry."

I managed a nod, but my arm was tingling, and my heart was pounding, and I felt myself pulling toward her.

Just soaring above the earth, sailing among the clouds.

Then I began to notice how wonderful the breeze smelled. It smelled like ... sunshine. Like sunshine and wild grass and pomegranates and rain!

She just sat. Quiet.I told myself I should be glad about it — it was like she wasn't even there, and isn't that what I'd always wanted? But still, I felt bad. About her tree, about how she hurried off to eat by herself in the library at lunch, about how her eyes were red around the edges. I wanted to tell her, Man, I'm sorry about your sycamore tree, but the words never seemed to come out.