The Book of Trees by Leanne Lieberman Read Free Book Online Page B

“That lame boy band?”
    “My dad sold a song to the people who put the band together.”
    “Ouch.”
    “Yeah, well, he was sick of driving the folk-music circuit, and selling the song gave him enough to retire.”
    “Sweet.” He nodded and continued down the street.
    I had a sudden urge to ask Andrew if I could borrow his guitar and play him Don’s tree song. “My father’s other songs are very beautiful. There’s one about a tree.”
    “You should play one for me.”
    “I’m more into banjo.”
    His eyes widened. “Unusual choice.”
    “My dad bought one for me. He gave my brother Flip a mandolin.”
    “What are you guys, the Partridge Family?” He flashed me a smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up. I couldn’t help smiling back.
    We crossed King David Street and headed up the hill into the Russian Compound, an area of bars and cafés surrounding a large Russian Orthodox Church.
    Andrew gestured toward some seats outside a bar.
    “Do you mind if we sit inside, out of the sun?” I didn’t want anyone from school to see me at a bar. With a guy.
    He shrugged and we went inside. He sat loose and relaxed: legs spread, hips tilted, thumbs casually hooked through the belt loops of his jeans. Out of the glare I studied him. He had a thin, angular face. I could tell he’d broken his nose, maybe more than once. He wore one small stud in his ear, and I could see the scar from an old eyebrow ring.
    I felt my forehead muscles ease. I hadn’t been in a bar like this—dim, wooden tables, black graffiti-covered walls—since I had become religious. When Don didn’t come back from his cottage, I’d shoved my banjo and guitar in the basement and given up playing.
    We sat at a scratched wooden table, and I studied the band posters. I wanted to shake out my hair, run my fingers through it, maybe lean one elbow on the table and prop up my chin.
    A waitress with dyed blond hair and too-tight jeans eyed me from behind her thick-rimmed glasses as she took my order for lemonade. Andrew ordered a beer, and I wished I had done the same. I could almost taste the sweet bitter liquid.
    “So, the banjo, huh?”
    I nodded. “My dad has this thing about the South, old-timey stuff. He’s from West Virginia.”
    “You’re not from there.”
    “No,” I laughed. “Toronto. You?”
    “Portland. More recently this beach on the Oregon coast. So you’re giving out sandwiches. That’s what you do.”
    “One thing.” I laughed self-consciously.
    “It’s a good thing.”
    “I’m here studying at a yeshiva—that’s a Jewish seminary—to learn Torah.”
    The waitress brought our drinks. I drained mine and stirred the ice with a straw.
    Andrew leaned back in his chair, looking intently at me. “Sounds interesting.”
    “Some of it is.”
    “And the rest?”
    I sighed and leaned back in my chair, fiddled with my straw. “It’s very fragmented and detail-oriented. I’m more of a big-picture person.” Again I wanted to play with my hair, prop my feet on the rungs of Andrew’s chair.
    “So stop going.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it’ll get better.” A giggle rose up my throat. “I’m…”
    He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. “You’re what?”
    “I’m playing hooky right now.”
    “Huh,” he drawled, “aren’t you a crazy girl.”
    We both started to laugh. I signaled for the waitress and ordered a beer.
    By four o’clock I’d learned Andrew had been traveling through Turkey when he became friends with this Dutch guy who suggested they take a boat to Israel. He’d been here three months. He busked afternoons, did a few shifts moving stuff at the Israel Art Museum and lived in a hostel near Zion Gate in the Old City. He had no siblings, and his mother, the only relative he mentioned, lived in Portland. Before traveling, he’d worked in a lab doing drug trials. He liked to surf.
    “Why busking?” I asked.
    “Why not? You could join me, teach me some bluegrass. We’ll be a