A Sleepover Above the Bakery

Tik. Tik. Tik. Rain tapped on a hundred roofs at once, and Kai stood at the bottom of the tall brick building with his blue suitcase in one paw. He was a small bear cub with one ear that flopped over and a suitcase he had packed all by himself. The bakery door swung open and a warm puff of air came out: bread, and wet pavement, and a little bit of cinnamon.

Tonight was Kai's first sleepover away from home. Six floors up, at the very top of the building, lived Grandma Maple. Kai counted the windows until he found hers. It was the highest square of warm yellow light on the whole street.

"Six floors," Kai told his suitcase. "Six whole floors." He pushed the button and the elevator doors opened with a soft clack. Inside, it smelled of raincoats and old buttons and somebody's supper. There was a little mirror and a row of numbers on buttons. Kai pressed the six. Then he pressed it again, just to be sure.

Up went the elevator, up and up, slow as a beetle climbing a hill.

Grandma Maple was waiting on the landing with her apron on and her glasses pushed up on her head. "There's my bear," she said. "My goodness. That suitcase is nearly as big as you are."

"It has my pillow in it," said Kai. "And my storybook. And my green socks. And raisins, in case I get hungry at midnight." He held up his flashlight. "And this, in case your dark is darker than mine."

Grandma Maple laughed, a low warm laugh like a kettle just before it sings. "Then we're all set," she said. "Wipe your paws and come in out of that rain."

The apartment smelled of toast and lavender. There was a squishy sofa with a blanket over the back of it, a table with a blue teapot, and one wide window that looked out over all the roofs. Next to the window stood a little bed with a quilt and three pillows, made up just for Kai.

On the shelf by the window were seven smooth stones, a shell shaped like a little boat, and a picture of Grandma Maple when she was a cub, standing in front of a plum tree with her paws on her hips.

"That's your bed," said Grandma Maple. "And that hook by the door is for your suitcase, so you always know exactly where it is."

Kai hung the suitcase on the hook. It swung once, gently, and stopped. He felt quite grown up. Then he felt a small wobble in his tummy, like a pea rolling about in a bowl, so he hurried back to Grandma Maple's elbow.

"Can I see the roof?" he asked. "Please?"

"Boots," said Grandma Maple. "Coat. Then we'll go up and say good evening to everything."

The rooftop garden was through a door that hummed when the wind pushed at it. Out there everything was wet and shining. Tomato plants sat in fat pots. A bench waited with a cushion on it. A low wall went all the way around, so nobody could go anywhere but the garden, and beyond the wall the whole city blinked and glowed.

And in the corner, near the gutter, stood a little plum tree in a big blue pot with wheels on the bottom. Its leaves hung down like tired hands.

"That's Plummy," said Grandma Maple. "I keep the pot where the gutter drips. Listen."

Kai listened. Tik. Tik. Tik. Rain ran off the roof, down the spout, and fell into the pot, one fat drop at a time.

"It's having a drink," he whispered.

"It's always thirsty," said Grandma Maple. "Trees drink slowly, so I let the rain do the work, and I just keep the pot in the right spot. Plummy's only little. A tree this small needs somebody to think about it."

A snail was climbing the rim of the blue pot, slow and shiny. "Is it eating the tree?" Kai asked.

"Snails are polite," said Grandma Maple. "They like wet weather, and they take one leaf between them, never all of it. That one's just visiting. Say hello."

"Hello, snail," said Kai. The snail thought about it and put out one of its horns.

Rain plinked on the tomato pots and pinged on the watering can, and Kai tipped his face up and let one cold drop land right on his nose. "It's a good roof," he said, and Grandma Maple said, "It's my favorite roof in the city."

Then Kai filled a small green watering can that was just his size and tipped it over the soil. The soil went dark and soft and smelled like the underneath of the garden. "There you go," he said. Then he gave the blue pot two big pushes to the left, so the plum tree could see the lights of the city like everybody else.

"Hmm," said Grandma Maple, and she smiled her slow smile. "Come and have some supper."

Supper was bread from the bakery downstairs, toasted, with honey running off the edges. Kai had two slices. Grandma Maple had three, because, she said, she was bigger and had a lot more growing to do. Kai swung his feet under the chair, because they didn't reach the floor.

"Grandma," said Kai, "did you ever have a sleepover?"

"My very first one was at my grandpa's house," she said. "I cried into my pillow, and he made me a hot drink with far too much honey in it. Much too much. It was horrible." She wiped honey off her thumb. "I drank every drop."

Kai giggled so hard he had to put his bread down. Then the rain got quieter, and quieter, and stopped altogether, and the city went still.

And Kai's tummy went wobbly again, out of nowhere, the way tummies do.

He looked at the bed with the three pillows, and it didn't look like his bed. The window didn't look like his window. He pressed his nose to his pillow, but it smelled of lavender instead of home, and the quiet was too big and too round and it filled the whole room.

"Grandma," he said, very small. "What if I'm not good at sleepovers?"

Grandma Maple didn't say don't be silly. She pulled her chair a little closer and put her warm paw next to his.

"First nights feel like a boat," she said. "The floor doesn't quite stay still under you, and the pillows smell wrong, and everything is a bit too quiet. Most bears feel wobbly. I know I did. And then, do you know what happened?"

"What?" said Kai.

"I fell asleep," said Grandma Maple. "You can't help it. You can try to stay awake all night, but the blankets win."

Kai giggled. His tummy stopped feeling like a pea in a bowl and started feeling like a tummy again. Then he sat up straight. "Grandma. Listen."

Pitter. Patter. The rain was back, gentle and steady, drumming on the roof above their heads. And Kai remembered something.

"The tree!" he said. "I pushed Plummy away from the spout. Two big pushes. It isn't under the drip anymore, and it's little, and it's thirsty."

Grandma Maple was already reaching for the big yellow umbrella by the door. "Boots," she said. "Coat. Quickly, before the rain gets tired and goes to bed."

They went up the short stair and out into the soft, dark wet. Grandma Maple held the umbrella over them both, and Kai held the handle of the green watering can, even though the can was empty and he only wanted something to hold. His boots squelched. One puddle wobbled on the roof like a plate of soup, and he stepped in it once, on purpose.

The blue pot stood where Kai had left it, out in the middle of the roof, and Plummy's leaves looked droopier than ever. Kai put both paws on the pot and Grandma Maple put her paws next to his, and together they pushed. The little wheels squeaked. Rrrr. Rrrr. Rrrr. The snail held on.

Then, tik. Tik. Tik. The spout found the pot again, and the rain began to fall right into it, one drop at a time.

"Oh," said Kai. He knelt down and put his ear close to the soil. "Listen to that. It's having a big drink. It's having the biggest drink in the whole city."

"Look," said Grandma Maple, and she pointed. Two leaves had lifted up, just a little, like a small bear lifting its ears.

They sat on the bench under the umbrella, close enough that their sleeves touched, and watched the windows of the city. "That one's going dark," said Kai, pointing. "And that one. And that one."

"I count them every night," said Grandma Maple. "When the last window on the street goes dark, it's time for sleeping."

So they counted. "Eleven," said Kai. "Twelve. Twenty-eleven."

"Twenty-eleven is my favorite number," said Grandma Maple.

The rain tapped on a hundred roofs, soft as a paw on a blanket, and the little plum tree drank and drank and drank.

Back inside, Grandma Maple made a hot drink with honey in it, and this time she measured the honey with a spoon, and it was just right. Kai put on his pajamas, which were warm because she had left them on the radiator. He climbed into the bed with the three pillows, and she pulled the quilt up to his chin.

"Grandma," he said, "if I wake up in the night, I'll listen for the tik-tik-tik. That's Plummy having a drink. And that means everything is all right."

"That's right," said Grandma Maple. "And I'm just through that door, me and the teapot."

Kai yawned so wide that his ear that flopped lifted up and flopped down again. The last window on the street went dark. Outside, the rain kept falling, tik, tik, tik, and the little plum tree drank and drank.

And in the morning, every leaf would be standing up.

Goodnight, Plummy. Goodnight, windows. Goodnight, rain.