Odd, Weird & Little Read online

  Other Books by Patrick Jennings

  Guinea Dog

  Lucky Cap

  Invasion of the Dognappers

  My Homework Ate My Homework

  Guinea Dog 2

  EGMONT

  We bring stories to life

  First published by Egmont USA, 2014

  443 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2014 Patrick Jennings

  All Rights Reserved

  This novel is based on the short story “Odd, Weird, and Little,” by Patrick Jennings, which originally appeared in Storyworks magazine, January 2009.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jennings, Patrick.

  Odd, weird, and little / Patrick Jennings.

  1 online resource.

  Summary: Befriending a very strange new student, Toulouse, helps outsider Woodrow stand up to the class bullies who have been picking on them both. Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-375-8 (EBook) — ISBN 978-1-60684-374-1 (hardcover)

  [1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. Eccentrics and eccentricities—Fiction. 3. Bullies—Fiction. 4. Middle schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J4298715

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013021135

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  v3.1

  For Peter and Tate, Original, Wise, and Loopy

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Our New Student

  2. Weirder Than Woody

  3. Learning to Watercolor

  4. Outside

  5. Walking Up a Tree

  6. Logwood Sings

  7. Obtuse

  8. Wire, Feathers, and Hooks

  9. Ladder to Nowhere

  10. Ottoless

  11. Weirdness Factor

  12. Latin

  13. On Surviving Day One

  14. Willow

  15. Lynn

  16. Out Here

  17. Weird Is Normal

  18. Loyalty

  19. Okay

  20. Works Like a Charm

  21. Lenny the Magnet Boy

  22. Ooh-LOW

  23. Winding and Unwinding

  24. Lion Eats Most of Boy

  25. Our Zone

  26. Wink

  27. Little Weirdo

  28. Only Friend

  29. Wood

  30. Lunch

  31. Odd, Weird, and Little

  About the Author

  1. Our New Student

  The new kid walks in.

  “Excuse me, class,” Mr. Logwood says. “Our new student has arrived. His name is Toulouse, and he just moved here from Quebec, which is a province of Canada. A province is like a state. His first language is French, but I’m told he’s learning English quickly.” He smiles down at the new boy.

  None of us smile. We just stare at Toulouse.

  He’s short. Real short. Kindergartner short. And he’s wearing a gray suit with thin black stripes. And a black tie. Tell me that isn’t weird—a kid wearing a suit and tie to school. Plus, he’s wearing tiny, round wire-rimmed glasses over his very large, round eyes. And an old-man hat. And black leather gloves. And he’s carrying a black briefcase. He kind of looks like my great-grandpa, only smaller. Way smaller.

  This is an extremely weird kid. Definitely weirder than me. Probably the weirdest in our school. Maybe the weirdest on earth.

  I glance over at Garrett Howell. He’s grinning. Probably dreaming of terrible things to do to poor Toulouse.

  I know what Garrett is capable of. I’ve been one of his victims for years now. Why? Maybe because I have orange hair and an overbite. I’m also clumsy, and sometimes I can’t speak clearly, especially when I’m stressed. My words get all jammed up. I don’t like dodgeball, tetherball, chasing games, or making fun of people. I do like to read books. I also keep lots of stuff in my pockets. I like to make things out of duck tape, and occasionally I wear things I make out of it: wristbands, bow ties, caps.… I insist on calling it duck tape, not duct tape, which is what most people call it. It was invented during World War II to waterproof ammunition. Waterproof. Duck. Duck tape.

  I don’t think any of this makes me weird. Compared to Toulouse, I’m practically normal.

  “How … do … you … pronounce … your … last … name, Toulouse?” Mr. Logwood asks, as if pausing after every word will help the kid understand a foreign language. He writes Toulouse’s full name on the whiteboard: “Toulouse Hulot.”

  Toulouse Hulot doesn’t answer. He just stares.

  “That’s … okay,” Mr. Logwood says. “You … can … tell … us … later. Would … you … like … to … hang … up … your … hat … and … coat?”

  Toulouse shakes his head. Some of the kids giggle.

  “That’s … fine,” Mr. Logwood says, though you’re not allowed to wear a hat indoors at our school.

  Mr. Logwood leads Toulouse over to our group. Toulouse stares at us, one at a time, his head swiveling, his eyes frozen in their sockets. It’s creepy.

  “Toulouse will be in your group, people. Please introduce yourselves and help him feel at home.” Mr. Logwood turns and walks away.

  “Hi, I’m Monique,” Monique Whitlow says.

  “Ursula,” says Ursula Lowry.

  “Garrett,” Garrett says, sticking out his hand like he wants to shake.

  His henchman, Hubcap Ostwinkle, whose real name is Vitus Ostwinkle, snickers.

  Garrett’s up to something. Joy buzzer? Death grip? Did he slobber into his palm? I would not put anything past the guy.

  When Toulouse holds out his gloved hand, Garrett jerks his own back and runs his fingers smoothly through his stubbly hair. The fake-out handshake. Never funny.

  I take Toulouse’s hand and shake it. His glove is soft and sewn together with heavy black stitches. There’s something strange about the way his hand feels inside it, as if it’s too small, too light. His bones feel thin and fragile. I grip his hand gently, just in case.

  “I’m …,” I say, then momentarily forget my name. “Woodrow Schwette?” I say it like a question.

  Hubcap snorts like a donkey. Donkey is a polite word for what he is.

  Toulouse makes a little bow in my direction. Which is odd, but also sort of classy.

  He hops up onto his chair. His feet don’t reach the floor.

  “Name’s Hubcap,” Hubcap says. “You’re really short, kid.”

  So rude.

  “Please take out your writing notebooks, class,” Mr. Logwood announces. “Today we are going to write about how it might feel to be a new student in a new classroom. Of course, Toulouse, you … can … write … about … how … it … does … feel … to … be … a … new … student.”

  Toulouse sets his briefcase on his desk, unsnaps its two silver buckles, and takes out a small, square black bottle, a white feather, and a book with a plain black cover. He unscrews the top of the bottle and dips the pointy end of the feather into it.

  Monique and Ursula stare at him like he just climbed out of a flying saucer. Ursula actually points.

  Toulouse opens the black book and begins writing. It must be a journal of some kind. The feather—a quill?—makes scratchy noises as he drags it across the paper. He stops every few words or so to redip.

  Nobody e
lse writes. We all watch him. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.

  No doubt about it: he’s weird. But in a weirdly cool way.

  2. Weirder Than Woody

  At recess everyone is talking about Toulouse.

  Everyone but me. I’m not talking to anyone, nor is anyone talking to me. They’re all talking together by the swing set, and I’m hanging by my knees from the climbing structure next to them, the one that’s a ladder that goes up, then bends horizontally, then bends back down, ending up on the ground again. Climb it and you end up no higher than you started. A pointless ladder. A ladder to nowhere.

  I do listen, though.

  Monique says, “He never speaks.”

  Ursula: “He doesn’t speak English.”

  Monique: “He has a briefcase.”

  Ursula: “He keeps an ink bottle in his briefcase.”

  Garrett: “He wears a suit.”

  Hubcap: “Yeah! And a tie.”

  Ursula: “His eyes are huge.”

  Monique: “He’s little.”

  Ursula: “He’s odd.”

  Garrett: “He’s seriously weird. Look at him!”

  Hubcap: “Yeah, look at him!”

  He points at a tree at the edge of the playground. Toulouse is perched on a high branch, reading.

  I jump down from the Ladder to Nowhere and walk over to Toulouse’s tree. He’s holding an old hardcover book, the kind without a jacket. It looks enormous in his tiny lap.

  “Excuse me? Toulouse?” I call to him. “I’m Woodrow? You know … from … I’m in your group?”

  He looks up from his book and says, “Who?” It’s the first word I’ve heard him say. His voice is whispery and hollow. Kind of ghostlike. Kind of flutey. Kind of spooky.

  “Woodrow?” I say again. “I’m in … I sit next … you don’t remember?”

  He nods yes, then sits waiting for me to say something else. The problem is that I don’t have anything else. Striking up conversations is not something I’m good at.

  So we stare at each other for a while.

  Quite a while.

  Then at last I think of something to say.

  “I like your hat.”

  He nods thank you.

  “What’s that you’re reading?” I ask. I’m warming up.

  He turns the book toward me, though I’m not sure why. I can’t possibly read its title from way down here.

  “Is it good?”

  He nods yes.

  I run out of things to say again, so we go back to staring.

  In time, the bell rings. Toulouse doesn’t move.

  “That means it’s time to … you know … go in?”

  I look away, point to the students all rushing to get in line. When I look back, he’s not on his branch anymore. I gasp. I mean, the guy was really high. Did he fall?

  No. He’s standing next to me. How did he get down so fast?

  We walk together toward the others. Toulouse comes up to my elbow, even with his hat on.

  “Hey, Woody!” Garrett howls. “I think you finally found someone weirder than you!”

  He always calls me Woody. He’s the only one who does, except Hubcap, who repeats everything Garrett says.

  “Yeah, Woody!” Hubcap echoes. “Even weirder than you!”

  Toulouse seems calm, like being insulted doesn’t bother him. I’ve lived in this country since I was born, and have gone to Uwila Elementary since kindergarten, and I still get upset when Garrett taunts me. I’m impressed how Toulouse doesn’t let him ruffle his feathers.

  “Ignore them,” I whisper.

  “Who?” he says.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  3. Learning to Watercolor

  After recess is art. Ms. Wolf sets a big basket filled with fruit and flowers on a stool in the center of the room—a still life, she calls it—and we sit in a circle and paint it.

  She’s been trying to show us how to use watercolors properly. She says we shouldn’t swirl our brushes in the plastic jar of water then go straight to the tiny hockey pucks of paint. That just makes a mess and blends all the colors into a dull, dark purplish-brown. What we’re supposed to do is dip the tip of our brush into the water, dab away most of the water on a piece of paper towel, go to the pucks for paint, then mix it on the plastic plate with the little compartments. Once we have the color we want, we brush it on the paper.

  For most of us, though, the fun isn’t in painting the fruit and flowers. It’s in swirling our brushes in the jar of water and watching the colors change, then slopping the water onto the pucks and watching the paint run and mix. The fun is in making a sloppy, colorful mess.

  Most of our paintings are dark purplish-brown puddles. Our sheets of paper are soaked and pucker and start to peel. But we don’t mind. We’re expressing ourselves, which Ms. Wolf is always telling us we should do. We express ourselves in messes.

  Ms. Wolf hurries around the classroom in her apron, complaining. “No, no, that’s too much!… Easy does it!… One color at a time!… Get more paper towels! Quickly!”

  In the middle of this chaos, I notice Toulouse, sitting off by himself, next to the window. There isn’t enough room for an extra kid at the tables. We have a big class.

  Toulouse’s paper is sitting upright on a little wooden tripod, an easel, that he got out of his briefcase. Who carries an easel in a briefcase? Who carries an easel, period? Or a briefcase? Toulouse carefully dips his brush into the jar of water, dabs it on a folded paper towel, touches the tip to one of the color pucks, mixes it in one of the plastic plate compartments, then paints. I can’t see his picture from where I’m sitting, and we’re not supposed to get out of our seats. I’d really like to see it, but rules are rules.

  When it’s nearly time to go, Ms. Wolf says, “Okay, class, please begin cleaning up. Carefully.”

  All of us stop painting at once and dunk our brushes deep into the jars to clean them. We swish them violently. Hubcap knocks over the one on our table. Ursula squeals. Monique snatches her painting and holds it over her head so it won’t get wet. I doubt a little water could make it look any worse.

  We are now allowed to leave our seats, but only to carry our paintings over to the windowsill and lay them out to dry. After I do, I walk over to Toulouse. He’s carefully drying his brushes with sheets of paper towel.

  “I love your easel,” I say, then glance at his painting. It is so good! You can actually see the pears and apples and the pink flowers and the basket they’re sitting in. They look almost real. Not like a photograph, though. They look realer.

  “Toulouse!” I say, then can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Look at Toulouse’s painting!” Monique says.

  The noise level in the room drops, and people start wandering over.

  “Keep cleaning up now!” Ms. Wolf says, clapping her hands. “We’re not finished! Clean up, please!”

  “Ms. Wolf!” Monique says. “You have to come see Toulouse’s painting!”

  “Later, Monique,” Ms. Wolf says. She picks up two Mason jars of water, one in each hand. “Everyone now! Please keep cleaning up!”

  “But Ms. Wolf,” Ursula says, after she’s looked at Toulouse’s painting, “you really should look. It’s amazing.”

  “Ursula, you really should be cleaning,” Ms. Wolf replies. “I’ll look at it after we’ve finished.”

  No one is listening to her. Everyone has slowly gathered around Toulouse’s picture. When Ms. Wolf sees this, she stomps over, sloshing the water in the jars she’s holding.

  “Really, children, you need to be—”

  She sees Toulouse’s painting. Her mouth falls open, and the jars of dark purplish-brown water crash to the floor.

  4. Outside

  “Did you see his painting?” Monique asks Ursula on the playground after lunch. Ursula and Monique are swinging on swings.

  Ursula: “Yes. It was a masterpiece. Like a Rembrandt.”

  Monique: “More like a Matisse.”

  H
ubcap: “What’s that?”

  Ursula: “Don’t you remember? Ms. Wolf showed us paintings of his. The ones with the fruit?”

  Garrett: “I don’t get painting fruit. By the time you finish it, it’s rotten and you can’t eat it.”

  Hubcap: “Right! This Matisse guy must have wasted a lot of food!”

  Monique: “The fruit was plastic.”

  Ursula: “So were the flowers.”

  Monique: “Toulouse’s painting was as good as Matisse’s.”

  Ursula: “I don’t know. Matisse was a great artist. Toulouse is just a kid.”

  Garrett: “Just a weird kid.”

  Hubcap: “Exactly. Weird.”

  Monique: “You’re just jealous.”

  Garrett: “Jealous? Of being able to paint fruit?”

  Hubcap: “Who wants to paint fruit?”

  Garrett: “Not me.”

  Hubcap: “Me, neither.”

  Ursula: “Did you see Toulouse hop up on the supply cabinet?”

  Garrett: “Yeah, the scaredy-cat.”

  Hubcap: “Scaredy-cat! Afraid of a little water!”

  Monique: “He wasn’t afraid. He was protecting his painting.”

  Garrett: “He was chicken.”

  Monique: “Which is he: a chicken or a cat?”

  Hubcap: “Both! Right, Garrett?”

  Garrett: “Yeah, both. Plus, he’s weird.”

  Ursula: “Maybe he’s a genius.”

  Garrett: “A genius? How can he be a genius when he can’t even talk?”

  Hubcap: “Yeah! He can’t even talk!”

  Ursula: “He can talk. He just can’t speak English.”

  Garrett: “And what kind of name is Toulouse? ‘To lose,’ more like.”

  Hubcap: “Yeah! ‘To be a loser’! Right, Garrett?”

  Garrett: “Right. Let’s play some tetherball, Hub.”

  Hubcap: “Lead the way.”

  They walk away, laughing and punching and elbowing each other.

  Monique and Ursula keep swinging. Monique glances up at me as she reaches my height. I’m sitting on the Ladder to Nowhere, eavesdropping.

  “Maybe they, like …,” I say. “Maybe in Quebec … they teach watercolor … teach kids how to … you know … paint … really young … maybe in kindergarten,” I say.