Odd, Weird & Little Page 2

  Monique shrugs, glances away, then, having hit the peak of her swing, drops backward and away.

  5. Walking Up a Tree

  I climb down from the Ladder and walk over to Toulouse’s tree.

  I have to tilt my head to see him. He’s sitting on the same branch with his briefcase open in his lap. He peeks around it and looks down at me. Ursula’s right about one thing: he has huge eyes. Even from this distance they’re weirdly big.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Who?” he says.

  Maybe who is hi in French?

  “It’s me, Woodrow. Can I come up?”

  He stares a few seconds, long enough to make me feel uneasy, then blinks a couple of times. Is that a yes?

  I reach up for the lowest branch, but it’s too high. I hop for it. Nope. How did Toulouse reach it?

  I pull some cord out of my pocket. It’s good to keep some nylon cord with you. You never know when it will come in handy. I have a coil of about four feet in length. I found this piece in our backyard. It’s probably part of somebody’s old clothesline. It’s pale yellow and fraying, but it’s still strong.

  I tie one end around a flat stone, then fling it up at the branch. It passes over and swings back down and conks me in the forehead. I see stars for a while, but then I’m all right.

  I untie the stone and wrap the ends of the cord around my hands a few times, then tug them till they’re taut, and begin walking up the tree trunk, Batman-style. The bark is slipperier than I thought it’d be, though. I try walking faster, but I get no higher. I’m speed skating horizontally on a tree trunk. Meanwhile, the cord tightens and starts cutting into my hands. Above me, where it’s rubbing against the branch, it starts to split. Finally, it snaps, and I fall to the ground. I land on my back with a thud.

  I don’t see stars. I see leaves, branches, and bits of sky. I think you see stars only when you get hit on the head. The fall knocked the air out of me, though. I just stay flat on my back, close my eyes, and wait for my breath to return.

  “Woodrow?”

  He knows my name.

  I open my eyes, and he’s standing right next to me. How does he do that?

  “I’m all right,” I tell him. “Well, not all right … but I’m … I’m not badly injured or anything.”

  His head tilts slightly, like he’s confused.

  “I fall all the time,” I say. “My body’s … used to it.”

  I’m lucky I fell on my back, since most of the stuff I’m carrying is stuffed into my front pockets. The metal pencil sharpener, for example, and a couple of small rolls of duck tape, an empty mint tin, and a Ticonderoga, which is my favorite pencil. I do have one roll of red duck tape in my back pocket, however, which didn’t feel good to land on.

  Toulouse reaches out a gloved hand. He’s holding his briefcase in his other one.

  I gently take his hand and pretend to let him pull me to a sitting position. I doubt he could do it. He’s pretty short.

  “Thanks. Sorry I … you know … interrupted your lunch.” I point at his case.

  He just stares, like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

  “Your … lunch?” I say. Now I sound like Mr. Logwood. I pretend I’m eating by moving my hand to my mouth and making biting and chewing motions. “Lunch? Meal? Food? I’m sorry?”

  He lets go of my hand and takes a watch from his pocket that is attached to his vest by a chain. He squeezes it, and the brass cover pops open, which is cool. He reads the time and nods, then snaps the watch shut and slips it back in his pocket. He looks at the building.

  The bell rings.

  I get to my feet and try to reach around to brush the dirt off my back. Toulouse removes a little whisk broom from inside his jacket and helps me out. The guy has cool stuff.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He stops brushing and puts the whisk broom back in his coat.

  “Your still life was …” I can’t think of the right word to describe what I think his painting was. It was amazing, beautiful, and surprising. Is there one word for all that?

  He stares at me. I swear his eyes are as big and round as the roll of tape in my back pocket.

  “It was … you know … it was super-something … not super-duper … super … um … uh … superb?”

  He gives me a little bow. He understands.

  I bow back.

  6. Logwood Sings

  “Ms.… Wolf … tells … me … you … are … quite … the … artist,” Mr. Logwood says to Toulouse when we’re back in the classroom.

  Toulouse doesn’t answer.

  “He’s an amazing artist,” Monique says. “You should see his painting.”

  “Of fruit,” Garrett says under his breath.

  Hubcap snickers.

  “Respect, gentlemen,” Mr. Logwood says. “Do you need me to sing it for you?”

  “No!” Garrett and Hubcap say in unison.

  The song Mr. Logwood sings is an old one my parents listen to sometimes. Mr. Logwood doesn’t sing very well, though.

  “Then please get out your math materials while I collect some for Toulouse.”

  “Who?” Toulouse says at the mention of his name.

  Garrett and Hubcap snicker.

  Mr. Logwood begins singing the old song.

  “Okay! Sorry! Sorry!” Garrett says.

  Hubcap: “Yeah, we’re so sorry!”

  Mr. Logwood ends the song. “Math materials, gentlemen,” he says, then gets some for Toulouse.

  We’ve been studying shapes. Triangles. Polygons. Quadrilaterals. When Toulouse gets today’s handout, which is called, “Greater Than Right: Obtuse Angles,” he opens his briefcase and takes out: a steel ruler with etched markings and a cork backing; a steel protractor (also etched); a pink rubber eraser; and three yellow, unsharpened pencils (Ticonderogas!). I dig the sharpener out of my pocket. It’s a heavy, bronze cylinder (speaking of geometric shapes …) about an inch in diameter with a sharp metal blade on the top. I love it, and I’m hoping Toulouse will appreciate its fine workmanship.

  “Would you like this … to use?” I ask him. “The one on the wall … it’s terrible. It mangles your Ticonderogas.”

  He stares at me.

  Too much English?

  I hold the sharpener out and smile.

  He sticks out his gloved hand, palm up. I set the sharpener in it. He bounces his hand, weighing it, then he picks it up with the gloved fingers of his other hand and inspects it. One of his eyes close, and I notice a strange thing: just before his eyelids touch, a dark diagonal line appears between them, over his large iris. Does he wear contacts?

  When he’s finished looking the sharpener over—I can tell he appreciates the workmanship—he slides one of his pencils into the smaller of the two sharpening ports and twists it. The painted skin of the Ticonderoga curls over the blade like an apple peel.

  I dig into my other pocket and take out the small, empty mint tin, then pop it open with my thumb. It still smells of peppermint.

  “For the shavings,” I say.

  He nods and shakes the shavings loose. They flutter down into the tin.

  “This is so sweet,” Garrett says.

  “Touching,” Hubcap adds.

  “Two dorks in love.”

  “Dork love.”

  Garrett makes a little kissing sound. Hubcap joins in.

  I suddenly wonder whether being friendly to Toulouse is such a good idea. Garrett claims Toulouse is weirder than me. If I become friends with him, what will that say about me? If I distance myself from Toulouse, maybe Garrett will finally leave me alone.

  Toulouse lowers his hands and stares at Garrett’s puckering mouth, then pivots his head and stares at Hubcap’s.

  “Stop staring at me, freak,” Hubcap says, squirming.

  Toulouse makes a sound with his mouth. I think he’s trying to make a kissing sound, but it ends up sounding more clicky than kissy.

  “I think he wants a kiss, Hub,” Garrett says.

 
Hubcap: “Well, he’s not getting one.”

  “Leave him alone, Garrett,” Monique says.

  I was going to say that, but it got stuck in my throat.

  Toulouse hands the sharpener back to me with a thank-you nod, then takes a small notepad with a brown leather cover out of his briefcase and flips it open. He scribbles something on the pad, tears off the sheet, and passes it to Garrett.

  We all lean in to read it. In fancy cursive, it reads:

  7. Obtuse

  So he knows some English. Some pretty fancy English, actually.

  Maybe he’s only learned to read and write it, though. Maybe he can’t speak it.

  Obtuse is on our math handout: “Greater Than Right: Obtuse Angles.” It’s an angle greater than ninety degrees but less than one hundred eighty. That is, it’s between a right angle and a straight line.

  I’m pretty sure that’s not what Toulouse meant by obtuseness, though. Maybe he’s being clever. Maybe the word has other meanings.

  During Silent Sustained Reading, I look it up in the dictionary. It lists two meanings for obtuse. One is about angles. The other definition is “blunt or dull.” Toulouse was telling Garrett to avoid dullness, to be sharp, which Garrett definitely wasn’t being.

  Toulouse is the sharp one.

  I go back to my seat. Everybody’s reading. Monique’s book is called The Witch Family. Ursula’s is Calling on Dragons. Garrett’s is a nonfiction picture book about weapons called Arms and Armor. Hubcap is flipping through another in the same series. It’s called Combat. Toulouse is reading the same book he had in the tree, which is called Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany, and Alphabets. Botany?

  He has the book lying on his desk, so I can see there are drawings in it. Cartoons. Black-and-white line drawings. They look goofy, like the ones in my book. (I’m reading Captain Underpants, the one about the teacher who gives wedgies.) The words in Toulouse’s book are in English, which doesn’t surprise me, since the title is in English, too.

  Toulouse also has a small, paperback French/English dictionary on his desk, which he took out of his briefcase. That case sure holds a lot of stuff.

  I try to focus on my book, but I can’t seem to stop spying on Toulouse. He reads with his eyes opened so wide it’s like he’s watching a scary movie. And his eyes don’t move left to right when he reads. They stare straight ahead. His head moves instead. When he finishes a line, his head snaps back to the beginning.

  He laughs a couple of times—just little hoots—then he quickly covers his mouth with his hand and glances around to see if anyone noticed. Both times, I dive behind my book. I don’t fool him the second time. He waits for me to come out, then he spins his book around and slides it toward me.

  On the page is a drawing of some round-faced kids aboard a circular boat with a white flag flying from a mast in the center. It’s sailing in a choppy sea, and some of the kids have their hands up in the air, like they’re excited. The others look angry, or worried.

  Under the drawing is a poem. It’s called “The Jumblies.” These Jumbly people went to sea in a sieve. I’m pretty sure a sieve is like a colander, something you use to drain liquid, like from pasta or beans. A bowl filled with holes, in other words. No wonder some of them look worried, or angry.

  The poem rhymes, which seems babyish to me, and has a chorus at the end of each verse about how the Jumblies have green heads and blue hands, which is sort of funny but also kind of babyish. I figure if I was learning a new language, I might have to read books like this. But Toulouse understands words like obtuseness. This book must be too basic for him, so he must read it because he likes it.

  I look at him and smile politely. Then I open my book to a particularly funny page and slide it to him. I feel a little bad that mine is so much funnier, but this is America, and he might as well get used to how good things can be here.

  He stares down at the book.

  And stares.

  And stares.

  Amazingly, he doesn’t laugh. Maybe he doesn’t get the humor. Maybe what’s funny in Quebec and what’s funny here are different.

  He turns the page and keeps staring. A minute later, he flips to the next page. Then the next one. Then he looks up at me. And hoots. I jump. Everyone jumps. It wasn’t that loud a hoot. It’s just that SSR time is pretty quiet.

  He looks a little worried, like one of the Jumblies in the boat.

  I probably should have warned him how funny the book is.

  8. Wire, Feathers, and Hooks

  Toulouse obviously loves Otto and Billy Bob, our goldfish.

  They live on the windowsill next to Mr. Logwood’s desk in a classic fishbowl: round, but flat on the sides, not spherical. (This geometry stuff is really sinking in.) They must be so bored. They putter around the bowl, fluttering their fins, passing each other without seeming to notice, or care. Now and then Otto will chase Billy Bob around, nipping at his tail fin.

  I wonder if they like each other. Or hate each other. I think about being stuck in a glass bowl with Garrett. That would be more awful than the most awful thing in the universe. Well, unless Hubcap was in there, too.

  If I had to be cooped up in a fishbowl forever with someone, I’d prefer it be Toulouse.

  It’s funny I feel this way, considering I just met him this morning. I guess so far I like him. It seems as if he likes me. It’d be great to have a friend, but I don’t know if he would be such a great choice. Weird plus weird might make us double weird. Or triple. I’d get picked on, he’d get picked on, we’d get picked on—and by both Garrett and Hubcap. So that would be double triple. Six times the taunting. I should probably back off befriending Toulouse.

  I mean, look at him. He’s been staring at the fish so long that he’s starting to attract attention. Lots of kids are watching him watch. I guess he really likes fish. Some people do.

  For example, me. I’m not interested in goldfish in a bowl. It’s depressing. But I like to catch them. I like fishing. What I really like doing is making lures and flies. I like assembling the wire and feathers and hooks.

  We’re supposed to be writing a chapter summary of the book we read during SSR, but I whisper, “Do you like to fish?”

  He jumps and makes a peep sound.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just saw … noticed … you’re staring …”

  Toulouse nods but continues to stare at the fishbowl.

  “So do you like to fish?” I ask.

  He nods again.

  “Do you make your own lures?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you own a rod … tackle?”

  He turns his head slowly and stares at me. Do his eyes ever move in their sockets? Maybe something is wrong with them. I probably shouldn’t ask till I get to know him better.

  “Oui,” he says.

  He definitely understands a lot more English than Mr. Logwood gives him credit for. I don’t understand any French, but I know oui means yes.

  He opens his briefcase and reaches inside. He’s taken so much stuff out of it, I half expect him to pull out a floor lamp, like Mary Poppins did in the movie, but all he takes out is a small, gray, metal, hinged case. A case in a case. He opens the metal clasp. Inside are feathers, fur, hooks, fishing line, wire, and various tools. The case is a tackle box! He lifts out a perfect dragonfly with a glittering blue-sequined body.

  I reach my hand up and close my mouth. I guess it fell open. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’ve met a couple of kids who make lures and flies. I’ve never met one who carries tackle around with him.

  Is there no way he and I can become friends? Curse you, Garrett Howell! You, too, Hubcap Ostwinkle!

  Toulouse hands me the dragonfly, and, after looking around for Mr. Logwood (he’s talking with a kid on the other side of the room), I take it. It’s really fine work. Strong and beautiful. I wish I could try it out on real fish. I wish I was at the creek right now with Toulouse and our rods.

  “We should go … do … do you want … I think we …,
” I stammer. “There’s a creek … we could … you know … fish at?”

  He stares at me. No surprise there. But he stares long enough this time that I begin to wonder if he’s trying to think of some way to get out of going fishing with me without hurting my feelings. Then I wonder if he understood me. I mean, sure, he understands English okay, but was what I said really English?

  I try again.

  “Want to go fishing sometime?”

  He stares.

  I take this as a no. “Or not … no, you’re probably … maybe you don’t …”

  “Okay,” he says, a bit too loudly.

  “Hey, he spoke,” Monique says.

  “Whoa,” Garrett says. “He knows a whole word in English.”

  “Yeah, one whole word,” Hubcap says.

  I want to point out that Toulouse has also said “who” and my name, but I don’t.

  “Is that all you can say, little guy?” Garrett asks Toulouse. “Just one word?”

  Toulouse stares at him. He blinks. Slowly. I see those funny diagonal lines flash in his eyes again.

  “Yes,” he says in his flutey little voice. “I can speak only the one.”

  Whether we become friends or not, I really like this guy.

  9. Ladder to Nowhere

  Toulouse and I sit on top of the Ladder to Nowhere during afternoon recess, making lures. He has terrific tools in his little tackle box: tweezers, needles, needle-nose pliers, superglue, and wire cutters. He shows me how to make the dragonfly, and I promise to show him how to make a grasshopper with an orange abdomen, which is one of my specialties.

  Garrett and Hubcap walk up. Here comes the taunting times six.

  “You guys making pretty jewelry?” Garrett asks, looking up at us.

  Hubcap: “Pretty bracelets, maybe, to give each other on Valentine’s Day?”

  “It’s October,” I say.

  “But you guys are in love, right?” Garrett says, then starts singing, “ ‘Woody and Weirdy … sitting in a tree …’ ”

  Hubcap laughs, then chimes in.