Toulouse looks at me, confused.
If kids don’t sing this song in Quebec, I want to move to Quebec.
“ ‘… then comes Woody in a baby carriage,’ ” they finish, then bust up laughing.
“Isn’t it supposed to be ‘with a baby carriage’?” Ursula asks. She’s swinging next to the Ladder. “I mean, is Woodrow the baby or the mom?”
“Does it matter?” Garrett asks.
Hubcap: “Maybe both!”
He reaches up and grabs a loose thread hanging from Toulouse’s kit, twirls it around his finger a few times, then tugs it. The spool it’s attached to bounces out of the kit. Toulouse strains to catch it, loses his balance, and starts falling forward. I reach out for him and end up slipping off the rung I’m sitting on. I catch myself with my knees, but my back slams against the rung behind me. I hook the bar with my arms. I’m stuck like a crab going down a drain, my arms and legs flailing.
Toulouse’s kit and briefcase fall and land in the sand. Garrett and Hubcap pounce on them.
I look around for Toulouse, but he’s no longer on the Ladder. He’s also not below me on the ground. I scan the playground. There he is, perched atop the swing set, over Ursula’s head. How’d he get up there? And so fast?
He sits there, watching Garrett and Hubcap as they go through his things. He’s too polite, I think, to complain. Or maybe too scared.
I feel angry. Really angry. It’s bad enough when Garrett and Hubcap are mean to me, but it stinks when they pick on poor little Toulouse. I can’t not do something.
I unhook my arms and drop through the rungs till I’m hanging upside down from my knees, right above Garrett. I swing my arm down and snatch the handle of the briefcase, which causes it to slam shut. Garrett pulls his fingers out just in time. Too bad. I pull myself back up to safety. It was a daring and successful rescue operation, carried out fairly flawlessly. I don’t know where I found the bravery and flair, but I’m happy I did.
“Give that back!” Garrett says, jumping to his feet.
Hubcap leaps up and orders me to give it back, too. He’s holding Toulouse’s tackle box in his hand.
“Put that …,” I say. “That doesn’t belong … Put it down!”
“It doesn’t belong to you, either,” Garrett says.
Hubcap: “Yeah!”
“Hey, where’d Weirdy go?” Garrett asks, looking around.
Hubcap: “Yeah. Where’d Loser go?”
I try not to look at the swing set.
The bell rings. I’m saved by it.
Hubcap drops the tackle box, then gives it a kick. The two of them then run off toward the building.
I drop to the ground. The tackle box is still closed. It’s not dented or anything. I dust it off on my pant leg.
“Merci,” Toulouse says.
I scream. How did he get here so fast?
“What did you say?” I ask.
“Merci,” he repeats. “Thank you.”
“Oh. How do you say ‘you’re welcome’ in French?”
“De rien.”
I repeat it the best I can.
“Good!” he says.
“Merci,” I say.
10. Ottoless
“So … Toulouse,” Mr. Logwood says when we’re back inside, “I’ve … noticed … you … like … the … goldfish. Would … you … like … to … feed … them?”
Toulouse nods enthusiastically, then hustles over on his short legs to the window beside Mr. Logwood’s desk. The bowl is at his eye level. He presses his pointy little nose against the glass. I hear a clink. Must be his glasses.
Mr. Logwood hands him the fish food.
“We … give … them … two … shakes,” he says.
I wonder if I should tell him he doesn’t need to speak slowly to Toulouse, that Toulouse understands.
Nah, he’s a teacher, he’ll figure it out.
After giving Toulouse the fish food shaker, Mr. Logwood gets a step stool from the supply closet, but by the time he returns with it, Toulouse has hopped up onto the windowsill. We’re not allowed on the windowsills.
Mr. Logwood laughs uncomfortably. “Okay. I … don’t … usually … allow … students … up … there. Promise … you … will … be … careful?”
Toulouse doesn’t answer. He leans his face over the fishbowl. His nose is practically touching the water. His eyes are opened very wide. He shakes some fish flakes into the bowl. They float on the surface. Usually Otto and Billy Bob rush up to eat them, but not this time. They swim in panicky circles at the bottom of the bowl.
The whole class is watching, spellbound.
“Okay,” Mr. Logwood says. “Thank … you, Toulouse.”
He holds out his hand. Is it for the shaker or to help Toulouse down? Toulouse does not need help getting down, that’s for sure, but Mr. Logwood doesn’t know that.
Toulouse hands him the fish food shaker, still not taking his eyes off the fish. He does not jump down from the windowsill.
Mr. Logwood coughs, then turns to us. “I believe we have a spelling test planned for now.”
Garrett groans.
“Do I need to sing the respect song for you, Mr. Howell?” Mr. Logwood asks.
“No, no,” Garrett says, painting a smile on his face. “I’d love to take a spelling test, Mr. Logwood.”
He really doesn’t like it when Mr. Logwood sings.
None of us are paying much attention to this conversation. For one thing, we’ve all heard it a million times. For another, Toulouse is still leaning over the fishbowl, gazing down at the frightened Otto and Billy Bob.
Sensing that everyone is staring at Toulouse, Mr. Logwood leans over and whispers in his ear, “Please … take … your … seat … now.”
Toulouse doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to take his seat. He doesn’t want to leave the fish. He likes the fish. Maybe he wants to catch them. He likes fishing. He makes his own lures. He carries a tackle box around with him.
But he wouldn’t want to catch Otto and Billy Bob, would he? He wouldn’t eat them? I mean, they’re goldfish. They’re pets.
I stand up and walk over to him.
“Come on,” I say. “Come sit down.”
Garrett snickers, then Hubcap does. Toulouse and I may as well go ahead and be friends now. That’s how Garrett and Hubcap see us. And they’re loving it.
“That’s enough of that, boys,” Mr. Logwood says in his deep, no-nonsense voice. “It’s not easy adjusting to a new culture. We need to be compassionate and welcoming.” He turns to me. “As Woodrow is being. Thank you, Woodrow.”
I gesture “you’re welcome” by lifting one shoulder then dropping it. I hook Toulouse’s arm and give it a tug. He’s as light as a feather. I lead him back to our desks.
“ ‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G …,’ ” Hubcap whisper-sings out of the corner of his mouth.
“Vitus,” Mr. Logwood says. “I’m going to need you to take a Think Time at the back of the room, please.”
Hubcap jumps up and moves through the desks, pretending he doesn’t care—grinning, fake-gagging, eye-rolling—but it’s obvious he’s embarrassed.
I don’t get Hubcap, or Garrett. It’s like they go out of their way to be mean, like they’re proud of getting in trouble.
Toulouse and I sit down. I doubt Toulouse will have to take the spelling test. He didn’t get the word list Mr. Logwood handed out yesterday. I didn’t study it much, but I do remember it had tricky words with i-e or e-i: believe, deceive, neighbor, seize.…
“Oh!” Ursula screams. She points at the fishbowl. “Where’s Otto?”
11. Weirdness Factor
Everyone stares at Toulouse. He stares back, at one person at a time, in that odd, wide-eyed, head-pivoting way of his. He looks at the kids sitting behind him by twisting his head all the way around without turning his body. This adds to his weirdness factor. I don’t think anyone is breathing.
We had all watched him gape at the fish. We’d all seen how he refused to walk away from them. No one claims th
ey saw him touch Otto. We had all been distracted by Hubcap getting a Think Time. I had been standing right next to Toulouse. I didn’t see him get up from his chair. But I was distracted by Hubcap, too. Not for long, but, knowing how fast Toulouse can move, it could have been long enough for him to … to …
But he couldn’t have. He just couldn’t. He isn’t wet in the slightest. Wouldn’t his gloves be wet? They aren’t.
Besides, why would he steal a fish from a fishbowl?
“Did … you … see … what … happened … to … Otto?” Mr. Logwood asks Toulouse in a soft, patient voice.
Toulouse stares at him.
“Otto!” Ursula says. “You know, our fish!”
“He doesn’t speak English,” someone says.
“Yes, he does,” Garrett says. “I heard him say a lot of English words.”
Everybody starts whispering.
“Quiet, please,” Mr. Logwood says, raising a hand. “Toulouse, is this true?” he says without any pauses. “Can you understand me?”
All the attention has caused Toulouse to sink down in his chair, which makes him look even smaller. He gives a tiny nod.
“See?” Garrett snarls. “He understands English good enough.”
“Well enough,” Monique says.
Mr. Logwood coughs. He always does this when he’s preparing to redirect our attention. “Time for the spelling test. Clear your desks. Get out a sheet of writing paper and something to write with, please.”
Everyone groans. Everyone, that is, except Toulouse. He sighs. Is he relieved?
“But what about Otto?” Ursula asks.
“We’ll deal with that later,” Mr. Logwood says without looking at her. “It’s time for spelling.”
He leans over Toulouse, and says quietly, “Obviously, you can’t take the test. Please wait for me over there, in the Gathering Place, and I’ll bring you the list. You can follow along as I read the words aloud.”
Toulouse hops down from his chair and heads toward the Gathering Place, an area with a circular rug for us students and a short, stuffed armchair for Mr. Logwood. It’s where we sit and share.
Toulouse hops into the chair. There’s a loud gasp.
“Actually, Toulouse,” Mr. Logwood says with a strained smile, “that chair is reserved for me.”
Toulouse climbs down and sits on the rug. Mr. Logwood hands him a list of the spelling words. Toulouse stands up and looks around, as if he lost something. Then he starts walking back toward his desk. I see why: he forgot his briefcase. It’s on the floor by his chair.
“Where are you going, Toulouse?” Mr. Logwood asks.
“He forgot his briefcase,” I say.
“I see,” Mr. Logwood says, then to us, asks, “Are we ready? Let’s begin the test. The first word is weird.”
We all start writing. Weird sure is a weird word. It breaks the i before e rule. It should be spelled wierd.
When I finish writing it and look up, Toulouse is back in the Gathering Place with his briefcase. I didn’t notice him pick it up, or even come near his desk. The kid moves so silently.
“Hey!” Ursula says, pointing. “He’s back! Otto’s back in the bowl!”
12. Latin
After spelling, we go to choir. We walk single file down the hall, Mr. Logwood in the lead, then Toulouse, then me and the rest of our class, which means everyone is whispering about Toulouse behind his back. I’ve done enough dumb stuff in the past to know how that feels, like the time I pretended to be a badger and put chopsticks in my mouth and ended up with them jammed down my throat. Everyone whispered behind my back for a couple of days after that one.
Not that Toulouse did a dumb thing. I don’t know what he did, and neither does anyone else. I admit it’s suspicious, but there’s no proof he had anything to do with Otto’s disappearance. Or reappearance.
Unfortunately, getting judged for things you didn’t do is part of life for a kid who gets picked on.
I feel bad for Toulouse. I want to show him that not everyone thinks he’s a freak. But we’re supposed to walk single file and not talk. And let’s face it: for once I’m not the class freak. That’s a good thing. Right?
When we enter the music room, Mr. Weldon pounces on us, as usual.
“Take your seats at once!” he shouts, then dabs his face with his white handkerchief. The guy is always sweating. This is probably because: one, he is always worked up, and, two, he always wears long-sleeved white shirts buttoned up to his throat with a skinny black tie that swings like a pendulum as he dabs his face with his hanky. He also wears a black vest, and black pants, and shiny black ankle-high boots. No wonder he sweats.
“No monkey business!” he practically shouts. “That means you, Vitus! Stop your stomping. Sit down! No pushing, Garrett! The risers are quite dangerous! There is to be no pushing, anyone! I am not in the mood for monkey business! Are you listening, Garrett? I hope so, because I am not fooling around today. Sit down and be completely qui—!”
He stops mid-word when he sees Toulouse.
“Why, who are you, kind sir? Aren’t you a dapper young man!”
“Dapper!” Garrett laughs behind his hand.
Hubcap snickers.
“Quiet!” Mr. Weldon snaps, whirling on them. “Quiet or I will give you a solo to sing.”
Garrett shuts his mouth. Hubcap, too. If there’s anything they dislike more than Mr. Logwood singing, it’s having to sing themselves.
Mr. Weldon returns to Toulouse. “What is your name, young man?”
Toulouse stares at Mr. Weldon, speechless. He bows.
Mr. Weldon laughs. “Such a young gentleman! I love this boy!” He returns the bow.
Garrett and Hubcap try to hold it in but fail. They burst into laughter.
“Think Time!” Mr. Weldon roars at them. “Both of you! Go and think! It will do you a world of good!”
I like Mr. Weldon. He scares me a little with all the sweating and whirling and roaring, but he sees right through Garrett and Hubcap, and sets them straight.
“His name is Toulouse,” I say. “He’s from Quebec.”
“Ah!” Mr. Weldon says, wagging his finger at the ceiling. “Oui, oui! So it’s Monsieur Toulouse! Enchanté! A great pleasure to meet you, monsieur. And welcome! Bienvenue! Please, have a seat and we will begin our musical lesson for today, which I hope you will find to your liking!”
Toulouse bows again and sits down. Mr. Weldon has cheered him up. Nothing like being treated special to lift your spirits.
The past few weeks we’ve been working on songs for the holiday concert in December. I’ve never heard of any of the songs Mr. Weldon is making us perform. We have no normal holiday songs, like “Jingle Bells” or “Frosty the Snowman.” One is in Latin and dates from the someteenth century. We just sing “dona nobis pacem” over and over and over. It means “give us peace.”
Mr. Weldon stands in front of us, takes a deep breath, raises his arms, then signals for us to start. We sing the song all the way through, with him mouthing it and making all sorts of hand gestures that mean louder or softer or faster or slower.
“Not too bad,” Mr. Weldon says afterward. “From the top again, but this time, everyone sing, please, and with feeling. Monsieur Toulouse, would you like to join us?”
Toulouse nods.
“Excellent!” Mr. Weldon says. “And Garrett and Vitus, please return to the group, and please comport yourself like gentlemen.”
They walk over and step up onto the risers without stomping.
We sing the song again.
“Bravo!” Mr. Weldon says. “Much better! And Toulouse, you sing like a bird.”
I was thinking a flute, but his singing is kind of birdlike.
“A cuckoo,” Garrett whispers to Hubcap, who snickers.
“Out!” Mr. Weldon says. “Out of my classroom. Go to the office, both of you. Such insolence!”
Mr. Weldon gets teased more than any of our teachers, but, like Toulouse, he doesn’t seem to care mu
ch. He’s a busy guy and can’t spend all his energy trying to make everyone happy, or trying to be cool. Some teachers do that. They say “awesome” and give high fives. But Mr. Weldon doesn’t pretend to be something he isn’t.
Trying to be something you aren’t is such a drag. What if you don’t like making fun of people and threatening them and getting into trouble, like Garrett and Hubcap do? What if you like singing in Latin and making dragonfly lures and wearing a tie? Why can’t you do what you want to do, be what you want to be?
Yeah, I like singing “Dona Nobis Pacem.” I think it’s cool to sing a song in an ancient language about peace. What’s wrong with peace? I wish Garrett and Hubcap would leave me in peace. Dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem. I like peace.
I’m glad Mr. Weldon sent them to the office.
Is that mean?
13. Surviving Day One
On the way back to our class, the other kids start talking about Toulouse.
Monique: “Did you hear him sing?”
Ursula: “You call that singing? Mr. Weldon’s right: he sounds like a bird.”
Hubcap: “He’s Mr. Weldon’s new pet, that’s for sure.”
Garrett: “His pet weirdo, you mean.”
Hubcap: “Yeah! His pet weirdo!”
Ursula: “I still want to know what happened to Otto.”
Monique: “The way Toulouse stared at him was creepy.”
She stops to squirt some hand sanitizer into one hand. She keeps a bottle of the stuff in her shoulder bag.
Ursula: “So creepy.”
Garrett: “Totally. He’s a freak.”
Hubcap: “Totally.”
Me: “Will you guys … why don’t you … shut up?”
They all freeze. They don’t expect this from me. Neither do I. It’s one thing, though, when people say mean things about you. It’s another when they say mean things about someone else. Especially someone nice like Toulouse. I can’t imagine him saying mean things to anybody.
Before Garrett can get over his shock and shoot back an insult, Mr. Logwood comes over.
“Did I hear a disrespectful remark over here?” he asks.
“Yes, Mr. Logwood,” Garrett says. “It was Woodrow. He told us to shut up.”
Odd, Weird & Little Page 3
