Odd, Weird & Little

by Patrick Jennings

  “Yeah,” Monique says. “Stop being a bully, Garrett.”

  “What’d I do?” he asks.

  “You knocked his hat off,” I say. “And you and Hubcap went through his briefcase. And you tried to trip me in gym.” Boy, I’m on a roll. “And you called Toulouse names. Mean names. Like you call me. ‘Freak.’ ‘Dork.’ ‘Worm.’ And you tease us just because we’re friends.”

  “Friends,” Toulouse says.

  “Right,” I say, peeking down at him.

  Hubcap snickers.

  “You do it, too,” I say to him. “You do every mean thing Garrett does, you little copycat.”

  “Cat?” Toulouse says.

  “No,” I whisper to him. “No cat.”

  Mr. Logwood finally comes over, and people back up to let him through.

  “Everything okay over here?” he asks, looking at Garrett and Hubcap, then at Toulouse and me. “Woodrow? What’s happening?”

  I can’t speak. I have a lot to say, but the words rush to my throat so fast they create a traffic jam.

  “My shoes are tied, Garrett,” Toulouse says.

  Garrett can’t help himself. He snickers. Hubcap, too.

  “Garrett knocked Toulouse’s hat off,” I say. “And he called him names. Mean names. He’s been doing it a lot.”

  “Is that true, Toulouse?” Mr. Logwood asks.

  Toulouse’s head pivots to Garrett. He blinks. I see those diagonal lines again. He pivots to Hubcap. He blinks. He’s telling on them without telling.

  “It is true, Mr. Logwood,” Monique says.

  Ursula nods. A lot of kids nod. I’m not the only one who’s tired of Garrett’s and Hubcap’s meanness.

  “What is a ‘weirdo’?” Toulouse asks Mr. Logwood.

  “All right, Garrett, Vitus, please go over to the Gathering Place,” Mr. Logwood says. “I’ll meet you there in a second.”

  They hang their heads, but before they walk away, they flash Toulouse and me spiteful looks. This isn’t over.

  “I’m sorry, Toulouse,” Mr. Logwood says. “Please trust that the boys’ behavior will not be tolerated.”

  Toulouse bows.

  Mr. Logwood smiles, bows back, then walks away.

  Toulouse reaches up and sets his gloved hand on my shoulder. “Merci,” he says, staring into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Sure,” I say to break the trance.

  It doesn’t work.

  By the time Mr. Logwood’s talk with Garrett and Hubcap ends, the school day is over.

  “We have to stay in for recess all next week because of you two little freaks,” Garrett whispers menacingly when he returns.

  Hubcap: “Yeah.”

  “You are so going to get it, Woody,” Garrett says.

  This is how they act after getting punished for being mean? Then again, what did I expect, sudden transformation?

  The funny thing is that their threats don’t bother me. Things have changed. Toulouse is my friend now, and somehow that makes me feel stronger, more comfortable in my oddness. It’s harder to feel like a weirdo when there’s someone who’s as weird as you are. And it’s harder for Garrett and Hubcap to scare me when I’m not facing them alone. And it isn’t just Toulouse and me facing them. Lots of kids, including Monique and Ursula, stood up for us. And I bet Mr. Logwood will be doing more about the way they treat us than singing a little song.

  But mostly things are different because I’m different. I feel braver. Stronger. I’m not going to let Garrett push me around, or put me down, anymore.

  “When are we going to get it?” I ask Garrett. Again, I’m not stammering. “At recess?”

  “No recess,” Toulouse chirps.

  Garrett’s eyes flash with anger. Hubcap’s, too.

  I put my arm around Toulouse’s very low shoulders. “Oh, that’s right. You guys have to stay in during recess. All next week.”

  I grin.

  28. Only Friend

  “What are you making?” Willow asks me.

  “You didn’t knock,” I answer.

  “Sorry, what are you making?”

  “You’re supposed to knock before you come in.”

  “Do you want me to knock now?”

  “It’s a clutch.”

  “What’s a clutch?”

  “It’s like a purse, only you hold it in your hand.”

  “No strap?”

  “No strap.”

  “What’s the point of a purse if it doesn’t have a strap?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not for me.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “A girl at school. She asked me to make her one out of duck tape.”

  She pauses to think, then asks, “Will you make me one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you still have the candy-corn duck tape?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’d like mine made of that, please.”

  “After I finish this one.”

  “Who’s the girl? Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Her name is Monique.”

  “Isn’t she the one you like?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Was Toulouse at school today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he nice to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you make him a clutch?”

  “I don’t think he’d want a clutch. He’s a boy.”

  “Well, make him something he does want then.”

  I pause to think. If anyone deserves a present from me, it’s Toulouse. What would he like? Duck tape isn’t really his style.

  “You could make him a hat. He likes hats.”

  True, but his hats are so old-fashioned.

  “I’ll think of something,” I say.

  “Do the kids still make fun of him?” Willow asks.

  “Not really. I think they’re starting to appreciate him. They saw how good he is at painting, and at playing the accordion, and at hitting a volleyball.”

  “A volleyball?”

  “Yeah. Garrett and Hubcap weren’t impressed, of course. They kept on being mean to him. They called him names. They even got into his personal stuff.”

  “Oh!” she says, steamed. “Big bullies!”

  Willow is very protective about her personal stuff.

  “Exactly. Finally, Garrett knocked Toulouse’s hat off, and I told him he was cruel and he needed to leave Toulouse alone. I had to protect Toulouse, you know?”

  She nods seriously.

  “Monique said Garrett was being mean, too.”

  “That’s the girl you’re making a clutch for?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does she like Toulouse?”

  “I think she does. Then Mr. Logwood had a talk with Garrett and Hubcap, and they have to stay in for recess all next week.”

  “They deserve it!”

  This makes me smile. I like how she stands up to injustice. I think she’ll be better at it than I am.

  “So everything’s all right now?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say, and laugh. Little kids can be so naive.

  “And Toulouse is your best friend now?”

  “He’s really my only friend.”

  “No. I’m your friend, Woodman.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t really count.”

  “Of course it counts.”

  She picks up a roll of duck tape with a pink zebra pattern.

  “Can I make something, too?”

  “What do you want to make?”

  The last time I let her make something out of my duck tape, she ended up making a big wad of duck tape, then just walked away.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe a purse? You know, with a handle? I could make the handle with the penguin duck tape.”

  “I don’t have much left after your last project.”

  “See? We are friends. You’re letting me have all your penguin duck tape.”

  “Maybe. Get a chair and I’ll teach you how to ma
ke a purse, so you won’t use up all of my pink zebra, too.”

  29. Wood

  Toulouse lives in a tree house. A tree house. It’s a house built into a tree.

  His whole family lives in it, of course. The wood it’s made out of still has the bark on it, which helps to camouflage the house—if that’s what they were thinking when they built it. Most people’s homes aren’t camouflaged. I wish ours was. Theirs is so cool. I bet it’s even harder to see when the trees aren’t bare. In the spring, with the leaves, it must blend right into the wood.

  The house isn’t even on a paved road. They built it deep in the forest, away from everything, and everyone. There’s no lawn or sidewalks or driveway. If they own cars, I don’t see them. There are a couple of bicycles leaning against a neighboring tree. One of them has a covered trailer attached to it.

  Toulouse meets me outside the house. He’s wearing his suit and hat. He doesn’t have his briefcase.

  “Welcome,” he says with a bow.

  “Thanks,” I say, and automatically bow back. I’m getting into the habit.

  Following him, I climb the wooden spiral staircase that winds around the house’s trunk, up to the front door. The knob is made of wood. Toulouse turns it and pushes open the door.

  In the entryway, there’s a wooden hat rack that looks like a tree. Its branches are the hooks, and the hooks are overflowing with hats. Toulouse starts to take off his hat, but then abruptly twists his head toward me, as if he forgot he had a guest. He ushers me into the next room, leaving the hat on his head.

  I wonder why he changed his mind like that. Why doesn’t he ever take it off? Is he hiding something under it? Is that why he hid under the desk when Garrett knocked his hat off?

  We walk through a low archway into the kitchen, which has a low, domed ceiling. His mom stands at the stove, wearing a long dress and old-fashioned lace-up boots. She’s also wearing a pale pink bonnet with a ribbon that ties under her chin. It all seems a bit fancy for the kitchen.

  She turns her head toward us without turning her body, like Toulouse does. She has large eyes, too, larger than Toulouse’s, but then she’s bigger than he is. She’s not very tall, though. I think she’s shorter than I am. She wears little granny glasses perched on her nose, which is as pointy as Toulouse’s.

  “Hello, Woodrow,” she says, and curtsies. Her voice is deeper than Toulouse’s, but just as flutey. Oboey, maybe. We studied the woodwind family last month in Mr. Weldon’s class.

  “Hello,” I say. I don’t want to call her Ms. Hulot in case I pronounce it wrong. Also, for some reason, “Ms.” doesn’t suit her. She seems too old-school for it. She’s more like a “Mrs.” Or, since she speaks French, maybe “Madame”?

  She smiles and stares at me. I try to think of something to say. I laugh uncomfortably.

  She looks at Toulouse.

  “Come,” he says, tapping my shoulder.

  As we leave the kitchen, I look back at his mom. She’s dropping something into the tall, steaming pot on the stove. It’s small and gray with … fur?

  Toulouse pulls me away and leads me up another spiral staircase, this one inside the house. On the next floor, which has ceilings so low I have to stoop over, we pass what must be his parents’ bedroom. It’s dark in the bedroom, and there appears to be someone in the bed, snoring. Toulouse presses a gloved finger to his pointy lips. He’s telling me to be quiet.

  “Papa works nights,” Toulouse whispers.

  “Mine, too,” I say.

  Toulouse’s bedroom has a loft. He has to climb a ladder made of logs sawed in half lengthwise to reach his bed. No wonder he’s so good at jumping: his house has a million steps. He has to literally climb into bed.

  The next thing I notice about his room are his collections. He keeps things in old glass bottles and cases: bird nests, dead insects, pebbles, feathers of all sizes, bottle caps, rusty nails and screws, pull tabs, fish hooks … He also has a collection of small square bottles, empty but stained with ink, on his windowsill. He has several wooden fishing poles. They look hand-carved. There’s an easel in the corner with a canvas on it. He’s in the middle of painting a picture of the creek. It looks realer than the real thing.

  I love his room. It reminds me of mine.

  He picks up a rod and an old, sturdy tackle box. He gestures for me to follow.

  We tiptoe by his snoozing dad, back down the spiral staircase. We stop in the kitchen.

  “Salut!” he says to his mother, with a tip of his hat.

  She says something in French in return.

  He nods.

  It must be fun to speak to your mom in another language.

  30. Lunch

  We walk through the wood toward the creek. It’s Saturday morning, so we can take our time. We don’t talk. We look at the trees and listen to the birds and our feet snapping the fir needles. The forest has a high ceiling, like the gym, or a theater. It’s big and airy and still. It would be hard to climb these trees. The lowest branches are pointy stubs, way above our heads. The real branches are very high, reaching for sunlight.

  At the creek, Toulouse and I sit side by side on a big log and open our tackle boxes. I show him some flies I made with duck tape.

  “This one I made for you,” I say. Making him a gift was Willow’s idea, of course, but I don’t mention that.

  He takes it with a little bow and a “Merci.”

  “Why don’t you try it out?” I ask.

  He nods, then walks away to find his own waters.

  I’m not wearing a watch. If Toulouse has his pocket watch, he doesn’t check it, and I don’t ask him to. Who cares what time it is? It’s Saturday.

  The sun keeps creeping across the sky, creating a slowly moving web of shadows over us and the creek. The morning goes by without bells or schedules, without standing in lines. It’s Think Time all the time. Or maybe Not-Think Time. It’s Silent Sustained Fishing.

  My stomach tells me when it’s lunch, not a clock or a bell or Mr. Logwood’s schedule on the whiteboard. Toulouse and I return to the big log.

  “Did you catch anything big enough to keep?” I ask. It’s the first sentence I’ve said in a while, and it comes out gravelly.

  I saw him catch quite a few fish. They all looked pretty small. I didn’t notice him throwing any back.

  He opens his wicker creel to show me it’s empty.

  “Toulouse?” I ask.

  He looks up at me.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  It’s the Otto thing. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind.

  “Did you …? And then …”

  I can’t ask. I don’t want him to think I’m accusing him of anything.

  “Never mind,” I say.

  He nods, but keeps looking at me. Staring at me, really. It’s like he wants me to ask him something.

  I certainly have plenty of questions for him. There’s a lot of things I don’t understand. Like the furry golf ball he coughed up. And the way he appears and disappears so quickly. And the dropping out of trees without getting hurt. And the getting up them in the first place. And crossing the creek. There’s also the way he turns his head around backward. And those weird diagonal lines in those huge, round eyes of his. Nobody’s eyes are that big. And his nose. Nobody’s nose is that sharp. And, of course, there’s the never taking off his hat, or gloves. I’ve never seen the top of his head, his hair, or his hands. Does he wear so many clothes because he likes to, or because he’s hiding something?

  And why didn’t he want his picture taken? What was he afraid of? Is he a vampire or something?

  He keeps staring me as I think about all of this, then at last he asks, “Food?”

  He lifts the upper level of his tackle box and, from beneath it, takes out a sandwich wrapped neatly in wax paper.

  I let go of my questions, and say, “Sure.”

  I brought along lunch, too: a PBJ and nacho-flavored tortilla chips. We unwrap our sandwiches and, at the same time, bring th
em up to our mouths. A tiny pink foot is dangling from his.

  Toulouse senses me looking at the foot. He gives me the same look he did when he almost took off his hat.

  And my mind starts putting things together, coming up with answers to my many questions, answers that make sense but are completely, and insanely, impossible.

  I set my sandwich on my lap.

  “T-Toulouse?” I ask. “Are you … I mean …”

  He tilts his head, listening.

  “You’re not an …”

  I can’t finish the sentence. It’s too crazy. Of course he isn’t. He can’t be. He wears clothes. He goes to school. He reads. He paints. He plays the accordion. He can’t be an …

  But then again, it is all so odd …

  “Woodrow?” he asks. “You okay?”

  So weird …

  “Woodrow?”

  He inches over toward me. His legs don’t reach the ground. He is so little.

  Odd. Weird. Little.

  O … W …

  “Want some?” he asks, holding out his sandwich. The pink foot swings.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  He’s leaning in very close to me now. He blinks, and I see the diagonal lines again, one in each enormous eye. This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to him. His skin is fuzzy. No, not fuzzy. Not furry, either.

  Feathery?

  He smiles, nods, and tips his hat. All the way off his head.

  And I see what he is.

  31. Odd, Weird, and Little

  I was right. What he is, is impossible. And crazy. And incredible. I suppose this is why I never saw it. Why no one did. Not even the adults: the teachers, the principal, not even Mom. If they did see it, they would have convinced themselves they didn’t. It’s too crazy. Too impossible. But if we had looked at Toulouse, really looked at him—past the weird grandpa suit and hat, the briefcase filled with so many odd things, his littleness and foreignness—we would have had to admit what he was.

  And anyone who looked at him closely would feel what I’m feeling right now. Frightened. Shocked. Confused. As if suddenly all the rules we’d made up about the world were wrong. As if your own eyes couldn’t be trusted. As if some weird dream you never had had came true. As if you had lost your mind.