Teeny Weenies: The Eighth Octopus

by David Lubar

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  For Joelle and Alison, full circle

  THE EIGHTH OCTOPUS

  “I hope it’s not another octopus,” Adam said as he opened the birthday present from his great-aunt Sophie. He spoke quietly so she wouldn’t hear.

  Every year, Great-aunt Sophie brought Adam an octopus. She was an oceanographer, and had set up a special saltwater tank when she’d brought the first octopus. Adam had been too young to remember that first birthday, but his parents had taken plenty of photos.

  This was his eighth birthday, so he already had seven of these unusual presents, which seemed like at least six more than anyone would need. Seven octopi occupied the tank in Adam’s bedroom. Fourteen eyes blinked at him each morning. Fifty-six tentacles rippled in the water, waving at him each day as he went out to play.

  Seven octopi.

  Now, it was October eighth, and Adam unwrapped his unsurprising eighth octopi.

  “Oh, this one’s very pretty,” Adam’s mother said with barely a shudder in her voice as she leaned over his shoulder and stared down at the half-open package. “What do we say?” she asked, nudging Adam in the back.

  “Thank you very much, Great-aunt Sophie,” Adam said as the octopus helped unwrap itself.

  “My pleasure,” Great-aunt Sophie said. “A child can never have too many octopi.”

  “Guess I’ll put it in the tank with the others.” Adam carried the plastic bowl up the steps and into his room.

  “Join your friends,” Adam said as he tipped the octopus into the tank.

  Now eight octopi occupied the tank in Adam’s room.

  Sixteen eyes blinked at him.

  Sixty-four tentacles rippled in the water.

  Each tentacle touched every other tentacle one at a time, creating more tentacle touches than Adam could count. The water bubbled and frothed. The octopi moved closer together.

  And closer.

  Adam gasped. The air flared and glared with a giant octopossible flash. Adam staggered back and blinked. He blinked again, but what he saw wouldn’t blink away. When he looked into the tank after the last of the frothy bubbles had burst, he found a single amazing octopus with sixty-four octotangled tentacles, sixteen octoblinkable eyes, and eight octo-openable octoclosable mouths, all on one octo-impossible slightly octagonal head.

  Unlike the seven uncoupled octopi that had each seemed content to lie at the bottom of the tank, Adam’s newest octopus—an octoproduct of all the previous octopi—appeared to want to wander.

  It hoisted its octoriffic body from the depths of the tank and flipped over the edge, bouncing to the floor with a gentle octosplat not unlike the landing a wet bath sponge might make on a bathroom floor.

  “I think I’ll call you Armando,” Adam said, liking the way Armando started with an A just like Adam, and even better yet, the way Armando started with an Arm.

  Armando waved a half-dozen tentacles in agreement, then octowaddled toward the door, slipping and sliding, rippling and rolling, twitching and tumbling as he mastered the art of traveling on land.

  “Wait for me,” Adam called. He pumped his two legs to catch up with Armando, who was already octorolling down the steps like a Slinky made of spaghetti. As Adam reached the bottom of the stairs, Armando extended a tentacle and took Adam’s hand. Together, they strolled outside.

  Adam pushed Armando on the swing set. Then Armando pushed Adam, and several of his friends, all at once. They took turns on the slide, going faster each time thanks to the slight smears of octoslime, which made the metal slick and slippery. After that, Adam grabbed his baseball glove from the house and they played catch, followed by badminton, hopscotch, and jacks.

  They played until it was time for dinner. And when dinner was done, Armando octocut the cake.

  With Armando’s help, Adam got ready for bed in record time.

  “What an octoperfect birthday,” Adam said as he crawled under the covers. “Good night,” he called to Armando.

  Armando waved back, sixty-four times. Adam shut two eyes. Armando shut sixteen. But as they slept, they shared a single dream of octodays ahead.

  THE POWER OF WORDS

  I wonder whether each of us has a special word that triggers magical things. I have one. But there are two problems with my word. First, it doesn’t work if I say it myself. I guess that would be too easy. If you could say your own spell, everyone would be doing magic all the time. Second, it’s not a great word. I wish my word had been FLY! or GOLD! I’m not that lucky. And my word only seems to work when it is shouted by my icky stepbrother, Baldridge. I’ve been listening carefully ever since I discovered my word, and nothing happens if anyone else says it.

  Here’s how I found out about the word. We were sitting at the kitchen table. Baldridge was helping me with my math homework, because he’s some sort of math genius, and I’m some sort of math not-genius. He wasn’t doing it because he loved me with all of his heart. He was doing it because Dad made him.

  Still, that was no reason for him to shout at me every time I stopped to think. I was trying my best to understand how to solve a word problem about two trains that had no business traveling at totally different speeds or leaving their stations at such inconvenient times. I’d managed to turn the words into an equation. But I wasn’t sure what to do next. It was hard to remember all the math rules when Baldridge kept jabbering, and pointing at my paper.

  “Think, Lisa,” he said. “I already told you that you have to balance the fractions on both sides. That’s why it’s called an equation. It has to stay equal. Get it?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I took a sip of my orange juice. It was fresh squeezed, with lots of pulp. Dad might be really strict about schoolwork, but Mom is great about snacks. She never bought the thick stuff you had to mix with water.

  I put the glass down, picked up my pencil, and tried to follow Baldridge’s directions. I knew I had to subtract the same amount from each side. But it was all so confusing. How do you subtract one-seventh from 3x? I put down my pencil and picked up my glass.

  “Concentrate!” Baldridge shouted.

  I took another sip of juice, and nearly choked.

  Something had happened to it. It was too thick, and too sweet. Like syrup. Or like …

  … concentrate …

  No way.

  I took a smaller sip, and let it sit in my mouth.

  Way.

  “Right back.” I hopped out of my chair and went to the sink.

  “You’ll never learn anything if you keep running around,” Baldridge said.

  “I’m not runnin
g around,” I said. I added water to my glass and took a sip. That was better. It wasn’t as fresh and amazing tasting as before, but at least it wasn’t so sweet and thick that it would make me gag.

  I got through three problems and four-fifths of the juice in my glass—see, I can do fractions—when Baldridge shouted, “Concentrate!” again.

  And the juice responded.

  I looked at Baldrdidge’s coffee cup. I could tell his drink hadn’t gotten concentrated. It only happened to mine.

  For the next tutoring session, I made hot cocoa, even though the weather was warm and sunny. It was delicious to start with, but it was amazing when it got concentrated. I went through three more weeks of that before I got tired of the cocoa. That’s when I realized I needed to do some research. There had to be something even better to cast the spell on. I started searching for information about concentrated things. After skimming through tons of information about fruit juices, I stumbled across a sentence that made me shout out loud: Diamonds are the most concentrated form of pure carbon.

  My shout was followed by a thought: I’m going to be so rich, I’ll hire people to do my math for me.

  I needed carbon. That was easy. My folks had a grill in the backyard. There was a bag of charcoal for it in the garage. I got some of the briquettes and crushed them with a rock, then put the charcoal dust into a small box.

  Right before my next tutoring session, I put the box on the table.

  “I’m tired of pushing you,” Baldridge said when he took a seat at the table. He pulled a book out of his backpack. It wasn’t a math book. It was a novel. “If you fool around, I’m just going to sit here and read. You’re the one who’ll get the bad grade.”

  Oh, great. I started working on the first problem, but then stared out the window. After a while, I snuck a look at Baldridge. His nose was buried deep in his book. I got back to work.

  Then, I started humming. He ignored me.

  I folded one of my worksheets into a paper airplane and threw it at him.

  He didn’t even look up. But I could tell he was struggling to make it seem like he wasn’t noticing me. If I pushed him a bit harder, he’d break. And I’d be rich.

  I looked around for something to play with. There was a flashlight on top of the refrigerator. I grabbed it, sat down, and shined the light up at my chin. “Look, I’m spooky!” I said.

  No reaction.

  “Woooooo … I’m a monster!”

  Nothing.

  I thrust the flashlight out and shined it up under Baldridge’s chin, blocking his book.

  “Now you’re a monster!”

  “Stop it!” he screamed, throwing the book down. “Concentrate!”

  I staggered back. He’d startled me. But that was okay. He’d also finally done what I wanted. I was about to become the richest girl in town.

  The thrill of success didn’t last long. It vanished in a flash. Or a flashlight. The beam turned red.

  Later, I learned that a LASER is concentrated light.

  That was later. Right now, what I learned was that a LASER can set hair on fire. It was a good thing I’d jumped when Baldridge startled me. Otherwise, I might have set his chin on fire. It was bad enough I’d scorched his hair.

  Baldridge refused to tutor me after that. He doesn’t even speak to me, most of the time. There’s no way I’ll ever get him to shout the magic word again. And as for the diamond, I’d overlooked one tiny word. I needed pure carbon for that to work. It turns out briquettes aren’t pure.

  There was nothing sparkly in the box.

  No diamond. No magic. No tutor.

  I guess it was up to me to concentrate on my work for myself from now on.

  THE MIDDLEMAN

  It was the hottest morning yet. Phil noticed that as soon as he woke up. This will be great, he thought as he got dressed. The temperature was sure to break ninety degrees before noon. It was perfect weather for a small-business owner.

  “Where are you headed, Phil?” his mom asked as he raced through the kitchen.

  “I’m going to sell lemonade to the tourists,” he said, opening the refrigerator.

  “You’ll need lemons.”

  “Oops. We’re out of them?”

  His mother nodded. “You’ll have to buy some more at the store.”

  “No problem.” Phil ran back upstairs, got money from his bank, then stepped outside. The heat hit him in the face like a wall of lava. Fantastic—a couple of weeks like this and he’d finally have enough for a bike.

  People were already walking from town. Phil lived between town and the beach. There was a constant flow of foot traffic. It was a perfect place to sell lemonade. He bought a large bag of lemons at the market, then headed home. As he passed his favorite corner, he saw the worst thing in the world: someone was already there. It was Johnny Nelson, selling lemonade at Phil’s favorite spot.

  “Hey Johnny, that’s my spot.”

  “I don’t see your name on it,” Johnny said. “Besides, you know what they say. ‘If you snooze, you lose.’” Johnny smiled to show he wasn’t trying to be mean.

  “Very funny.” Phil was beginning to wonder if he had gotten too late a start. He headed toward the next corner to see if it was vacant. Half a block away, he knew it was taken. There was Cheryl Stein, another kid from the neighborhood, selling lemonade.

  “Are you planning to stay all day?” he asked her.

  She nodded, then said, “But if I decide to quit early, you can have my spot.”

  Phil thanked her, then ran to the other end of the block, only to see Javier Lopez doing business. On the next block, the Gandy twins were selling lemonade by the gallon to crowds of thirsty tourists.

  Great, he thought. It was the hottest day of the year and he didn’t have a spot. To top it off, he was lugging around a big bag of lemons. This was not going to be his day. He turned around and headed back toward his home.

  “How’s business, Javier?” he asked as he walked by. Just because he was out of luck was no reason not to wish his friends would do well.

  “Best day ever,” Javier said. “It’s so good, I’m running low on stuff. You won’t steal my spot if I run to the store, will you?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Phil told him. He might be tempted, but it wouldn’t be right to take someone’s spot, even if lemonade was selling like hotcakes. But maybe he could keep the day from being a total loss. “Javier, instead of running to the store, let me sell you some lemons.”

  “How much?”

  Phil paused to think. The bag had cost three dollars and it contained twelve lemons. That meant each lemon cost him twenty-five cents. “How about thirty cents each?” Phil asked.

  “OK, that’s fair. I think it’s a bit more than the store charges, but I won’t lose all the sales I’d miss by going there myself. You’ve got a deal.”

  As Phil put the money in his pocket, he realized how wonderful his idea really was. Each kid selling lemonade would run out of lemons. They’d also run out of sugar and ice. They might even need cups if they didn’t plan ahead. This was a lot nicer than competing for a spot. To top it off, the better his friends did, the better he would do. He couldn’t sell lemonade today, but he could still do business.

  Before going home for his wagon and the cooler, he stopped at each stand and found out what was in short supply. The twins needed lemons and ice. Cheryl just needed lemons. Johnny wasn’t low on anything yet, but he asked Phil to get him an ice pop.

  “Back so soon?” his mom asked when he ran into the house.

  “Change of plans,” Phil told her. He grabbed a small notebook so he could keep track of his orders.

  As he trotted toward the store with his wagon rattling behind him, Phil realized that he liked this new business a lot more than selling lemonade. He wasn’t stuck in one place. He could move around. And he knew exactly what he was selling and who was buying. When he got his bike, he’d also buy a basket for it. There was a whole world out there that needed lemons.

/>   FOR THE LOVE OF TENNIS

  I love tennis. I play it every chance I get. But I don’t get a lot of chances. Most of my friends are all wrapped up with dance, or cheering, or field hockey. Those are fine. But tennis is where my heart is. Every morning, in the summer, I’ll walk over to the school and hit balls against the back wall, by the rear parking lot. It’s not as good as playing against someone, but it lets me work on my ground strokes. Then, I’ll go to the court by the park. There’s only one court, but nobody is ever there in the morning. I’ll practice my serve. I’m getting pretty good at that.

  And, don’t tell anyone, but I talk to the court, like it’s my doubles partner. I know that’s silly, but I like to think the court is more than a slab of green concrete with white lines and a sagging old net.

  Once in a while, someone will show up who wants to play. I like that. I don’t care whether it’s a beginner or an expert. I can play, and learn stuff, either way. But more often, it’s two people who take over the court for singles, or four people who play doubles, leaving me left out.

  Today, it was four kids I recognized from school; Ellie Chen, Maria Diaz, Nuveen Patel, and Aaron Wadsworth. They were a year ahead of me, and would be starting seventh grade in the new middle school next fall. I said hi as I walked off the court. They ignored me. I decided to watch them play. That’s how much I loved the game.

  They were playing boys against girls. Aaron served first. He swatted his opening serve so hard, it smacked into the net. I winced. I could almost feel how it would sting to be hit by that. He smacked his second serve even harder. It whacked the net, too.