Teeny Weenies: My Favorite President

by David Lubar

  “Big whoop,” Rufus muttered. “We see them all the time.”

  “But they’re always far away,” Tad said. “Look at this one. It’s close! Real close.”

  “So?” Rufus asked.

  “So we can find the pot of gold.” Tad pointed toward the spot where the rainbow disappeared behind the woods. “If you go to the end of the rainbow, that’s where leprechauns hide their pot of gold. Everybody knows that. And today is St. Patrick’s Day, so there absolutely have to be leprechauns all over the place.”

  “Maybe in Ireland,” Rufus said. “But we’re in Greece.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not today.” Tad yanked at his brother’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll need your help carrying the pot.”

  “How big do you think it is?” Rufus asked.

  “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. It will be gold! Any gold is more gold than we have. We can buy everything we’ve ever wanted. And even everything we’ve never wanted.” He started to drag his brother toward the end of the rainbow.

  “Quit tugging. I’m coming.” Rufus rose to his feet, sighed, and trotted off after Tad.

  They went over the river (by way of a bridge) and through the woods (by way of a path), skipped past their grandmother’s house, and kept angling toward where the rainbow seemed to touch ground on the far side of a hill past gently rolling fields of farmland.

  By now, Rufus, who didn’t much enjoy exercise, was huffing and puffing. And Tad, who didn’t much enjoy anything other than dreams of wealth, was panting like a dog in the desert.

  “Almost there…,” Tad gasped.

  They pushed onward. As they reached the foot of the hill, Rufus let out a scream. It was his turn to fling out his arm and point.

  Tad, who had no breath left, let out a smaller scream that sounded more like a cough. But his eyes grew wide as he stared at the statue that stood on the slope just above them. It was a life-size sculpture of a man who himself, based on the way his face was scrunched up, was letting out a horrifying scream. The man pointed with one hand at whatever had terrified him. Both boys looked where the finger was aimed but saw nothing frightening.

  That didn’t calm Rufus down at all. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” Tad said after he’d managed to catch his breath. “That’s just put here to scare people off from getting the gold. Which proves there has to be gold there.”

  “You think?” Rufus asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” Tad said. “Leprechauns are tricky. Look, there’s another scary one.” He pointed to a second statue. This time, it was of a screaming woman, holding her hands out as if she were trying to stop a charging bull.

  “That’s awful,” Rufus said.

  “But it shows we’re on the right track,” Tad said. “The leprechauns wouldn’t try to scare us off if there were nothing to protect.”

  When they reached the top of the hill, Tad gasped again. But this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was from wonder.

  “It’s huge…,” he said.

  “Enormous…,” Rufus said.

  It was both those things and more. About fifty yards past the foot of the hill, beyond a dozen more statues, at the far end of the rainbow, sat a gigantic pot, taller than the twins and filled to overflowing with shiny gold coins.

  “We’re going to have to make a lot of trips,” Tad said. “But it will be worth it. We’ll be able to buy anything we want.”

  “Maybe we should buy a wagon first,” Rufus said.

  “Good idea,” Tad said. He raced down the hill, drawn by the treasure that lay ahead. As he got closer, he saw a small man dressed in a green vest, green shirt, and green pants, sitting on a rock, facing the gold. Green hair jutted down from the back of his green cap.

  “That’s the leprechaun,” Tad said.

  “I know,” Rufus said, catching up with his brother. “Think he’ll try to stop us?”

  “I don’t think he can,” Tad said. “If you find the gold, you get to keep it. That’s the rule.”

  “You’re right,” the leprechaun said without turning to face the twins.

  “You won’t stop us?” Tad asked.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” the leprechaun said.

  “Hey, you don’t sound Irish,” Rufus said.

  “That’s because I’m a mixie,” the leprechaun said.

  “Pixie?” Tad asked.

  “No, no, no. Not one of them,” the leprechaun said, keeping his back toward them. “Mixie. I’m only leprechaun on my father’s side. I’m Greek on my mother’s side, descended from Gaia. I’m a beautiful mythical mix. Get it? Mixie.”

  Had the twins paid a bit more attention in school, and especially had they taken note of the lessons on Greek mythology, things might have ended differently. Sadly for them, that was not the case.

  “Turn around,” Tad said.

  “Take my advice and take the gold,” the leprechaun said.

  “Turn around,” Tad said again.

  And so Plato O’Brien turned toward the twins. He was half–Irish leprechaun, descended from sea sprites, and half–Greek gorgon, descended from sea gods. Gorgons, of course, are so hideous that the sight of them can turn people to stone. Plato smiled a truly hideous yet still-charming smile and lifted his hat, freeing the green snakes that were his hair. The snakes wriggled and hissed at the twins. Being half-gorgon, Plato turned them only halfway to stone. Unfortunately, that half happened to be not their left side, or their right side, or their upper half, or their lower half. It was their outer half that grew rock hard as they flung their arms out and screamed in terror.

  Tad and Rufus, on the outside, were now solid stone and horrifying to behold. On the inside, they were still human and very unhappy about the situation. But there was nothing they could do about it. Even their attempts to scream or to plea for help were absorbed by the solid, unmoving stone.

  “Twins,” Plato said, eyeing his newest decorations. “Now that’s a treasure. They’ll look splendid on either side of the path.” He dragged the statues up the hill, one by one, then went back to sitting on the rock, admiring his pot of gold, enjoying the beautiful rainbow that touched the ground in front of him, and waiting to see what lovely treasure seekers came along next.

  SNOWFLAKES

  My brother and I are identical twins. Identical on the outside, that is. Inside, we are different in a lot of ways. I love art and music more than anything. Ryan loves science. This doesn’t mean I hate science or Ryan hates art. It just means we have stuff we like the most. But Ryan got me started on a science project that could have made me famous.

  It happened in December, during the first snowfall of the season. I was staring out the window, looking at the snow-covered branches I planned to sketch. Ryan was checking an app on his phone to get a reading from the weather station he’d built on the roof of our garage.

  “We’re like rock crystals on the outside, but snowflakes inside,” he said.

  I rolled my pencil between my fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “Crystals that form under the same conditions will appear identical,” he said. “That’s us on the outside, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “Except I’m taller and better looking.”

  Ryan ignored the joke, which I’d probably made a thousand times, and went on. “No two snowflakes are alike. That’s us on the inside.”

  I ignored the part about us and seized the part about snowflakes. “What do you mean?” I pointed out the window. “Look at them. There are billions, and they’re all the same.”

  “Not if you take a close look.” He pointed across the room, where his microscope sat on a shelf. “Each snowflake is unique. We learned that in school. Remember?”

  “Nope. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. And I’m not sure I believe you,” I said.

  “You have to,” he said. “It’s true.”

  “Prove it,” I said.

  Ryan shrugged. “I can’t.”

  That stopped me
cold. And, no, that wasn’t a snowflake joke. I’d expected him to offer some kind of proof or admit he’d made the whole thing up just to mess with me.

  “What do you mean you can’t?” I asked.

  “You can’t prove a law of science. Or any absolute statement,” he said. “The only way to prove it would be to look at every single snowflake.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “Even if you started checking them right now, zillions of them have melted.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “Any absolute statement, like all trout have gills or all dogs bark can’t be proven. You can just make it more and more likely to be true with every trout or dog you study.”

  “But some dogs don’t bark,” I said. I loved dogs, too. I’d done a report on them. I knew a lot about them.

  Ryan flung his arm out. “Exactly!”

  His shout startled me. I waited to see if he had more to say. He did.

  “You gave me an example that showed I was wrong about dogs. It works that way for any rule. It just takes one counterexample to disprove it,” he said.

  It took me a moment to think that through. But I saw what he meant. “So all I have to do is find two snowflakes that are the same, and you’ll be wrong,” I said. “And I’ll still be taller and better looking.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said.

  I grabbed his microscope. “Can I borrow this?”

  “Help yourself.”

  I took the microscope out to the porch and held it so some snowflakes fell on the glass slide. Then I looked at them.

  Wow. They were beautiful. And different. I wiped off the slide and caught a few more. They were also beautiful. And different. But I realized I had a problem. What if the first one I looked at was just like the fiftieth one or the five hundredth? I’d have no way or remembering all the patterns.

  I put the microscope down and ran inside to get my sketch pad.

  “How’s it going?” Ryan asked, flashing me a smug grin.

  “I’m just getting started,” I said.

  I went out, caught more flakes on the slide, and started sketching them.

  It was fun at first. I never got tired of drawing. But I was getting cold standing out there. And my sketch pad was getting full.

  “Maybe I should give up,” I said to myself. I looked over my shoulder. Ryan was inside, nice and warm. He caught me staring, spread his hands, and mouthed the word Well?

  I turned away and got back to work. I just had to find one counterexample.

  But I started to wonder whether I was wasting my time. “Ten more minutes, and I’m going inside,” I said as I captured more specimens.

  And there they were. I was so surprised, I just stared for a moment. Right on the slide, side by side, I saw two snowflakes that were as identical as twins.

  “Yes!” I shouted, leaping in the air. I spun toward the house.

  “Ryan!” I screamed, shouting loudly enough that my voice could be heard through the window.

  “What?” he shouted back.

  “I found them.”

  He threw on his coat and came outside. “This better not be a joke.”

  I didn’t even bother answering him. I just pointed at the microscope.

  He leaned over, adjusted the focus, stared for a moment, then said, “Wow…” The word came out like a long sigh.

  “Identical,” I said.

  “Yeah…”

  I watched the mist flow from his mouth as he spoke the word. Then he clamped his mouth shut and backed away.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He just pointed at the microscope. I leaned over and took a look. But deep inside, I already knew what had happened. There, on the slide, instead of identical snowflakes, I saw identical tiny blobs of water. Ryan’s breath had melted the snowflakes.

  “But you saw it,” I said. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you know I proved you wrong. Right?”

  “Right,” he said. “But there’s no evidence for the rest of the world. That’s what really matters.”

  “Not to me,” I said.

  “It would to me,” he said.

  “And that just proves we’re different in every way,” I said.

  “No,” Ryan said. “I told you that you can’t prove an—”

  “An absolute,” I said, cutting him off and grinning a big enough smile to let him know I was joking. “How about we crystal-snowflake twins go get some identical mugs of hot chocolate?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  And we did. Though mine was bigger and tastier.

  IN LIKE A LION

  I saw Serena Watkins sitting at the top of a hill near the playground. She had a pair of binoculars in her hands and a camera dangling from a strap around her neck. I hiked up the path to find out what was going on.

  “Hi, Tammy,” she said when I reached her. “Did you come to watch?”

  “Watch what?”

  “The lion,” she said.

  I had no idea what she was talking about. I waited.

  “It’s the first day of March,” she explained.

  I knew that. But I still had no clue what the date had to do with Serena’s decision to sit at the top of a hill. So I waited some more. Her next words didn’t help all that much, either.

  “My folks always say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”

  “That’s just an expression,” I told her. I’d heard it from my folks, too. “It means the weather is wild at the start of the month, because it’s still winter, and tame at the end, because it’s finally spring. There isn’t a real lion.”

  “Wild, huh?” Serena smirked at me and pointed to the calm, cloudless, clear-blue sky. “I don’t think so.”

  I guess she was right about that. A mild breeze ruffled our hair. I took a seat next to her on the hilltop. I didn’t think a lion was going to come, but I liked hanging out with Serena.

  She offered me the binoculars. “Want to take a look?”

  “Sure.” I looked. I saw houses, streets, cars, and kids. No lion. I handed the binoculars back. “Thanks.”

  We sat for a while. I didn’t mind. The weather was nice.

  “Hey, how do you know it will come from that way?” I finally asked, pointing in the direction we were facing.

  She tapped her watch, which had a small compass on the band. “That’s due east. Stuff moves east to west. The sun comes from the east. The new day comes from the east. March comes from the east. So will the lion.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “But wouldn’t the lion come right when March started, like at midnight?”

  “Lions like to sleep. They’re just big cats,” Serena said. “My cat sleeps a lot. Besides, I don’t think the lion would want to get up in the dark unless it absolutely had to. I didn’t see any reason for me to, either.”

  “I guess that makes sense, too,” I said. Of course, even though every part of what she said made sense, I didn’t think that when you put all the parts together, you’d end up with a lion.

  I was about to tell her that when I heard the roar from behind us. Serena and I leaped to our feet and spun around. We found ourselves facing a lion that had crept up the back side of the hill. Yup—a real, living and breathing, bushy-maned lion stood ten yards away from us.

  “Lions are sneaky, too,” I said. “They’re hunters.”

  “That’s a male,” Serena said. “The females do the hunting.”

  “You also said the lion would come from the east,” I reminded her. “I don’t think you get to call yourself an expert on their behavior.”

  “How about if I say we turn around and run as fast as we can?” she asked.

  “I’d definitely listen,” I said.

  We spun so we could run. And a bunch of things happened at once. As I looked back over my shoulder, the lion crossed the distance impossibly fast. It leaped at us, roaring. I could see nothing but teeth and feel hot lion breath washing over me as if I were leaning above a
bubbling pot of beef-barley soup. At the same time the lion leaped, the sky turned so dark, I felt someone had pulled the plug on the sun. Heavy clouds blew in from the east, gray on the top and black on the bottom.

  I could feel the hair on my arms stand up as lightning struck the leaping lion, knocking it to the ground. Torrential rain fell, instantly soaking us.

  The lion got back up. I was glad he wasn’t hurt at all, but I was sad Serena and I were about to be hurt in all kinds of ways.

  Much to my relief, as a second bolt of lightning hit between us and the lion, he ran off like a scared cat.

  “I think I’ll head home,” I said. I was already so wet, there was no point running.

  Serena sighed as she slipped her camera under her shirt. “I guess I’m not getting a photo of a lion today.”

  “Well, maybe in a month, you can get a good picture of the lamb,” I said.

  “That sounds like a much better idea,” Serena said as we slogged our way down the hill toward what I hoped would be a wonderful spring.

  THIN ICE

  Almost everything about the skates was wrong. They were bright green with sparkles. They had neon-blue laces. And they had jagged teeth at the tips instead of a nice smooth curve.

  They were Joe’s mom’s figure skates from twenty years ago.

  The only thing that wasn’t wrong about them was that they fit. And Joe needed skates. He had his brother’s old hockey stick. He had a mouth guard from the one year he’d tried wrestling. But there wasn’t any money for skates.

  “You can’t have new skates and dance lessons,” his mom had said. “We just can’t afford both right now.”

  “I know.” Joe realized the lessons cost a lot. That didn’t matter. He couldn’t give them up. He loved to dance. But each time he walked past Krueger Pond and saw everyone slapping around hockey pucks and having a wonderful time, he felt a twinge of envy and a tug of sadness.