I scowl at him. One of the rules at school—the kid rules—is that kids don’t tell on other kids. If a kid does something against the adult rules, even if it’s a kid you don’t like, even if what he did is really bad, or even evil, it’s against the rules to tell the adults. The adults have to find out stuff on their own.
If I made the kid rules, I would get rid of this one. But I definitely don’t make the rules. Kids like Garrett do.
However, another kid rule is that the kids who make the rules can break them whenever they feel like it. When you do as many mean things as Garrett does, you don’t want other people telling on you. But he’s allowed to tell, even on kids who didn’t do anything wrong, even if he has to lie. He makes the rules, then he bends them or even breaks them whenever he feels like it.
“Woodrow?” Mr. Logwood asks, looking surprised. “Is this true?”
“They said … they were saying … mean things … about Toulouse.”
This is the truth, but saying it is against the kid rules. No matter what I answered, I was in trouble here.
Garrett acts offended, but what he really is, is angry. He scowls at me. “That is not true, Mr. Logwood.”
“Totally not true,” Hubcap says.
Monique and Ursula look away. They’re obeying the kid rules.
Mr. Logwood looks at all of us, one at a time. I can tell he believes me.
“Respect, students,” he says. “Do I need to sing it?”
We all shake our heads. None of us want that.
14. Willow
I thought Toulouse would want to rush home after school. But he nodded when I invited him to go fishing, so we stopped at the office and called his house to get permission for him to get off at my stop. The secretary, Ms. Plowright, did the calling. She got the okay from Toulouse’s mom, and he rode the bus home with me.
I guess this officially makes us friends. After telling Garrett to stop teasing him, I didn’t really see any way around it. It was obvious to everybody that Toulouse and I were becoming friends. “Freaks of a feather flock together” —that’s what Garrett said when Toulouse and I walked down the hall together to the office. I guess he’s right.
My little sister, Willow, was a real pain on the ride home, pestering Toulouse with a billion questions.
“Why do you wear a suit like a grown-up?”
“Why do you wear a tie like one?”
“Why is your nose so pointy?”
“Why do you carry that instead of a backpack?”
“Where are you from?”
“Where do you live now?”
“Do you like it here?”
“Do you have a sister?”
“Why are you coming to our house?”
“Why do you keep staring at me like that?”
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway as my bus neared our stop. Usually she’s home when Willow and I get there. Sometimes, though, she’s still out on a job. My mom is a tree surgeon.
Dad’s car is in the driveway. He’s home, but he’s probably sleeping, and we’re supposed to be careful not to wake him. My dad works nights. He’s a night watchman at a business park.
We go into the house and have a snack. I’m glad my mom isn’t home. I want to show Toulouse around myself.
“We’re going to my room,” I tell Willow. “Do something quiet till Mom gets home. Dad’s asleep.”
“I know,” she says with a scowl. “I’ll play Librarian.”
Librarian is a game she plays by herself. She checks books out to her stuffed animals, then she charges them fines when they don’t return them on time. Like a stuffed animal could return a book.
Toulouse stands in the center of my room, holding his briefcase, looking as if he’s waiting for me to say something, or maybe for a train in an old movie.
“Can I take your hat and coat?” I ask, just like Mr. Logwood did, only not as slowly.
Toulouse answers, “No, thank you.”
He looks around at the stuff in my room, taking it in with his enormous eyes. He looks really interested, and suddenly I feel a little embarrassed. I haven’t had a friend in here in a long, long time. Not since Farley Wopat, and that was in second grade. (Farley and his family moved away a few months later.) What does my room say about me?
It probably says I read a lot, but that I don’t take such good care of my books. I rarely put them away. I stack them up like blocks and use them for stools, tables, and shelves. I leave them lying open, facedown, on the floor. I spill food and drink on them.
It probably also says that I like fiction, but that I read a lot of nonfiction, too. Books about fishing, rocketry, snakes, cryptids, weapons, raptors, semaphore, presidents, and lots of other things are mixed into the piles.
Visitors would also learn that I like duck tape. I keep a healthy supply of the stuff, in all sizes, colors, and patterns—including tie-dye, plaid, zebra, camo, mustache, penguin, zigzag, and candy corn—and I’ve created all sorts of things with it, including my lampshade, a few pillows, a couple of rugs, and a scratching post for our cats, Ouch and Meanie. Both cats were named by Willow, by the way, and both enjoy sharpening their claws on things made of duck tape. I made a duck tape scratching post hoping they’d leave my stuff alone. Instead, they leave the scratching post alone.
I guess my room also says I have cats. Cats who love duck tape.
“We have cats,” I tell Toulouse, in case he’s allergic. Lots of kids are.
He jumps.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “They’re pretty harmless.”
He starts trembling. Which makes me jittery. He looks nervously from side to side, by which I mean he swivels his head nervously from side to side. His shoulders don’t budge.
“I m-mean, they hiss and swat, but they … they don’t … you know … injure anybody or anything.”
They do draw blood sometimes, but I don’t tell Toulouse that.
“This is some stuff I found,” I say, trying to change the subject. I walk over to my dresser, which is where I usually empty my pockets. I think of the pile as my midden, which is what a pack rat’s stash is called. I’m proud of my stash, even if my parents and sister don’t approve.
Toulouse approaches and looks it over carefully. Very carefully. He seems as interested in studying my jars of pebbles, glass shards, foil, wire, and other junk as he would be studying an encyclopedia, or an atlas, or a bowl of fish. In fact, he looks at it for so long that I start to wonder if we’re going to do anything else this afternoon.
At least he’s not freaked out about the cats anymore.
A knock on the door snaps him out of his trance. My mom steps in, wearing dirty brown work pants and a dirty denim work shirt. She’s already taken off her tool belt, which is too bad. I’d like Toulouse to see her tools. My mom has good stuff.
15. Lynn
“Hey, Woodman,” my mom says. Unlike Garrett’s nickname, this is one I like, especially the “man” part. “Who’s your little …” She stops when she sees how truly little Toulouse is. “Who’s your friend?”
Mom knows enough not to interrogate Toulouse. She knows he and I are hanging out and to leave us alone. That’s part of why she’s such a great mom.
I tell her his name, and she says, “Nice meeting you, Toulouse. I’m Lynn. If you guys need anything, let me know,” and leaves.
She wouldn’t have gotten much info out of him anyway.
“Let’s make some lures,” I say.
He nods.
I like making lures. Flies, spinners, jigs—it doesn’t matter. It feels good making things with my hands, including little things that require small motor skills and manual dexterity. We don’t do things like that at school.
I get out my tackle box, which is an old steel lunch pail my dad found for me at a yard sale, and Toulouse takes his tackle box out of his briefcase. I have a vise attached to my drawing table for making lures, and, fortunately, I have a spare, so I a
ttach it next to mine. Vises hold the lures securely while you work on them. Toulouse seems to know what I’m doing. I bet he has a vise at home. We get to work, stringing up some line, tying it off, then attaching things that will attract fish.
Certain fish like shiny things, and some like particular colors, or combinations of colors. Perch, in my experience, like purple, I’ve found. Croppies like feathers. Most of the fish I catch are sunfish, and they’re not too fussy. They’ll take about anything. After I catch them, though, I throw them back; they’re too small.
When we’ve both made some lures, I go to my closet to get a couple of rods. I have five or so, though I’m not sure where they all are. I give Toulouse the better one of the two. It has a reel that works. I also dig out two creels, which are little baskets to hold any fish we catch that are big enough to keep. Then we head out.
“We’re going to the creek to fish,” I tell my mom, who’s stretched out on the couch with her laptop, studying a colorful table of words and numbers. Doing spreadsheets is part of a tree surgeon’s job, too.
She checks her watch. “Okay, but don’t be too long. It’s getting dark earlier now.” She looks at Toulouse. “Your parents picking you up or am I taking you home?”
“I will walk,” he says in his hooty, breathy little voice.
He must like my mom to speak to her soon.
“Live nearby?” she asks.
I want to know this, too.
“Beyond the wood,” he says. The last word goes on a while: “wooood.”
I usually call it “the woods,” but I like it without the s. It sounds fairy-taley.
Ouch saunters by and fires Toulouse a teeth-bared hiss.
Toulouse hops up onto a chair.
“Oh, Ouch,” Willow says, waving him away. “Leave Toulouse alone. Sorry, Toulouse.”
He gives her a nervous bow from the chair.
The cat hunkers off, his head low, glaring back at Toulouse.
“His parents know he’s here, of course,” Mom says to me, her eyebrows adding, Right?
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Then have fun. Catch me a whopper.”
“Can I come with?” Willow asks. “I don’t like to fish, but I can watch.”
“No,” I say.
She pouts. I look at Mom.
“We’ll have fun here,” she says to Willow.
“Want to play Librarian?” Willow asks.
“Sure,” Mom answers, and smiles at me.
“Let’s go,” I say to Toulouse.
He hops down from the chair, gives my mom a bow, and we leave.
The wood (no s) is a few blocks away, past an open field. We don’t live in town, but we don’t live out of it, either. Kind of in between. We have neighbors, but their houses are far apart. Some of our neighbors have big gardens, or orchards, or fields with crops. One has a horse paddock. I often hear their horses whinny. I find lots of treasure for my midden in my neighborhood.
But today I’m not focusing on treasure. I’m focused on having company. Company my age, that is. Willow comes out with me sometimes, but that’s different. She may be the same size as Toulouse, but she’s not our age. I like having a friend over.
16. Out Here
When Toulouse and I enter the wood, the sun is low and shining at us like a giant motorcycle headlight through the trees. Mom’s right: it is getting dark earlier.
Toulouse walks with his head tilted back, gazing up at the branches and the sky. He breathes in deeply and lets it out slowly. He’s relaxed. I feel the same way.
It’s quiet except for the sound of our feet snapping fir needles and the occasional tweeting bird. It’s the opposite of school. No voices. No bells. No screaming or taunting or even whispering, except the wind through the branches. No teachers, no tests, no white-boards, no assignments, no walking single file. No Garrett. No Hubcap. Out here, Toulouse and I aren’t freaks. We fit in.
There aren’t many bugs around the creek. It’s too late in the year. Too cold. The water’s high because it’s been raining a lot. It’s not roaring or anything—it’s a small creek—but it’s about as full as it ever gets.
Toulouse is good at casting. Casting isn’t all that important on a creek this size, but it’s fun to do, and I can tell he likes doing it. He gets a good swirl of line over his head, then, with a flick of his wrist, his hook, lure, and sinker shoot out over the water, then drop—ploop!
I stand upstream from him, giving him room, taking room for myself. A fisherman needs his own waters to fish. I make the first catch, a little sunfish, three or four inches long—too little to keep, too big for bait. I unhook it and throw it back. I glance over at Toulouse. He’s staring at me as if he’s shocked I threw the fish back.
He catches the next fish, and turns his body away as he unhooks it. I don’t see him throw it back. I don’t hear a ploop! I guess it must have been big enough to keep, and he tucked it into his creel.
I turn away and watch my line and listen to the creek gurgle. I read a biography of Isaac Newton once, partly because everybody had to read a biography for school, and partly because Isaac Newton happens to be one of my dad’s heroes. The book said when Isaac was a kid he liked fooling around in creeks, and he grew up to be one of the most famous scientists ever. So there must be something good about fooling around in creeks, right?
Toulouse seems happy, too. He’s a natural fisherman. Skillful. Calm. Patient. He’s also a skillful, calm, patient painter, writer, and mathematician. How many kids do I know who would make the extra effort of not only writing with a quill and ink, but who would go to the bother of carrying that stuff around also? Not to mention an easel. And fishing tackle. Nobody I know.
Toulouse slips his hand into his coat and pulls out his pocket watch. He flips it open with a smooth motion, glances at it, then looks at me, frowning.
It’s already time to head home.
We both sigh and start reeling in our lines. He finishes first and walks toward me.
“Where’s your house from here?” I ask.
He points across the creek.
“How will you get across?”
Just then my hook snags the sleeve of my jacket. When I unhook it, it snags on my other sleeve. When I get it loose again and secure it to my reel, I look up and Toulouse is standing on the other side of the creek. He tips his hat, turns, and disappears into the trees.
I stand staring after him for quite a while, thinking. Then I notice that it’s suddenly getting dark really quickly, so I start heading home.
Hoo! Hoo! a bird says in a flutish voice from somewhere.
I love the wood.
17. Weird Is Normal
“He’s cute in his little suit,” Willow says at dinner. “Hey, I rhymed! I’m a poet and don’t know it!”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “You just said you were.”
She makes a sad face. “Oh.”
“Toulouse is an artist, and he’s also the smartest,” I say.
“You’re a poet and don’t know it, too!”
“No, I know it.”
“Wish I’d gotten the chance to meet him,” Dad says.
Dad always wakes up in time for dinner. He’ll leave for work at the business park after I’m asleep, and will be home and awake when I get up for school. It must be strange to be nocturnal.
Dad wears thick glasses with fragile-looking wire frames. The frames are always bent, so his glasses always sit crooked on his face. Dad’s balding on top and has a bushy mustache and adult braces on his teeth. He wears a tie without a jacket and a white, button-up, short-sleeved shirt. It’s easy to imagine him as a science nerd when he was a kid.
Which he says he was. My dad loves science. He reads a lot of books about it, which is probably why I read so much nonfiction. He says he’s always been a science nerd and often got teased about it when he was growing up. He also liked to stick things he found in his pockets. He still does.
He didn’t become a scientist, though, because his family d
idn’t have enough money to send him to college, and his grades weren’t good enough to earn him scholarships. But he has always studied on his own. Being a night watchman gives him plenty of time to read. He calls himself an autodidact, a person who teaches himself, like Isaac Newton did. He says people probably used to call Isaac a science nerd, too—though, because he lived so long ago, probably not in those words.
“He was so little, Poppy,” Willow says. “Littler than me!”
“That’s not his fault,” I say.
“No, if he could, I bet he’d be big like me. Everyone wants to be big.”
Willow’s pretty bubbly and talkative like this most of the time. It’s cute, but sometimes it gets old.
“His hat was adorable!” she says.
“A bowler,” Mom says to Dad.
“And he’s from Quebec, eh?” Dad says. “Does he speak French or English? Or both?”
“He doesn’t speak much at all,” I say. “But he’s spoken some French words and some English. And he seems to understand English pretty well. He had a French/English dictionary in his briefcase, and a quill and a bottle of ink, which is what he writes with. He loves fishing. And he makes lures. He keeps tackle in his briefcase, too.”
“Sounds like your kind of kid,” Mom says.
“The kids calls him weird. And odd.”
“Weird and odd, eh?” Dad says with a laugh.
“And they made fun of him for being little.”
“He is little,” Willow says. “So little!”
That’s what I mean about the cute stuff getting old.
“It’s lucky he befriended you on his first day then, isn’t it?” Mom says.
Mom is kind of weird, too, I guess, in her lumberjack clothes, and with her muscly arms and neck and her red, outdoorsy face. She never wears perfume or makeup, or girly clothes. She hates shopping, in fact. She loves rock and roll and blasts it when she’s driving in her beat-up old truck. Not all moms play air guitar when they drive, I bet. Mine does.
She’s normal to me, though. So is Dad. Even Willow, the bubbly librarian. Maybe weird is normal.
Odd, Weird & Little Page 4