Odd, Weird, & Little Patrick Jennings

APA Reference: Jennings, P. (2009, January). Odd, weird, & little. Scholastic Storyworks, 14-19

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Odd, Weird, & Little by Patrick Jennings

He showed up yesterday during math.

“Attention, class,” Mr. Donna said. “We have a new student joining us

today. He just moved here from Quebec, and his name is Toulouse.” He

smiled at the new boy.

None of us smiled. Everyone just stared at Toulouse. 5

He was short. Real short. Kindergartner short.

And he was wearing a gray pinstripe suit. And a tie. Tell me that isn't weird.

A kid in a suit and tie at school is weird. Plus he was wearing tiny, round,

wire-rimmed glasses, an old-man hat, and red leather gloves, and he was

carrying a black briefcase. He looked kind of like my great grandpa, only 10

smaller. Way smaller.

His eyes were big and round and didn’t blink. His nose didn’t look like any

kid nose I’d ever seen. It was long, narrow, and pointy.

This was an extremely weird kid. Definitely weirder than me. Probably the

weirdest in our school. Maybe the weirdest on Earth. 15

I glanced over at Rutger, our class bully. He was grinning. Probably

dreaming of terrible things to do to poor Toulouse. I knew what Rutger was

capable of only too well. I’d been one of his victims for years. Why? Don’t

ask me. Maybe it’s because I have orange hair, or have an overbite or a big

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nose, or because I’m clumsy. I don’t think I’m so weird. Compared with 20

Toulouse, I’m practically normal.

Well, Toulouse,” Mr. Donna said. “Why don’t we hang up our hat and

coat?”

Toulouse shook his head.

“You want to keep them on?” 25

Some of the kids giggled.

Mr. Donna led Toulouse over to where our group sat.

“Toulouse will be in your group, people,” he said. “Please make him feel at

home.”

“I’m Monique,” Monique said. 30

“Ursula,” said Ursula.

“Rutger,” Rutger said, sticking out his hand like he wanted to shake.

What was he up to? Joy buzzer? Death grip? Did he spit into his palm?

Toulouse held out his gloved hand. Rutger jerked his own hand back,

running his fingers slowly through his hair. Like he was so cool. 35

So I took Toulouse’s hand and shook it.

“I’m Woodrow,” I said.

He made a little bow. Which was odd. But also sort of . . . I don’t know . . .

classy.

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Toulouse hopped up onto his chair. His feet didn’t reach the floor. 40

“Attention, class,” Mr. Donna said. “Today we are going to write about how

it might feel to be a new student in a new classroom. Of course, Toulouse,

you can write about what it does feel like.”

Toulouse opened his briefcase and took out a small black book, a feather,

and a small, square black bottle. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and 45

dipped the pointy end of the feather into it.

Ursula stared at him as if he’d just climbed out of a flying saucer.

Toulouse opened his little black book and began writing. The feather—or

quill, I guess—made scratchy noises as he wrote. He stopped every few

words or so for more ink. 50

Nobody moved. The whole class watched him write with a feather about

how it felt to be the new kid. He didn’t seem to notice. Or care. He was

weird, no doubt about it, but he was also pretty darn cool—in a weird way, I

mean.

At recess everybody was talking about Toulouse. 55

“He never says a word,” Monique said.

“Maybe he can’t speak English,” Dwayne said.

“He has a briefcase,” Monique said.

“He keeps a bottle of ink in his briefcase,” Ursula said.

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“He wears a tie!” Monique said. 60

“His eyes are huge!” Ursula said.

“He’s so little!” Dwayne said.

“He’s so odd!” Monique said.

“I think he’s an alien,” Rutger said. “I mean, look at him.”

Toulouse was perched on a high branch in a tree at the edge of the 65

playground.

Seeing how I never know what to do during recess—I’m lousy at dodgeball,

tetherball, chasing, climbing, and making fun of people—I went over to

Toulouse in his tree. He was reading an old book.

“Excuse me, Toulouse,” I said, looking up at him. “I’m Woodrow? I’m in 70

your group?”

He looked up from his book and said, “Who?” It was the first word I had

ever heard him say.

“It’s Woodrow. I sit next to you.”

He nodded, then waited for me to say something else, only I didn’t have 75

anything else to say. Striking up conversations is another thing I’m lousy at.

We stared at each other a while.

At last I thought of “I like your hat.”

He nodded a thank-you.

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Then I thought of “What are you reading?” 80

He held up the book, but he was up too high for me to read its title.

“Is it good?” I asked. (I was starting to warm up.)

He nodded. Then we just stared at each other. I had used up all of my

things to say.

Then Toulouse patted the branch beside him, like he was inviting me to 85

come up. Just as I started climbing, though, the bell rang.

Toulouse jumped down from his branch. He landed pretty softly considering

how high up he’d been. We walked toward the building together. He came

up to my elbow, even with his hat on.

Did I mention he was short? 90

“Hey, Woodrow!” Rutger yelled. “I think you finally found someone weirder

than you!”

“Ignore him,” I said.

Toulouse nodded. You know, I think he really did ignore Rutger. I wondered

how. I never could. 95

It didn’t matter, though. Rutger doesn’t care if you pay attention to him or

not. He torments you anyway. What he cares about is if other kids are

paying attention. Still, I was impressed how Toulouse refused to let Rutger

ruffle his feathers.

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In P.E., Toulouse wore a baggy, gray sweat suit, black high-tops, and a red 100

stocking cap. He was still carrying his briefcase.

I don’t think I’d ever seen Rutger more happy.

We divided up into teams for volleyball. Rutger was one of the four

captains, and he picked Toulouse first. He and his toadies snickered

diabolically. 105

I had to sit out the first game because Toulouse made our class size

uneven. I pretended to be crushed as I walked toward the bleachers.

Toulouse followed me.

Everybody got quiet.

“Go on and play,” I whispered to Toulouse. “I’m no good anyway.” 110

He stayed where he was.

Ms. Gordon, the P.E. teacher, came over and said, “I have an idea,

Woodrow. Why don’t you and your new friend share a position.”

New friend?

“Yeah,” Rutger said. “Put them together and you might make one whole 115

player!”

“Yeah!” Dwayne tossed in. “One who stinks!”

Rutger and Dwayne got big laughs, and warnings from Ms. Gordon.

After Toulouse and I took our position on the court, the game began.

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Toulouse was so awesome. He could serve and set, and you should have 120

seen him spike. For such a little guy, he really got off the ground.

At first, everyone just gasped and whispered, but pretty soon they started

cheering for him, even the players on the other team. Rutger didn’t, of

course. He scowled and grumbled to himself.

Toulouse got everything that came to us. All I had to do was stay out of his 125

way and shift when the service changed. I was actually having a good time.

Then Rutger said, “Hey, Woodrow! Can I get you a chair?”

“Yeah, Woodrow!” Dwayne chimed in. “Don’t do something. Just stand

there.”

Ms. Gordon gave them second warnings. 130

After that, Toulouse stopped getting everything. In fact, he stopped getting

anything. When the ball came to us, he just stood there, looking up at me.

You take ‘em, Toulouse,” I whispered. “I’m lousy.”

“Who?”

“Who? Me! I’m lousy. You’re good. You take ‘em.” 135

“Who?”

“Oh, skip it.”

When we ended up in the server’s position, he wouldn’t take the ball. He

wouldn’t serve.

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The other team started getting antsy, so I tossed the ball up, punched at it, 140

and missed. Everybody but Toulouse and Ms. Gordon busted a gut. Rutger

laughed so hard I hoped he would choke.

“Will you please serve?” I asked Toulouse.

He shook his head.

“OK then,” I said. “Get ready for strike two.” 145

I tossed the ball again, but this time I hit it—into the back of Monique’s

head.

“Hey!” she screeched.

The gym echoed with laughter.

“Side out!” Ms. Gordon called. 150

While the other team shifted, Toulouse reached into his sweatshirt pouch,

pulled out his black book, and scribbled something in it. Then he turned it

around. His handwriting was fancy, like in the Declaration of Independence.

It said:

Excellent attempt! 155

And just like that I went from dying of embarrassment to feeling almost

proud. How’d he do that?

That was when it hit me: Ms. Gordon was right. Toulouse was my friend.

I was proud of that too.

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That was yesterday. 160

This morning, Toulouse put a small cardboard box on my desk with a blue

ribbon around it and a tag that said my name in his usual fancy lettering.

Inside was a bottle of ink and a feather, and a note:

To Woodrow,

Please accept this token of my esteem. 165

With affection,

Toulouse

Writing with the feather—I mean, a quill—was fun till I spilled the ink in my

lap. Toulouse had made it look so easy. That’s one of the things I really like

about him. When he does totally amazing stuff, he stays totally cool. 170

Now it’s lunch, and Toulouse and I are up in a tree. A little pink paw is

poking out of his sandwich. He winks at me, then takes a bite.

I guess they eat different kinds of food in Quebec.

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Cloud Fishing Zach Falcon

APA Reference: Falcon, Z. (2004). Cloud fishing. Spider,11(8), 16-21.

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Cloud Fishing by Zach Falcon

Barefoot Jean and her brown dog, Barley, ran to the top of the green,

grassy hill. The sun shone down as she looked up into the deep sea-blue

sky.

Above her sailed billowing cloud ships with tall sails unfurled. Nimbus

whales breached, blocking the sun, while wisps of cirrus clouds rippled like 5

seaweed. Jean watched as a lazy school of cloud fish drifted by, carried

along the sky’s gentle currents.

Jean scratched her nose, squinted her eyes, and said to herself, “I want to

catch a fish.”

Barley barked excitedly as they ran down the hill, through the woods, and 10

back to the house for supplies.

Jean found her sturdy green-and-gold kite in the closet. “If you’re going to

catch a cloud fish,” Jean instructed Barley, “you’ve got to have good bait.”

From a sewing basket, she selected colorful bits of yarn and ribbon and

tied them to the kite’s long tail for the bait. She found a kite string and tied it 15

to the kite with an extra-strong knot.

With a burlap bag in one hand and her kite in the other, Jean marched

purposefully, with Barley at her heels, back to the hill.

Standing at the top, Jean cast her hook into the sky. The wind lifted it

higher and higher, until most of the line had been let out. 20

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Ducking and pulling in the wind, the gold kite flashed in the sun, while the

baited tail jigged invitingly. Jean scanned the sky for her prey. Not a cloud

fish in sight. She tightened the slack in her line and waited.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the hill. Directly above was the most

enormous cloud fish Jean had ever seen. Its white scales glistened in the 25

sun, and its strong tail seemed to move the wind.

Jean held her breath as the fish warily circled her hook. Interested, it came

forward for a sniff. Then a nibble. Then the fish turned and gobbled the

whole kite—tail and all.

Jean felt the yank on the line and braced herself. She dug her heels into 30

the ground, gritted her teeth, and began to reel in her catch.

The cloud fish fought fiercely, zigzagging and pulling with all its might, but it

was no match for Jean. Slowly and steadily, she wrestled the fish from the

sky.

When the fish was near enough, Jean popped her kite out of its mouth and 35

stuffed the fish into the burlap sack. She tossed the squirming sack over

her shoulder, scratched Barley behind the ears, and proudly set off down

the hill.

At home, Jean carried the fish upstairs to her room. She closed the door,

set the sack down, and opened it carefully. After a moment, the cloud fish 40

poked its head out. Then, leaving the bag, it floated up to the ceiling. As it

rose, the cloud changed shape, spreading outward, searching for an exit to

the sky.

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Realizing it was trapped, the cloud darkened. It rumbled, loosing a great

clap of thunder. A bolt of lightning flashed and burned a hole in the carpet. 45

Then the cloud began to rain on Jean’s bed.

Barley whimpered, and Jean, who was a bit frightened herself, patted him

on the head. “Maybe it’s hungry,” she said. “I’ll fix it a snack.” As soon as

Jean opened the door, the cloud stormed past her into the hall.

The cloud was now a furious thunderstorm, hunting for an escape. It tore 50

through Jean’s parents’ bedroom and then roared downstairs. Moving

faster, the cloud spun like a tornado. Ripping through the kitchen, it

shattered china and overturned the table. In the living room, the cloud

knocked pictures off the wall and short-circuited the television.

Barley, too terrified to bark, turned tail and ran down to the basement. The 55

cloud thundered after him. Jean called Barley back up and quickly shut the

door. The cloud bellowed and banged, but there was no way out.

Jean listened as the storm in her basement gradually grew quiet. Soon she

could hear only gentle rain. She opened the door and tiptoed down the

steps. The basement was flooded, but the cloud was nowhere to be seen. 60

Jean and Barley stepped around the puddles, searching, until they found it

behind the furnace.

The cloud was now misty and weak. It had shrunk so much that it fit in one

hand. Jean tried to comfort it, but the cloud just grew smaller. She thought

for a moment, then whistled for Barley. 65

“C’mon,” she said. “The only way to make this cloud happy again is to let it

go back to where it belongs.”

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Jean and Barley ran back to the top of the hill. Jean held the cloud

carefully, waiting for a good breeze. At the right moment, she released the

cloud and watched it float away. 70

The cloud was still at first, but began to stir as the wind carried it higher.

Little by little, it grew in size and strength until it was as beautiful as before.

Far below, barefoot Jean and her brown dog, Barley, stood at the top of the

green, grassy hill and watched as the cloud fish, with a flick of its powerful

tail, swam back into the deep-blue sky. 75

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