“Ms.… Wolf … tells … me … you … are … quite … the … artist,” Mr. Logwood says to Toulouse when we’re back in the classroom.
Toulouse doesn’t answer.
“He’s an amazing artist,” Monique says. “You should see his painting.”
“Of fruit,” Garrett says under his breath.
Hubcap snickers.
“Respect, gentlemen,” Mr. Logwood says. “Do you need me to sing it for you?”
“No!” Garrett and Hubcap say in unison.
The song Mr. Logwood sings is an old one my parents listen to sometimes. Mr. Logwood doesn’t sing very well, though.
“Then please get out your math materials while I collect some for Toulouse.”
“Who?” Toulouse says at the mention of his name.
Garrett and Hubcap snicker.
Mr. Logwood begins singing the old song.
“Okay! Sorry! Sorry!” Garrett says.
Hubcap: “Yeah, we’re so sorry!”
Mr. Logwood ends the song. “Math materials, gentlemen,” he says, then gets some for Toulouse.
We’ve been studying shapes. Triangles. Polygons. Quadrilaterals. When Toulouse gets today’s handout, which is called, “Greater Than Right: Obtuse Angles,” he opens his briefcase and takes out: a steel ruler with etched markings and a cork backing; a steel protractor (also etched); a pink rubber eraser; and three yellow, unsharpened pencils (Ticonderogas!). I dig the sharpener out of my pocket. It’s a heavy, bronze cylinder (speaking of geometric shapes …) about an inch in diameter with a sharp metal blade on the top. I love it, and I’m hoping Toulouse will appreciate its fine workmanship.
“Would you like this … to use?” I ask him. “The one on the wall … it’s terrible. It mangles your Ticonderogas.”
He stares at me.
Too much English?
I hold the sharpener out and smile.
He sticks out his gloved hand, palm up. I set the sharpener in it. He bounces his hand, weighing it, then he picks it up with the gloved fingers of his other hand and inspects it. One of his eyes close, and I notice a strange thing: just before his eyelids touch, a dark diagonal line appears between them, over his large iris. Does he wear contacts?
When he’s finished looking the sharpener over—I can tell he appreciates the workmanship—he slides one of his pencils into the smaller of the two sharpening ports and twists it. The painted skin of the Ticonderoga curls over the blade like an apple peel.
I dig into my other pocket and take out the small, empty mint tin, then pop it open with my thumb. It still smells of peppermint.
“For the shavings,” I say.
He nods and shakes the shavings loose. They flutter down into the tin.
“This is so sweet,” Garrett says.
“Touching,” Hubcap adds.
“Two dorks in love.”
“Dork love.”
Garrett makes a little kissing sound. Hubcap joins in.
I suddenly wonder whether being friendly to Toulouse is such a good idea. Garrett claims Toulouse is weirder than me. If I become friends with him, what will that say about me? If I distance myself from Toulouse, maybe Garrett will finally leave me alone.
Toulouse lowers his hands and stares at Garrett’s puckering mouth, then pivots his head and stares at Hubcap’s.
“Stop staring at me, freak,” Hubcap says, squirming.
Toulouse makes a sound with his mouth. I think he’s trying to make a kissing sound, but it ends up sounding more clicky than kissy.
“I think he wants a kiss, Hub,” Garrett says.
Hubcap: “Well, he’s not getting one.”
“Leave him alone, Garrett,” Monique says.
I was going to say that, but it got stuck in my throat.
Toulouse hands the sharpener back to me with a thank-you nod, then takes a small notepad with a brown leather cover out of his briefcase and flips it open. He scribbles something on the pad, tears off the sheet, and passes it to Garrett.
We all lean in to read it. In fancy cursive, it reads: