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.