I’m a picky eater, and none of the few foods I like—pizza, chicken nuggets, nachos—are being served today. Lunch is beef stew, which smells weird and has green peppers, which I don’t eat. The side dishes are not tater tots or french fries or even mashed potatoes, but steamed carrots and cole slaw. The dessert is red Jell-O. I may starve.
I fish out some beef chunks and slurp up the Jell-O, then dump my tray into the trash and head outside. Toulouse is up in his tree.
“How do you get up there?” I yell.
He stares at me a long time, then shrugs.
“I’ll be right back.”
I walk around, scanning the playground for something to drag over and climb on, though I know there isn’t anything. The adults have removed everything a kid could make something fun out of, or use as a weapon. All I find on the playground are kids, a recess teacher, some balls (which are, at the moment, being used by Garrett and Hubcap as weapons), and heavy play equipment sunk in concrete.
I turn around and trip over Toulouse.
“How do you do that?” I ask, helping him up and dusting him off.
He makes a hacking cough and a puff of dust comes out his mouth.
I’m relieved that it’s only dust.
“You want to swing?” I ask. I see that two swings next to each other have opened up, a rare occurrence.
Toulouse picks up his briefcase, dusts it off, coughs again, then nods.
I take off running, yelling, “Dibs on the swings! Dibs on the swings! Oof!” I trip and fall on my face. And on a couple of rolls of duck tape, a compass, and my steel pencil sharpener, all of which are in my front pockets. Ouch.
No way will we get the swings now. I climb to my feet and look back at Toulouse.
He’s not there.
I look at the swing set. There he is, perched on a swing, holding the chain of the one next to it.
“You can’t save swings,” Ursula says to him, her arms crossed angrily.
Toulouse stares at her.
I run over and dive at the swing. I land on it on my stomach. My momentum sends the swing back and up; it twists, then unwinds as it swings back down. I get dizzy, lose my balance, and fall off.
Ursula catches my swing and sits on it.
Toulouse hops off his and helps me up.
“Get out of the way!” Ursula yells at us.
Toulouse turns his head toward her and stares.
“Do it,” she growls. “Move! Move now! Move, you little freak!”
“Respect,” he says in his flutey voice.