Toulouse enters a stall in the boy’s locker room carrying a long gray duffel, then exits half a minute later wearing a baggy gray sweatsuit, black high-tops, and a red stocking cap. He’s still wearing his gloves.
Garrett snickers and nudges Hubcap.
“Toulouse the athlete,” Garrett says.
Hubcap: “Yeah!”
I’m tempted to point out how Toulouse just flattened Hubcap on the playground but decide to leave it alone. I’d probably just stutter anyway.
We’re playing volleyball in P.E. this week. Ms. Otwell divides us into two teams. I volunteer to sit out the first game when it turns out the class is uneven. I pretend to be crushed as I walk toward the bleachers, but I don’t mind at all. I avoid competitive sports whenever I can. I don’t like them, and I’m clumsy, which gives Garrett and Hubcap more to taunt me about.
Toulouse follows me to the bleachers.
Everyone watches him. Garrett and Hubcap, of course, snicker.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to Toulouse. “Go on and play. Have fun.”
He stays where he is.
Ms. Otwell comes over. “I have an idea, Woodrow. Why don’t you and your new friend share a position.”
How did she know Toulouse is my new friend?
“Yeah,” Garrett says. “Put them together and you might make one whole player!”
Hubcap: “One who stinks!”
They both get warnings from Ms. Otwell. One more disrespectful outburst and they will sit out the game.
Toulouse and I take our position on the court, and the game begins. We’re on the same team with Garrett and Hubcap, and they keep stepping in front of us to hit balls coming our way.
“Hit only the balls that come to your zone!” Ms. Otwell orders.
Garrett and Hubcap obey.
I don’t know if volleyball is big in Quebec, but Toulouse seems pretty experienced at it. He easily returns the ball hit to us, though usually he sets up other players rather than hitting the ball back over. When someone sets him up, he leaps up and spikes. For such a little guy, he really gets off the ground. This could explain how he’s able to get up and down from his tree and the Ladder and the swing set so fast, but it doesn’t explain how he got across the creek. The creek is way too wide to jump across.
When our turn to serve comes, Toulouse aces it. Everyone stands there, gaping. Some people clap and cheer.
Is the kid good at everything?
Garrett and Hubcap aren’t clapping or cheering. They are fuming. They have also noticed that I’m not exactly participating. I’ve been letting Toulouse hit all the balls that come to our zone.
“Hey, Woody!” Garrett says. “Can I get you a chair?”
Hubcap: “Yeah, Woody! Don’t do something. Just stand there!”
Ms. Otwell gives them another warning. One more and they’ll have to sit out the game.
Ms. Otwell doesn’t always stick to her guns.
Toulouse holds the ball out to me. It sure looks huge in his hands. You can’t even see his face.
“You serve, Toulouse,” I say. “You’re good at it. I’m not.”
“Who?” he asks.
“Me! You serve.”
He won’t. He just keeps offering me the ball.
“I think Toulouse is saying it’s your turn to serve, Woodrow,” Ms. Otwell says.
Everyone starts getting restless and grumbling at me, so I take the ball. I toss it in the air, punch at it, miss, then it lands on my head. Everybody but Toulouse and Ms. Otwell crack up. Garrett laughs so hard I hope he chokes.
“Will you please serve?” I ask Toulouse.
He shakes his head. The kid’s stubborn.
“Okay then,” I say. “Get ready for strike two.”
I toss the ball again, but this time I manage to hit it—into the back of Monique’s head.
“Hey!” she screeches.
The gym echoes with laughter.
“Side out!” Ms. Otwell calls.
As we change positions, Garrett sticks his foot out and trips me. I don’t fall all the way to the floor. I just squawk like a parrot because I think I’m going to.
Ms. Otwell finally follows through. “Take a seat on the bleachers, Garrett, and stay quiet or I’ll send you to the office.”
Garrett glares at me, then stomps over to the bleachers.
“Woodrow, take his zone,” Ms. Otwell orders.
Hubcap glares at me as I obey.
I do the best I can during the game, which isn’t great, but I do sometimes manage to hit a ball up in the air instead of miss it, or punch it into the net, or into the ground, or into one of my teammates’ heads.
Toulouse gives me encouraging smiles and nods whenever I look over at him. When I do particularly well, he claps.
I’m sort of enjoying myself.
In P.E.
Now that’s weird.