Just Plain Crazy

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Stephen Jon Schares

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-14069-6

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5376-8 (ebook)

To the Joshes and Larrys of the world.

Contents

INTRODUCTIONS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTIONS

I don’t know how I get roped into these things. He’s my best friend, but still. Why do I listen to him?

Larry’s smart. Probably smarter than me. Must be. I am always the one he can talk into one of his schemes. Come on Josh, he’d say. It’ll be fun. It usually turned out to be just the opposite. I’ve known Larry since kindergarten. A regular kindergarten. That was a long time ago.

I’m in fifth grade now. I’m one of those crazy kids. Well, I’m not really crazy. It’s just that I’m in Special Education so I’m in one of those classrooms for kids that have problems with reading, writing, math, etc. You know, the three R’s and a few other letters thrown in. Actually, I am pretty smart in Math and I can remember most things the teacher talks about.

My problem is reading and writing. I don’t know why, but I just have trouble reading. The letters seem to turn around on the page. Sometimes they are facing one way, then sometimes they’re facing the other way. It’s like I have to look both ways before I can cross the page. My teacher says I would make a great crossing guard. Very funny.

All I know is when I read it’s almost better to have the book upside down looking in a mirror.

If you think my reading is bad, you should see my writing. I like to write, but I have trouble putting my words down on paper. If you saw my writing, you wouldn’t think I would be able to talk in complete sentences.

But my grandfather is a great storyteller. I guess I got that from him.

My mom always says, This isn’t another one of your stories, is it, Josh?

No, this is the truth—completely unvarnished, as grandpa would say. But that’s another story.

When I first started writing in school, the letters were all upside down and backwards. Nobody could read it, except for me. But don’t ask me how. The other kids thought it was cool that I could write in code. Secret messages, answers to test questions, love notes, extortion threats—if you needed them, I wrote them. Have mirror code, will travel.

I’m not doing as much of that these days. I’ve got other problems. Namely, my classmates.

Take Larry, for instance. We call him Crazy Larry. He likes the name. He’s the complete opposite of me. He’s a klutz. If there is a mud puddle in the way, there’s no way he can avoid it. Splat. Face-first in the mud and water.

Hey, I tried to get out of the way, he would say. I tried to jump over it. I guess I misjudged my leap.

Or he will be chasing somebody, his arms and legs moving wildly in every direction except coordinated. And he’ll be yelling at the top of his lungs, I’m going to get you! Moments later, he would be flat on the ground in a heap of dust, dirt and whatever else he tripped over. A tangle of arms and legs, yet they’d all be his own.

Larry is tall and thin, although skinny is a better word. He has a sunken chest which makes his belly appear to stick out. What isn’t arms and legs is big feet. He wears the same size shoe as my dad. It’s a wonder he can walk at all with those pontoons. Larry likes to plant them out in the aisle. They’re perfect for tripping unsuspecting kids—a favorite classroom pastime of Larry’s.

My dad says, Larry’s big feet mean that he will probably be very tall some day. Either that or he will be kidnapped by circus clowns and forced to parade around with a red ball on the end of his nose. My dad thinks he’s an amateur comedian.

When Larry smiles, the gap shows between his top two front teeth. He makes a whistling sound when he gets excited and talks too fast. Warning! He can spit with deadly accuracy between those teeth.

Larry’s brown eyes light up when he’s upset. But then they do when he’s happy. The grin gives it away.

He told me once, I wish I had one brown eye and one blue eye. My dad had brown eyes. My mom has blue. I got jipped.

I don’t know what it is about Larry. Maybe it’s his haircut. It’s always kind of skew-wiffy. Brown hair going every direction at once. Like he slept on it wrong or his barber is cross-eyed. Anyway, first appearances for Larry are not his strong point. But the thing is, I don’t think he cares.

My school is Monroe Elementary. It is a K-6 school. That means even though I’m in fifth grade, I still have to deal with big kids bullying me around for one more year. This is my home school so I know most of the kids. I live close enough to walk to school.

At recess, I like to play sports. I don’t like standing around, doing nothing. Some guys like to stand around and punch each other in the arm. I haven’t got time for that. Besides, I’m not that big and I don’t like walking around with a sore arm.

Because I know a lot of kids, and I’m good at sports, my friends don’t give me a hard time about being in Special Ed. It’s usually the kids who are bussed in on the Special buses that get singled out as different, even if they’re not.

Larry rides the regular bus. He’s always yelling stuff out the window like how he loves someone or he’s going to kick someone’s butt. Not the kind of behavior that helps you win friends and influence people.

Larry calls anyone he thinks is weird, a Sid. He got the name from these county buses that haul criminals around to clean up litter along the highways. They’re big brown buses with the letters SID written along the sides. My parents said it stands for Sanitation Improvement Department. All the criminals wear bright orange jump suits. I guess so they can’t hide in the bushes. The sixth grade boys don’t find it amusing when Larry calls them Sids. They pound on him.

Larry called our teacher a Sid once. Mr. Thomas replied, If I’m Sid, then you’re Sid, Jr.

Larry and I have nicknames for everyone—our classmates, the other kids, the principal and even some of the teachers. Sometimes I think of them, but most of the time they’re Larry’s ideas—like Little Eddie, Psycho Jon, Scurvy Irvy and Ned the Nerd.

***

Larry cupped his hands together and whispered, I’ve got an idea. He motioned for me to come closer. That was my first mistake.

There is this teacher at our school. Her name is Mrs. Durwood. She’s been at this school for a long time.

When I asked my dad how long, he said, Mrs. Durwood started teaching when this part of the country was still Indian Territory. My dad’s a history buff.

Mrs. Durwood is a walking mean stick. She is generally mean to everyone, but she especially dislikes Special Ed. kids. If there is a problem on the playground, and a Special Ed. kid is involved, her long bony finger always points that kid out as the culprit. If she isn’t sure, she says, You’re Special Ed., aren’t you?

Larry and I call her The Wicked Witch of the West. Our fifth grade teacher picked that name out, but I’m not supposed to tell you that. The first time Mr. Thomas said it, I was shocked. He didn’t use her name but we knew who he meant. Once he pointed it out, the resemblance was obvious.

Mrs. Durwood is tall and gangly, with a long sharp nose. Her bifocals are usually perched on the end of her nose, or hanging around her neck on a long silver chain. When she yells at you, the sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard. Mrs. Durwood calls everyone, dearie. She wears long flowing dresses, usually black. No surprise there.

As I said, Larry had an idea. I want to sneak into ‘The Wicked Witch’s’ classroom to see if she has a broom.

I said, You’re nuts! This hallway is not a Yellow Brick Road. You’re not Dorothy. And this ain’t Kansas.

I know, said Larry. But I’ve got a hunch. He nodded his head in earnest.

A hunch? Great! My hunch was we were headed for trouble.

Larry and I made our move at recess. We knocked on her door to make sure the coast was clear.