Authors: Constance C. Greene
Odds on Oliver
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Odds on Oliver
Constance C. Greene
This book is for
OLIVER GREENE RADWAN,
on whom I'll place odds
any day in the week
C
ONTENTS
1
C
ARROT
H
ILL
“All right, boys and girls.” Ms. Mabel, the head of Carrot Hill Nursery School, clapped her hands. “Anyone who has to use the bathroom, hold up two fingers, please.”
“How will that help?” Oliver said.
Arthur laughed. Oliver held up two fingers and waved them around. Then he bopped Arthur on the head to show he wanted to be friends.
Everyone giggled.
“We are here to learn, class,” Ms. Mabel said. “To write our names and to be responsible people. To go down the slide and to draw.” She paused and looked around the room. “A show of hands, please. How many of you have a pet?”
Arthur held up his hand and said, “I have a pet fish. She sleeps in her tank and sometimes she lets me pet her.”
Oliver held up his hand.
“All right, Oliver,” Ms. Mabel said patiently. “Tell us about your pet.”
“I have a dog and her name is Edna. Her hair is the same color as mine,” Oliver said. “When I'm five, I'm going to be a hero.”
The class rustled like leaves in the fall. Somebody burped.
Oliver burped back.
“Yes, well, Edna is a lovely name,” Ms. Mabel said. “My mother's name was Edna.”
Oliver bopped Arthur on the head again.
“Order, please, boys and girls.” Ms. Mabel frowned. “We are here to learn to shake hands and to look the person we're shaking hands with straight in the eye.”
“Boys don't shake hands,” Oliver said.
“That's what you think,” Ms. Mabel said.
A girl with pigtails held up her hand. “I have a pet pig named Pig,” the girl said. Oliver pulled one of her pigtails and the girl bopped Oliver on the head to get even.
That was pretty much how the first day at Carrot Hill Nursery School went.
After that things went downhill fast. One wet and windy Wednesday, Ms. Mabel reached the end of her rope. She had had it. Plus, she had a terrible head cold and felt something awful.
When Oliver and Arthur started in with the bops again, Ms. Mabel knew what she had to do.
“I hab ward you ab ward you to stop the bopping,” Ms. Mabel said. “Wod of you bust go. We bust hab order in Carrot Hill. We will draw straws. The wod who gets the short straw bust go.”
Oliver got the short straw.
“Oliver bust go,” said Ms. Mabel sadly, for she liked all the boys and girls at Carrot Hill.
“Go where?” Oliver said.
“Oud.” Ms. Mabel pointed to the door.
“But I just got here,” Oliver said. Nevertheless he packed his backpack and never looked back.
“Where did I go wrong?” Oliver's mother cried. “He's only four and already he's a dropout. What's to become of him? Poor little Oliver.”
“Poor little Oliver my foot,” said Oliver's dad. “He's no dropout, he's a kickout. Give the kid a break. He's young, he'll learn. I'll lay odds on Oliver any day in the week.”
“But he was in the top ten percentile!” Oliver's mother cried. “Brainwise, that is. Which would look very, very good on his resumé.”
“What does
odds
mean?” Oliver asked.
“It means I'll put my money on you anytime, Ol,” said his dad. “It means you're a winner in my estimation.”
Oliver listened carefully. Two words caught his attention. One was
money
and the other was
winner
.
His mouth stretched as wide as any Halloween pumpkin's and his spiky orange hair fairly crackled and his freckles seemed to march across his nose like a trail of ants in search of the sugar bowl.
“Odds on me!” Oliver shouted, full of joy. “Odds on me!”
2
T
HE
B
LUE
B
URD
Oliver's mom and dad ran the Blue Burd restaurant down on North Main Street. When the sign painter goofed and spelled
bird
B-U-R-D
Oliver's dad had jumped up and down in frustration and pulled so hard on his mustache that it brought tears to his eyes.
Then the
Daily Blab
had run a picture of the sign on its front page. That got a good laugh. Customers started to pour in.
The ring of the cash register was deafening.
Oliver's mom and dad decided to leave the sign be. “Blue Burd” had a nice ring to it, they decided, just like the cash register. They even had cards printed up.
BLUE BURD RESTAURANT
, the cards said.
GIVE YOURSELF A TREAT
!
MAKE YOURSELF HAPPY
!
THE BLUE BURD IS THE BURD OF HAPPINESS
!
Oliver's dad made the Tex-Mex chili. It was so hot that the entire fire department always came for a bowlful on their night off. Oliver's dad also baked the pies. The coconut cream and lemon meringue were especially outstanding.
Oliver's mom ran the cleanup detail, on account of she'd been in the army. You could eat off her floors.
“You could eat off my floors,” she'd say proudly.
And, on a certain hot night in June, the day after Oliver skidded out of fourth grade, headlong on his way toward fifth, that's exactly what they did.
This particular evening, the Blue Burd was jumping and Oliver was helping out. He felt lucky, as if this might be the night he'd be a hero. He poured out ice water and brought the glasses round to the tables. Folks drank gallons of ice water to douse the fire the Tex-Mex chili set in their throats.
Just when it seemed that the evening had reached its peak and that things couldn't possibly get any more exciting, the door to the Blue Burd burst open and in came U. Crumm, Town Clerk.
A hush fell. You could have heard a pin drop. And why this awed silence? U. Crumm was a big shot. She didn't eat just anywhere. When she put her O.K. on a place, that place became famous overnight.
Oliver's dad took off his tall white chef's hat and wiped his hands on it. He shook hands all round, even with Oliver.
“Pleased to meet you,” Oliver's dad said to U. Crumm. “This is my wife and this is my boy, Oliver. We're one big happy family here. Unfortunately, we're all full up at the moment. It'll be a short wait. In the meantime, try one of my world-famous chocolate-chip cookies.”
Well, U. Crumm was a class-A eater. In her youth, she had won every single eating contest in the state. And a few outside of it. Chicken, watermelon, pancakes, you name it. U. Crumm was a champion when it came to putting away the groceries.
Bar none.
The short wait turned into a long one. No one, it seemed, wanted to leave the Blue Burd. They were having too good a time. They all had seconds on the Tex-Mex chili and thirds on the pies. Finally, noticing that U. Crumm was getting restless, not to mention she'd inhaled every chocolate-chip cookie in the place, Oliver's dad suggested she eat on the shining, spotless floor.
“Fine and dandy,” said U. Crumm. “I'm not proud. What's good enough for the common people is good enough for me.”
Oliver's dad brought the knives and forks and napkins and Oliver rushed back for more ice water and salt and pepper and U. Crumm plopped down, all set for a feast.
That night U. Crumm outdid herself. She had six helpings of Tex-Mex chili and seven of pie. Oliver kept count.
When U. Crumm went to get up, she couldn't. It took Oliver's dad and three other men to hoist her to her feet. Plus Oliver, who got under U. Crumm and pushed.
Just as she was getting her sea legs and had teetered to a standing position, U. Crumm slipped on a stray piece of ice from her water glass and crash-landed smack on Oliver.
Oliver let out a squeak and blacked out.
A long sigh went up. This was turning out to be the most exciting evening most folks had had in ages. They stopped eating and waited to see what would happen next.
The chief of police, who had snuck away from his desk for some chili, snapped, “Everybody freeze!”
Nobody paid any attention, as usual.
When Oliver came to, he could barely breathe, smushed as he was underneath U. Crumm. He heard Arthur, who had come to chow down at the Blue Burd with his mom and dad because it was his mom's bowling night and she liked to rest her arm, shout, “She hit him like a ton of bricks! He'll never get out of there alive!”
U. Crumm blushed a bright red color. She didn't like lying there with all the wind knocked out of her and her skirt hiked up so that everyone in the restaurant could see the big hole in the knee of her panty hose.
Finally, with a good deal of pushing and shoving and grunting and groaning, Oliver's dad and several burly firefighters tied one end of a thick rope around U. Crumm's middle and swung the other end over a rafter. Then they lifted her off Oliver and into midair. For a few moments, she spun there like a top. Then they lowered the rope and U. Crumm set foot on solid ground once more.
Oliver lay there feeling as flat as any possum run over by a tractor-trailer. He was sure his arms and legs looked as if they'd been ironed. He did
not
look like a hero, he thought sadly.