At the end of the street lives Wingnut, a ten-year-old boy with ears that stick out and an imagination that takes him to the most exotic places on Earth. His real name is Graham, but no one calls him that-except maybe his mom. When Wingnut becomes best friends with the boy next door, the neighborhood will never be the same again. The two embark on a series of adventures, dares, mishaps, and close calls, but they always manage to make it out in one piece, more or less. As long as they're home for dinner by the end of the day, life is good. When a group of bullies targets the duo and makes life miserable, it's time to take a stand. The two decide to implement an elaborate plan that will stop the bullying once and for all. But to do it, they'll have to sneak past the old witch who lives in the spooky house on the other side of the road, creep across Old Man Scott's garden, and get the other neighborhood kids to join the fight. One thing is for sure: they're about to show these bullies who's the boss! Full of fun and excitement, Wingnut is a delightful tale that celebrates the magic of childhood.
WINGNUT
Operation PaybackBy LINDSAY BAKERTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2011 Lindsay Baker
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4269-5660-7 Chapter One
Wingnut is a small boy about 10 years old, who lives in the untidy old gray house next to the church at the end of my street. It is the only house on the street with no lawn, garden or driveway. It has a waist-high concrete wall across the front yard and it looks as though neither it, nor the house, has ever been painted in my lifetime.
My brother said that people call him Wingnut because of his big sticky-out ears. I felt kind of sorry for him, but he really does look like one of those threaded nuts that I have on my bike, with the tabs on the side, so that you don't need a wrench to tighten them up. I often see him playing imaginary games by himself out on the street, when I ride my bike home from school. He always wears the same gray cotton shorts that look one size too small, and a dark blue shirt that looks one size too big. I have never seen him wear anything else on his feet, except black rubber gumboots with the tops turned down. I thought that perhaps he doesn't have any other clothes to wear, because he wears the same thing every day, winter and summer. I can't help thinking that his socks must get awfully stinky inside those boots on a hot day.
I have a pair of Gummies like that too; I don't wear them every day but when I do, my socks really stink and they get a kind of stiff and crusty feeling. My brother gets mad when I leave them lying on the floor of the bedroom for a few days, especially when he can catch a whiff of them from his bed.
One day, I put them inside his pillow case, and when he went to bed that night he couldn't figure out where the strange smell was coming from. He kept getting out of bed to search underneath it for cat poop, with his flashlight. Eventually, feeling the lump in his pillow, he ripped them out and dove over to my bed with them clutched in his hand, and vigorously rubbed them all over my face.
I was screaming and yelling, and trying to fight him off, when Mom came storming into the room, grabbed him by the ear, and marched him into the hall for a slap on the bum and a good yelling at. I could hear her screeching at the top of her voice, how she has had just about enough of our stupid pranks. I was thinking that if she has had "just" about enough, that could mean the same as not quite enough, so one or two more practical jokes probably wouldn't hurt. Mom snapped me out of my daydream with a screeching tongue whip, which lashed down upon me as I put my head under the covers and pretended to go to sleep; she didn't appreciate that prank very much, either.
My brother said that he would get me back for getting him in trouble. Since he is four years older than me, I'm sure he will. So I had better be careful for a couple of days.
I saw Wingnut again a couple of days later, as I rode my bike home from school. He was playing by himself as usual, still wearing the same shorts, shirt and gumboots. He was walking along the top of the wall in front of his house, pausing to balance on one leg, while waving his arms about. I thought that he was probably pretending to be a circus tight ropewalker or something. Anyway, there he was, silly little Wingnut, balancing on one leg on top of the wall, having a great time by himself, in his imagination. As I rode by, he caught sight of me from the corner of his eye, turned his head suddenly, and started to frantically windmill his skinny arms in opposite directions; his mouth was open and his eyes were open extra wide, nearly popping out of his head. He teetered there for a few seconds, looking very funny indeed, and then suddenly he just fell off onto the sidewalk. He didn't get up, cry or make a sound; he just lay there thrashing about on the ground. I thought that he should be a circus clown, always fooling about like that.
I just kept peddling my bike down the road. After a minute or so, as I turned into my driveway, I looked back and saw that Wingnut was still lying on the sidewalk. I turned my bike around and rode back to find him lying on his side, curled up in a ball, clutching his leg, and making weird moaning sounds.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
Talking through his clenched teeth he said,
"no my leg really hurts, I think I've got a bruise".
As I tried to help him up, he whimpered some more; I thought that the bruise must be a big one. So I picked him up and carried him to his front door. All the paint had been worn off around the doorknob, and a big patch was worn off at the bottom, where many shoes had kicked it open. So I kicked it in the same spot, trying to make it sound like a knock, as I had my hands full of whimpering Wingnut. My legs were beginning to tremble with the strain; he wasn't a big kid but it seemed that his weight was doubling each second. Finally, Wingnut's big fat mother, with her strange teeth and weird haircut, opened the door. She just gave me a come-inside nod with her head, so I followed her into the house and at the next head nod, I laid Wingnut down on the cluttered couch. Then she made a freaky sound like a seal barking and nodded towards the door; I figured it was definitely time to make a dash for my bike, and peddled home as fast as I could.
My mom is on a diet, so for some reason we all have to be on a diet. I really miss our ordinary food; now we have to eat salad, bean sprouts, and raw vegetables and stuff like that. My dad doesn't like it much either, but he never says anything, he just sits there and eats it. My brother sometimes complains; one day he even left the table, and started cooking himself something else. For the next two weeks he had no dinner served to him at all, he had to make his own dinner every day. Anyway, these diet things never seem to last long. All it takes is for someone to come over for a visit, with a cake or homemade cookies or something, and the diet deal is off.
That night my brother, sister and I listened to our favorite serial on the radio. Mom let us stay up a little later than usual to listen to a new series of stories. The radio was placed in a proud position in our living room, on a shelf above the new record player. We knew of a family a few streets away that had a television set in their living room. We all thought, wow! How fantastic must that be? The new radio serial was a comedy show about a family and several other silly characters. We have been waiting for this series to come on the radio since last year; now that it is finally November 1960, it is here at last. It was a very funny show, and we all laughed from beginning to end. When it was over, Mom presented the three of us a chocolate biscuit each. It was a special treat, as cookies were heavily guarded by the cookie jailer, and were kept stashed away in a secret place. We all knew where they were of course, but we never dared take any without asking, because the punishment for such a terrible crime was dealt out quickly and severely. It was never the same; so depending on the particular mood of the cookie custodian, it could range from a whack on the head, to a brutal yelling at, or perhaps crucifixion on a cross, or even banishment from the universe. So if we actually wanted to play, any time in the rest of our lives, we left the forbidden cookies alone.
We all got washed and ready for bed. Mom herded us all into the bathroom to brush our teeth with salt, which had been lovingly blended with water to create a truly revolting toothpaste. My toothbrush was made of wood. The bristles had been folded in half...
