Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger (3 page)

Blue
by Rondi

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That was as far as she got.

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Chapter 4

Doctor pickle

Actually his name was Doctor Pickell, with the accent on the second syllable. But that wasn’t why everyone called him Dr. Pickle.

Dr. Pickle was a psychiatrist. He had thick eyebrows and wore tiny glasses. He had a small beard on the tip of his pointed chin.

A psychiatrist is a doctor who doesn’t cure people with sick bodies. He cures people with sick minds.

Although Dr. Pickle had a pretty sick mind himself.

One day a woman came into his office. She smoked too much, and she wanted him to help her quit.

“I know that smoking is no good for me,” she said as she puffed on her cigarette. “It’s bad for my heart. It fills my lungs with gunk. And my husband won’t kiss me because my breath stinks. But I can’t quit!”

She finished her cigarette, smushed it out in an ashtray, then immediately lit another one.

“Have a seat,” said Dr. Pickle.

She sat down on the couch.

“Look into my eyes,” said Dr. Pickle.

The woman stared into his deep, penetrating eyes.

Dr. Pickle held up a gold chain. At the end of the chain was a green stone that was almost transparent, but not quite. It looked like a pickle.

Hence, his name.

“Watch the pickle,” he said, as he gently moved the chain.

The pickle went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

The woman’s eyes went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“Put down your cigarette,” Dr. Pickle said in a strong but gentle voice.

The woman set her cigarette in the ashtray as she continued to stare at the pickle.

“You are getting sleepy,” said Dr. Pickle. “Your eyelids are getting heavy.”

The woman blinked her eyes.

“When I count to three,” said Dr. Pickle, “you will fall into a deep, deep sleep. One … two … three.”

The woman’s eyes closed.

Dr. Pickle put down the pickle. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the woman, in a low voice from deep inside her.

“You will do what I say,” said Dr. Pickle.

“I – will – do – what – you – say,” the woman repeated.

“I am going to count to five,” said Dr. Pickle. “And then you will wake up. And, as usual, you will want to smoke a cigarette.”

“I – will – want – to – smoke – a – cigarette,” the woman repeated.

“But when you put the cigarette in your mouth,” said Dr. Pickle, “it will feel just like a worm. A wiggling, slimy worm.”

“A – yucky – icky – worm,” repeated the woman.

“Good,” said Dr. Pickle. “Now just one more thing.” He rubbed his beard and smiled. “Whenever your husband says the word ‘potato,’ you will slap him across the face.”

“When – Fred – says – ‘potato’ – I – will – slap – his – face.”

“Good,” said Dr. Pickle. He counted to five.

The woman woke up.

“So do you think you can help me?” she asked in her normal voice, as she reached for her cigarette.

Dr. Pickle shrugged.

She put her cigarette in her mouth, then screamed as she pulled it out.

She looked at the cigarette, puzzled. “Hm?” she said. She placed it back in her mouth, then spit it out onto the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, a little confused. She picked up the cigarette and put it in the ashtray.

“That’s all right,” said Dr. Pickle.

She took out a new cigarette from her pack, but as soon as she put that in her mouth, she spit it out too.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

She walked out of his office shaking her head. She dropped her pack of cigarettes in the trash.

She never smoked again.

It was an interesting thing about the word “potato.” Whenever Fred said it, she slapped him. And he’d ask her why she slapped him, but she never remembered slapping him, so they’d get in a big fight, each calling the other crazy. Then they’d kiss and make up, which was nice because her breath didn’t stink.

They never figured out it had anything to do with saying “potato.” How could they?

But deep down they both must have realized it somehow, because while they used to eat lots of potatoes, they gradually ate fewer and fewer, until they finally stopped eating them altogether.

Dr. Pickle was a good doctor, but he kept playing those kinds of jokes on people. There was a woman who quacked like a duck whenever she saw a freight train with more than twenty cars. There was a man who took off his shoe anytime someone said “parking meter.”

Eventually Dr. Pickle was caught, and he was no longer allowed to practice psychiatry. So he had to find another job.

He became a counselor at an elementary school.

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Chapter 5

A Story with a Disappointing Ending

Paul’s father was a security guard at a museum. The museum had a very famous painting.

It was painted by Leonardo da Vinci. It was called the
Mona Lisa
.

Next to the painting was a sign.

All day Paul’s father made sure nobody touched the painting.

At night, after the museum closed, Paul’s father was alone. Just him and the
Mona Lisa
.

And the sign. Do not touch! Do not touch! Do not …

He was dying to touch it. The tips of his fingers tingled with desire.

But this story isn’t about Paul’s father. It’s about Paul.

Paul was a student in Mrs. Jewls’s class. He sat behind Leslie.

Leslie had two long brown pigtails that reached down to her waist. They just hung there, all day, right in front of Paul’s face.

The Mona Leslie.

Do not touch! Do not touch! Do not …

Paul reached out, grabbed, and yanked!

“Yaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” screamed Leslie.

Mrs. Jewls sent Paul to the counselor’s office.

The counselor’s office was on the fourth floor. Paul had never been there before.

Like every student in Wayside School, he was afraid of the counselor. The counselor had a very scary face, with big, bushy eyebrows and a little beard on his pointed chin.

Paul knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said the counselor.

Paul entered and sat down on the couch.

“What’s the problem?” asked the counselor.

“I pulled Leslie’s pigtails again,” said Paul. “I know it’s wrong, but I just can’t help myself.”

“Watch the pickle,” said the counselor.

Paul’s eyes went back and forth as he stared at the swaying pickle.

“You are getting sleepy,” said the counselor. “Your eyelids are getting heavy.”

Paul suddenly felt very tired. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

“When I count to three,” said the counselor, “you will fall into a deep, deep sleep. One … two … three.”

Paul closed his eyes. He wasn’t exactly asleep. He felt like he was living in a dream. But it was a very pleasant dream. He felt happy and safe.

“Can you hear me?” asked the counselor.

“Yes,” said Paul. He was no longer afraid of the counselor. In fact, he liked him a lot.

“You will do what I say,” said the counselor.

“I – will – do – what – you – say,” Paul repeated.

“I am going to count to five,” said the counselor. “And then you will wake up. You will return to your classroom. You will take your seat behind Leslie. You will want to pull one of her pigtails. But when you reach for it, it will turn into a rattlesnake.”

“Leslie’s – pigtails – are – rattlesnakes,” said Paul.

“Very good,” said the counselor. “Now just one more thing.” He rubbed his beard and smiled.

“When Leslie says the word ‘pencil,’ her ears will turn into candy. The most delicious candy in the world. The candy of your dreams.”

Paul licked his lips. He could almost taste the rich chocolate and chewy caramel.

“And you will try to eat the candy.”

“When – Leslie – says – ‘pencil’ – I – will – eat – her – ears,” said Paul.

The counselor counted to five.

Paul’s eyes blinked open.

“You may go back to class now,” said the counselor.

“I’m not in trouble?” asked Paul.

“No,” said the counselor.

Paul shrugged. He returned to class. As he passed Leslie, she stuck out her tongue at him.

He sat down behind her.

“What’d the counselor do to you?” asked Eric Fry.

“Nothing,” said Paul. “He’s a nice man.”

He looked at Leslie’s pigtails. He had pulled the one on the left. But he still wanted to pull the one on the right.

He lunged for it.

It hissed at him. Its tail rattled.

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He screamed and fell back over in his chair.

Everyone laughed.

“Paul, are you all right?” asked Mrs. Jewls.

“Uh, I guess so,” said Paul, getting back up.

He didn’t feel much like pulling Leslie’s pig-tails anymore.

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It was just a short while later that Leslie’s pencil point broke.

“Oh, great!” she complained.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jenny, who sat next to Leslie.

Leslie showed her the broken pencil point.

“You want to borrow mine?” asked Eric Fry, who sat behind Jenny.

“No, I’ll just go sharpen it,” said Leslie. She went to the back of the room and sharpened her pencil.

She returned to her seat. She set the pencil on her desk, but it rolled off when she sat down.

“Hey, where’d it go?” she asked, turning around.

“Where’d what go?” asked Paul.

“There it is,” said Jenny. “Under Paul’s desk.”

“What’s under my desk?” asked Paul.

“I’ll get it,” said Eric Fry. He reached under Paul’s desk, picked up the pencil, and handed it to Leslie.

She thanked him and everyone returned to work.