The Oddlympics
Dedication
For my dad.
—D.S.
For Meredith, with thanks
—A.L.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Books by David Slavin
Copyright
About the Publisher
I wonder what mud tastes like.
I mean, you see it all the time, right? Sometimes you step around it—and sometimes you step in it. Kinda gloppy, sorta chocolatey, even a little poopy-y. But what does mud taste like? And why, might you ask, would I wonder about something like that? Well, because I have a very strong feeling I’m about to find out.
It’s the tug-of-war, the last event (thank Gods!) of our annual Mount Olympus Middle School color war, and my team is seconds away from getting creamed—or, I should say, mudded.
Our principal, Principal Deadipus, calls out, “Ready, Adonis?”
“The Gods were born ready!” roars my brother, the powerfully annoying Greek God Adonis. “Who wants mud pie?”
The rest of the Gods team—Poseidon, Aphrodite, and Heracles—chuckles along with him. So does the rest of our entire school. Then Principal Deadipus turns to me. “Ready, Oddonis?”
Yup, you heard him. I’m Oddonis. I’m an Odd God.
“Umm, I guess so,” I answer weakly. The rest of the Odds team—Gaseous, Mathena, Puneous and Germes—gulps along with me.
“Coach Gluteus Maximus!” barks Deadipus to our gym teacher. “Begin!”
The coach blows his whistle, and we all start tugging. Then the strangest thing happens: nothing! We’re pulling, they’re pulling, but the rope’s not moving! The Odds are actually even with the Gods. It’s unbelievable!
“What the heck is going on here?” cries my baffled brother to his teammates. “Aren’t you guys tugging?”
“I’m tugging!” says Poseidon.
“I’m tugging!” says Aphrodite.
“Pretty butterfly!” says Heracles.
“Heracles!” screams Adonis. “Stop butterflying and start tugging!”
Uh-oh.
Heracles gives one gentle pull—like he’s opening a door or something—and the next thing you know, mud happens.
Oh, and for the record, mud tastes . . . muddy. I don’t recommend it.
“Congratulations, Team Gods. Victory is yours once more!” booms Principal Deadipus. “And to Team Odds—well, umm, thanks for playing our game.”
Deadipus hands my brother a huge trophy, and then hands me . . . this.
“Thanks, Principal D,” replies Adonis. “It was a tough fight, and the Oddballs were a worthy opponent. Wait—what am I saying? It wasn’t tough at all! We wiped the floor with them! We’ll wipe the floor with ANYONE!”
Just then a voice emerges from the stands. “Really? Care to back that up?”
“Who said that?” yells my brother.
A guy in a black toga, white shirt, black tie, and a black chauffeur’s cap steps forward.
“Hear me now. I am Uberous, driver for Mercury, messenger of the real Gods—the ROMAN Gods. I carry with me a message from the real side of Mount Olympus—the ROMAN side. The real Mount Olympus Middle School—the ROMAN one—challenges you . . . to a tug-of-war.”
Say whaaaaaaaat???
“You’re all wet, pal!” yells Poseidon. “There’s only one side to Mount O, and that’s the Greek side!”
“Perhaps your principal should clue you in . . . squirt,” replies Uberous. “There’s a lot you don’t seem to know.”
“Is it true, Principal Deadipus?” asks my brainiac friend, Mathena. “Is there a Roman side to Mount Olympus?”
“Well . . . errr . . . you see,” stammers Principal Deadipus. “Uhhh . . . technically speaking, Uberous is correct. There is another side of Mount Olympus.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell us about that?” asks Mathena. “Why didn’t our parents tell us?”
“Because there’s nothing to tell!” replies Deadipus. “Oh—but if you insist, here is a very condensed history lesson.”
Every single boy—God and Odd alike—begins to giggle.
“What are you snickering about?” asks Deadipus.
“Hehe,” replies Adonis. “You said . . . heeheehee . . . Uranus . . . heeheeheehee.”
“Oh. My. Gods,” says Deadipus. “Moving on.”
“But what about the Romans?” asks Mathena.
“The Romans are nobodies . . . pretenders . . . wannabes!” howls Deadipus. “We came first, and the Romans have been furious about it ever since!”
“We’re not furious!” whines Uberous. “We’re just second! We try harder!”
“The Romans have been challenging us forever,” continues Deadipus. “And we’ve been rejecting them forever. I mean, really—why bother competing against a weak, sad, pathetic opponent? It only lessens you in the process!”
“Tell me about it!” says Adonis.
“And FYI, children, I know who sent Uberous here today,” says Deadipus. “There’s only one Roman who could be so resentful, and so jealous of me—and of us. It’s been that way for eight hundred years.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Who could be so awful to you?”
Deadipus sighs deeply. “My baby brother . . . Fredipus.”
“Oh, your brother,” I reply. “Now I get it.”
“My brother always envied my success,” Deadipus continues. “He constantly compared himself to me. He talked like me, he dressed like me—he wanted to be me. And when he saw that he couldn’t make it on the Greek side, he switched and became . . . Roman. My father, Eggheadipus, was so ashamed.”
“It’s so sad when a child’s an embarrassment to his father,” says Adonis. “Isn’t that right, Oddy?”
“For the last time,” Deadipus says to Uberous, “please inform my poor, pitiful brother that the Greeks are not interested in playing tug-of-war with the Romans.”
“Wait just a minute,” interrupts Adonis. “Who says we’re not interested?”
“History says!” replies Deadipus. “And so do I!”
“Well, I say it’s time we had some new opponents around here,” says Adonis. “We’re at the top of our tug-of-war game! And I’m getting pretty tired of only having the Odd Gods around to clobber.”
PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTT!!!! spews my gassy friend Gaseous.
Adonis stares at Gaseous. “You could’ve just said, ‘Me too,’ Fart Face!”
“Adonis is right!” says Aphrodite. “We need real competition!”
“Yeah, bring on the Romans!” agrees Poseidon. “We’ll slaughter ’em!”
“Me like slaughter!” seconds
Heracles.
I have to say, I’m pretty intrigued by this notion. I mean, not the slaughter part—but to think there’s a whole group of kids out on Mount Olympus that we never even knew existed! Maybe they’re nice. Who knows—maybe there are even Odds . . . like me!
“I think it would be fun,” I say to Principal Deadipus. “What have we got to lose?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replies Deadipus. “Our reputation? Our self-respect? Our dignity?”
“Dignity schmignity!” sneers my teeny pal Puneous. “Let’s see what they’ve got!”
“You heard your students, Principal Deadipus,” says Uberous. “Give ’em what they want! That is . . . unless you’re scared.”
Then Uberous starts taunting Deadipus by clucking like a chicken! That ruffles everyone’s feathers—especially Mathena, our Odd Goddess of math and poultry, and her fowl friends, Clucky and Ducky!
“How dare you bawk at me, sir!” cries Deadipus. “Greek Gods . . . scared? Was Perseus scared of Medusa? Was Theseus scared of the Minotaur?”
“Were we scared of the Whyclops, Mumce, and the Sirens when we went on the Oddyssey?”* asks Adonis.
“TOTALLY!!!” reply the Odd Gods.
“Well, we’re not scared now, Uberous,” says Deadipus. “You tell Fredipus we are ready for the Romans anytime, anywhere. We’ll give him a beatup he’ll never forget!”
“I think you mean beatdown, sir,” I say.
“Whatever!”
“Done,” says Uberous. “The Romans will see you here in one week.”
“Oh, snap!” replies Deadipus.
“Good one, Grandpa,” mocks Uberous. He bows, tips his black cap, and sneers, “Later, Greeklings!”
“I hope I won’t regret this,” mutters Deadipus.
“Don’t you worry, Deadly,” says my brother. “Just leave it all up to me!”
Hmmm.
If I were Principal Deadipus, I’d already be regretting this!
That night, Adonis spills the beans to our dad, Zeus, and our mom, Freya, about how the Romans challenged us to a tug-of-war. Meanwhile, I spill Mom’s Norwegian specialty pølse’n’beans stew into my dog Trianus’s mouth!
“The Romans?” Zeus chortles. “You’re actually going to compete against the Romans? Those JV copycat losers have played second fiddle to us for years!”
“You know,” says Mom, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing to get along with them. Maybe we could have a big playdate!”
“A playdate!” snaps Dad. “Oh, please. And have to endure that so-called King of the Roman Gods, Jupiter? As if! He’s so high and mighty! He thinks he’s right about everything, and no one else matters. Can you imagine having to put up with someone like that?”
“Ja, that would be terrible,” mutters Mom.
“I don’t even know why we’re allowing them to come here!” says Dad. “Blecchhh—Romans! They’re so weird and . . . different!”
“They’re not so different,” scolds Mom. “Besides, even if they were—which they’re not—what’s so bad about being different? I’m a Norse Goddess. I’m different, aren’t I?”
“Well . . . uhh . . . errr,” sputters Dad. “That’s different.”
“I think different’s kinda cool,” I say.
“Of course you do!” replies my brother. “Because you’re different!”
“And I wouldn’t want my Oddy-Woddy any other way!” coos Mom.
Awwww! Thanks, Mom!
“Ewwww!” says Adonis. “Gross, Mom!”
“I don’t like different,” growls Dad. “I like same!
SAME HAIR ON MY HEAD!
SAME BEARD ON MY FACE!
SAME SHEETS ON MY BED!
SAME FOOD ON MY PLATE!”
“Dad’s a poet, but he don’t know it!” shouts Adonis.
“I’ve even worn the same toga for twenty years!” Dad proudly exclaims.
Speaking of gross . . .
TMI, DAD!!!
“And here’s what else is going to stay the same: we’re number one, and the Romans are number two.” Then he turns to Adonis. “You better show them who’s boss, son!”
“I read you loud and clear, O Great One!”
“That’s my boy! And what are you going to do to the Romans, Oddonis?”
“Gee . . . I’m not sure,” I reply. “Maybe bake them some cookies?”
Why did I ever say I’d bake cookies? Now I’m in charge of snacks!
Okay, I know us Odd Gods aren’t exactly world-class athletes, and we’re not tug-of-war material, but still . . . .
“This stinks,” mutters Puneous.
“Sorry,” says Gaseous. “Big breakfast this morning.”
“I don’t mean you,” replies Puneous. “I mean having to be pack mules for the Gods.”
“You said id,” agrees our sickly friend Germes, wiping his nose on a nectar bottle. “I’b got ambrosia holes, orange slices, and boddles of nectar. But here’s de weird pard: not eben one of de Gods has asked me for a snack. Whad’s up with dat?” Then he sneezes all over his ambrosia holes.
“It’s a mystery, Germes,” I say.
“Oh, nectar girl!” Aphrodite calls out to Mathena. “I do believe I’m feeling a bit parched over here. Won’t you be a darling and come nectar me!”
“Grrrrrr,” Mathena grumbles. “I’ll nectar you, all right.” She tells her poultry pals, Clucky and Ducky, to hang tight. Then she turns to Germes and says with a devilish grin, “Hey, Germes, mind if I switch nectar bottles with you?”
“Are you sure, Bathena?” Germes replies. “I just wiped my nose on id.”
“Hey, Odd Squad!” yells my brother. “Quit smirking and start working! I need more snacks—NOW!”
I lug the snacks over and find Adonis lying in the grass, daydreaming.
“You need a snack?” I say.
“Nah—Heracles does,” says Adonis. “I just wanted to watch you carry them.”
“Of course.” I sigh. “But what about you? Isn’t there some tugging or warring you should be doing too?”
“Ha!” cackles Adonis. “As long as Heracles is good, we’ve got this in the bag.”
Hmmm. At least I don’t have to carry them now!
Just then, we hear a rattling noise off in the distance and see a yellow school chariot approaching. OMG! It’s the Romans! Principal Deadipus and Coach Gluteus Maximus gather us all together.
“All right, students,” says Deadipus nervously, “the time has come. Just remember the immortal words of Heraclitus: ‘Character is destiny.’”
“Huh?” says Adonis.
“Umm . . . how about the immortal words of Homer: ‘Ever to excel’?”
“What?” says Poseidon.
“Uhhh . . . the immortal words of Aesop: ‘The unlucky man will be bitten even by a sheep’?”
“Coach, can you throw me a bone here?” whispers Deadipus.
“Yo, Gods!” screams Coach Gluteus Maximus. “Let’s kick some Roman rump!”
“OH, YEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” roar the Gods.
In the immortal words of me: “What fools these Greek Gods be!”
The door of the Romans’ school chariot swings open, and out pops a spry old dude with a microphone in his hand.
“Hi-o, you kooky kids! I’m Sol, the Roman school chariot driver. Some folks tell me I’ve got a Roman nose. Why? Because it’s roamin’ all over my face! Thank you! I’m also Roman God of the sun—hey, speaking of the sun, it’s so hot out . . .”
“How hot is it?” yell voices from inside the chariot.
“It’s so hot, chickens are laying hard-boiled eggs! Thank you!”
“But enough about me.” Sol grabs Deadipus’s hand and pulls him forward. “How ya doin’? What’s your name, sir?”
“I am Principal Deadipus.”
“So you’re Deadipus?” says Sol. “Your brother Fredipus told me all about you! Hey, are you still afraid of the dark?”
“Well, I never!” gasps Deadipus.
“I’m ki
dding! I kid!” chuckles Sol. “Whoa, Deadipus! Maybe you should put a little protein in your diet. You’re nothing but skin and bones . . . without the skin! Thank you! And speaking of bones: Why couldn’t the skeleton fart in front of his friends?”
“I don’t know,” replies Deadipus. “Why?”
“Because he didn’t have the guts!”
“Good one, Sol!” snorts Gaseous. “HA HA HA!” BWWWONNNNNNNNKKKKKK!!!
“I see nothing funny about that!” says Deadipus. “Where is Fredipus?”
“You want him? You got him!”
Deadipus turns to all of us and whispers, “Get ready, everyone! Wait until you see my sad little brother! I’ll bet he’s still trying to be like me!”
“Put your hands together,” Sol thunders, “and say hello to Frrrrrrrrrredipus!”
“F-F-F-F-Freddy?” stammers Deadipus.
“Hello, Deady, you old fuddy-duddy,” says Fredipus.
“You look good, Freddy. I mean . . . really good. Wh-wh-what happened?”
“Simple,” replies Fredipus. “Romans rule!”
“I beg your pardon,” snaps Deadipus. “But Greeks rule!”
“We’ll see about that,” sneers Fredipus. “Sol, introduce our team.”
“Sure thing, boss!” says Sol. “Ladies and germs . . .”
“Did he say germs?” asks Germes excitedly.
“Please give a warm welcome to our pillars of pulling, our heroes of hauling, our deities of dragging: YOUR Roman Mount Olympus Middle School Tug-of-War Team!!!”
None of us can believe what we’re seeing. The Roman Gods aren’t just legit . . . they’re almost exact copies of the Greek Gods! My brother and his crew are speechless. They just stare, dumbfounded, at their Roman doppelgängers.*
“Wow,” mutters Mathena. “It’s two times the Gods!”
“Yeah,” agrees Puneous. “Double the dopes!”
“Umm . . . you guys?” I say. “It’s not just the Gods who’ve multiplied. Look!”