Ollie Bentword, age thirteen, is a Dyslexic. He has great talent, but hisLearning Disability clouds his mind and self esteem.Betsy Burr, a year older and Ollie’s neighborhood friend, understandshim better than anyone. She feels he’s someone special, and plays a dominentpart in keeping Ollie’s thoughts and deeds in proper perspective.Betsy and Ollie become amateur sleuths in a neighborhood murder case.Ollie’s unique detective work produces a surprise conclusion to the mystery.Through a disciplinary encounter with School Principal Mr. Bombay, Olliedevelops a close student/teacher relationship with the School Band Director, Mr. Bachman, who asks Ollie if he would like to become the Band Librarian,and offers to give him free trombone lessons as payment. Ollie’s fondest dreamis to play the trombone. With his parents permission he accepts.T.O.A.D. is the story of a Dyslexic who proves he is as smart and Socially Acceptable as any of his classmates. While sprinkling a generous amount of humor through the pages, the story reflects the anxiety, frustration, and anger in overcoming the many educational and social obstacles.The book shows that dyslexic people can be uniquely gifted. T.O.A.D. isan easy reading, fun mystery story.

T.O.A.D.

Trombone Ollie And DyslexiaBy John R. Rossbacher

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 John R. Rossbacher
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3942-3

Chapter One

Listening to the weekly jazz session over Radio Station WIZ was an early Saturday morning routine for me. In the privacy of my own bedroom, I could imagine I was playing along with the bands. My friend Betsy used to kid me by calling the program 'Gee Whiz Ollie Time.' That was me, Ollie Bentword. I was thirteen at the time, and was listening to WIZ when the music was interrupted by a very scary announcement. The voice said:

"Your attention, please. We interrupt this program to bring you an important 'on the spot' news report from our correspondent, Bill Micro."

'Ah nuts! It never fails,' I thought. 'Get a 'far out' sound going and someone wants to interrupt it.' I hoped they would hurry.

"Good morning," the deep-toned correspondent said, while wailing sirens were competing to be heard. This is Bill Micro, for station WIZ, reporting to you from the home of a Union Bay resident. The information is sketchy at this time. However, a few hours ago a neighbor became concerned when Mrs. Inez Goodbill, of 3385 West Surinam Street, had not let her dog out for its usual morning exercise."

That's up near Betsy's block, I thought.

Newsman Micro continued.

"The neighbor then phoned Mrs. Goodbill and, when she got no answer ran next door to the residence. Fearful that something was wrong, she entered the house and carefully searched every room, calling out to Mrs. Goodbill at each doorway. She finally found Mrs. Goodbill in her upstairs bedroom, lying face up on her bed. The Police were called. When they arrived they found the neighbor in a state of shock. She was immediately taken by police ambulance to the hospital, and is not available at this time for an interview."

Wow! Right here in Union Bay, I thought. I wondered if Betsy had her radio turned on. A murder, I shuddered. My spine felt like a thermometer but with ice water running up the mercury tube. I remember hoping my parents would soon get home from grocery shopping.

"We are now able to talk with Chief Flanigan of the Union Bay Police Department," Mr. Micro confirmed. "Chief, can you tell our audience just what the situation is? Do you have a suspect at this time?" "Well Mr. Micro," the Chief responded, "it appears that at approximately 5:30 this morning an unknown individual, or individuals, gained entry to The home of Inez X. Goodbill through an upstairs window. Between that time and approximately 7:00 A.M., her assailant savagely slashed her to death. The knife, used as a murder weapon, has not been found. I have nothing further to discuss at this time, but we will provide you with more information as it becomes available." Mr. Micro repeated. "Chief Flanigan, do you have a suspect at this time?" "I'm sorry Mr. Micro," the Chief replied. "I'm too upset. I have nothing more to offer at this time." "Thank you Chief Flanigan," the newsman concluded. "We now return our audience to the Saturday morning broadcast of Rock 'n Jazz."

Ah, back to the good musical stuff , I thought.

It was always more fun for me to listen to music than to try to read anything. When I did try to read, most of the words looked mixed up, and I couldn't understand what they were supposed to say. Some of the words came out backwards and sometimes letters would be missing. For example, when I read "I saw the dog," it came out "I was the do." And when I wrote, it was impossible for the person trying to read my writing to understand it. I even wrote some letters backwards.

In addidion to my reading and writing difficulty, I didn't know left from right, and telling time was impossible. I preferred not to think about my problem, 'cause when I did I didn't like myself very much. It was a downer. I was dyslexic. I knew I'd always have dyslexia, but I would learn to live with it. After all, it's just a crazy mixed up signal in the brain that causes it. That's what my parents told me anyway. My mother said many times, "Oliver, patience is a virtue." I guess that was supposed to make me feel good. She came up with those gems every once in a while.

Once, as I was starting out the door, she asked if I had on clean underwear. She said, "Oliver, it's important to never leave the house without clean underwear. You never know," she said, "when you might be in an accident and have to go to the hospital. You certainly wouldn't want to embarrass yourself or the family, now would you?" How ridiculous! I thought. I could just hear the doctor in the emergency room going, 'Hold everything. Before we administer artificial respiration we'll have to get a clean pair of undershorts on Ollie.' Boy, I tell you ... Parents can be nuts.

It was the last weekend before the start of school and probably another weird year for me. I decided to give Betsy a call and ask if she would like to go over to Walden Park and hang out awhile. Also, I thought she might know more about the murder, since she lived closer than I to the Goodbill house. Betsy answered my call with one word.

"Neato," she said.

I replied, "I'll meet you in front of your house in five minutes."

Betsy Burr was my good friend. We grew up together. She had braces on her teeth, but you didn't notice them because of her cute dimples. Besides, Betsy didn't let anything get in the way of her self esteem. Sometimes I called her 'carrot top,' but only in good fun. She had a wiry build and lots of determination, so even with my stocky build, I was not about to push for a fight. She was a year older, but always treated me as an equal. In fact, she was the only one who did. All the other kids in my school laughed at me in English class, or for that matter, any class that required me to read aloud. When I got excited I tended to stutter, and then the kids called me 'TOAD.' I guess 'cause when frogs and toads speak, their speech rhythms are interrupted just like mine were. I went st-st-stutter and they went Rrrivet, Rrivet, Rivet.

As I walked to Betsy's house I felt the cool fall air whipping across my neck. I zipped up my black leather jacket and pulled my orange cap down further over my long blond hair. The changing colors in the maple trees lining both sides of Windpole Street made it clear that fall had arrived. I figured in a few more weeks our street would take on the look of a three ring multi-colored circus tent. I thought, what a wonderful time of year, except for the start of school.

Betsy was waiting for me on the front porch steps of her parents home. I'd always felt good when walking up the circular drive to their ivory colored two story house. The black window shutters seemed to act as sentinels and warm each window opening. I imagined one would not need a blanket on the bed, even in the dead of winter.

"Hey Bets! Ready to hit the amusement c-circus," I yelled.

"That's circuit, Ollie, not circus," Betsy yelled back to me, as I closed the distance between us. "I swear, if you would just take time between thought and word you would probably do better in school," she said. As patient as Betsy was, she did tend to fly at me on occasion. But then, a lot of the time, I guess I was no box of chocolates either.

"Have you heard the latest?" Betsy asked as her slim, petite body moved gracefully to a standing position.

"No," I responded. "Something of impo ..., impotence?" Somehow I knew the word didn't and wouldn't come out right.

Betsy circled a hand through her shoulder length red hair, grinned loudly, and corrected me again. "Importance, Ollie. Importance is the word."

"Ummm, OK Bets. Go ahead," I said as we started across town to Walden Park.

"Well ..." Betsy continued, "Sometime between five and seven o'clock this morning, Mrs. Goodbill, our neighbor over on the next street, was murdered. She was in bed, with Dolly, her dog, sleeping nearby. They say the police don't have a clue, let alone a suspect."

"I heard the report on WIZ," I said, "but they didn't say anything about the dog being there. Wouldn't you think the dog would have put up a fight?" I asked. "Didn't anyone hear or see something?" I continued. "Don't they have any clue to what happened? Was there more than one person? Did they take anything? Were there any witnesses? How 'bout the m-murder weapon?" All the questions I'd heard the movie detectives ask came to mind.

"Oh, Oh," Betsy said. "I can hear your mind starting to analyze like a detective, Ollie. I swear you're going to be one when you get older. You're so inquisitive." Betsy went on, as we neared Walden Amusement Park, "From what I've heard, no one was aware of any wrong doing. That is, except old Mister O'Hearn who lives next door. He apparently thinks he saw a leprechaun dropping through the tree from Mrs. G's bedroom. But everyone knows the old man has a habit of tipping a little too much. All in all, whoever did it got away scot free."

"Bets," I said. "Who would think a ho-horrible thing like that could happen here in a quiet town like Union Bay?"

"That's right," Betsy offered. "And what a pity, since Mrs. Goodbill just retired from teaching at our Union Bay School. I heard she had plans to do some traveling. Whoever killed her certainly took care of that," Betsy assured.

"W-wow, I guess so," I stammered. "W-what else do you know, Bets? Is-ah-is there ..."

Betsy interrupted me. "Ollie," she said. "All this excitement is getting the better of your speech. Let's just enjoy the Park for now."

"Okay, b-but I want to hear more," I said. I gave Betsy a thumbs up sign. We spun through the turnstile at the admission gate and on into the Park.

As we walked, the fragrance of carnival-like food kept my nose busy. I wanted to take advantage of everything on that 'odor plate.' When we reached the ride area the screech of excited voices filled our ears. We were drawn by the excitement toward the roller coaster.

"Zoom. Zing. Streak, Ollie," Betsy yelled as her lips formed to a dimpled smile. "We're going to knock your socks off one more time before school starts," she said. "We're going on the 'Mad Bomber'."

"Okay Bets," I said, "but it's your socks that are going to fly. Last one on is a scaredy cat," I shouted. 'Oh boy,' I thought. 'How did I let myself get into this?' My stomach was still at the bottom of the big hill from the coaster ride the week before.

"Here we go Ollie. Wheeeeee!" Betsy screamed as she leaped into the very front seat of the coaster.

"Yeah, Whee," I said. I was contemplating the kid sitting directly behind me. He looked like he was ready to dump his ice cream cone, and maybe something else, right down my neck. The coaster started its slow climb to the top of the big hill called Jet Drop. I said to myself, 'Please let him aim to the right or left and not down my back.' At the bottom of the first hill my stomach started pushing up against my throat. My uneasiness with the 'Throw Up City Kid', poised like a gargoyle ready to let it happen over my head, had begun to get to me. By the end of the ride, Betsy's arms were tightly clutched around me. I must say, her face was a little on the pale side. But all things, good and bad, come to an end. Fortunately, the kid behind us, though pale as a goose at Christmas time, had mellowed out.

"I can hardly walk straight," I muttered as I started down the coaster exit ramp. My five-foot beefy skeleton was rocking from side to side. Probably 'cause the blood was, once again, trying to find its proper route through my body.

Betsy asked, "Are you all right, Ollie?" She sounded sincere, but a big smile that caused her dimples to inflate her cheek bones up to her blue eyeballs, gave me a reason to consider that I was being flim-flamed. Ya know? Twaddled, boshed, tricked, and kidded? Her follow-up laugh was another clue.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm just testing to see which part of my body plans to get control first."

"Well, I hope the bottom half gets control first," Betsy said, "'cause I can only handle about half of you if you fall. Maybe not even that. Let's sit on that bench over there by the coaster entrance until we both get our balance back," Betsy offered. She danced her way to the bench, did a ballet-like twirl with arms floating upward and fingers gracefully extended, and breezed like a zephyr to a sitting position.

I scuffed my way over to her and draped my dish-rag body over one end of the bench. "Uum, that sure feels good," I exhaled with a labored puff of air. "Bets," I said. "Did you notice the coaster ticket man with the shoes that turn up at the toes? There's a little bell on the tip of one. Wish I could find shoes like that. They're really neat."

"Sure 'n Begorrah, but you need to be of the old sod, Ollie," Betsy boiled out with a convincing Irish brogue. "Besides," she continued like a carnival barker. "I wanna tell ya, your clods ain't dainty enough for shoes like them."

"Okay, you Irish Molly Kidoo," I kidded. "I give up. But one thing's for sure." I changed the subject. "That roller coaster never really bothers you, does it Bets?"

"Oh, it jumbles me all up inside and it's real scary. But I could ride it a trillion times more," she said. Betsy's eyes were fixed in a gaze on the coaster as it started down the big 'Jet Drop' hill.

"I could go again Bets," I said, " but I'll let you off the hook this time." I couldn't help but chuckle and then give her a kidding glance. As she combed her hair out of her eyes, she gave me a 'wrinkled nose with the tongue sticking out' look.

"Ya know Bets," I reflected. "I really appreciate your friendship. Other than my parents, you are the only one who tries to understand my problem. I sure wish I could do better in school," I added, "but reading drives me up a wall. The teachers accuse me of not applying myself, and then send me off to do chores for the janitors, and anyone else that has dirty work. Then those dumb kids in my class laugh and tease at me. I hate them all. Oh, I swear, someday ..." Uncontrollable anger swept through my body. My teeth clenched together so hard that my lips just flattened out. My body became so tight, it shook and ached all over. My eyes pulled together like magnets and tilted my head to the pavement. I hoped some brilliant answer might come bouncing off the moonlit macadam.

Not sure what to say or how to respond, Betsy flicked some imaginary lint from her blue denim mini-skirt. L Then she broke the steely silence. "Ollie. You don't really mean that about hating those kids. They just don't understand," she said with kindness. "One of these days the situation will change, and they'll all look up to Ollie Bentword. You'll see. You were born special. Maybe you ought to try a musical instrument," she continued. "That would be a fun thing, and learning music might help your reading."

"Ah Bets," I responded. "If I can't read well, how could I ..." My voice trailed off . I'm sure my reddened face had a confused look. In an effort to cover my embarrassment, I rubbed my forehead and let my hand slip down over my bushy eyebrows, to the pinch of my nose.

"Hey! I'm hungry," Betsy exclaimed. She bounced off the bench and did a pirouette to shake off the tenseness of the moment. "How 'bout some fun food? A pizza? Fries? Onion Rings?" Betsy's lips smacked loudly. "I know," she said. "A soda and a hotdog with mustard. Then, if I spill, it won't show on my yellow blouse."

"You're on Bets! What is it they say? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow another school year starts?" I took Betsy's hand in mine and we made our way through the crowd to 'pig-out' land.

Chapter Two

It was Monday morning, the first day of school, and I was late as usual. I raced down the school corridor to get to my locker before the first class. I always seemed to have difficulty getting out of bed on the first wakeup call. For that matter, on the second and third call, too. Betsy and most of the kids had a way of scheduling themselves. They arrived at school at least ten minutes before the start of morning classes. I always admired anyone who could do that.

I saw Betsy starting to her first class. "Hey Bets. Wait up," I shouted. Boy, she sure was fancied up, with her hair pulled back and tied with a snow white ribbon. The red blouse and a royal blue skirt were not shabby either. She sure looked nice. I wondered if she would notice my maroon shirt and the red paisley tie.

"Hi, Ollie," Betsy said. "What's with the glint in your eye? You look like the cat that swallowed the 'you know what'. By the way," she continued, with a raised eyebrow and a wrinkled nose, "your shirt and tie are awesome. You're sure a master when it comes to color choices."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from T.O.A.D.by John R. Rossbacher Copyright © 2011 by John R. Rossbacher. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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