Editor's note: One industrious and inventive boy plants the seeds of a new civilization.
"Of course he's miserable," moaned Wesley's mother. "He sticks out." "Like a nose," snapped his father.
Listening through the heating vent, Wesley knew they were right. He was an outcast from the civilization around him.
He alone in his town disliked pizza and soda, alarming his mother and the school nurse. He found professional football stupid. He'd refused to shave half his head, the hairstyle worn by all the other boys, despite his father's bribe of five dollars.
Each afternoon his mother asked him what he'd learned in school that day.
"That seeds are carried great distances by the wind," he answered on Wednesday.
"That civilization has its staple food crop," he answered on Thursday.
"That school's over and I should find a good summer project," he answered on Friday.
As always, his father mumbled, "I'm sure you'll use that knowledge often."
Suddenly, Wesley's thoughts shot sparks. His eyes blazed. His father was right! He could actually use what he'd learned that week for a summer project that would top all others. He would grow his own staple food crop -- and found his own civilization!
The next morning he turned over a plot of ground in his yard. That night a wind blew in from the west. It raced through the trees and set his curtains snapping. Wesley lay awake, listening. His land was being planted.
Five days later the first seedlings appeared.
"You'll have almighty bedlam on your hands if you don't get those weeds out," warned his neighbor.
"Actually, that's my crop," replied Wesley. "In this type of garden there are no weeds."
Following ancient tradition, Wesley's fellow gardeners grew tomatoes, beans, Brussels sprouts and nothing else. Wesley found it thrilling to open his land to chance, to invite the new and unknown.
The plants shot up past his knees, then his waist. They seemed to be all of the same sort. Wesley couldn't find them in any plant book.
"Are those tomatoes, beans or Brussels sprouts?" asked Wesley's neighbor.
"None of the above," replied Wesley.
Fruit appeared, yellow at first, then blushing to magenta. Wesley picked one and sliced through the rind to the juicy purple center. He took a bite and found the taste an entrancing blend of peach, strawberry, pumpkin pie and flavors he had no name for.
It was hot work tending to his crop. To keep off the sun, Wesley wove himself a hat from strips of the plant's woody bark. His success with the hat inspired him to devise a spinning wheel and loom on which he wove a loose-fitting robe from the stalks' soft inner fibers.
Unlike jeans, which he found scratchy and heavy, the robe was comfortable, reflected the sun and offered myriad opportunities for pockets.
His schoolmates were scornful, then curious. Grudgingly, Wesley allowed them ten minutes apiece at his mortar, crushing the plant's seeds to collect the oil.
This oil had a tangy scent and served him both as suntan lotion and mosquito repellent. He rubbed it on his face each morning and sold small amounts to his former tormentors at the price of ten dollars per bottle.
"What's happened to your watch?" asked his mother one day.
Wesley admitted that he no longer wore it. He told time by the stalk that he used as a sundial and had divided the day into eight segments -- the number of petals on the plant's flowers.
He'd adopted a new counting system as well, based likewise upon the number eight. His domain, home to many such innovations, he named "Weslandia."
Uninterested in traditional sports, Wesley made up his own. These were designed for a single player and used many different parts of the plant. His spectators looked on with envy.
Realizing that more players would offer him more scope, Wesley invented other games that would include his schoolmates, games rich with strategy and complex scoring systems. He tried to be patient with the other players' blunders.
His parents noted Wesley's improved morale. "It's the first time in years he's looked happy," said his mother.
Wesley gave them a tour of Weslandia.
"What do you call this plant?" asked his father. Not knowing its name, Wesley had begun to call it "swist," from the sound of its leaves rustling in the breeze.
In like manner, he'd named his new fabrics, games and foods until he'd created an entire language.
Mixing the plant's oil with soot, Wesley made a passable ink. As the finale to his summer project, he used the ink and his own eighty-letter alphabet to record the history of his civilization's founding.
In September, Wesley returned to school ...
He had no shortage of friends.
WESLANDIA Text c 1999 by Paul Fleischman. Illustrations c 1999 by Kevin Hawkes. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Candlewick Press Inc., Cambridge, Mass.