Odds Are Good: An Oddly Enough and Odder Than Ever Omnibus

by Bruce Coville, Jane Yolen, Cliff Nielsen

Favorite short story collections Oddly Enough and Odder Than Ever are now available in one volume!

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780152057169
  • ISBN-10: 0152057161
  • Pages: 352
  • Publication Date: 04/01/2006
  • Carton Quantity: 52

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About the Book
About the Authors
  • About the Book

    Beloved for his hilarious and unexpectedly moving novels, Bruce Coville is also a master of the short story. These two collections, in one volume for the first time, feature eighteen tales of unusual breadth and emotional depth. This omnibus is a perfect introduction to Bruce Coville's magic for the uninitiated.

    Includes an introduction by Jane Yolen.

  • About the Author
  • Excerpts

    The ­Box


    Once there was a boy who had a ­box.


               The boy’s name was Michael, and the box

            was very special because it had been given to him by an ­angel.


            Michael knew it had been an angel because of the huge white wings he wore. So he took very good care of the box, because the angel had asked him ­to.


            And he never, ever opened ­it.


            When Michael’s mother asked him where he had gotten the box, he said, “An angel gave it to ­me.”


            “That’s nice, dear,” she answered, and went back to stirring her cake ­mix.


            Michael carried the box with him wherever he went. He took it to school. He took it out to play. He set it by his place at ­mealtimes.


            After all, he never knew when the angel would come back and ask for ­it.


            The box was very beautiful. It was made of dark wood and carved with strange designs. The carvings were smooth and polished, and they seemed to glow whenever they caught the light. A pair of tiny golden hinges, and a miniature golden latch that Michael never touched, held the cover tight to the body of the ­box.


            Michael loved the way it felt against his ­fingers.


            Sometimes Michael’s friends would tease him about the ­box.


            “Hey, Michael,” they would say. “How come you never come out to play without that ­box?”


            “Because I am taking care of it for an angel,” he would answer. And because this was true, the boys would leave him ­alone.


            At night, before he went to bed, Michael would rub the box with a soft cloth to make it smooth and ­glossy.


            Sometimes when he did this he could hear something moving inside the ­box.


            He wondered how it was that something could stay alive in the box without any food or ­water.


            But he did not open the box. The angel had asked him not ­to.


            One night when he was lying in his bed, Michael heard a ­voice.


            “Give me the box,” it ­said.


            Michael sat ­up.


            “Who are you?” he ­asked.


            “I am the angel,” said the voice. “I have come for my ­box.”


            “You are not my angel,” shouted Michael. He was beginning to grow ­frightened.


            “Your angel has sent me. Give me the ­box.”


            “No. I can only give it to my ­angel.”


            “Give me the ­box!”


            “No!” cried ­Michael.


            There was a roar, and a rumble of thunder. A cold wind came shrieking through his ­bedroom.


            “I must have that box!” sobbed the voice, as though its heart was ­breaking.


            “No! No!” cried Michael, and he clutched the box tightly to his ­chest.


            But the voice was ­gone.


    ass=GT style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-line-height-alt: 0pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan lines-together; tab-stops: .25in 24.0pt"        Soon Michael’s mother came in to comfort him, telling him he must have had a bad dream. After a time he stopped crying and went back to ­sleep.


            But he knew the voice had been no ­dream.


            After that night Michael was twice as careful with the box as he had been before. He grew to love it deeply. It reminded him of his ­angel.


    As Michael grew older the box became more of a problem for ­him.


            His teachers began to object to him keeping it constantly at his side or on his desk. One particularly thick and unbending teacher even sent him to the principal. But when Michael told the principal he was taking care of the box for an angel, the principal told Mrs. Jenkins to leave him ­alone.


            When Michael entered junior high he found that the other boys no longer believed him when he told them why he carried the box. He understood that. They had never seen the angel, as he had. Most of the children were so used to the box by now that they ignored it ­anyway.


            But some of the boys began to tease Michael about ­it.


            One day two boys grabbed the box and began a game of keep­-­away with it, throwing it back and forth above Michael’s head, until one of them dropped ­it.


            It landed with an ugly smack against the ­concrete.

    Michael raced to the box and picked it up. One of the fine corners was smashed flat, and a piece of one of the carvings had broken ­off.


            “I hate you,” he started to scream. But the words choked in his throat, and the hate died within ­him.


            He picked up the box and carried it home. Then he cried for a little ­while.


            The boys were very sorry for what they had done. But they never spoke to Michael after that,

    and secretly they hated him, because they had done something so mean to him, and he had not gotten ­mad.


            For seven nights after the box was dropped Michael did not hear any noise inside it when he was cleaning ­it.


            He was ­terrified.


            What if everything was ruined? What could he tell the angel? He couldn’t eat or sleep. He refused to go to school. He simply sat beside the box, loving it and caring for ­it.


            On the eighth day he could hear the movements begin once more, louder and stronger than ­ever.


            He sighed, and slept for eighteen ­hours.


    When he entered high school Michael did not go out for sports, because he was not willing to leave the box alone. He certainly could not take it out ont...

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