Leon and the Spitting Image

by Allen Kurzweil

  A more challenging test was in order. But what?

  Leon initially decided to make Miss Hagmeyer stick her finger in her ear. But as he brushed back the doll’s hair, he changed his mind. Here was a unique opportunity to resolve a dispute that had been lingering since the very first day of school.

  Though getting the right hold proved tricky, Leon eventually managed to curl the tiny fingers of the master piece around its black yarn wig.

  He did his good-luck squinch and cluck, then gave the wig a quick firm tug. A faint, scratchy sound of Velcro could be heard at the back of the room.

  Sccritchh!

  Leon watched his teacher closely. For a moment, he was concerned she might have heard the scratchy noise coming from his desk. But her hypnotic gaze quickly told him she had other things going on inside her head—and above it….

  A second sound, exactly like the first (only much, much louder) suddenly erupted at the front of the room.

  SCCRITCHH!

  An eerie silence filled the room. Everyone was shocked by the sight of Miss Hagmeyer’s exposed scalp, with its sparse outcroppings of snow white hair and the three strips of patented adhesive glued down in a perfect row.

  Leon immediately let go of the doll. Once he did, Miss Hagmeyer awoke from her trance. Seeing her wig in her hand, she instantly turned the color of a red marking pencil.

  “Class dismissed!” she yelled, fleeing from the room as her students began to squeal.

  SEVENTEEN

  Important News

  Ieon stumbled down the school steps with the master piece pressed against his chest. The powers of his doll so flustered him that he had fled the classroom nearly as fast as Miss Hagmeyer. In the race to escape, he had left his backpack behind.

  Out on the street, he squeezed the doll tightly and stared fiercely at its features. How, he asked himself, could a spit-stained clump of cloth and panty hose control the actions of a teacher?

  An ambulance siren prompted Leon to loosen his grip. As the ambulance zoomed by, he imagined the lifeless body of his bony, bald fourth-grade teacher strapped to a gurney inside. Could squeezing the doll squeeze the life out of the real Miss Hagmeyer? Suppose his careless clench had crushed her rib cage? Suppose his breathtaking power was exactly that—breath taking! Could he get sent to jail? And if so, what would he get sent to jail for? Telepathic suffocation?

  Questions kept popping into Leon’s head. What had activated the power? How long would it last? Had anyone seen what he’d been doing at the back of the room while the Hag was performing in the front? He didn’t think so. And even if someone had turned around, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d kept the doll hidden under his desk.

  A familiar voice pierced his panicked thinking.

  “Hey.”

  Leon swung around. He was relieved to see Lily-Matisse. “Hey,” he said.

  “You tore out of class so fast, you forgot this.” Lily-Matisse handed him his backpack.

  “Thanks,” said Leon. He quickly shoved the master piece inside.

  “Can you believe what happened?”

  Leon gave a distracted nod.

  “What’s got into you?” said Lily-Matisse. “You’re acting weirder than the Hag—and that’s saying something.”

  Before Leon could answer, P.W. bounded down the steps. “What do you mean, what’s got into him? The Hag, obviously. She’s wigged him out.”

  “Very funny,” said Lily-Matisse. “And by the way, P.W., you owe me an apology. I told you that hair of hers was totally one hundred percent fake.”

  “Technically speaking, the Hag does have some hair,” said P.W. “I saw a few strands.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Fine,” P.W. grumbled. “But I’ll tell you one thing.” He bent down and grabbed a sneaker strap. “From now on, this will always remind me of her.” He gave the strap a yank.

  Sccritchh!

  “Stop it, P.W.!” Lily-Matisse cried.

  P.W. turned to Leon for a reaction, but Leon had more pressing matters to consider. He had to figure out if his backpack now contained a time bomb or a treasure.

  P.W. suspended the sneaker sonata and stood up. “Earth to Leon, Earth to Leon. Come in, Leon.”

  “I—I—” He was having a hard time threading words together.

  “Spit it out,” said P.W.

  Leon grimaced. That was the last expression he wanted to hear.

  “Don’t push him,” said Lily-Matisse protectively.

  “It—It was me!” Leon blurted out.

  “What was you?” said P.W.

  “What happened—inside.” Leon tugged on his hair. “I did that to the Hag. Me! I wigged her out!”

  Lily-Matisse and P.W. traded looks.

  Leon was all set to spill the beans when a car horn intruded. Napoleon waved from the street.

  “Hey, can you guys come over to the hotel?” Leon asked urgently. “I’ve got some important news.”

  The Trimore, with its unusual guests and on-site bakery, was an attractive after-school destination under normal circumstances. The added promise of important news only made his proposal more appealing.

  “Definitely!” said P.W.

  “Sure,” said Lily-Matisse.

  The hotel lobby was even more of a zoo than usual when Leon and his two friends pushed through the revolving door.

  A tropical bird congress was leaving at the very moment the editorial board of Weasel Weekly was checking in. Squawks, honks, and coos (from the birds) competed with screeches, trills, and chirps (from the weasels).

  “Hey there, kids!” Emma Zeisel yelled as she raced by with a broom raised over her head. “Sorry. Can’t stop. Red-billed toucan on the loose.”

  The fugitive guest dive-bombed a weasel before flapping back toward the reception desk.

  Leon coaxed Lily-Matisse and P.W. into the coffee shop with the promise of his news (and some Haffenreffer dough balls). He sat down on one side of a booth and gave his friends the other.

  “Okay, so what’s so important?” P.W. said impatiently.

  Leon looked around the coffee shop to make sure no one could hear. “Before I start, I want the pledge.”

  “Which one?” said Lily-Matisse, between bites of a dough ball.

  “The crossmyhearthopetodiestickaneedleinmyeye pledge.”

  “But you hate that one,” P.W. reminded him, fiddling with a glistening black toucan feather he had found in the lobby.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind.”

  After Lily-Matisse and P.W. swore the needle oath, Leon said, “And just so you know, if either of you does blab … the needle that does the sticking will be as long as the Hag’s—and rusty.”

  “Sheesh, what’s up with you?” said Lily-Matisse. “We get the idea.”

  Leon took a breath. “All right, Lily-Matisse—remember when your mom fought with the Hag at the Cloisters?”

  “Hard not to,” said Lily-Matisse. The memory clearly embarrassed her.

  “Remember how she said something about a piece of cloth springing to life when stitched with passion?”

  “Mom’s always saying junk like that,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Well, it’s not junk. What she said is true.”

  “For like the ten millionth time, what are you talking about?” said P.W.

  Leon took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Right. Here goes. When the Hag pulled the wig off during dismissal, you know why she did it? She did it because I pulled off my wig—well, not my wig, obviously, I mean my master piece’s. I caused all the weird stuff the Hag did in the classroom—all of it! The strumming and the arm raising and the wig removing and the—”

  “Slow down,” P.W. interjected. “You’re saying you made the Hag rub her stomach?”

  “Yup,” said Leon.

  “Maybe she has a rash,” Lily-Matisse conjectured.

  “Lots of teachers scratch themselves,” said P.W.

  “This is different,” Leon sput
tered. “I did tests. The Hag raised her hands because I raised the doll’s hands. And what about the hair? How do you explain that? How many teachers rip the hair off their heads?”

  “You’re telling us your doll has magic powers?” P.W. asked.

  “You got it,” said Leon.

  Lily-Matisse and P.W. both burst out laughing.

  “I’m serious.”

  P.W. gave Lily-Matisse a sidelong glance and twirled the toucan feather in circles near his ear. “I think our friend’s gone totally bonkers.”

  “All those stitch counts must have pushed him over the edge,” said Lily-Matisse. “The Hag’s gotten to him.”

  “Wrong!” cried Leon. “It’s the exact opposite. I’ve gotten to her. She told me to make her a master piece. Well, that’s what I did. Only guess what? I’m the master of that master piece. I control her.”

  “The doll or the Hag?” P.W. asked.

  “Both!” exclaimed Leon.

  P.W. rolled his eyes. “Give. Me. A. Break.”

  “You guys don’t believe me?”

  “N-O,” said P.W.

  “That goes D-I-T-T-O for me,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Okay, Mr. and Ms. Skeptical. I’ll show you. Tomorrow. Recess. Meet me at the tree.”

  The following day at recess, Leon, Lily-Matisse, and P.W. gathered behind the giant maple.

  Leon chose the spot because it provided a protected view of the whole playground: the teachers’ bench, the jungle gym and jump-rope area, the ball wall, and the foursquare grids.

  A creature of habit, Miss Hagmeyer was sitting where she usually sat (on the teachers’ bench) doing what she often did (embroidery).

  Leon reached for his purple pouch.

  “Why did you bring the travel book?” Lily-Matisse asked.

  Leon loosened the drawstring and removed his master piece.

  “What happened to the pastry box?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Don’t you remember? Lumpkin destroyed it with the Rhino. Besides, I can’t exactly walk around school with a pastry box. And anyway, the master piece fits better in the pouch, and the pouch fits in my backpack.”

  “Can we skip the packaging instructions and get on with it?” P.W. said.

  “Right,” said Leon. He squinched and clucked, took aim, and began working the legs of the master piece.

  Nothing happened. Miss Hagmeyer didn’t budge.

  “I swear it worked yesterday,” Leon sputtered.

  “Well, it’s not working today,” said P.W.

  Leon flexed the legs of the doll with increasing desperation. Suddenly Miss Hagmeyer put down her needlework, rose up, and walked toward the maple tree.

  For a brief, glorious moment Leon thought he had caused her to move. But it soon became clear that Miss Hagmeyer was responding to some jump ropers causing a disturbance.

  Leon switched his grip and worked the arms of the doll, rotating them like helicopter blades.

  Lily-Matisse abruptly cupped her hand over her mouth, and P.W. blurted out, “Holy mackerel! That thing you’re doing, Leon. Keep doing it!”

  Leon continued to spin the arms of the doll.

  “It’s like—like she’s trying to throw a couple of lassos!” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Only without the lassos!” gasped P.W.

  “I told you the doll controlled her!” Leon said.

  “She must have been out of range when she was on the bench,” said P.W. “This is incredible!”

  “Shush! She might hear us,” warned Lily-Matisse.

  Leon shook his head. “Don’t worry. Her radar doesn’t work when I’m doing …” He struggled for the right word.

  “Dollwork?” suggested P.W.

  “Right,” said Leon. “Dollwork puts the Hag into a kind of trance.” He stopped the arm spinning. “Keep going,” said P.W.

  “Cool your jets. My hands are cramping.” Leon shook out his fingers and then bent the doll’s legs. This time his efforts were rewarded. He was able to march Miss Hagmeyer across the blacktop and over to the deserted jungle gym.

  “She’s like a zombie!” P.W. cried enthusiastically.

  “Maybe Lily-Matisse’s right,” said Leon. “Lower the volume. I don’t want anyone to hear us or see what I’m doing. And it’s hard to concentrate with you shouting.”

  Once Leon had “walked” Miss Hagmeyer to the jungle gym, he again switched his grip. Handling the doll’s arms like joysticks, he made Miss Hagmeyer raise her arms straight up in the air.

  “Reach for the sky, pardner,” said P.W.

  Lily-Matisse laughed. “It does look like she’s been caught in a stickup.”

  Leon ignored the banter. He was too busy bending legs and curling fingers.

  With the doll and teacher properly positioned, he performed a bouncy motion that made Miss Hagmeyer grab for a jungle-gym crossbar a few feet above her head. Then he flexed the doll’s arms.

  “Ohmigosh!” cried Lily-Matisse.

  “Un-freakin’-believable!” P.W. exclaimed.

  All of a sudden, skinny old Miss Hagmeyer was doing pull-ups like an army cadet. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down.

  “Can you make her do those one-handed?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “I’ll give it a shot,” said Leon. He released one of the hands while continuing to pump the other. The result: Miss Hagmeyer performed a series of one-handed pull-ups worthy of an Olympic gymnast.

  “How about a loop-the-loop?” P.W. proposed.

  “There’s no such thing as a loop-the-loop,” said Lily-Matisse. An avid gymnast, she knew the proper names for all sorts of moves. “But you could try and get her to do a straddled Tkachev. No, wait, I’ve got a better one. A double twisting Yurchenko! And while you’re at it, have her finish off with a full-twisting double layout dismount. Now that would be something.”

  “A double twist?” said Leon skeptically. “I don’t think so.”

  “What about a single?” P.W proposed, in the spirit of compromise.

  “That’s still way beyond me,” said Leon. “I’d need to practice to do stuff like that.”

  “Hey, can I give it try?” P.W. asked.

  Leon wavered. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “C’mon,” begged P.W. “I’m a level twelve grandmaster on Turbo Titan VI. If I navigated Zoltan through the Cave of Calamity, I’m pretty sure I can handle a few twists.”

  Reluctantly, Leon relinquished the doll. The instant he relaxed his hold, Miss Hagmeyer let go of the crossbar. Her lace-up boots landed against the blacktop with a thud, and her arms flapped limply to her sides.

  P.W. yanked the doll this way and that, but his efforts had no effect whatsoever. Only Leon could move Miss Hagmeyer.

  “What do you think’s doing it?” Lily-Matisse asked.

  “I bet you it’s the spit,” said P.W. “Remember the Fun Facts in chapter seven? Spit can contain magic power, just like Monk Jonas said.”

  “It’s probably more complicated than that,” said Leon. “There’s also the Hag’s panty hose to consider.”

  “Well, whatever’s doing it, we’d better go easy on the dollwork,” said Lily-Matisse. “I mean, look at her.”

  They stared at Miss Hagmeyer as she staggered to the teachers’ bench.

  “Go easy with the dollwork?” said P.W. “Are you kidding me? Do you realize the power Leon’s got?”

  The bell rang. Recess was over. Miss Hagmeyer struggled to pull herself up off the bench.

  “Maybe Lily-Matisse has a point,” said Leon as Miss Hagmeyer teetered toward the door. “We’ve got to take things slowly. We’ll use the doll only when no one’s looking. This could get me in serious hot water.”

  “You’re not seeing the possibilities,” said P.W.

  “We can talk about possibilities at lunch,” Leon said, slipping the doll into the pouch. “Meanwhile, no one says anything to anyone. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said P.W.

  “Got it,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Good,” s
aid Leon. “Now let’s do a spit pledge and head in.”

  Lily-Matisse made a face. “But we already crossed our hearts yesterday, in the coffee shop. Remember?”

  “I’m not taking any chances,” said Leon. “Spit pledge. Now.”

  P.W. was perfectly happy to expel a sidewalk oyster, as a tribute to Monk Jonas and the miracle of the doll. Lily-Matisse proved harder to convince. But after some prodding, she made a spitting sound—an indifferent ptooey—which Leon, feeling charitable, accepted as legit.

  EIGHTEEN

  SPLAAAAAT!

  After the pull-ups in the playground came the powwow in the lunchroom. As Lily-Matisse, P.W., and Leon snaked through the lunch line, they found it tough to keep quiet. Still, they knew better than to discuss the doll in public. They remained mum until they had set down their trays at an isolated spot behind the steam tables.

  “I think your monk guy was right, P.W.,” Lily-Matisse said excitedly as soon they were seated.

  “You mean Monk Jonas?” said P.W.

  Lily-Matisse nodded. “Take a look at this,” she said, pulling a Xerox from her backpack. P.W. and Leon read the entry:

  spitting image noun [From Middle English. See spite. Date: circa 14th century] Perfect likeness of a person; exact image. Some experts think that “spit” is a corruption of “spirit.” Others maintain that the phrase invokes magic—that armed with a sample of someone’s saliva (“spit”) and a doll made to resemble the person (“image”), a sorcerer could cast all-powerful spells on a hapless victim.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t use the Hag’s saliva,” P.W. said. “It was the coach’s.”

  “I still think it’s a combination of things,” Leon said. “I bet the panty hose have something to do with the power, too.”

  P.W. rubbed his hands gleefully. “Well, whatever it is, the master piece is going to make the rest of the school year pretty darn interesting.”

  Leon chuckled. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Can I go first?” Lily-Matisse interjected.

  “Be my guest,” said P.W.

  “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” she said. “We have Leon force the Hag to sew animiles.”