Leon and the Spitting Image

by Allen Kurzweil

  “Can you give it a rest?” said P.W. angrily. He cocked the launching arm so that the doll bowed backward, head over heels. “Leon has all the ammunition he needs to take care of the Hag—speaking of which … ” P.W. got up off the floor.

  “Where are you going?” Leon asked.

  “To get the ammo,” he said. “I left it in the kitchen.”

  The moment P.W. left the bedroom, Lily-Matisse turned to Leon. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

  “Why are you so worried?”

  “I just told you. Final inspection is coming up. Plus, there’s Birdwhistle we’ve got to think about. What if she sees that thingy?”

  “It’s not a thingy, it’s a trebuchet,” said P.W., returning from the kitchen in time to catch the tail end of the warning. “And when did you get a brain swap with Antoinette?”

  Lily-Matisse persisted. “All I’m saying is, strapping Miss Hagmeyer into a harness is risky.”

  “No, it’s not,” said P.W. “Not if it’s properly loaded. I’ll show you.” He dumped a collection of small objects on the bedroom carpet. “We’ve got Legos in two-, four-, and six-notch varieties. We’ve got one of my dad’s famous spring rolls and a fried dumpling—I stuck with the fried because they don’t fall apart like the steamed ones.”

  Lily-Matisse picked up a small plastic doll’s head by its long, golden blond hair. “What are you planning to do with this?” she asked.

  “What do you think?” said P.W.

  “You want to use the head of a Totally Hair Barbie for a cannonball?”

  “Why not?” P.W. said matter-of-factly.

  “Where’s the rest of her?” Leon asked.

  “In my sister’s room,” said P.W.

  “Don’t you think she’ll miss this?” Lily-Matisse asked, jiggling the head.

  “I’m planning to reattach it as soon as we’re done,” P.W. said.

  Lily-Matisse watched in disbelief as P.W. snatched the decapitated head out of her hand and squeezed it into the sling of the Hagapult.

  “Lock ‘n’ load,” he said.

  Unfortunately, each time P.W. tried launching the head, its hair got tangled in the mechanism. He switched to the fried dumpling, then to the spring roll, then to the Legos. None of those projectiles worked well either. After a dozen misfires, P.W. started scrounging about for substitute ammo. He tried slinging a plastic cow (“they used cows in the Middle Ages”), a paperclip, a gum ball.

  The results were uniformly dismal.

  Lily-Matisse eventually grew tired of watching his failures from the sidelines. “Here,” she said in a ho-hum way. “Try this.” She held out something small and shiny.

  P.W. went over to the bed and bobbed the proposed missile in his hand. The weight and size felt promising. “You know,” he said, “this might actually work. Thanks.”

  Despite herself, Lily-Matisse smiled.

  “What is it?” Leon asked from across the room.

  “A glass eyeball,” said P.W.

  “I was going to use it on my master piece,” said Lily-Matisse, “but it didn’t look right. I should have returned it, but I kind of forgot—accidentally on purpose.”

  “I’m glad you forgot—accidentally on purpose,” said P.W. “What is it? Mountain lion?”

  “Close,” said Lily-Matisse. “Lynx.” P.W. fitted the cat eye into the sling and reset the arm. He then cranked the doll backward until it was almost upside down. The tiny Victorian boots pointed in the air. The wig of black yarn brushed against the green Lego base plate that kept the mechanism stable.

  P.W. was about to fire off the eyeball when Leon gave him a nudge. He understood immediately. “Hey, Lily-Matisse,” P.W. called over. “Want to do the honors?”

  “You sure?” she said.

  “Definitely,” said P.W.

  She joined her friends on the floor. P.W. explained how the Hagapult worked, then brought his hand over hers to show her how to release the trigger. “When you’re ready, let ‘er rip,” he said, removing his hand.

  Lily-Matisse hesitated.

  “Go for it,” Leon urged.

  “That’s a roger,” she said nervously. She launched the lynx eye. Thwooosh!

  The sling hurled the glass eyeball with such force that it landed in the fish tank on the far side of the room. Plink!

  “Yes!” P.W. shouted.

  “Ohmigosh!” Lily-Matisse cried.

  “Geez!” Leon exclaimed.

  A buzzer sounded.

  P.W. groaned. “Must be my mom.” He went over to an intercom and pressed the button that said TALK. “Yeah?”

  “Popcorn walnut, do you copy? Over.”

  “What is it, Mom?” P.W. said. “We’re kinda busy.”

  “Leon’s mother is on the phone. She wants him back home. Do you copy? Over.”

  Leon joined P.W. at the intercom. He pushed TALK and said, “Ms. D? Can you ask my mom if I can stay another hour?”

  There was a long pause. “That’s a negative. She wants me to put you in a cab right now. Do you copy? Over.”

  Leon again pushed TALK. “Ms. D? Can you ask her what’s so urgent?”

  After another long pause Ms. Dhabanandana said, “Something about an envelope from school. Do you copy? Over.”

  Leon’s legs turned wobbly, his head began to throb.

  An envelope! From school!

  The news hit him with the force of a Lumpkin sidewinder.

  “I bet you it’s about the pop-ups,” said Lily-Matisse. “Birdwhistle must have spotted us from her window.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” said P.W. with a smirk.

  “Don’t try to be funny,” said Leon. “Not now.”

  “Hey, relax,” said P.W. “I’m just saying that if Birdwhistle did see us doing something, why didn’t she haul us into the Birdcage, along with the Hag?”

  “Because that’s not how the school does things,” said Leon. “Trust me, I know. They keep all the really bad stuff for the envelopes.”

  He uncuffed his master piece from the Hagapult and returned it to the pouch. Then he dragged himself down to the Curried Elephant. Passing through a field of tulips folded from napkins, Leon said good-bye to Ms. Dhabanandana and hailed a taxi back to the hotel.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Another Envelope

  Leon’s nine-and-four-quarters day was plummeting fast. Nine … eight… seven … He was so worried about the envelope on the ride home, he didn’t even think about his taxi-driver collection. The cabby could have come from Akron, Anaheim, or Antarctica. Leon would never know.

  He tried to convince himself that the envelope was just a harmless reminder about the upcoming Carnival. (Only two days earlier Principal Birdwhistle had mailed out a memo on the mandatory bluntness of swords.) But that seemed unlikely. His mom wouldn’t have called P.W.’s house unless the news from school was major.

  Emma Zeisel was pacing back and forth when the taxi pulled up to the hotel. She had the dreaded envelope clutched tight against her breast.

  Leon stepped out of the taxi and instantly had his worst fears confirmed. The envelope was an exact clone of the one that had torpedoed him the night before school started. It was identical, right down to the blood-red stamp that said CONFIDENTIAL.

  “Mom?”

  “We’ll discuss it in the coffee shop,” she said.

  Frau Haffenreffer and Maria were seated at the counter as Emma Zeisel guided her son to their usual booth. Napoleon was standing beside them.

  “What are you doing here?” Leon asked his friend.

  “Your mother wished me to come, Monsieur Leon,” Napoleon said as he scootched into the booth beside Emma Zeisel.

  Leon couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. All he could do was stare at the envelope, which now rested, accusingly, on the tabletop.

  “I’ve never burdened you with reports from the school before,” Emma Zeisel told her son. “Teachers can be such terrible judges of character. Always blowing things out of proportio
n. But, well, this is different.”

  She pressed her fingernail against the edge of the envelope and gave it a flick. The envelope sailed across the table and poked Leon in the ribs like a needle.

  “Could you read the letter out loud, sweetie? I want everyone to hear.”

  “Fine,” said Leon bitterly. He grabbed the envelope and fumbled with the flap.

  Was this about getting flunked? Or was Lily-Matisse right? Had Birdwhistle seen him performing dollwork? If Birdwhistle had seen him, would he be expelled?

  Which is worse? Leon asked himself. Getting left back or getting booted?

  “Sweetie?”

  Leon removed the single sheet of paper from the envelope. After he squinched and clucked, he read the letter out loud.

  THE CLASSICAL SCHOOL

  “Where Nimble Fingers Make for Nimble Minds”

  Office of the Principal

  Dear Ms. Zeisel,

  When we met in my office last fall, I promised I would touch base later in the school year. At the time, there were concerns expressed about Leon’s manual dexterity, and it was proposed that we consider allowing him to repeat fourth grade.

  Leon stopped reading. They were allowing him to repeat fourth grade? That’s like saying they were allowing him to stick sewing needles under his fingernails!

  “Leon?” said Emma Zeisel.

  He continued in an unsteady voice.

  Since our meeting I have monitored Leon’s work. I am pleased to report that nearly-all of his teachers note remarkable improvement in his fine motor skills. Only Miss Hagmeyer has yet to get back in touch with me. (The poor woman has been under a bit of stress recently.) However, I have every confidence that she will concur with her colleagues. In the meantime I thought you should know that all indicators point to your son satisfying the requirements of fourth grade.

  Cordially,

  Hortensia Birdwhistle

  Principal

  Emma Zeisel reached over the tabletop and gave Leon a peck on the cheek.

  “Chapeau!” exclaimed Napoleon, which is how French speakers say “hats off!”

  “Mazel tov!” said Frau Haffenreffer.

  “Felicitaciones!” added Maria.

  The letter gave Leon some much-needed relief about his teacher. And it was clear Birdwhistle hadn’t spotted him, which meant that the secret of the master piece was still safe.

  Emma Zeisel signaled Frau Haffenreffer, who took her cue and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later she burst back into the coffee shop carrying a very large platter.

  Emma Zeisel said, “The Chip of the Month Club made a delivery today, sweetie. When I saw that shipment of chips and read the letter from school, well, I put two and two together and decided it equaled … surprise party!”

  Leon beamed. It was turning into a nine-and-four-quarters day, after all. He gorged on pastries, potato chips, and praise for nearly an hour before an old concern crept into his thoughts.

  Emma Zeisel picked up on her son’s agitation almost before he did. “You okay?” she asked him.

  “I guess,” said Leon.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Leon sighed. “I still have to pass final inspection.”

  “You will,” said Emma Zeisel confidently.

  “You don’t know the Hag. She could still pull a fast one.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. What did she say about your master piece?”

  “Nothing. I never showed it to her.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just that a lot’s been going on,” Leon said vaguely.

  “Well, I’m sure when she gets a load of your master piece, she’ll flip.”

  “We’ll see on Monday,” said Leon, wondering briefly if he could make his teacher do a somersault.

  “Do you have the doll with you?” his mom asked.

  Leon nodded.

  “Well, show it to everyone—see what they have to say.”

  Leon unpouched the master piece and propped it on a bag of Hunky Dorys Buffalo Flavor Thick & Crunchy Potato Chips.

  Emma Zeisel glowed with motherly pride as Frau Haffenreffer, Maria, and Napoleon oohed and aahed.

  Maria poked the stain on the doll’s dress. “You want me to take care of that, Leonito?”

  “That’s okay,” said Leon.

  “It’s no problem. I’ve got this special solution. It works like magic.”

  “It’s okay, Maria. Thanks anyway.”

  “Stain or no stain,” said Emma Zeisel, “when the Hag comes face-to-face with that doll, she’s going to go head over heels!”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Leon.

  Emma Zeisel picked up a glass of soda and held it in the air. “A toast,” she declared. “To the master pieces we make.” She tipped her glass at the doll pillowed on the Hunky Dorys. “And to the masterpiece we’re raising.” She redirected the glass at her son. “May they both give us joy forever.”

  Leon turned red. “Thanks, Mom. But I’m not sure about my master piece giving us joy forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, let’s say it does pass final inspection.”

  “Which it will,” said Emma Zeisel.

  “Fine,” said Leon. “I still don’t get to keep it.”

  “Nonsense,” Emma Zeisel said. “Miss Hagmeyer can’t—”

  “Mom, listen to me,” Leon interrupted. “I know. For a fact. Once the Hag okays an animile, it gets binned, bagged, and sold.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Carnival

  As school events go, none generated more excitement among the Classical School fourth graders than Carnival. The year-end bash catapulted the normal day’s schedule straight out the window, making room for medieval games, medieval foods, and—thanks to Leon—medieval hocus-pocus. He arranged to meet his two friends on the school steps before the start of the special day.

  “Where’s P.W.?” Leon asked Lily-Matisse when he arrived a few minutes late.

  “No idea,” she said.

  Leon looked around. “Maybe he’s testing the Hagapult in the playground. We’d better check.”

  They searched everywhere. No P.W.

  “Now what?” Lily-Matisse asked fretfully.

  “The bell’s about to ring. Let’s wait for him in the classroom.”

  Leon was the first to enter. “Wow!” he exclaimed the moment he poked his nose inside.

  “Mom worked on the decorations all night,” said Lily-Matisse.

  Leon gazed about. “Wow,” he said again.

  Gone were Miss Hagmeyer’s creepy sewing posters. In their place was a lush medieval landscape with rolling hills that nestled a turreted, crenellated, loop-holed castle. “Kind of reminds me of something,” Leon said.

  “Mom copied it off a painting she showed you guys at the Cloisters,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “That’s right,” said Leon. He pointed to a bright yellow sun shining in the corner. “You think she used dried cow pee to paint that?” he asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “How’d she turn the windows all red and purple?”

  “Mylar plastic. Mom’s in love with the stuff.”

  Leon spotted one element of the room that hadn’t changed—the countinghouse tally. He walked over to the chart and plucked the lowest yarn.

  “The Hag better pass me,” he said adamantly as he watched the Sir Leon spool quiver.

  “Why should she pass your master piece … of junk?” a familiar voice demanded.

  Leon turned just in time to receive a thwack on the shoulder with a wooden sword. It was Lumpkin.

  Leon eyed the door.

  “Looking for the Hag to save you, Sir Panty Hose?”

  “No,” said Leon, though that was precisely what he was doing. If he could bring Miss Hagmeyer, the doll, and Lumpkin within range of one another he could discipline His Evil Lordship. And who knew? With the proper dollwork, he might even get Miss Hagmeyer to grab her instructional needle and turn the
class pinhead into a pincushion!

  “Well, well,” said Lumpkin. “What’ve we got in there?” He gave Leon’s pouch a poke with his sword.

  “None of your beeswax,” said Lily-Matisse.

  Lumpkin traced the lettering on the purple material with the tip of the blade. “L-E-O-N. Isn’t that cute.”

  DRRRRINNNNNG!

  “That pouch wouldn’t be hiding your master puke, would it?” Lumpkin said, ignoring the bell. “I never did get to put that dumb thing in its place.”

  “Nor will you now, Mr. Lumpkin!”

  True to form, Miss Hagmeyer strode into class right on time. “Lower that blade and take your seat at once!”

  Miss Hagmeyer marched toward the front of the room, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about the kraft-paper landscapes and tinted windows.

  “I’m putting everyone on notice,” she growled as she hung up her cape. “I have very little patience for carnivals conducted during school hours.” She began emptying her satchel but stopped when she noticed an empty desk.

  “Where’s Phya Winit?” she demanded. “I hope he isn’t using some trumped-up sickness to avoid final inspection.”

  No one said a word.

  Miss Hagmeyer shook her head and went back to emptying her satchel. “Honestly, I don’t know why schools squander valuable teaching time on end-of-year festivals. Greek Day. Sports Day. Farm Day. Science Fair. They’re all the same. Ridiculous excuses for children to dress up and run around jabbing each other with sharp, pointy objects. Togas and spears. Sweat suits and javelins. Overalls and pitchforks. Lab coats and scalpels.

  “And this medieval carnival takes the cake! How much time has been wasted turning out swords in Mr. Groot’s woodshop? And why, I would like to know, is the banquet scheduled before I complete my inspections? That’s not the way it would have happened in King Richard’s time, I can tell you that! Banquets are supposed to conclude carnivals, not disrupt them.

  “If I had my way, this is the only kind of pointy object that would occupy your fingers and your minds.” Miss Hagmeyer held up her instructional needle. “If I had my way, you would be making animiles and nothing but animiles. Unfortunately, Principal Birdwhistle has other ideas.”