“Or soupspoons,” said Leon. He gazed toward the far end of the table. “Where’d Lumpkin go?”
P.W. shrugged.
“I’m sure we’ll find out,” said Lily-Matisse nervously.
And she was right. Ten minutes before the end of the feast, after the fruit tarts and jellies had been served, after a jester had jested and a juggler had juggled, Leon felt a small tug. He looked under the table just in time to see Lumpkin crawling away.
“Yoo-hoo, Sir Panty Hose,” said Lumpkin, as he resurfaced at the far end of the table. “Missing something?”
Leon reached for his pouch. “It’s gone!” he cried. “Lumpkin’s got the master piece!”
Leon jumped up and raced toward the doll. Lily-Matisse and P.W. followed close behind. When they reached Lumpkin, he was tapping his soupspoon against the pouch, like a musician playing the triangle.
Tap … tap … tap.
“Give it back,” Lily-Matisse said.
Lumpkin kept tapping.
Tap … tap … tap … clink!
Lumpkin raised a brow. “Hmm.”
Leon tried to grab for the pouch, but Lumpkin fended him off with a vicious swipe. The soupspoon caught the back of Leon’s hand.
“Now, now, Sir Panty Hose. None of that.” Lumpkin tucked the spoon under his arm, opened the pouch, and dumped the contents. Doll and juice bottle tumbled onto the banquet table.
Leon watched helplessly as Lumpkin brought the bottle to eye level and inspected the murky liquid inside. “What’s this?”
“Mead,” P.W. said quickly.
“Huh?”
“It’s a kind of medieval drink,” said Lily-Matisse. “Very tasty.”
Lumpkin unscrewed the bottle and took a sniff.
Leon wasn’t sure what to do. Much as he would have loved to see Henry Lumpkin drink teacher’s spit, it didn’t make sense to waste the powerful potion.
Lumpkin brought the jar to his lips….
“That’s not mead!” Antoinette shouted seconds before he was going to take a swallow. “It’s not clear enough to be mead.”
Lumpkin put down the jar and scowled, then turned his attention to the other item that had fallen from the pouch.
“Well, well,” he said, looking straight into the eyes of the doll. “So we meet again.”
“Please,” Leon cried.
Lumpkin ignored him. “What was I going to do with you?” he said to the master piece. “Oh, that’s right.” He brought his hand back.
“Stop!” cried Leon.
Lumpkin hurled the master piece. It flew over the banquet table with such force that it knocked a sugar-cone roof off the north tower of the gingerbread castle and kept on going. It hit a stack of trays and kept on going. It ricocheted off a wall and kept on going. It only ended its flight after it glanced off the side of the salad bar and dropped into a garbage can.
“Hank the Tank for two!” Lumpkin shouted boastfully.
Leon raced over to the crash site and retrieved his master piece. Lily-Matisse and P.W. arrived seconds later.
“The wig!” Leon cried. “It’s missing!”
Where the hairpiece should have been, there was now only a sparse Velcro stubble. Leon rooted through the garbage can while Lily-Matisse and P.W. searched for the wig along the doll’s flight path.
“Found it!” Lily-Matisse yelled, emerging triumphantly from behind a stack of trays. She handed Leon the hairpiece. He reattached it and gave the doll a once-over.
The clothing was a little rumpled, but otherwise everything seemed okay. Then Leon straightened out the cape.
“Oh, no!” he blurted out.
“What’s wrong now?” said Lily-Matisse.
“Look!” Leon cried. He pulled back the cape to expose the doll’s legs.
P.W. and Lily-Matisse understood at once the severity of the situation. The force of impact had ripped through the doll’s panty hose and had opened a seam on one of the legs. And leg seams, all three knew, were where Miss Hagmeyer usually conducted the stitch counts that determined whether animiles passed—or failed.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Final Inspection
Miss Hagmeyer heard the door creak before Leon set foot inside the classroom.
“You’re early,” she snapped. She was kneeling before the supply cabinet, her arms shoved deep inside the panty-hose drawer.
What is she fishing for? Leon wondered as he watched her root through the tattered, tangled hose.
All of a sudden she pulled something to the surface. It was the black binder!
“Why aren’t you still at the banquet?” Miss Hagmeyer demanded.
“Just wanted to check over my master piece,” Leon said. And while I’m at it, get a look at that binder, he thought to himself.
“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” Miss Hagmeyer grumbled. She reached into another drawer and removed some translucent white cloth, which she pinned to her wig.
Leon now had two reasons to stare at his teacher.
“It’s a wimple,” Miss Hagmeyer clarified, touching the delicate head cover. She shut the cabinet doors and replaced the padlock. “My one concession to Carnival clothing.”
“Looks good,” said Leon.
“Skip the flattery, Mr. Zeisel. If you have things to check, get checking. Final inspections begin in exactly seven minutes.” Miss Hagmeyer walked to the front of the room.
Leon sat down and pulled a needle and thread from the cubbyhole of his desk. Before he tended to the doll, he propped up his Medieval Reader, like a castle wall, to block out unwanted attention.
The leg gash was worse than he feared. Lumpkin’s sidewinder had destroyed a seam that stretched from boot to buttock. The damage penetrated all three layers of the doll’s leg: the liver-colored stocking, the skin of pale white cotton below it, and the panty-hose core. In fact, the wound went so deep that it exposed a small length of coat-hanger bone.
The doll wasn’t the only one harmed. Leon had a nasty welt on his hand, compliments of Lumpkin’s soupspoon. He ignored his own injury, however, and focused on the doll’s—it was far more serious.
Leon rewrapped the exposed leg bone, folded one edge of the white cotton skin over the other, made a few overcast stitches just above the boot, and checked his work.
Not good enough, he decided.
The panty-hose stuffing was pushing against the seam, spreading the stitches to unacceptable widths. Standard overcasting, Leon concluded, would never meet the Hagmeyer minimum of four s.p.i. That meant figuring out a different method of repair. Leon cut through the thread with his string ring and started over.
He was just pressing the two edges of cotton together—they reminded him of a pair of lips—when Mr. Hankey passed by clanging his bell.
“Finally,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “He’s three minutes late.”
Lily-Matisse and P.W. were the first to return from the banquet. They rushed straight over to Leon.
P.W. placed the pouch and spit bottle behind the Medieval Reader. “You ran out of the lunchroom so fast you left these behind,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Leon distractedly. He shoved the bottle into his desk.
“So?” said P.W. “Have you lost power?”
Leon bent the arms of the doll a couple of times and glanced over at Miss Hagmeyer.
“She’s not responding,” said Lily-Matisse.
“I know,” said Leon. “For the moment, I’m getting zero reaction.”
“But that could change, right?” said Lily-Matisse anxiously.
“Of course it could change,” said P.W.
Leon finished off a stitch and looked up. “We’ll know for sure after I’ve fixed the rip.”
“Will you be done by inspection time?” Lily-Matisse asked.
Leon sighed. “Not if I have to keep answering questions.”
“Got it,” said P.W.
“Ditto,” said Lily-Matisse.
They let him get back to work.
Pinching the material tog
ether with one hand while working the needle with the other, Leon tackled the repair with the intensity of a crackerjack surgeon performing a life-saving procedure. In fact, he was so busy tending to his patient he didn’t hear the class being called to order.
Miss Hagmeyer silenced the students with a wave of her needle.
“Apprentices and potential masters,” she said, brushing the gauzy see-through wimple away from her face. “Our year together began when I wrote out the motto of a medieval master. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’ Nine important words for nine important projects.”
She aimed her needle at the countinghouse tally. “That timeline tells the story of those projects—as well as my efforts to use them to turn all of you into masters. Today we will see if a year of discipline and diligence has paid off. When I call your name, approach the desk with your submission. If you wish, you may describe it—briefly.
“I will then conduct my inspection, which will conclude in the usual manner—by the measurement of a seam. If the seam satisfies my s.p.i. standards, I will declare you a master of the guild and will send you to the countinghouse tally with these snagglers.” Miss Hagmeyer tapped a giant pair of scissors. “Advance your spool to the end of the tally, and use the snagglers to snip it free. Once you have done that, return the scissors to me and sit down with your spool and submission.”
“Does that mean we get to keep our master pieces?” Lily-Matisse asked.
“I said no such thing, Miss Jasprow,” Miss Hagmeyer said. “Now let’s begin. Brede, Antoinette.”
Antoinette stood up and faced the class. “My Master Piece, by Queen Antoinette. My master piece is an Irish Wolfhound.” She held out a stuffed dog with a glittery rhinestone collar. “Irish Wolfhounds are the most regal dogs in the world. ‘Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked.’ That’s their motto. They were introduced …”
Leon tuned out. For the first time all year—for the first time in his entire life!—he was happy his last name started with Z. It gave him more time to work.
Antoinette’s wolfhound passed with a stitch count of seven s.p.i. P.W.’s master piece, a three-headed dragon, got approved with a respectable six. Lily-Matisse presented a jazzed-up winter rabbit with tiedyed lavender ears. Miss Hagmeyer criticized the bunny’s “flamboyance” but felt compelled to okay it since its stitch count measured a nine—more than twice the minimum. Even Henry Lumpkin earned the title of master—for a five s.p.i. pit bull made from material that matched his olive drab army jacket.
Seventeen animiles passed under the tape measure. Seventeen masters entered the Guild.
One submission remained.
“Zeisel, Leon,” said Miss Hagmeyer.
Leon slipped his master piece into its pouch, lowered the Medieval Reader, stood up, and approached the front of the room.
He was unsure whether the doll’s loss of signal power was temporary or permanent, but he decided not to take any chances. He gingerly loosened the drawstring on the pouch and pressed up from the bottom until the head of the doll poked out like a Push Pop. Then he peeled down the pouch—careful not to touch the doll inside.
As soon as he deposited the master piece on Miss Hagmeyer’s desk, he cleared his throat and said, “We’ve been told that it’s the job of an apprentice to make a master piece worthy of a master. Well, that’s what I’ve tried to do.”
The big Miss Hagmeyer took one look at the little Miss Hagmeyer and instantly started to shake.
“B-b-but Leon … It’s-it’s-it’s … ME!”
“No, Miss Hagmeyer,” Leon corrected firmly. “It’s your spitting image!”
The doll knocked the stuffing out of Miss Hagmeyer as effectively as Lumpkin had knocked the stuffing out of the doll. It took her nearly a minute to recover. Once she had, she inspected the master piece with an odd, almost greedy silence. Her bony fingers and beady gaze traveled over every nook and cranny of the doll, from wig to boots. The eyes on the doll (all four of them) attracted her attention first, and then the cape. But it was the black lace-ups that most intrigued her. She was impressed that Leon had tied the laces just like hers—with double rabbit ears, and a safety knot added for good measure.
Naturally her fascination fascinated the class. Everyone leaned forward to watch Miss Hagmeyer inspect … Miss Hagmeyer! Would she lift up the hair and check out the mushroom-shaped ears? Would she remove the miniature wig?
The life-size Miss Hagmeyer disappointed her students by avoiding both noteworthy features of the masterly work.
But was it masterly?
Leon still didn’t know.
Miss Hagmeyer said nothing—not a word—after her initial stuttered outburst. She focused all her attention on the doll. That made Leon antsy. Eventually she placed the doll faceup on the desk and said, “I suppose it is time to take a measure of the master piece—and its maker.” She fiddled with the doll’s stockings, to expose the seams.
Hey, Miss Hagmeyer! Get your nose out of my panty hose! Leon yelled, if only in his head. He looked on silently, relieved she was ignoring the spit stain on the clothes. Still, he knew he wasn’t off the hook.
As the whole class watched, Miss Hagmeyer pressed her tape measure against the freshly repaired leg. Recording the results on her clipboard, she muttered something Leon couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like she had called his work “uneven.”
“Huh?” he said.
“We do not say ‘huh’ in my class, Mr. Zeisel. We say ‘excuse me.’”
“Excuse me?” said Leon. “Did I do something uneven?”
“Uneven?” Miss Hagmeyer gave him a puzzled look.
What’s she trying to pull now? Leon asked himself before he said, “Didn’t you just say my seam is uneven?”
“No,” Miss Hagmeyer replied. “I did not.”
“Oh.”
“I said ‘eleven.’”
“Eleven what?” Leon asked quizzically.
“Stitches, Mr. Zeisel. Your seam—or should I say my seam?—measures eleven s.p.i.”
“Eleven?” shouted Leon.
“Yes,” Miss Hagmeyer said, as the class erupted in cheers.
She picked up the snagglers and presented them to Leon, tips down. “Now go and claim your spool.”
So it was official. The class klutz had passed inspection. And he had done so with top marks!
Leon couldn’t wait to tell Napoleon and Frau Haffenreffer and Maria. He especially couldn’t wait to tell his mom.
He marched over to the countinghouse tally. Seventeen sliced strands of yarn hung to the side, like a mop of orange hair. One strand still stretched across the chart.
Leon pushed his spool to the far right of the yarn and cut it free with the snagglers. He caught the spool, dropped it into his pouch, and headed back for his doll.
“May I please have my master piece, Miss Hagmeyer?” he said as politely as possible.
Miss Hagmeyer didn’t respond. She was still marvelling over it.
“Miss Hagmeyer?”
Still no reaction.
Leon decided to take charge. He tugged the doll out of Miss Hagmeyer’s hands and gently clutched it in his arms.
Then, before Leon knew it, Miss Hagmeyer was clutching … him!
At first Leon thought the embrace was intentional. By the time he realized what actually was happening—that the doll had been reactivated—it was too late.
The whole class oooooohed as Leon struggled to free himself. It wasn’t easy. To peel Miss Hagmeyer off his body, he had to wrench the doll away from his chest. But to wrench the doll away from his chest, he had to peel Miss Hagmeyer off his body!
After a good bit of squirming, Leon managed to pry the doll away. Miss Hagmeyer let go of him moments later.
The class quickly figured out that their teacher was out of commission, though not the reason why.
“Hey, Haggy!” Lumpkin shouted. “Wanna wrestle?”
“Shush,” Antoinette told him, “She’ll hear you.”
But of course Miss Hagmeyer didn’t hear Lumpkin, or anyone else—not while Leon was holding the doll.
Lumpkin’s challenge tempted Leon. It would have been sweet to make Miss Hagmeyer body-slam him against the supply cabinet. But Leon resisted the impulse. He had other plans.
Chaos reigned supreme in the classroom. Master pieces flew through the air. Swords smacked against shields. Even Antoinette misbehaved, humming all four stanzas of “Miss Hagmeyer Had a Hairpiece” while waving her tiara in the air.
Leon took advantage of the medieval mayhem to check in with P.W.
“Looks like we’re back in business,” he said.
P.W. grinned. “Looks like it.” He tapped his pocket. “The crowning apparatus is fully operational. Commence launch sequence whenever you’re ready.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Binder of Bonding
Leon released Miss Hagmeyer from her trance once he was safely in his seat.
After she regained control of her mind and body (and the instructional needle), she instantly took hold of the class.
“Now that all of you have finished your presentations,” she said, “I wish to make one of my own. It concerns the business of animiles.”
“We know all about that business,” P.W. muttered, rubbing his fingers together like a miser.
Miss Hagmeyer chuckled ruefully. “You don’t actually believe those rumors, do you, Mr. Dhabanandana? About the evil hag who sells her students’ animiles for vast sums of money?”
The class exchanged looks. Miss Hagmeyer had never chuckled before, not even ruefully. Then again, she had never done a lot of things she was doing now. Resting her needle on the desk, she reached for the binder and, with both hands, raised it in the air. Even from the back of the room Leon could see that the cover had the letters SOV exactingly chain stitched across the front in light blue thread.
“This,” said Miss Hagmeyer, “is what the monks of the Middle Ages would have called a codex of connection. I will spare you the Latin. It is a book that ties together the work of master and apprentice. It is, in other words … a binder of bonding.”
“Binder of bondage is more like it,” Leon whispered to Thomas.
Leon and the Spitting Image Page 18