Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  “Crud, mud, raspberry juice,

  Ground-in dirt—tough or loose.

  Spills on twills, grease on sweats,

  Nasty fluids expelled by pets.

  Grass, grout, Limburger cheese,

  Guano, glue marks, Darjeeling teas.

  Lipstick, pen marks, makeup, mold,

  Coffee stains (new and old).”

  He took another deep breath:

  “Light caulk, white chalk, silver tarnish,

  Asphalt, crayon, yellowed varnish.

  Scuff marks, mucus, bacon fat,

  Scotch tape, whisky, things that splat!”

  And another breath:

  “Fruit punch, cola, lager beers,

  Decals, wet paint, pesky smears.

  Chocolate sprinkles, powdered sugar,

  Old folks’ pee and baby booger.

  Red wine, pickle brine, French champagne,

  Candle wax on carpet stain.

  Muck, mulch, horse manure,

  Gunk belonging in the sewer.”

  And another:

  “Grease, tallow, oil, blubber,

  Skid marks caused by bike wheel rubber.

  Pasta sauce, steamer trunk labels,

  Ghastly rings on antique tables.

  Rust, must, all known inks,

  Stubborn clogs in backed-up sinks.

  Grit, grime, bathtub scum,

  Residue of bubblegum.

  So rest assured, the list is long,

  Of mess addressed by POOP-B-GONE!

  “It doesn’t mention spit,” Lily-Matisse noted.

  “Sure it does,” said P.W., still catching his breath. “‘Nasty fluids expelled by pets’… that means spit.”

  “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” said Lily-Matisse. “Pet spit and teacher spit aren’t the same.”

  “Yes, they are,” said P.W. “Spit is spit. There’s no chemical difference, right, Leon?”

  “I have no idea. But the sooner you guys stop arguing, the sooner we’ll find out.”

  Leon grabbed the jug and poured a goodly amount of Poop-B-Gone on the pouch and Pumpkinhead. He allowed the potion to fizz for a few seconds before attacking the drenched areas with a washcloth. Less than a minute later, the stains had disappeared.

  “Maria was right,” said P.W. “That stuff is magic.”

  Lily-Matisse looked at Pumpkinhead and said, “Let’s just hope that magic doesn’t counteract the magic in the doll.”

  “Action figure!” P.W. exclaimed.

  “Guys,” said Leon as he grabbed a hair dryer mounted to the wall. “Less fighting, more helping, okay? P.W., you blow-dry Pumpkinhead. Lily-Matisse, you clear off the table near the couch.”

  By the time Pumpkinhead was dry, Lily-Matisse had finished in the living room. “The operating room is ready, doctor,” she announced.

  “Wow,” said Leon, surveying the sewing instruments neatly arranged on a hotel towel. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You even threaded the needles,” Leon noted gratefully.

  “I figured it’d speed things up,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Not bad,” P.W. admitted. “There’s only one problem.” He disappeared into Leon’s bedroom.

  “What are you looking for?” Leon called after him.

  “You’ll see,” P.W. shouted back.

  While waiting, Leon surveyed the operating table. “One long knitting needle. Four threaded sewing needles. One pincushion with pins. Three spools of thread. That’s pretty much all I need, except for a pair of scissors.”

  Lily-Matisse rifled through the sewing basket and found the missing instrument. Just then P.W. reappeared.

  “My bed lamp?” said Leon.

  “Yup,” said P.W. He plugged the lamp into an outlet and aimed it at the surface of the table. “This should help,” he said, flicking on the switch.

  “You’re right,” said Leon.

  For the next twenty minutes, Leon sewed in silence, displaying the agility of a master tailor. It seemed hard to believe that a kid who’d had trouble tying his laces at the start of fourth grade now wielded needle and thread with a surgeon’s precision.

  He started at the feet and slowly moved his way up the body. His method was the same at each trouble spot. First he would reinsert the panty hose stuffing that had popped out. Then he would pin the rip, stitch it, and tie off the thread. Some of the smaller cuts required nothing more than a simple, straightforward running stitch. But a number of larger holes demanded complex double- and triple-stitch repairs.

  “What’s the prognosis, doc?” P.W. asked as Leon was suturing the last of the trouble spots, a gash just below Lumpkin’s hairline.

  “Pretty good.”

  “We still don’t know if all of this mending will make a difference,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Can you lighten up?” said P.W. “We’re almost done with two of the three R’s. That’s not bad for an afternoon’s work.”

  “Maybe,” said Lily-Matisse. “But rescue and repair are a snap compared to the third R. There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to reanimate the doll.”

  P.W. snapped. “Stop calling it a doll!”

  “Well, that’s what it is,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “No, it’s not,” P.W. shot back. “For the gazillionth time, my sister plays with dolls. What Leon is repairing is an action figure.”

  “So far it hasn’t been all that active,” said Lily-Matisse. “Inaction figure is more like it.”

  Leon looked up from his repair. “Guys! Cool it. Just come up with a name you can both live with, okay?”

  Lily-Matisse frowned at P.W. “What do you want to call it?”

  “Well,” said P.W., “since Leon called the first spitting image of Lumpkin ‘Pumpkinhead,’ let’s call this new and improved version ‘Pumpkinhead two-point-oh.’”

  “Works for me,” said Leon.

  “Call the thing Cheez Doodles for all I care,” Lily-Matisse said peevishly. “That still won’t make it control Lumpkin.”

  Leon sat up and dropped his sewing needle on the towel. “All done,” he announced.

  “Not entirely,” said Lily-Matisse. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She tapped her sneakers.

  “I don’t remember ‘Dumpster dirt’ listed on the Poop-B-Gone label,” said P. W.

  “I did promise her,” said Leon.

  By the time Pumpkinhead 2.0 was ready for action (and Lily-Matisse’s sneakers had been cleaned), the air in the lobby had cleared and the beekeeper with the smoker had left.

  “Where’s the bee guy?” Leon asked his mom.

  “I told him to buzz off,” said Emma Zeisel. “The smoke was bothering the VIPs. Speaking of which, here’s the list for tomorrow. We’ve got some last-minute additions that’ll make Maria very happy.”

  After Leon said good-bye to Lily-Matisse and P. W., he updated the VIP board, then headed over to the coffee shop, where Frau Haffenreffer set him up with a PB&J (extra J) and a side of Krispee Krunchy Salt ’n’ Vinegar Potato Chips to replace the bag Lumpkin had devoured and destroyed. After dinner, Leon worked on his collection until he went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about all the things he could do to Lumpkin if and when Pumpkinhead 2.0 started working.

  That’s one huge if and when, Leon told himself, moments before nodding off.

  *Operating time: one minute or less.

  (Please wear gloves when handling mess.)”

  ELEVEN

  Thin-Sliced Deep-Fried Tubers

  “So why isn’t the magic working?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “How am I supposed to know?” said Leon.

  “It’s got to be the spit,” said P.W.

  “Possibly,” said Leon, clearly unconvinced.

  The three were sitting in the science lab, waiting for the start of class. Tests on Pumpkinhead 2.0, like his predecessor, had ended in disappointment, despite repeated trials during recess, lunch, and gym.

  “You know what I think the problem is?” said Leo
n. “I think—”

  “Can it,” said Lily-Matisse. “Here comes Sparks.”

  The science teacher strode into class, bright green high-tops slapping against the laboratory linoleum. He planted himself on a stool at the front of the room and, without fireworks or flaming sleeves, posed a two-part question.

  “What is science?” he asked. “And where do we find it?”

  Antoinette Brede raised her hand. “In textbooks?”

  Mr. Sparks made a face. “No, no, nooo,” he replied emphatically. “That’s the last place one finds science. Before we do anything else, I want all of you to take down the following formula.” He faced the blackboard and wrote:

  He turned back to the class and said, “You have a far better chance of finding science in that fish tank over there, on the bottom of my Converse All-Stars, or in the things you do after school.”

  Mr. Sparks abruptly grabbed the inflated plastic python off the chemical cabinet and playfully bonked Antoinette Brede’s desk. “Forget about textbooks and name a passion.”

  “Horseback riding,” Antoinette Brede said at once.

  “Perfect,” said Mr. Sparks. “If you really want to understand horseback riding, Antoinette, you have to know about breeds and bloodlines. In other words, you should study the science of genetics.”

  Mr. Sparks spun around with the python. Bonk! He clunked P.W.’s desk. “Okay, kiddo, out with it—name a passion.”

  “Legos!” P.W. exclaimed.

  “Do you have the medieval castle set?” asked Mr. Sparks.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Educated guess. Would it surprise you to learn that we could spend an entire week on the science of the Lego drawbridge? Force, gravity, counterweight, leverage, pulleys, gears.”

  “Awesome,” said P.W. “Let’s do it!”

  A number of students moaned.

  “Sorry, P.W.,” Mr. Sparks said. “Not everyone seems to share your passion for interlocking building bricks.” Bonk! The python landed on the desk of the new girl. “Name a passion, Florence.”

  “Actually, Mr. Sparks, everybody calls me Flossy.”

  “Okay, Flossy, what do you love doing when you aren’t stuck in school?”

  “I like to watch wrestling,” she replied hesitantly.

  “No kidding?” said Mr. Sparks. “Me, too. Who’s your favorite wrestler?”

  “Sergeant Slaughter, definitely.”

  “What do you think is his best move?”

  “The atomic noogie or the cobra clutch,” said Flossy Parmigiano. “Probably the clutch.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Sparks, “if you want truly to appreciate the beauty of the atomic noogie or the cobra clutch (or the frankensteiner, the elbow smash, the scorpion deathlock, or the hip-hop drop), you’ve got to know about fulcrums and levers, and about controlling the center of gravity. When Sergeant Slaughter performs that thing with his forearm—” Mr. Sparks interrupted himself. “What’s the name of that move?”

  “The flying burrito?”

  “That’s the one. When Sergeant Slaughter does a flying burrito, he’s also giving his audience a lesson in basic mechanics.”

  The fifth graders listened in stunned silence as Mr. Sparks pinned scientific principles to each of their after-school interests. He bonked Lily-Matisse’s desk. “What rocks your boat?”

  “Gymnastics.”

  “What’s your toughest move?”

  “Hmm.” Lily-Matisse gave the question careful consideration. “Probably a no-handed aerial cartwheel,” she eventually said.

  “What exactly is a no-handed aerial cartwheel?” asked Mr. Sparks.

  Without missing a beat, Lily-Matisse stood up, took two steps, and hurtled herself forward, arms over head, and without touching her hands to the ground, kicked her legs (first the back one, then the front) over her body and twisted around, nailing a perfect landing that she rounded off with a short, precise upturn of the head.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Mr. Sparks over the cheers of the class. “That’s the whole package. Torque, trajectory, momentum, inertia, gravity. We could spend a month, maybe more, studying the physics of the no-handed aerial cartwheel!”

  “No way!” P.W. shouted. “Legos!”

  “Gymnastics!” Lily-Matisse shot back.

  “Horseback riding!” Antoinette advocated.

  “Wrestling!” proposed Flossy Parmigiano.

  “Okay, guys, settle down,” said Mr. Sparks.

  Bonk! The python head came down on the desk of the next unsuspecting student.

  “Your turn, kiddo. What are you crazy about?”

  Leon had had plenty of time to think about the question, and he was ready with an answer he felt sure would stump Mr. Sparks.

  “Potato chips,” he said.

  For a moment no one in the class said a word. Then, all at once, the lab was rocked by explosions of laughter and applause even louder than the one triggered by the no-handed aerial cartwheel.

  P.W. started a chant: “Chips! Chips! Chips! Chips!” His classmates soon joined in.

  Mr. Sparks allowed the cheer to run its course. When the room quieted down, he said, “Observational analysis suggests widespread support for thin-sliced, deep-fried tubers. Is that a valid hypothesis?”

  “YES!” the whole class shouted.

  “So no one is anti-potato chip?”

  “NO!”

  Flossy Parmigiano raised her hand. “Mr. Sparks? I love chips and all, but I’m not allowed to eat them at home.”

  “Well, we’re not at home, are we, Flossy?”

  “We sure aren’t,” Flossy Parmigiano said appreciatively.

  For a long moment, Mr. Sparks stood silent, rocking back and forth on the heels of his high-tops. It was obvious to everyone that ideas were pinwheeling inside his head.

  “Suppose,” he said eventually, “we were to do a unit on potato chips?”

  “A whole unit?” Thomas Warchowski blurted out excitedly. “No way!”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Mr. Sparks. “The idea is outrageous. It is absurd to think we could study potato chips for four weeks. Forget I even brought it up.”

  Moans of discontent spread through the lab.

  “Thanks a bunch, Warchowski,” Lumpkin snarled menacingly.

  “There’s no need for disappointment,” said Mr. Sparks. “Perhaps I failed to make myself clear. I only meant that the subject is much too complex. Potato chips deserve—no, I take that back, they demand—an entire year of study.”

  Once more the class started laughing.

  “I am quite serious,” said Mr. Sparks. “How would all of you feel if we spent the next nine months investigating the science of potato chips?”

  “Potato chips and nothing but potato chips?” said P.W.

  “That’s the idea,” said Mr. Sparks.

  “Count me in!” said Leon.

  “Me, too,” said Thomas Warchowski.

  “Me, three,” said Lily-Matisse.

  Very quickly everyone in the class had expressed support for the potato chip proposal.

  “Fine,” said Mr. Sparks. “It’s settled. I want all of you to raise your right hands and repeat after me.”

  “What about lefties?” said Leon.

  “Lefties still raise their right hands,” Mr. Sparks clarified. “Everyone ready to pledge allegiance to the bag?”

  Eighteen right hands went up, palm out.

  “Now repeat after me,” said Mr. Sparks. “I agree …”

  “I agree …”

  “To study chips …”

  “To study chips …”

  “The whole universe of chips …”

  “The whole universe of chips …”

  “And nothing but chips …”

  “And nothing but chips …”

  “For the next nine months.”

  “For the next nine months.”

  “Okay, then,” said Mr. Sparks. “The potato chip pact has been sealed with the pledge. Your first homework assignmen
t is to bring in a favorite bag of research material.”

  And so began the Year of the Chip.

  TWELVE

  The First Assignment

  “Well,” said Mr. Sparks at the start of the next lab. “What are you waiting for? Come up front and hand in your homework.”

  A mountain of potato chip bags quickly formed on the top of his lab bench. Leon eyed the pile like a miner hunting for gold but quickly concluded there was nothing worth prospecting.

  Mr. Sparks picked through the mound. “I see we’ve got some of the usual suspects. Oh, but here’s one I haven’t seen before.” He tapped a bag. “Who brought these Wall Street Blue Chips?”

  “I did,” said Antoinette Brede. “They’re terribly gourmet and the only ones Nanny allows in the house.”

  “And these salt-free low-fat kale chips?” asked Mr. Sparks.

  “Those are mine,” Flossy Parmigiano acknowledged unhappily. “They’re superhigh in calcium and they taste like burnt cardboard. My dad doesn’t allow me to eat normal chips.”

  “Hmm, low-fat?” said Mr. Sparks. “They may not taste that good, Flossy, but they’ll come in handy in a future experiment.” He continued to excavate. “Now here’s an interesting-looking bag. Garden of Eatin’ Chips. Who brought these?”

  Leon raised his hand.

  “Where’d you get them?” Mr. Sparks asked.

  “My friend Maria gave me a membership to the Worldwide Chip of the Month Club. This bag was part of my August shipment. They’re pretty tasty. Kind of a cross between a Wisdom and a Fandango.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Leon is crazy about chips,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “So I gather,” said Mr. Sparks. “Well, it’s always helpful to have an expert on hand.” He dug deeper into the pile. “Whoa! Who brought these?”

  “Guilty,” P.W. said with a smirk. “My aunt sends them to us from Thailand.”

  “Is that all one word?” Mr. Sparks asked, tapping the label.

  “Yup. It’s the old-fashioned Thai word for Bangkok,” P.W. explained. “The Guinness says it’s the longest word in the world,” he added proudly.