“Okay,” said Leon. “Here goes.” He began flexing Fathead’s beefy arms.
Lily-Matisse and P.W. watched the target closely.
“Did he just twitch?” asked Lily-Matisse.
“Yeeesss!” PW shouted. “That definitely was a twitch.”
“Sorry to break it to you guys,” said Leon, “but that was just Lumpkin being Lumpkin.”
“Are you sure?” said P.W.
“Positive,” said Leon. “Fathead isn’t doing anything. I’d feel it if he were.”
“Try a few more moves,” said P.W.
“All right, but I’m telling you, I’m not feeling it.” Leon continued to work the limbs like joysticks. After five minutes P.W. was forced to admit that the Small Head Hypothesis, and the surgery it prompted, had failed to fix the faults that had hobbled all previous Pumpkinheads.
“We have to face facts,” said Lily-Matisse soberly. “Fathead lacks energy.”
“He’s not the only one,” Leon said, glumly re-pouching his powerless puppet.
“I’ll tell you one thing that doesn’t lack energy,” said P.W. indignantly. He pointed at the top of the monkey bars.
“Lumpkin is king of the jungle gym!” the bully was shouting as he pounded his chest Tarzan style. “Lumpkin is king of the jungle!”
SIXTEEN
The Potato Clock
Mr. Sparks glanced toward the broken wall clock at the start of the next lab.
“Potato chip time!” he declared.
The emphasis on the word “time,” plus the glance, caught Leon’s attention. He could smell lame jokes a mile off. “This has something to do with that clock, doesn’t it, Mr. Sparks?”
“It does indeed, Leon. We can’t have a science lab without proper timekeepers.” Mr. Sparks turned to the blackboard. “Here’s what we’ll do to remedy the problem.” He wrote:
Antoinette Brede’s hand shot up faster than a bottle rocket. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Sparks?”
“What would that be, Antoinette?”
“The batteries, of course. How can we run a battery-operated clock without batteries?”
“Do you remember what I said about using ‘of course’?” said Mr. Sparks.
“That it’s not scientific?” said Antoinette.
“Correct,” said Mr. Sparks. “I did not forget about the batteries. In fact, I listed them first.”
All eyes turned to the blackboard. “Potatoes?” everyone shouted.
“Potatoes,” Mr. Sparks confirmed before passing out a handout:
How to Make a Potato Clock
Cut two one-inch rings off a potato chip can.
Cut a potato in half.
Sit potato halves on the two rings.
Jab a penny halfway into each potato half.
Jab a galvanized nail into each potato half, making sure to pick a spot far away from the penny.
Clamp one end of the first alligator-clip wire to the penny and the other end to one of the battery terminals on the digital clock.
Attach one end of the second alligator-clip wire to the galvanized nail and the other end to the other battery terminal of the clock.
Take the last alligator-clip wire and attach one end to the nail of one potato and the other end to the penny of the other potato.
Set the time!
“Potatoes are going to make the clocks tick?” said Flossy Parmigiano skeptically.
“You got it,” said Mr. Sparks. “Spuds are jam-packed with electrolytes, which means they’re an excellent energy source.”
“Kind of like potato chip fat?” said Thomas Warchowski.
“Actually, Thomas, spud clocks function differently. But let’s talk about that after our timekeepers are up and running. Now break into groups, grab your goggles, and get started. First one with a fully functional potato clock can activate the Franklin Sparks pinwheel of honor.”
That was all the incentive the class needed to split up and dash off to the table where Mr. Sparks had set out supplies.
But initial enthusiasm soon subsided.
“Hey, this isn’t working,” Lumpkin complained. “My potato must be busted.”
“Not likely,” said Mr. Sparks. “I checked before class. All potatoes are in perfect working order. Fiddle with the wires. Spuds are just like regular batteries. If you don’t use the right positive and negative electrodes, the juice won’t flow.”
“Ours got going for a second or two,” Thomas Warchowski called out, “but then it stopped.”
“Keep trying,” Mr. Sparks said. “Remember what Einstein said about mistakes.”
The class continued to tinker with the potatoes and pennies, the nails and clips. Here and there students got their clocks going, but only for a short while.
“Eureka!”
Everyone turned toward P.W., who was smiling from ear to ear.
Mr. Sparks walked over his bench. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said. After a brief inspection, Mr. Sparks said, “Nice job,” and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a remote and handed it to P.W. “Go ahead. Give it a whirl.”
P.W. aimed the clicker and squeezed. Suddenly the pinwheel at the front of the room began to spin and shed sparks.
Once the fireworks had died down, Mr. Sparks reclaimed the remote and asked P.W. to explain how he started his potato clock.
“I did the same thing I do whenever my Game Boy won’t work,” said P.W. “I licked the ends of the batteries.”
Sparks nodded approvingly. “I never cease to marvel at the virtues of human saliva. It is, without a doubt, the most versatile non-Newtonian semisolid known to man—except, possibly, for ketchup.”
“Really?” P.W. said excitedly.
“Really,” said Mr. Sparks. “You can see for yourselves how well spit conducts energy. Remove the clips from your digital clocks and very gently touch them to your tongues. Do not squeeze open the alligator clip.”
Flossy Parmigiano was the first to register a reaction. “I feel a tingle!” she called out.
“Me, too!” cried Thomas Warchowski.
“Yup!” said Leon. “I feel it. Kind of a zappy sensation?”
“Well, that zappy sensation,” said Mr. Sparks, “is the movement of electrons. It’s the same thing that lights up a football stadium, that sends astronauts to the moon, and that keeps potato chips rolling off an assembly line.”
Leon raised his hand. “Are you telling us human spit powers the potato clock?”
“Not exactly,” said Mr. Sparks. “Spit helps the process, but it’s the potato, acting as a battery, that keeps the spud ticking. The potato is key to changing chemical energy into the electrical energy.”
“OOOOWWWWWW!”
An ear-piercing scream interrupted the lesson.
Everyone turned toward Lumpkin, who was suddenly running around the lab with a potato dangling from his tongue like a Christmas tree ornament.
Leon shouldn’t have snickered—but he did. And what’s worse, Lumpkin saw him.
“No, Henry!” cried Mr. Sparks. “You weren’t supposed to clamp the clip to your tongue—just gently touch it.” He caught up with Lumpkin near the fish tank and administered first aid before sending him off to the nurse.
“So,” said Mr. Sparks after things settled down. “Did all of you feel a tingle?”
“Yes!” the fifth graders shouted, with three in particular shouting louder than the rest.
SEVENTEEN
Thnickering and Thuffering
Immediately following the potato clock lab, P.W. and Lily-Matisse rushed over to Leon.
“Did you hear what Sparks said about spit?” P.W. exclaimed. “How it’s an incredible energy source?”
“Hold it,” said Lily-Matisse. “That’s not what he said. All he said was spit helps the process along. It’s those electrolyte thingies in the potatoes that power the clock.”
“I think Lily-Matisse is right,” said Leon.
“Still,” said P.W. “Without the right spit, F
athead will never become operational.”
“Hello! Earth to P.W.,” said Lily-Matisse. “Weren’t you listening? We’re still missing the ‘battery’ that’ll make the doll work.”
“Action figure,” P.W. corrected irritably.
The three argued about spit and spuds all the way through pickup.
“Spit’s the key,” said P.W.
“No, the potato is,” countered Lily-Matisse.
“Spit!”
“Potato!”
“THEITHEL!”
Out of nowhere Lumpkin appeared. “I heard you thnickering,” he said, clamping down on Leon’s wrist.
“I didn’t snicker,” said Leon.
Lumpkin ignored the denial and tightened his grip.
“Hey, knock it off,” said Lily-Matisse. “It’s not his fault you clipped a potato to your tongue.”
“If Lumpkin thuffers, Theithel thuffers,” Lumpkin said. He eyed a nearby brick wall.
P.W. put two and two together. “Not the Howlitzer!” he cried.
Lumpkin’s mouth stretched into a nasty grin, made all the more hideous by the flecks of caked blood. With his free hand, he grabbed Leon by the waist and prepared to hurl him against the side of the school.
Leon braced himself. But moments before he was to be turned into a human crash-test dummy, Mr. Groot, the shop teacher, emerged from the school.
Lumpkin had no choice but to suspend the maneuver. Leon tried to wiggle free, only to discover that he was still being held. By his underpants. He tried to protest, but protest was impossible. He tried to resist, but resistance was futile.
“One … two … FWEE!”
Leon felt a quick, sharp, squeezing sensation as Lumpkin yanked upward on the waistband. Had it not been for the honk of a taxi horn, the attack might have continued.
“Tell anyone, Theithel—anyone at all—and I’ll really knock the thtuffing out of you!” Lumpkin threatened before he let go.
“So,” said Napoleon, “how is the mood of Monsieur Leon on this fine afternoon?”
Leon refused to answer. He fiddled with his underwear and hugged his backpack like a shield. No number on the moodometer was low enough to measure post-wedgie gloom.
Halfway to the hotel, Leon unzipped his pack and reached inside. He loosened the drawstring of the purple pouch and spent the remainder of the ride doing to Fathead what Lumpkin had done to him. Retaliation, however, failed to make him feel any better. He was still in a funk when the taxi reached the hotel. In fact, he barely grunted good-bye to Napoleon before dragging himself into the lobby. He trudged over to the reception desk, where his mom was busy taping up a sign that said ALL SHEEP MUST WEAR DIAPERS!
Normally a posting of that kind would have intrigued Leon. Not today.
“You’re looking as crummy as a bag of crushed potato chips,” said Emma Zeisel.
“Ha-ha!” Leon responded peevishly.
Emma Zeisel ignored her son’s mood. “Chore time, sweetie. Here’s the new VIP list. After you’ve updated the signboard, there’s a guest in five-oh-four who needs to be walked. Once that’s done, go find Maria.”
“Why?” Leon demanded testily.
“Because, sourpuss, she’s got something that’ll cheer you up.”
Leon carried the wooden letter box and VIP list into the lobby and rearranged the signboard to say:
He lined up the letters unenthusiastically before returning to the reception desk. He grabbed a thin, retractable leash off a hook near the key rack.
“I’d go with something sturdier,” Emma Zeisel advised. “That guest in five-oh-four is awfully rambunctious.”
“Geez,” Leon snapped. “Can’t I choose my own darn leash!”
“Fine, be my guest!” said Emma Zeisel. “After all, everyone else here is.”
Leon rang the door chime of Room 504.
“Hold on,” a man called out over the sound of bleating. The door opened. “You the fella who’ll be walking Rambo?” asked the guest.
“Yup,” said Leon.
“Well, howdy. Name’s Roy. Rambo will surely be happy to see you! How are you around animals?”
“Pretty good,” said Leon. He figured Rambo couldn’t be any tougher to handle than a spoiled toy poodle or a chimp in need of a diaper change.
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” said Roy.
Leon noticed bits of plastic sprinkled over the carpeting. “Sorry about the shower curtain,” said Roy as he turned to unlock the bathroom. “Rambo got a—”
“Wow!” Leon exclaimed the moment his charge charged into the room. “That’s one big sheep.”
“Rambo ain’t no sheep,” said Roy. “He’s a pure-blood prizewinning pedigreed Welsh mountain ram.”
Rambo banged his pedigreed horns against the door. “And as you can see, he’s hankering to stretch his legs.”
“I’ll take him out straightaway,” said Leon. As he was clipping on the leash, he noticed Rambo wasn’t wearing a diaper. Rule or no rule, he said to himself, there’s no way I’m going anywhere near either end of this guest!
Out in front of the hotel, Leon tried to convince Rambo to answer the call of nature as quickly as possible. Unfortunately for Leon, Rambo had other plans. The beast dragged him down the block and across the street to a tempting patch of weeds poking through some cement in front of the convention center.
While Rambo snacked on sidewalk sprouts, Leon passed the time reading the convention center calendar. There was a sock congress coming up. Followed by a daylong seminar on floor waxes. Followed by the mid-Atlantic mattress maker meeting, followed by—
A poster caught his attention.
Leon couldn’t believe his eyes. A snack food extravaganza was coming to town!
He smiled at the thought of all those potato chip professionals filling the convention center. It was a safe bet a bunch of them would be staying at Trimore Towers. That meant his chip collection was sure to grow!
Leon turned to a more pressing matter—getting Rambo to pee. He decided to try something Maria had told him worked wonders. He inched toward the front of the ram and covered its nostrils, keeping as far away from the horns as possible.
Less than a minute later, the task complete, Leon began the tug-of-war back to the hotel. Each time he pulled one way, Rambo pulled the other. By the time the leash was back on the hook near the key rack, Leon had blisters on every finger of his left hand. He headed down to Housekeeping.
“Hey, Maria, the nose trick is great.”
“We do that with llamas all the time, Leonito.”
“Mom said you’ve got something for me. Did a guest leave behind a bag of Rhode Island chips?”
Maria shook her head. “But maybe I have something for you just as good.” She pulled a box from the broom closet. The words “FRAGILE!” and “BREAKABLE!” were stenciled on the sides in big block letters.
“The new shipment from the Chip of the Month Club!” Leon exclaimed.
“Sí. It just arrived this morning.”
Leon tore open the package.
“So, Leonito? Any cheeps from the Rhode Islands?”
“Nah. But there’s a real nifty Wyoming I’ve been wanting.”
Leon took the chips to his room and spent the evening munching and cataloging—adding the names of new specimens to his checklist, slipping the emptied bags into protective sleeves, pinning flags into his map of the world.
Not bad, Leon said to himself, surveying the markers. He decided, in the interest of science, to donate two unopened duplicates to Mr. Sparks.
Preparing for bed, he was feeling pretty cheery. The mood didn’t last. While changing into his pajamas Leon discovered that the after-school wedgie had turned his shorts into longs. Worse still, the yanking motion had left a permanent mark that no quantity of Poop-B-Gone could remove.
Leon decided to destroy the incriminating evidence. As soon as he was in his PJs, he crumpled the soiled underpants into a ball and tossed them down the hallway garbage chute.
&
nbsp; Back in bed, Leon tried to push Lumpkin from his thoughts. He couldn’t. The curbside wedgie kept looping through his brain. It was as if every time he tried to hit the Erase button, he accidentally hit Replay instead. He worried that memories of the wedgie would be wedged in his head forever.
Too bad they don’t make something called Thoughts-B-Gone! he told himself. Or better still—Bully-B-Gone! Now there’s a product worth inventing!
Be-e-e-eh! Be-e-e-eh! Pon! Pon!
Leon jumped out of bed to see what was up and, moments later, was on the phone to the reception desk.
“Mom? Rambo got loose, and he’s grazing on the carpet across from our door.”
“Thanks, sweetie, I’ll handle it.”
Emma Zeisel soon arrived with Roy. “Counting sheep is supposed to help folks fall asleep, not keep them awake,” she scolded the guest.
“Rambo’s not a sheep, Mom. He’s a pure-blood pedigreed Welsh mountain ram.”
“And prize-winning,” Roy noted.
“It doesn’t matter what Rambo is,” said Emma Zeisel sternly. “My point is the same.”
“I sure am sorry, ma’am,” Roy said earnestly.
The apology softened Emma Zeisel. “No need to feel sheepish,” she said. “But we will have to bill you for the cost of this rampage.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, ma’am,” said Roy.
“And please,” Emma Zeisel added, “keep Rambo properly diapered.”
“Oh, I sure will,” Roy promised.
Emma Zeisel took a break from the desk and tucked her son into bed. She flicked off his lamp and gave him a hug, which she noted was returned more forcefully than usual.
Leon felt okay as long as his mom was in the room, but once she left, his brain hit the Replay button. Lumpkin’s parting threat circled through his thoughts: “Tell anyone, Theithel—anyone at all!—and I’ll really knock the thtuffing out of you.”
Leon and the Champion Chip Page 8