Leon and the Spitting Image (5 page)

Once Leon flopped inside the taxi, he gave the driver the address of the Trimore and pulled out his travel book. A Nepal or a Tanzania might make things better, he told himself.

He read the hack license. It said NAPOLEON DE L’ANGE. The first name improved Leon’s mood a little. Maybe Napoleon had a brother and sister named Muffin and Doughnut.

“Excuse me,” he said to the driver, “but could you please tell me where you come from?”

“Haiti,” the driver replied cheerfully.

Leon grimaced. Just great! I’ve already got
five
Haitis.

“You don’t like Haiti?” said the driver, who had caught Leon scowling in the rearview mirror.

Suddenly Leon felt embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s not that. It’s just I was hoping you came from someplace else.”

“Where?” the driver asked pleasantly.

“Well, Suriname would have been nice,” said Leon.

“Oh?” the driver replied, obviously wanting to know more.

So as the taxi snaked through the city traffic, Leon described his collection. “I have all of New England—
including
Rhode Island. And Suriname’s all I need to finish off South America.”

“C’est fantastique!”
Napoleon exclaimed, slapping
his hand delightedly on the steering wheel.

By the fifth traffic light, Leon was comfortable enough to complain about his first day back at school.

“How bad was it, from one to ten, with ten being the best?” the driver asked.

Leon considered the question for quite some time before answering. “I’d give it a two—two and a half, tops.”

“I’ve had days like that,” the driver said sympathetically. “The day I fled Haiti was a two and a half. I lost everything. My house, my car, my job. I had to say good-bye to my family.”

“That sounds a lot worse than a two and a half, Mr. de l’Ange.”

“Perhaps you are right,” the driver said wistfully. “But please call me Napoleon. And your name is …”

“Leon,” said Leon.

“A very grand honor to speak with you, Monsieur Leon.”

The cab pulled up to the Trimore soon after the introductions. Napoleon jumped out to open the passenger door and revealed himself to be an immensely tall fellow wearing a snazzy pinstripe suit.

“Thanks a lot,” Leon said.

“You are most welcome, Monsieur Leon,” said Napoleon, tipping an imaginary hat chauffeur-style. “And do not worry. I am certain that tomorrow you will have a nine-and-three-quarters day!”

He punctuated his prediction by spitting on the sidewalk.

Leon gave him a look.

“Do you not know, Monsieur Leon? Spitting keeps evil far away!”

M
iss Hagmeyer strode into class on the second day of school just as the bell finished ringing. She looked pretty much the same as she had the day before. Black cape, black dress, black lace-up boots, liver-colored panty hose covering her skinny legs.

There was, however, one minor costume change. P.W. was the first to spot it. “Psst! Check out the glass eyes,” he whispered to Leon, who in turn gave Lily-Matisse a nudge. The yellow eyes had been swapped for a snow-white pair that had silver flecks surrounding their slit-shaped pupils.

Miss Hagmeyer called the class to order with a wave of her instructional needle. After everyone was seated, she handed out
Medieval Readers
and said, “Let the apprenticeship begin. Turn to page sixteen and review the section titled Medieval Ethics.”

There was a ruffle of pages and then silence. As the class worked its way through the assigned reading, Miss Hagmeyer unlocked her cabinet and removed a few supplies that she lined up on her desk.

Five minutes later, she said, “Okay, eyes up, readers down. Who can name one of the seven deadly sins
that ruled moral life in the Middle Ages?”

Antoinette promptly raised her hand.

The metal pointer pointed. “Yes, Miss Brede?”

“Envy?”

“That’s one,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “Who can name another?”

“Murder?” Henry Lumpkin shouted.

“Don’t yell, Mr. Lumpkin. And, no, murder is
not
a deadly sin.”

“Greed?” said P.W.

“Yes, greed is good. What about you, Mr. Zeisel?”

Before Leon could respond, Henry Lumpkin caused another ruckus, this time by releasing a bodily noise that caused titters to spread through the room.

“Flatulence is not a deadly sin either,” Miss Hagmeyer scolded. When she realized her word choice had confused some students, she went to the blackboard and wrote:

flatulence = fartyng

“This is the term well-mannered medieval folk would have used when breaking wind. Memorize it. It will be on your next vocabulary test.”

Thomas Warchowski bent over and whispered to Leon, “She’s wrong about farts not being deadly. If she ever ate my mom’s brussels sprouts, she’d know those suckers can kill.”

The radar beacons hidden under Miss Hagmeyer’s possibly fake hair registered the remark. “That’s enough out of you, Mr. Warchowski. Tell your mother to sprinkle some dill on her brussels sprouts if she wishes to reduce their gassy stink. That is what the monks used to do. Now can we get back to business? Mr. Zeisel, you were about to name another deadly sin.”

“Anger?” said Leon.

“Good,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “What sins are left?”

“Gluttony,” said Lily-Matisse.

“Right. Can you name another?”

“Pride?”

“Correct. And what
is
pride?”

“Isn’t it like boasting?”

“Not
like
boasting, Miss Jasprow. It
is
boasting. Who can give me an example of pride?”

Antoinette raised her hand.

“Go ahead, Miss Brede.”

“Last year, for the third-grade Nimble Fingers Craft Fair, I made the
best
pot holders. Nanny bought me this real cashmere and I—”

“That’s fine,” Miss Hagmeyer said tepidly, “though let me assure you, cashmere pot holders will not be made in
my
class.”

What a relief! Leon told himself.

Miss Hagmeyer looked at her watch and said, “Right. We have two remaining sins. Anyone?”

“Lust,” said P.W., giggling.

“Correct. That leaves one more.” Miss Hagmeyer looked around the room. When no one could name the last of the seven deadly sins, she said, “Sloth. The final sin is sloth, also known as laziness. And it is one sin this master will never tolerate.”

Miss Hagmeyer put down her pointer and reached for a piece of cloth. “Now, let’s move on to the seven heavenly virtues.”

“But that’s not in the reader,” whined Antoinette.

“True, which is why I’m passing around this medieval sampler.”

Leon’s calm disappeared the instant the cloth arrived at his desk. It looked like this:

Heavenly Stitches of Virtue

Ambushed!
What kind of teacher thinks of sewing as
heavenly?
Leon wondered. He felt the deadly sin of anger surge through him as the implications of the sampler sank in.

“Can anyone tell me what a stitch is?” Miss Hagmeyer asked the class.

Thomas, still feeling bold, whispered to Leon, “A sharp pain in the—”

“Mr. Warchowski! This is your
second
warning. One more and you’ll find yourself sitting in Principal Birdwhistle’s office.”

Thomas bowed his head. A trip to the Birdcage was not to be taken lightly.

Miss Hagmeyer scanned the desks for further signs of rebellion. Finding none, she answered her own question. “A stitch is a bond. A connection. An action that unites. In the Middle Ages, there were many kinds of stitches, but the seven listed on the sampler are the ones that you must learn.”

She picked up a giant wooden spool she had retrieved from the cabinet. “For demonstration purposes I will be using my instructional needle, this yarn, and a specialized pair of yarn snips. All of you, of course, will be given regular needles and thread.”

Leon stared at the spool. It was wrapped with thick orange yarn the color of Henry Lumpkin’s hair.

“Now, please pay attention,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “We will begin with the basics. Step one. Measure an
arm’s length of thread. Step two. Cut thread. Please take note of the verb
—cut
. I don’t want to see any thread biting, which is a disgusting habit and entirely unacceptable.”

So far, so good, Leon said to himself. He felt confident he could measure and cut.

“Step three,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “With a firm, decisive poke, guide the thread through the eye of the needle.”

That’s when Leon started to get antsy.

“Notice how I pull
down
on my yarn once it is threaded. Doing so avoids slipping. Step four. Knot longer end of thread. For those of you who are a little clum—”

Miss Hagmeyer stopped midsentence.

“For those of you whose fine motor skills need some work, tie the two ends of the thread together.”

Leon seethed. He knew what she had almost said. Why didn’t she just stick a big fat KLUTZO sticker on his forehead?

With the threading portion of the exercise complete, Miss Hagmeyer called her students to the front of the room (individually, by last name). She presented each with a standard sewing needle, a spool of thread, and a handout that reproduced the stitches on her sampler. She also had everyone choose a piece of cloth from a colorful pile of scraps.

By the time she said “Zeisel” only one scrap
remained, and it was …
pink!

For the rest of the period, the class threaded and stitched, consulting the sampler while Miss Hagmeyer moved between the desks like the shuttle of a loom. “Tighten up that backstitch, Miss Brede…. Mr. Lumpkin. Remove that needle from your thumb this instant! … Mr. Warchowski, watch the way you pull on the thread. You’re making the cloth pucker.”

Leon kept his head down, hoping to avoid notice.

“Mr. Zeisel. Haven’t you threaded your needle
yet?”

What do
you
think? Leon snarled back, if only in his thoughts. He gave a helpless shrug.

“Look around,” Miss Hagmeyer said. “Most of the class has finished practicing their stitches. You have not started.”

Leon surveyed the room. Lily-Matisse rolled her eyes. P.W. made a face suggesting their teacher was demented.

“What do you propose to do, Mr. Zeisel?”

“I don’t know,” Leon mumbled.

“Perhaps you might develop your skills by completing the assignment at home.”

Leon nodded, only too happy to give needlework a rest.

Miss Hagmeyer walked over to the supply cabinet. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” she said as she opened doors. After hooking the padlock onto one of the door handles, she returned the
wooden spool and yarn snips, swiftly shutting the cabinet before Leon could get a peek inside.

But as she was walking back to her desk, the weight of the lock on the handle caused one of the doors to swing open, providing Leon a view of the cabinet’s interior.

And what a view it was!

The top part of the cabinet was fitted with a piece of pegboard, from which hung dozens and dozens of tools, each labeled and outlined in black marker. Leon spotted the yarn snips Miss Hagmeyer had just used, along with twine nips, snappers, snapplers, zigzaggers, scallopers, pincers, pinking shears, and slishers. (And those were just the cutting tools!)

Directly below the pegboard there were racks of thread displaying a rainbow of colors. But it was the
drawers dominating the lowest portion of the cabinet that attracted Leon most. One said CLAWS, another said FINGERS, a third said FLIPPERS AND FINS. There was a drawer marked ELEPHANT EARS—INDIAN and another (which was slightly larger) marked ELEPHANT EARS—AFRICAN.

Noses of various kinds (beaks, bills, trunks, snouts) filled one row of drawers. Eyeballs filled another two. There were drawers for smiles, grimaces, and smirks. Drawers for teeth and tongues, freckles and fangs. A section devoted to the body parts of mythical creatures included a compartment reserved for unicorn horns.

All the drawers were marked—with one exception. An especially large compartment lacked a masking-tape label.