Leon and the Spitting Image

by Allen Kurzweil

  For a couple of months, when Leon was in second grade, the coach had tried gnawing on sunflower seeds instead of chomping on “chaw.” But that didn’t last. The wholesome substitute gave him headaches and drove the school janitor, Mr. Hankey, crazy.

  “Hey, Skip!” Mr. Hankey complained. “It ain’t no picnic sweeping up sunflower husks. My gym’s seedy enough as it is, thank you very much!”

  When Leon was in third grade, Coach Kasperitis had tried to break his habit by sticking tiny amounts of tobacco inside giant wads of bubble gum, a combination made famous by a legendary major league ballplayer named Rod Carew. That experiment also caused problems.

  The janitor again blew a gasket. “Hey, Skip, this ain’t called a gumnasium! Don’t count on me scraping Bazooka off the bleachers, you got that?”

  Mr. Hankey didn’t have to worry. A couple of weeks into the gum-and-tobacco combo, the coach learned that the aforementioned legendary Rod Carew had spent a whopping $100,000 on dental work because of damage caused by the disgusting mix. So that was the end of that.

  The coach eventually decided to chew his tobacco straight, in smaller and smaller amounts, less and less often. Still, no matter how much he cut down, his habit attracted attention. The reason, in a word, was saliva.

  If you chew tobacco, you have to spit. There’s no getting around it. And given how Mr. Hankey had complained about the sunflower seeds and the bubble gum, Coach Kasperitis knew he had to come up with a surefire method for spit disposal.

  Spittoons, those little brass spit pots often seen in cowboy movies, were out of the question. With kids and balls flying around the gym, an open container of teacher’s spit was an invitation to disaster. Nor could the coach expel his chaw into the gym’s water fountain. The mesh on the drain was too fine.

  After a bit of testing, however, he worked out a simple method of waste management. He turned an old pickle jar into a gob collector. Whenever the need arose, the coach would unscrew the jar and—pffut!—spit. This did wonders to get the students’ attention.

  Pffut! “Welcome back, guys!” Coach Kasperitis shouted as he resealed his pickle jar. “I hope all of you had championship summers! Guess how we’re going to start off the year?”

  “Dodgeball!” the whole class yelled.

  “You guys are sharp!” said the coach. “That’s absolutely right. Like I tell you every year, dodgeball teaches us an important life lesson. It teaches us that passion and practice are the secret to making magic.”

  The coach placed his jar on the gym floor and reached into a canvas sack. “Now that you’ve entered the big leagues, you’re ready to handle this.” He extracted a blue ball.

  “The Rhino,” he said. “A regulation-sized dodgeball just like the pros use. And in case you’re wondering where the ball gets its name, I will tell you what you’ll discover soon enough. Its skin is every bit as rough and tough as the skin on the genuine rhinos that stampede across Africa.”

  Coach Kasperitis bounced the Rhino on the floor a few times. “Okay, everybody. Pay attention. We’re going to ease back into things with a quick round of Team Multiple.”

  The fourth graders all hollered happily, Leon louder than most.

  “It’s your first day so I don’t want anyone overdoing it. You got that?”

  The tepid response of the class convinced the coach that he needed to reinforce the point. “Just in case you don’t understand, I’m going to repeat the Kasperitis Code of Conduct. When you line up to choose sides there will be no backsies and no frontsies. Once play begins there will be no re-calls, no re-recalls, no replays, no redos, no puppy guarding, and no time-outs—unless authorized by me. Another thing—absolutely no headsies. I don’t want any bloody noses. They’re a mess to clean up and Mr. Hankey rides me plenty hard as it is.”

  The coach bounced the Rhino. “Line balls are out,” he continued. “Automatic sudden death after ten minutes of play. And the most important rule … anyone remember?”

  “No trash-talking,” said Antoinette primly.

  “That’s exactly right,” the coach confirmed. “And no trash-talking means no teasing, no taunting, no insults of any kind. Right then. Let’s get started.”

  He looked around the gym. “Jasprow. Lumpkin. Choose sides!”

  Lily-Matisse put together her team based on friendship, which meant Leon and P.W. were her first-and second-round draft picks. Lumpkin took a different approach, giving preference to brute strength when assembling his squad.

  Once the teams had lined up at opposite ends of the gym, the coach removed two more spanking new Rhinos from the sack and placed the three balls along the centerline. He then retreated with his pickle jar to the top row of the bleachers. With a short blast of his whistle, he started the first dodgeball game of the year.

  It wasn’t one for the record books. Play proved unusually sloppy. Almost everyone dropped easy throws, missed simple outs, aimed terribly, failed to cover teammates.

  Seven minutes into the game, only two players remained alive—Leon, who controlled two Rhinos, and Lumpkin, who controlled just one.

  Take it slow, Leon said to himself as he maneuvered around the court. He faked a few times, advanced to the centerline, and threw one of his two balls.

  Lumpkin dodged it.

  Leon beat a quick retreat. But while dashing to safety, he tripped over a sneaker lace and accidentally kicked his backup Rhino across the centerline.

  “Hey, klutzo!” Lumpkin shouted as soon as he saw that Leon was vulnerable. “Ready for complete and total annihilation?” (Lumpkin had a limited vocabulary, except when it came to blood sports.)

  The coach blew his whistle. “Lumpkin! What’d I say about trash-talk?”

  “Sorry, Coach,” he said unconvincingly before returning his attention to Leon. Lumpkin plotted his attack slowly and methodically, clearly relishing the promise of public humiliation.

  “Watch for his sidewinder!” P.W. warned from the bleachers.

  Leon gave a nervous nod as he dodged about.

  Lumpkin had a number of throws, but the most deadly in his arsenal was, without doubt, the low-flying waist-high toss called the sidewinder. When successfully launched, a sidewinder sent its victim straight to the school nurse. With the introduction of the Rhino, Leon speculated that it was probably safer to be charged by a real African rhino than to get in the way of one hurled by Henry Lumpkin.

  For a few minutes Lumpkin forced Leon to jump and duck and twist by faking tosses this way and that. Then he stopped pretending and actually released one of the Rhinos.

  I can catch this, Leon told himself as he tracked the surprisingly slow-moving ball.

  He bent his knees and rounded his outstretched arms into a basket.

  Bamm!

  The incoming missile hit Leon’s chest and ricocheted toward the sidelines in a soft, gentle arc.

  To win the game, all Leon had to do was catch the Rhino before it touched the ground. He took a few quick steps and cradled his arms.

  WHAMM!!!

  Out of nowhere, a second ball pegged Leon in the back.

  Lumpkin’s strategy suddenly announced itself. The first, slow-moving toss had been nothing more than a decoy, used to distract Leon from the patented, highvelocity sidewinder.

  The trap worked perfectly. The follow-up ball slammed Leon to the floor. And that meant, of course, he was out.

  Leon felt like a total doofus as he stumbled off the court. That feeling stayed with him for the rest of the day, and it was still with him after dismissal.

  Out on the front steps, Leon’s thoughts only darkened. Lumpkin and the Hag. Nine whole months of sewing and sidewinders! An entire school year of needles and noogies!

  Leon felt so cruddy he didn’t even want to catch up with P.W. and Lily-Matisse. He waved good-bye to his friends and dashed straight to the curb, where he hailed a cab.

  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 Tanza
nia 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!”

  FIVE

  The Stitches of Virtue

  Miss 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 L
umpkin’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.”