She pulled the unicorn from her satchel, gingerly exposing its underside. “Your son is responsible for this—this—”
Emma Zeisel burst out laughing before Miss Hagmeyer could finish her sentence. “Excuse me,” she said after regaining her composure.
“I want to be clear about this, Ms. Zeisel,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “Animile vandalism is not to be taken lightly.”
“If Leon did this, I’m sure he had a reason. Whose animal is it?”
“Animile,” corrected Miss Hagmeyer. “It is Henry Lumpkin’s unicorn that your son mutilated.”
Leon’s mother rolled her eyes. “I know all about Henry Lumpkin. The kids call him Hank the Tank. Maybe you should worry more about how he mutilates his classmates.”
“We’re not here to discuss Mr. Lumpkin. We’re here about your son. The amputated unicorn is only a symptom of a larger matter.”
Emma Zeisel sighed. “I’m all ears.”
So is Miss Hagmeyer, Leon wanted to say.
“The Classical School,” Miss Hagmeyer said, “places great importance on fine motor skills. And as you know, your son’s capacities in that domain are seriously delayed. Here, take a look for yourself.”
She reached forward and handed Emma Zeisel the unicorn, along with a tape measure that she pulled off her neck. “If you check the basting stitch at the base of the horn you will see that your son’s handiwork barely averages two stitches per inch. At the risk of stating the obvious, two s.p.i. is entirely unacceptable.”
“How do you know Leon did that stitching?” Emma Zeisel asked.
“I can spot your son’s limitations a mile off. And besides, he doesn’t deny it, do you, Leon?”
Leon shook his head.
“Let me get this straight,” said Emma Zeisel, her outrage mounting. “I’m here because of my son’s—what did you call it?—stitch count?”
“Correct.”
Emma Zeisel again rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry if I don’t put a whole bunch of importance on my son learning to sew stuffed animals.”
Miss Hagmeyer bristled. “As I have already mentioned, here and at Parents’ Night, the word is pronounced animiles.”
“I’m not one of your students,” said Emma Zeisel.
“More’s the pity,” Miss Hagmeyer muttered under her breath.
“Ladies, please,” Principal Birdwhistle implored.
Miss Hagmeyer said, “I should also like to correct another misunderstanding you seem to have, Ms. Zeisel. Sewing is why you send your son to Classical. Whether you are aware of it or not, spool work is schoolwork. And from the very start of the year, Leon has not pushed himself.”
“Seems to me he’s been getting plenty of pushing from others,” said Emma Zeisel.
Principal Birdwhistle again cut in. “Ladies, I beg you. We’re not here to argue. We’re here to see what can be done to keep Leon engaged in the business of learning.”
“Well, I can suggest one thing,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “He should get more sleep. Look at him. All raccoon-eyed and jittery.”
“Maybe he’s just bored,” said Emma Zeisel defensively.
Miss Hagmeyer grimaced. “I’ve been called a great many things, but never boring. And it’s not my teaching methods that are under review. It’s the quality of your son’s work.”
Principal Birdwhistle said, “I don’t mean to interfere, Ms. Zeisel, but your son does look a little tired.”
Emma Zeisel tensed. Suddenly she felt attacked from two sides. “Look, I work afternoons and nights to keep us going. That means I can’t sing my son lullabies, and I can’t have cupcakes baking in the oven when he returns home from school. Heck, I don’t even have an oven—just a hot plate we barely use.” She looked at her watch. “Case in point. I’m expected at the reception desk in twenty minutes.”
Miss Hagmeyer said, “However sympathetic I might be to your circumstances, Ms. Zeisel, the fact remains—your son is lagging behind. His reports and my stitch counts make that only too clear.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Miss Hagmeyer, it’s the teachers who should be getting the reports, not my son.”
Now there’s an idea, Leon thought. While the three women argued, he distracted himself by composing report cards in his head.
Naturally, Leon lavished most of his mental energy on …
“Ladies, please!” pleaded Principal Birdwhistle. “Let’s try to end this meeting on a positive note.”
“I wish that were possible,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “But even putting aside the unicorn incident, consider this. If Leon has had so much trouble with animiles one and two, how will he finish number three—the unicorn—before the upcoming field trip to the Cloisters?”
“Is that necessary?” Emma Zeisel asked.
“It is,” Miss Hagmeyer said adamantly. “And taking the longer view, how will Leon handle the final project of the year—the master piece? How, in short, will he acquire the skills needed to enter fifth grade?”
Leon’s cheeks started to burn. Where was this going?
“What are you saying, Miss Hagmeyer?” Emma Zeisel asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m saying there’s a chance Leon and I may be reunited next year. Isn’t that right, Principal Birdwhistle?”
The proposition seemed to catch the head of the school by surprise. “Yes, well, that could be beneficial, I suppose. It often proves helpful for the struggling student to repeat a year.”
Leon broke his self-imposed silence. “No way!” he shouted angrily. “I’m not getting flunked! Forget it!”
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” said Emma Zeisel. “They’re only saying it’s a possibility.”
“A very distinct possibility,” Miss Hagmeyer muttered.
Principal Birdwhistle smiled at Leon and his mother. Neither of them smiled back.
“We’ve got to go,” said Emma Zeisel, frowning at her watch.
“Okay, then,” said Principal Birdwhistle, visibly relieved to put the meeting behind her. “I’ve made a note to myself to send you an update on Leon’s progress.”
As mother and son were leaving, Miss Hagmeyer said, “So long, Ms. Zeisel. So long, Leon.” Her words would have seemed harmless enough if she hadn’t ended the good-bye with a stitching motion, to clarify that what she really meant was “S-E-W long.”
ELEVEN
The Ice Queen
Napoleon hadn’t expected to see two Zeisels exiting the school. He broke into a broad grin the moment he noted the family resemblance. “Is this your mother, Monsieur Leon? Bonjour, Madame!”
Emma Zeisel forced herself to smile, but Napoleon was sharp enough to sense she was in no mood to chat. He returned his attentions to Leon. “So, my friend, did you have a nine-and-three-quarters day?”
Leon jabbed his thumb downward.
“Seven?” Napoleon said optimistically.
Leon repeated the gesture.
“Five?”
“Lower,” Leon said bitterly.
Napoleon shook his head. “No, we had better stop there.”
During the drive to the Trimore, Napoleon resisted the impulse to talk. And when he pulled up to the hotel, he skipped his usual door-opening theatrics. He ended the ride with a simple, heartfelt good-bye.
“Au revoir, Monsieur Leon. Au revoir, Madame. Bon courage!”
But after the day he had had at school, the last thing Leon felt was courage.
Back at the reception desk, Emma Zeisel handed her son an updated list of VIPs. “Here you go, sweetie,” she said. “The signboard awaits.”
Leon looked at the sheet of names. “Who cares about some dumb plumbers?”
“I know your teacher is tough,” his mother said consolingly as she pushed the wooden letter box across the counter. “But remember our motto.” She tapped the words that ran along the bottom of her hotel badge. “We try more at the Trimore.”
“Try, try, try,” said Leon. “I’m sick of mottoes, and I’m sick of trying! What’s the darn point? I’ll just be trying
to do next year what I’m already trying to do this year!”
“That’s not definite. Miss Hagmeyer only said that repeating the year was a possibility.”
“Yeah, right,” said Leon. “A distinct possibility.”
“Sweetie—”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore!” Leon grabbed the letter box and stormed off to the signboard. He stabbed two Vs into the black felt. They went in all crooked, but he couldn’t be bothered to line them up right. His spelling was similarly sloppy. And as for his cherished exclamation marks—he skipped those altogether.
The signboard ended up looking like this:
Later that night, after a coffee-shop sandwich that failed to make the grade (Frau Haffenreffer had forgotten the extra J on his PB&J), Leon let himself into his apartment and plodded into the bedroom. Without bothering to flick the light switch—he didn’t have to; the neon glow from the convention-center sign lit up his small room—he flopped on the bed.
He felt as if he had weights tied to his arms and legs. It was a struggle just changing into pajamas. As he got under the covers, an annoying phrase started looping through his head: Try more, try more, try more…
Then another phrase, this one even more annoying, took its place: Repeat the year, repeat the year, repeat the year …
Soon the two phrases tangled together like twisted strands of thread: Try, repeat, try, repeat, try, repeat …
Leon sat up in bed and studied the map of the world. He hoped the pins marking his past achievements would temper his crummy mood. But they only made things worse. He hadn’t added a new country in weeks and weeks. At this rate he would never nab Suriname.
He reached under his bed for the bag of Zapp’s Kettle-Cooked Mesquite Bar-B-Que Potato Chips he kept on hand for emergency situations. But even potato chips failed to lift his spirits.
Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, the map pins began to vibrate.
Click-click-click-buzzzz… … … … … … … … Grind-groan-rumble-CRASH!
The Ice Queen was at it again, casting her odious spell.
Leon dropped the chip bag on the floor and shoved his head under the covers. He knew that the queen would repeat her hex.
And sure enough, she did. Only instead of the predictable clicks and buzzes, she now emitted an entirely new set of sounds.
Leon listened intently. An odd assortment of bangs, scrapes, and thumps replaced the usual three-click overture.
What is going on? he wondered.
Leon jumped out of bed and tiptoed into the hall. When he reached the alcove that abutted his bedroom wall, he discovered that the Ice Queen had company.
Two burly hotel guests had their shoulders pressed against the side of the ice maker.
“A little to the right, Sauly,” one of the men said between gasps.
The man he’d addressed—Sauly—responded by rocking the massive machine. “How’s that, Pauly?”
“Over more to the left.”
The two men, Pauly and Sauly, were so focused on moving the machine they didn’t notice Leon.
“What are you guys doing?” he demanded.
The men eased the ice maker back onto the carpeting and straightened up.
“What are you doing, kid?” said the man named Pauly. “Shouldn’t you be home sleeping?”
“I can’t sleep. And for your information,” Leon added defiantly, “this is home. I live right next door.” He tapped the wall.
“Yeah? Then I ain’t surprised you can’t sleep,” said Pauly. “Not if you live near this baby.” He gave the Ice Queen an affectionate slap and looked at his pal. “Are you surprised, Sauly?”
“Ain’t surprised at all,” said Sauly.
Pauly turned to Leon. “See, the bozo who did the install totally messed up on the clearance. Ice Queens ain’t supposed to touch the wall.”
“Don’t forget about the venting,” Sauly interjected.
“I ain’t forgetting about the venting,” said Pauly with mild irritation. “If you’d let me finish telling the kid. As I was about to say, the venting is whacked. Also, something’s wrong with the harvest bin. Plus, from what I’m hearing, I wouldn’t be surprised if the compressor’s out of alignment.”
Sauly nodded respectfully.
“You guys sure know lots about ice makers,” said Leon.
The two men smiled at each other.
“Hey, Pauly,” said Sauly. “Do we know lots about ice makers?”
Pauly chuckled. “Enough to have earned the stars.”
As if on command, both men patted the patches on their work shirts. Leon looked more closely. Their patches said MASTER PLUMBER, UNITED ASSOCIATION OF PLUMBERS AND PIPEFITTERS, LOCAL 51 (PROVIDENCE) and were rimmed with a circle of stars.
“They don’t hand these out for looks, kid,” said Sauly.
“Are you guys saying you can fix the Ice Queen?”
That prompted more chuckling. “Sorry, kid,” said Pauly. “I know where you’re going with this, but no can do. Sauly and me—we’re here for the toilet-tank convention. Call your local refrigeration professional if you want this baby overhauled. We’re done for the night.”
“My mom’s tried getting her fixed,” said Leon. “She couldn’t find anyone.”
“Well, she is a relic,” Pauly admitted. “The ice maker, I mean. Not your mom.”
“Please,” Leon pleaded. There was no way he was going to let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers. “She keeps me up all night—the ice maker, I mean. Not my mom.”
Pauly again let out a chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, Sauly,” he said. “How’d you get down to the city?”
“How do you think, Pauly? Took the van.”
“Got your tools with you?”
“You kidding, Pauly? I always got my tools with me.”
“Well, go get ’em. And while you’re at it, bring up some of that high-density insulation, a length of thread pipe, and ten feet of three-eighths-inch feeder line.”
“You got it!” said Sauly.
“And don’t forget the doughnuts,” Pauly joked.
“Not so fast,” said Leon. “Doughnuts are my department.” He tore down to the coffee shop and arranged some goodies on a plate while Frau Haffenreffer poured out two cups of coffee to go.
Twenty minutes later the two repairmen had cracked open the Ice Queen. Coils, screws, wing nuts, tubes, and O-rings spread over the shag carpeting. (Along with doughnuts, napoleons, and cups of piping hot coffee.)
“See, kid,” said Pauly. “Just like we told you. The compressor is all messed up.”
“Don’t forget about the harvest bin,” said Sauly.
“Plus, like Sauly here says, some dimwit inserted the harvest bin backward.”
Pauly and Sauly spent the better part of an hour unplugging, uncoupling, unscrewing, cleaning, lubricating, repairing, and realigning parts. Once that was done, they snapped everything back in place and repositioned the ice maker three feet from the wall.
“Go ahead, kid,” said Pauly. “Test her out.”
“She’s awfully quiet,” Leon said doubtfully. “You sure she’s plugged in?”
“Is she plugged in, Sauly?”
“She’s plugged in, Pauly.”
Leon pushed the dispensing lever and braced himself for the usual racket.
It never came.
There were no clicks.
There were no buzzes.
There were no grinds or groans or crashes.
In fact, the Ice Queen dropped two ice cubes into Leon’s cupped hand without making any sound at all. None whatsoever.
“Wow!” Leon exclaimed. “Wait till I tell my mom! That repair’s been in the logbook for years!”
“Tell her tomorrow, kid. Right now, go grab some shut-eye.”
Leon didn’t argue. It was late, and he was tired.
That night he fell asleep thinking about the Ice Queen. She wasn’t at all like the one in the fairy tale, he decided. S
he wasn’t an evil witch. She was just a weird, cranky, out-of-date curiosity in need of special handling.
TWELVE
In the Belly of the Beast
The following night Leon conked out to the glorious sound of … nothing. The only click he heard came from the light switch near his bed. And in the silence that followed, he slept for eight full hours, three hours more than he had averaged during the Ice Queen’s noisy, wall-shaking reign.
The next night Leon got nine hours of sleep, and he got ten the night after that.
If sleep is brain food, Leon’s long-famished brain was suddenly served a feast. So was the rest of his body. The rings under his eyes started to fade. His pale skin gained some color. But most important, his fine motor skills slowly started to rev up. Shoelaces got a little easier to tie. Dodgeballs landed with greater accuracy. The stingy flute teacher, Miss Brunelleschi, stuck two gold stars in Leon’s music book for deftly completing finger exercises she considered especially challenging.
Even Miss Hagmeyer tempered her usual criticism. “Not bad, Mr. Zeisel,” she said when handing back a penmanship worksheet. “Your cursive Ms are actually beginning to look like camel humps.” But then she spoiled it. “Pity,” she added, “you can’t show a similar turnaround in the animile department. I’m still waiting for your dinosaur and your unicorn.”
Leon didn’t respond—at least not directly. But he decided then and there to finish his overdue assignments and make Miss Hagmeyer eat her words.
That afternoon, back at the hotel, Leon zipped through his signboard duties—VVelcome VVinch Operators of VVisconsin!!!!—and set up shop in the office behind the reception desk.
Maria came by to clean while he was working on the diplocaulus. She waved her feather duster over the animile’s arrow-shaped head. “Your project is looking real sweet.”
“It better, Maria. I’ve got to hand it in on Monday.”
“I’m not worried, Leonito. You’ll show that Miss Panty Hose!”
Leon stitched through the weekend, fueled by Maria’s encouragement, plus a steady supply of PB&J (extra J), Haffenreffer dough balls, and Zapp’s Mesquite Kettle-Cooked Bar-B-Que Potato Chips.
Leon and the Spitting Image Page 7
