Leon and the Spitting Image

by Allen Kurzweil

  Miss Hagmeyer put down the needle, picked up her chalk holder, and wrote out the Carnival schedule:

  Medieval portrait

  Journament joust

  Banguet

  Final inspection of master pieces

  “I want to be clear about this,” she said. “As soon as the banquet is over, return here at once. No ifs, ands, or buts!”

  “Except for ours,” whispered Thomas.

  “That is correct, Mr. Warchowski. I expect your miserable medieval rumps in their assigned seats by the time Mr. Hankey rings sext!”

  “What’s sext?” Lumpkin asked over the giggles of his classmates.

  “It’s explained in the Medieval Reader,” Miss Hagmeyer said wearily. “Check in Fun Facts under Canonical Hours. Sext corresponds to twelve o’clock. Midday. High noon.”

  “I thought nones was noon,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Well, you thought wrong,” Miss Hagmeyer replied. “Nones is the ninth hour of the canonical day. It rings at three P.M. By which time we will know how many of you have mastered your craft.”

  Just then, P.W. burst into the room.

  Miss Hagmeyer froze him in place with a beady-eyed glower. “So pleased you could join us, Mr. Dhabanandana.”

  “What did I miss?” said P.W.

  “Not final inspection, if that is what you were hoping. In point of fact, what you missed was my tirade on the trouble with carnivals. But since that tirade is now over, you must be content with joining the others in preparing for the portrait.”

  As students were slipping medieval clothes over their modern ones, P.W. rushed over to Leon and Lily-Matisse.

  “Bad news,” he said. “My sister found her Totally Hair Barbie while it was still, um, totally headless.”

  “Let me guess,” Lily-Matisse said knowingly. “She destroyed your Hagapult thingy.”

  P.W. nodded gravely. “I got most of it put back together, except for the winch and the rubber band, which the little weasel probably hid. Anyway, that’s why I’m late.”

  “So what do we do now?” Lily-Matisse asked.

  Leon quickly took charge. “If Plan B won’t work, maybe Plan A will. P.W., are we set?”

  P.W. smiled as he reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and pulled out the ragged toe of some really old panty hose. “That’s a roger.”

  “Okay, then,” said Leon. “We’re in business.”

  Lily-Matisse gave him a puzzled look. “Are you dealing with Lumpkin or the animiles?”

  “Both,” said Leon.

  “How?” P.W. asked excitedly.

  “You leave that to me,” Leon said. “Just be ready at final inspection. When the Hag gets in range, I’ll make a sign for you to toss the panty hose on the floor.”

  “And then?” Lily-Matisse asked nervously.

  “And then,” said Leon, “I suppose I’ll just have to prove to Miss Hagmeyer that I have the discipline and diligence of a master.”

  A noise in the hallway put an end to the conversation.

  Mr. Hankey paraded into the classroom swinging a bell the size of a bucket. “Let Carnival begin!” he declared. “Let Carnival begin!” The janitor glanced over at Miss Hagmeyer. “Everything’s all set, Phyllis. Mr. Groot’s ready with his camera on the steps of the school.”

  “Very well,” she said with a sigh. “Class dismissed.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us, Miss Hagmeyer?” Antoinette asked as she straightened her tiara.

  “No, Your Majesty, I am not,” Miss Hagmeyer replied stiffly. “I have my own snapshots to take care of.”

  Antoinette said, “What snapshots?”

  Miss Hagmeyer ignored the question. “You’re late,” she said, fiddling with the key to the supply-cabinet padlock.

  When the fourth graders gathered for the medieval group portrait, they confirmed Miss Hagmeyer’s earlier observation. Carnival did indeed celebrate funny clothes and sharp pointy objects.

  There were gauzy gowns and daggers, potato-sack tunics and swords, cardboard chest plates and rapiers, plus diamond-patterned tights and suits of sequined chain mail that glittered in the morning sun.

  After a good deal of squirming and less-than-noble behavior, the students settled down.

  Mr. Groot peered through the viewfinder of his camera and yelled, “Smile and say … LUMPKIN!” He suspended his picture taking. “Get over here.”

  Lumpkin loped down the front steps.

  “I saw you,” Mr. Groot said. “You were about to wallop Leon with that sword of yours. Such behavior violates the code of chivalry.”

  Lumpkin shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Relinquish your weapon,” Mr. Groot demanded.

  That got Lumpkin’s attention. “Why?” he whined.

  “Because I wish to see it. Hand it over now.” Mr. Groot dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He lined up the edge of the coin with the tip of the sword. “Just as I thought,” he said. “You know the rules. Principal Birdwhistle was explicit in the memo she sent your parents. No sword tip is to be sharper than the curve of a quarter. I am confiscating this weapon for the remainder of Carnival.”

  “That stinks,” said Lumpkin.

  “So does your attitude, which is why you will swap roles with that scullery maid over there.”

  “But—”

  “Do not argue, Henry. If you do, you’ll be burned at the stake. Or at the very least sent to the principal’s office.”

  Lumpkin tromped back up the steps in a vengeful rage, which Mr. Groot soon after captured on film. His medieval portrait of Miss Hagmeyer’s fourth-grade class included a slingshot-toting master (P.W.), a pillow-padded monk, a jester, three serfs with blackened teeth, a heretic, a bejeweled queen (Antoinette), a tie-dyed lady (Lily-Matisse), a wizard, a page, a prince, a pauper, two stable hands, and a cook. Also in the group were an orange-haired scullery maid brandishing a soupspoon like a battle-ax and a valiant knight, clutching a purple pouch, staring straight at the camera with a look of nervous expectation.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Joust

  As soon as Mr. Groot finished up, the fourth graders zipped toward the gym like eighteen arrows loosed from the longbow of a champion archer. The whole class was keen to see what Coach Kasperitis had planned for the tournament joust.

  The coach did not disappoint his fans. He met them wearing a suit of armor cobbled together from old athletic gear. An ancient football helmet—embellished by a feather duster just like the one Maria used at the hotel—covered his head. A catcher’s chest protector served as a breastplate. Around his neck he wore the clay jester’s-head whistle he had purchased at the museum gift shop the day of the field trip. One of his hands gripped a gleaming shield, which looked suspiciously like the lid of a metal garbage can. The other hand, covered by a pitcher’s mitt, grasped a pink foam “lance” more typically found around swimming pools.

  “Settle down and listen up, lords and ladies and assorted rabble,” the coach shouted through the faceguard of his helmet. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Looks like you’re covering a lot of ground all by yourself!” P.W. yelled.

  “Knock it off,” the coach said with a chuckle. “You know my rules. No teasing, no taunting, no trash-talk.” After the laughs died away, he said, “Though it pains me to tell you this, I’ve been informed by certain so-called experts that dodgeball didn’t exist in the Middle Ages.”

  Boos filled the gym.

  “Not to worry,” said the coach. “We’ll be doing something almost as exciting. Does anyone know what that might be?”

  “Jousting!” everyone screamed.

  The coach’s helmet bobbed up and down. “Now, before we begin, let’s see if you know your stuff. Who can tell me the difference between a joust of peace and a joust of war?”

  P.W.’s hand shot up.

  “Go for it,” said the coach.

  “In a joust of war, the lance gets sharpened to a super-deadly point. A joust of peace is a
lot tamer. It’s about skill, not death.”

  “And which kind of joust do you think I’ve planned for you guys?” the coach asked.

  “A joust of peace!” the class screamed.

  “Bull’s-eye,” said the coach. He set down lance and shield and went into his office. Through the blinds, everyone could see him pull off his helmet and mitt.

  While the coach was busy filling his pickle jar, Lumpkin taunted Leon. “Hey, Sir Panty Hose. Too bad it’s not a joust of war.”

  “Just ignore him,” Lily-Matisse said.

  “I’m not worried,” said Leon. “He’ll get his joust of war back in class.”

  The coach reemerged, dragging the pommel horse. Cheers and laughs erupted as soon as the horse came into view. It had a papier-mâché head fitted to one end and a purple tail attached to the other. A coat of chain mail, made from the tops of soda cans, protected the areas in between.

  “Mom did that, too,” Lily-Matisse told her two friends.

  “No kidding,” said P.W.

  The coach set the horse in the middle of the gym and arranged some floor mats around it.

  “Listen up,” he said. “The way the joust of peace works is like this. I’ll be calling out your names, in pairs. The first name called starts out as Rider. Second name called gets to be Lancer. After sixty seconds, Rider and Lancer swap places. The scoring is simple. Only Lancers earn points. If the Lancer hits the Rider’s shield, that’s two points. If the Lancer knocks the Rider off the mount, that’s immediate victory. However, if I see the lance hitting anything other than the shield—that’s immediate disqualification. Everyone understand what I’ve said so far?”

  “Yes!” the class shouted.

  “Good. The joust requires me to modify the Kasperitis Code of Conduct. Specifically, that means no thrusting, no trampling, no pummeling, no decapitations, no looting, no marauding, no mayhem, and no bloodshed. I don’t want Cranky Hankey complaining about staying late to clean your guts off the floor mats. And just so we’re clear, none of those weapons you guys are holding can be used on the field of battle. All daggers and swords are to be left in the bleachers.”

  “What about soupspoons?” P.W. called out.

  Everyone laughed but Lumpkin.

  “One last thing,” said the coach. “You’ve heard it before, but I’ll say it again. No teasing, no taunting, no trash-talk of any kind.” With that the coach tooted his jester’s-head whistle and began the tournament joust.

  The foam flew fast and furious as Lancers and Riders took turns on the pommel horse. Leon handled himself quite well as a Lancer. Matched against Thomas, he scored six points. But as a Rider, Leon proved less accomplished. Distracted by thoughts of Lumpkin and Plan A, he let Thomas unseat him twenty seconds into the second half of the bout.

  Probably a good thing, Leon told himself as he watched the competition from the bleachers. It seemed unwise to risk life and limb—his own and the doll’s—less than an hour before the classroom showdown.

  P.W. joined him in the spectators’ gallery at the end of the first round. “I messed up against Antoinette!” he grumbled. “I hit her stupid tiara.”

  “Tough break,” said Leon. “At least you’ll avoid Lumpkin.”

  “Yeah,” said P.W. “But I know someone who won’t.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Take a look.” P.W. pointed. “Lily-Matisse is kicking royal rump!”’

  And it was true. Suited up for battle, Lily-Matisse proved to be a gifted jouster. Years of gymnastics training paid off unexpectedly. She ducked and rolled, tucked, arched, and jabbed her way into the second round. And the third. And the fourth. In fact, she made it all the way to the finals.

  Unfortunately, so did Henry Lumpkin.

  Jasprow vs. Lumpkin started with Lily-Matisse in the saddle. She fended off a ferocious lance attack by digging in her heels and bending her body like a windblown blade of grass. For nearly fifty seconds, Lumpkin could not touch her shield. Then, just as the first half of the face-off was coming to an end, Lily-Matisse let down her guard. Lumpkin glanced the shield rim and scored two points.

  The coach blew his whistle. Rider and Lancer swapped places. It was now Lily-Matisse’s turn to charge.

  Time and time again, she aimed her lance at the shield of her orange-haired opponent. Time and again she missed. Lumpkin wasn’t so much seated on the horse as bolted on.

  “We’ve got to do something,” P.W. said urgently.

  “I know,” Leon replied. “But what?”

  With fifteen seconds left in the match, Leon cupped his hands around his mouth and called out a word he was pretty sure avoided the coach’s prohibition on trash-talking: “Soupspoon!”

  Lumpkin turned toward the spectators’ gallery.

  That was just the opening Lily-Matisse needed. She charged and, with a gentle tap, found the sweet spot on Lumpkin’s shield.

  “Two points!” the coach shouted. “All tied.”

  “That’s not fair,” Lumpkin protested.

  Lily-Matisse spun around as her archenemy rose off his saddle to complain. She jabbed her lance tip hard into the dead center of his shield.

  Lumpkin crashed onto the gym mats with a thud!

  Over the shouts from the bleachers, the coach gave a blast on the jester’s-head whistle. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” he called out.

  “They didn’t say ‘hear ye’ in the Middle Ages,” Antoinette said. Her quibble was instantly drowned out by jeers.

  The coach marched over to the pommel horse carrying a small trophy. After quieting everyone down, he said, “In recognition of her valor and victory in the tournament joust, I do bestow upon Lady Lily-Matisse the Kasperitis Chalice of Champions.”

  He handed her the chalice, which was actually a baseball trophy Mr. Groot had altered for the occasion. (The shop instructor sawed off the bat and reattached it under the player’s armpit so that it would look like a lance.)

  “Thanks,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “And with the Kasperitis Chalice of Champions comes the honor of assigning seats at the banquet,” said the coach.

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  “Way to go, Lily-Matisse,” P.W. shouted. “You pulverized him!”

  The coach leveled a harsh gaze at P.W. “What was that?” he bellowed.

  Everyone, from beggar to queen, turned silent.

  “Repeat the word you just used,” the coach demanded.

  “Pulverized?” P.W. said hesitantly.

  The coach shook his head with apparent disgust. “And what’s the most important rule in the Kasperitis Code of Conduct?”

  “No trash-talk?”

  “That’s right. Do you think they even had trash-talk in the Middle Ages?”

  “No,” said P.W. nervously.

  “Well, you’re wrong!” said the coach, breaking into a big fat smile. “Hey, Queenie,” he yelled to Antoinette. “Since you’re such a stickler about what people did and didn’t say in medieval times—go grab those wordlists off the bench and pass ’em around.”

  Wordlists—in gym?

  Groans and grumbles spread through the spectators’ gallery. But the grumbles and groans turned into giggles and guffaws when the students got a look at the handouts. They read:

  Barnacle

  Belch

  Blemish

  Blemish

  Buttock

  Carbuncle

  Clod

  Cockerel

  Crone

  Curd

  Drone

  Entrails

  Fetid

  Fool

  Hag

  Impudent

  Mongrel

  Pig

  Pimple

  Ruffian

  Scum

  Toad

  Toothless

  Turd

  Villain

  Vomit

  Wart

  Worm

  “Back in the Middle Ages, no tournament was complete without a flyting contest,” the coach told th
em.

  “What’s a flyting contest?” Antoinette asked.

  “According to Mr. Rattles—he’s the one who made up the list—a flyting contest is an insult competition. The rules are simple. You guys have two minutes to come up with your best curse. You can use any word you want—as long as it’s decent and medieval.”

  The joust of peace was fierce. The joust of words was fiercer. Slurs and slights filled the gym. And in the end, it was P.W. who carried the day by stitching together a nickname that described Henry Lumpkin perfectly. He called the bully a “pimple on the buttock of a toothless curd-turd.”

  Why did P.W. do something so obviously life-threatening? For the same reason Lily-Matisse had risked injury during the joust. Both felt confident that Leon and his master piece would protect them.

  Moments after the end of the insult competition, Mr. Hankey stuck his head through the double doors of the gym and clanged his bucket-sized bell. “Banquet time,” he announced. “Get thee to the lunchroom.”

  “You mean feast hall,” Antoinette corrected.

  Lily-Matisse installed herself at the head of the banquet table, in a throne covered with recycled tinfoil. She set down the Kasperitis Chalice of Champions and commanded Sir Leon and Master Dhabanandana to sit by her side. At Leon’s suggestion she exercised her special rights still further by exiling Lumpkin to the opposite end of the room.

  “Let’s just hope that keeps him away until we get back to class,” Leon said as he surveyed the table. It was decorated like a medieval kingdom, complete with a gingerbread castle and vegetable forests. The banquet menu included cercles of oynon and fyngers of chicken and something called solana tuberosa in modo crispus fricta, which looked promisingly like curly fries.

  Everyone was impressed. Well, almost everyone. “They didn’t have curly fries in medieval Europe,” Antoinette said. “They didn’t have potatoes, period.”

  “Now there’s a scary thought,” said Lily-Matisse. “A world without curly fries.”

  “Or mashed potatoes,” said P.W.

  “Or potato chips!” Leon exclaimed.

  P.W. grabbed a fistful of chicken. “Still, I could get used to eating this way. Food tastes a lot better without forks.”