Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  “Oh, yeah!” cried P.W. with unsuppressed joy. “Mission control, we have established visual contact. Target in sight. Repeat. Target in sight!”

  FOUR

  The Target

  The target had many nicknames. Lumpkin the Pumpkin. The Lethal Launcher. Hank the Tank. All the aliases hinted at what was obvious to anyone who met him. Henry Lumpkin, Jr. (that was his full name, though woe to any classmate who called him “Henry” or “Junior” to his face), was big—very big! And he was mean—very mean!

  He was a class bully in a class all his own. He picked on girls and he picked on boys. He picked on kids who were older, on kids who were younger, and on kids exactly his age. Although he wasn’t particularly smart, Lumpkin did display an unnatural aptitude for whomping and whipping, punching, pushing and poking, smashing and mashing, teasing and taunting. He took an active interest in all matters military, and displayed that interest whenever, and on whomever, possible.

  Yet while Lumpkin was an equal-opportunity bully, he had always paid particular attention to Leon. During preschool, the attacks were pretty crude—playground kicks, lunch-line pokes, and the occasional snatched nap blanket. But as Lumpkin got bigger (and bigger and bigger), he refined his methods. By second grade he had perfected tripping. Third grade saw the introduction of the Howlitzer (alias the Ow!itzer or, when the victim was a girl, the How-It-Hurts-Her), a move that sent its victim flying into the closest available wall. For each of these innovations, Leon had been an unwilling test subject.

  All that seemed about to change.

  Lily-Matisse rejoined the boys behind the trash can.

  “Payback time!” P.W. declared. “Think about it.

  No more rope burns.”

  “If it works,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Oh, it’ll work,” P.W. said. “Won’t it, Leon?”

  Leon remained silent. He was too busy preparing Pumpkinhead.

  “And when it does work,” P.W. continued, “there’ll be no more purple nurples or noogies or dead arms or dead legs or ‘kick me’ signs or wet willies or—”

  Lily-Matisse cut him off. “What’s a wet willie again?”

  “Amateurs,” P.W. sniffed. “Remember the time Lumpkin licked his finger, stuck it into Antoinette’s ear, and swirled it all around?”

  Lily-Matisse groaned. “That’s a wet willie?”

  “Last time I checked,” said P.W.

  “Keep it down,” said Leon. “He’ll be in range soon.”

  They watched and waited.

  “Sheesh!” Lily-Matisse exclaimed. “He’s even huger than last year!”

  “His army jacket barely fits him!” P.W. marveled.

  “That’s not the piece of clothing he has to worry about,” said Leon, pinching the rubber band holding up Pumpkinhead’s tiny underpants.

  Three sets of eyes (four, if one included the glass beads stitched into the doll’s head) focused on the carrot-topped bully lumbering toward the limestone steps.

  “Range?” Leon inquired.

  “About forty feet,” said P.W.

  Leon lined up the shot like a big-game hunter, hunching slightly forward and planting his feet.

  “Thirty-five feet,” said P.W., his voice beginning to tremble.

  Leon pointed the bead eyes of the doll at the beady eyes of his human likeness.

  “Steady,” P.W. warned. “Just a few more feet.”

  Suddenly Leon felt his hand yanked by Lily-Matisse.

  “What the heck are you doing!” sputtered P.W.

  “Teachers!” she exclaimed.

  Leon froze. He had no choice but to suspend the attack until Coach Kasperitis and Miss Hagmeyer, the dreaded fourth-grade teacher, disappeared through the entrance of the school.

  “Okay,” said P.W. “The coast is clear.”

  “Hey, Lumpkin’s moving away!” said Lily-Matisse.

  Leon frantically worked Pumpkinhead’s limbs, but with no effect on Lumpkin.

  “Darn!” said P.W. “He must be just out of range.”

  The three watched the bully trip an unsuspecting third grader. Not content to leave the kid sprawled on the pavement, he then accidentally kicked his victim’s backpack into the gutter. By the time the ambush was over, a steady stream of first graders, holding their parents’ hands, began climbing the school steps.

  Leon craned his neck. “I can’t see him!”

  “Hold on,” said P.W. “He’ll resurface.”

  “No,” said Leon. “I’m going in.”

  “Ten-four,” said P.W., “but you’ll need cover.” He gave Lily-Matisse a knowing look, which she acknowledged with a nod. The two closed ranks to create a human shield.

  “Perfect,” said Leon, scooting up behind.

  The surveillance resumed.

  “Thirty-five feet,” P.W. whispered. “Thirty feet—wait. He may be going after another kid… no, false alarm. Here he comes. Steady… steady … hold on just a little more … twenty-five feet. Target in range. Repeat! Target in range!”

  Leon aimed, jerked, and twirled, swinging Pumpkinhead around once, twice, three times over his head, with the doll’s underpants acting as the sling.

  An agonizing few seconds elapsed before P.W. announced the sad news. “Failure to launch,” he said with a sigh. “Repeat. Failure to launch.”

  Leon lowered his arms.

  “What happened?” Lily-Matisse asked as gently as possible.

  “You mean what didn’t happen,” Leon snapped. “Maybe someone didn’t shake up the spit enough.”

  “Hey, hold on,” P.W. said. “I shook the bottle plenty. Maybe someone didn’t apply enough spit.”

  “I used the right amount,” Leon grumbled.

  “Look, guys,” said Lily-Matisse, “it’s no one’s fault. Re-shake the bottle, add some more spit, and try again. Lumpkin is still in range.”

  They headed back to the staging area behind the trash can. After the necessary prep work, Leon gave Pumpkinhead another overhead turbowedgie.

  “Nada,” said P.W. “Miss Skeptical was right. The action figure is a bust.”

  Before Leon could respond, Lily-Matisse cut him off. “Lumpkin’s spotted us! He’s heading over!”

  “Quick!” P.W. cried. “Hide the evidence!”

  Frazzled by the launch failure, Leon was slow to react.

  “Hurry!” cried Lily-Matisse.

  P.W. grabbed Pumpkinhead, shoved him inside the pouch, and deftly lobbed the incriminating package into the nearby trash can.

  “Well, well,” said Lumpkin. “If it isn’t my good buddy Leon Zit-sel, plus his two dorky friends, P.U. and Silly-Matisse.” He eyed the trash can. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Practicing free throws,” said P.W.

  “Just tossing away his lunch,” Leon improvised a little more plausibly. “His mom keeps giving him squid sandwiches.”

  Lumpkin held out his hand. “Give me five!”

  Leon hesitantly slapped his archenemy’s upturned palm—or tried to. Within seconds he felt beefy fingers squeezing his wrist like a shop clamp.

  “Stop it!” said Lily-Matisse.

  “What’s the matter?” Lumpkin sneered. “Don’t you want Leon to be the first to experience my brand-new patented blood bracelet?”

  Leon kept stone silent as his hand began to throb.

  “Cut it out,” said P.W. “How’ll you explain the grip marks when Leon goes to Principal Birdwhistle?”

  Lumpkin paused to consider the logic. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, releasing his hold. “We wouldn’t want Zit-sel here to tattle on the very first day of school.”

  The next thing Leon knew, he was in a headlock. “The true beauty of the noogie,” Lumpkin said, “is that it never leaves a mark.”

  Five long seconds elapsed before Leon felt a knuckle bone bear down on his scalp. If the blood bracelet felt like a shop clamp, the noogie was a drill.

  “Ow!” Leon hollered.

  “How original,” Lumpkin crowed. Only after Leon began whimp
ering did Lumpkin release him.

  Leon staggered away, his head (and wrist) throbbing.

  Once he was sure Lumpkin had moved on, Leon returned to the trash can to retrieve Pumpkinhead. He reached in and groped about.

  “I can’t feel it,” he told his friends. “Must be all the way at the bottom.” He hiked himself onto the rim of the container. Cautiously he extended an arm into the can and moved it around in small, investigative circles.

  “No good,” he said. “I’ll have to go deeper.”

  He counted to three, took a breath, and stuck his head into the canister, stretching his hands blindly until the fingertips of his left hand brushed against something promising. He stretched a little more and …

  “Gotcha!” he said, grabbing hold of the pouch.

  Still balancing on the rim, doing his best not to breathe, Leon began to back himself out of the trash can.

  All of sudden he felt something take hold of his ankles. The next thing he knew, he was slipping.

  “Easy does it,” an all-too-familiar voice purred. “We wouldn’t want Zit-sel to hurt himself.”

  Within seconds Leon found himself scrunched upside down in the trash. “Hey, let me out of here!” he howled, his legs flailing.

  Voices came from all sides. “Pull him out!” “Touch him and you’re dead!” “He’ll suffocate!” “Tough, he deserved that dunkin’.” “The bell’s about to ring!”

  The last prediction proved correct. The school bell did ring, after which Lumpkin’s voice and the voices of Leon’s friends died away, leaving him alone in dark, smelly silence.

  FIVE

  A Practice Flush

  On his own and powerless, trapped inside a stinky, sticky trash can, Leon struggled to get free. He couldn’t. His arms were pinned beneath him.

  “Hey, you in there,” someone chirped.

  “I’m stuck!” Leon moaned. “No kidding. Hold on—or rather, don’t hold on. Just relax.”

  Relax? Leon said to himself. In a trash can?

  “Okay,” said the voice. “Here goes. Three, two, one…”

  Leon felt a tug. Suddenly his whole body started to uncrumple. It was as if someone had hit the Rewind button on the previous few minutes of his life. The next thing he knew, he was squinting into the sun. He shielded his eyes and found himself looking at a thin, bald man with a very bushy beard.

  “You okay?” the man asked pleasantly.

  “Kind of,” said Leon.

  “What’s in the pouch?”

  Leon had forgotten all about the pouch clutched in his hand. “Um, lunch.”

  “Pretty fancy lunch sack you got there,” said the man. “You sure you’re okay? You look like, well, garbage.”

  Leon managed a smile.

  “How’d you end up in there?”

  “Slipped,” said Leon.

  “Slipped? Into a trash can?”

  Leon nodded. He wasn’t about to rat.

  The man scratched his beard. “What’s your name?”

  “Leon Zeisel.”

  “Well, if you slipped into a trash can headfirst, Leon Zeisel, you defied the laws of gravity.”

  Leon shrugged.

  “We’d better get inside,” the man said, turning for the entrance of the school. “Second bell’s already rung, and it’s never wise to be tardy on the first day of class.”

  Leon tensed. It took him a moment to figure out why. Then he knew. “Tardy,” he realized, was a word only teachers used.

  For the rest of the day, Leon tried to keep a low profile. He hoped no one would talk about his trash can dunking.

  Yeah, right, he told himself. Fat chance!

  At assembly, walking past a row of sixth graders, he heard someone joke, “Hey, isn’t that the kid who got canned?” And at gym, when Coach Kasperitis warned the class against trash-talking, Lumpkin yelled out, “If we can’t trash-talk, then we can’t talk about Zit-sel.”

  Leon fumed. When the recess bell rang, he took refuge in the boys’ room. He checked the stalls and was relieved to find them empty. He entered the one farthest from the door and sat down. He removed Pumpkinhead from the pouch and stared at the figure’s grim features.

  What’s the deal? he asked himself. Why don’t you work like the last spitting image?

  Leon brooded for a while about the success of his previous handiwork—the figure of his fourth-grade teacher, Miss Hagmeyer. With a careful application of teacher’s spit, that earlier doll had worked like a charm (perhaps because it was a charm).

  Pumpkinhead was a different story, and one that now seemed doomed to end badly.

  Leon stood up and turned to face the toilet. He gave the miniature likeness of his archenemy a long, hard squeeze before beginning a countdown.

  Five … four … three …

  He hesitated. Headfirst or feet first? he wondered. Headfirst, definitely!

  He dangled Pumpkinhead by the ankles over the bowl and started over.

  Five … four … three … two …

  He was stopped by another concern.

  Release Pumpkinhead and then flush? Or flush first and then release? Or (a third option) drop and flush at exactly the same time?

  Figuring a practice flush try might help him decide, Leon yanked on the tank handle. There was a weak whoosh, followed by a feeble gurgle, after which the water in the bowl slowly whirled away.

  The Classical School was an ancient building, and its plumbing was just as old. Leon guesstimated it was fifty-fifty Pumpkinhead might not clear the drain. He imagined the miniature Lumpkin bobbing, like a dead halibut, on the surface of the water. The thought pleased him—until he realized the larger-than-life Lumpkin would probably find out. Plus there was a chance Principal Birdwhistle might learn about the floater. That wouldn’t be pretty either.

  In the end Leon nixed the dunking idea. Ten minutes of recess remained. Not knowing where else to go, he dragged himself onto the playground.

  P.W. and Lily-Matisse tried waving him over to the basketball court (where Lily-Matisse was winning a game of one-on-one). But Leon chose to sit on his own, under the giant maple shading the middle of the yard.

  He glanced about. Reminders of his vanished power were everywhere. The jungle gym? That was where he had first revealed his supernatural abilities to P.W. and Lily-Matisse by forcing Miss Hagmeyer to perform one-handed pull-ups. The spot where Lumpkin was now teasing Antoinette Brede? That was where, again thanks to the earlier spitting image, Miss Hagmeyer had executed a stunning series of double-Dutch moves that culminated in a septuple twist—a 2520!—between a pair of spinning jump ropes.

  But that was fourth grade, Leon said to himself, and this is fifth.

  School began at 8:05 and ended promptly at three. Those six hours and fifty-five minutes were the longest six hours and fifty-five minutes Leon had ever endured—ever. Which might explain why, when the final bell finally sounded, he bolted like a racehorse.

  He took the school steps two at a time, turning his head away as he passed the trash can that had caused him so much grief. In that split second, he caught sight of an ominous green-orange blur that prompted him to pick up the pace.

  Halfway down the street, he glanced back, hoping he had imagined the ominous green-orange blur.

  He hadn’t. In fact, the ominous green-orange blur was gaining. And the closer it got, the less blurry (and the more ominous) it became.

  Leon broke into an all-out gallop. He was in the homestretch, twenty feet from Napoleon’s taxi, when he felt the first thwack!

  He stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  Then came the second thwack!—the one that dislodged his backpack and caused him to tumble.

  “Wipeout!” Lumpkin cried out triumphantly as he dashed away.

  Leon dusted himself off, thankful that his backpack had pillowed the fall.

  SIX

  The Twofer

  Napoleon turned and flashed a silver-toothed smile at his favorite passenger. “So, Monsieur Leon, how was the very first d
ay of school? Still an eight?”

  “No!” replied Leon as he got into the cab.

  “Your mood, it went down?”

  “Yes!”

  “How far did it descend? To a seven?”

  “Worse.”

  “A six?”

  “More like negative six, okay?” Leon said angrily as he fumbled with the seat belt.

  Napoleon looked through the rearview mirror. “A nasty teacher?”

  “No.”

  “A nasty student?”

  “Yeah,” Leon acknowledged bitterly. “Now can we get going?”

  Napoleon knew better than to press. For the next few minutes, he drove without saying a word.

  “I bet you,” he said at last, “I can raise your mood to a five by the time we reach the hotel.”

  “No possible way,” said Leon. He heard the click of the glove compartment, followed by a crinkling. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” Napoleon responded coyly.

  The crinkling grew louder.

  “Plain?” said Leon.

  “Non.”

  Leon leaned forward, his chest straining against the seat belt. “Sour cream and chives?”

  “Hmm, non.”

  Leon sensed some hesitation and adjusted his next guess accordingly. “Sour cream and onion?”

  “Non.”

  “Chives and cheddar cheese?”

  “Non.”

  “Got it!” said Leon. “Mesquite barbeque. You know that’s one of my favorite flavors.”

  “Sorry,” said Napoleon. “Try again.”

  “Peppercorn?”

  “Non.”

  “Edvard’s Munch Madness—‘the chip that’ll make you scream!’”

  “Guess again.”

  Leon pulled out all the stops. “Lickety Chips? Ho-Hums? Goody Two-Chews? Fandangos?”

  “Non, non, non … non!” The cab filled with laughter.

  Leon persisted: “Willy Winkle Krinkle Kuts?”