Leon and the Spitting Image (10 page)

A dozen basting stitches later, he had reattached the unicorn horn. Only he fixed it to a new location—a location where it absolutely did
not
belong.

A location better left unspecified.

T
he instant Miss Hagmeyer learned of Leon’s radical surgery, she went straight to the phone in the teachers’ lounge and called Emma Zeisel.

The hotel operator answered the call after the fourteenth ring. “Trimore Towers—where we
try more
every day! How may I direct your call?”

“Finally! I wish to speak with Emma Zeisel.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” said the operator. “She has her Do Not Disturb light on. She’s probably sleeping.”

“At two forty-five in the afternoon?” sputtered Miss Hagmeyer. “Get her up at once!”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“At once!” Miss Hagmeyer repeated. “This is about her son.”

“About Leon?” gasped the operator. “Hold on. I’ll patch you right through.”

Emma Zeisel sat bolt upright the moment she heard Miss Hagmeyer’s voice. “Is Leon hurt? Is everything okay?”

“Your son is not hurt, Ms. Zeisel. However, everything is
not
okay. I believe you should come down to
Principal Birdwhistle’s office immediately.”

Emma Zeisel squinted at her watch. Her shift started at four, which didn’t give her much time. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said, pulling herself up off the living-room couch, which doubled as a bed.

When Emma Zeisel entered Principal Birdwhistle’s office, she was frothing at the mouth—or so it seemed, because toothpaste still clung to her lips. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “It took ages to find a taxi.”

Leon was tempted to ask what country her cab driver had come from, but he knew that the Birdcage was not the place to bring up his taxi-driver collection. In fact, the Birdcage didn’t seem like a good place to discuss anything. Leon decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, goodness gracious, don’t apologize,” Principal Birdwhistle said nervously.

“Can we proceed?” Miss Hagmeyer said impatiently, without so much as a hello to Emma Zeisel. “I’m on a very tight schedule.”

“Very well, Phyllis,” said Principal Birdwhistle. She turned to Emma Zeisel. “At Miss Hagmeyer’s suggestion, I’ve been looking over your son’s record. He is a bright boy, there’s no doubt about that. But Miss Hagmeyer is concerned that … well, perhaps it’s best if she explains.”

Miss Hagmeyer got straight to the point. “I’ll be
frank, Ms. Zeisel. We have a problem. A
serious
problem. Take a look.”

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 ani
miles.”

“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.”

N
apoleon 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: