Leon and the Spitting Image (19 page)

After that, nature took its course. A full-scale all-out take-no-prisoners food fight erupted in the Classical School lunchroom. And it was the teachers—the
teachers!
—who had started it. (Or so it appeared.)

Leon, P.W., and Lily-Matisse sought refuge behind the steam tables.

“So much for keeping things quiet,” said Leon as a hamburger bun bounced into his lap.

P.W. surveyed the lunchroom through the mists rising from the steam table. “It’s just like castle defense in the Middle Ages.”

“What are you talking about?” said Lily-Matisse.

“Simple,” said P.W. “Take a look out there. There are the launchers and there are the pourers. Only instead of boulders getting tossed from castle walls, it’s curly fries and Tater Tots. And instead of molten lead, it’s milk and OJ that are poured.”

A flying fajita forced P.W. to duck. “And I’ll tell you one thing, Lily-Matisse. Your mom is
definitely
a pourer. Check out the salad bar.”

Lily-Matisse poked her nose over the top of the steam table and saw Signora Pecora, the Italian teacher, ladling French dressing on Madame Pispartout, the French teacher. Madame Pispartout retaliated with thick gobs of Italian dressing. Suddenly
Regina Jasprow came into view and confirmed P.W.’s observation by squirting the contents of a plastic ketchup bottle onto the head of Mr. Joost, the third-grade teacher.

A piece of chocolate cake caught P.W. in the shoulder. “Position compromised!” he cried. “Fall back! Fall back!”

“Where to?” yelled Leon.

“Over there,” said P.W. He pointed to a row of recycling bins.

The three of them zigzagged, under a volley of chicken fingers and string beans, to the colorful bins, which were located near the kitchen. P.W. took Mixed. Lily-Matisse took Cans. Leon hunkered down behind Plastics. (Thomas Warchowski had already claimed Paper.)

P.W. peered over his lid. “Incoming!” he screamed. Seconds later, a barrage of carrots pounded the containers.

“It’s the coach!” P.W. cried. “And man oh man, is he throwing heat!”

“Let’s get out of here!” said Lily-Matisse. Using a bin lid as a shield, she led the retreat into the hallway.

“Things got
totally
out of hand in there,” she said.

“Out of hand is right!” said P.W. He imitated the flicking gesture Leon had used to loft the first fateful spoonful of cottage cheese.

Leon sighed. “I blew it. I wanted the Hag to nail Lumpkin, but I couldn’t aim straight.”

“Maybe it wasn’t your fault,” P.W. said.

“Then whose fault was it?” said Leon gloomily. “I had
two
chances, and I messed up both of them. Lumpkin was only a few feet away from the Hag, and I
still
couldn’t hit him.”

“Maybe something is disrupting signal reception,” said P.W. He fell silent as soon as he made the suggestion. Leon and Lily-Matisse could practically
hear
the cogs turning inside his head.

“Tests!”
P.W. suddenly blurted out. “We have to conduct tests. Meet me at the tree at recess. I’ll bring everything we need.”

N
o sooner had the last of the carrots landed than the first of the rumors took off.
Everyone
was talking about the food fight. Mr. Hankey, the janitor, turned out to be the angriest commentator on the subject. He roamed the halls, mop in hand, grumbling and telling anyone who’d listen, “Next time my lunchroom gets turned into a
launch
room, I’m quitting, you can count on that!”

Principal Birdwhistle expressed her disappointment and outrage differently. She posted a memo.

Everyone ignored it. People were too busy trying to find out who had started the fight. No one seemed to know for sure.

Some thought it was Mr. Groot. Others placed the blame squarely on the wig-topped head of Miss Hagmeyer, since she’d been acting weird all week. A third contingent of rumormongers attributed the food
fight to the coach, the ex-pitcher known for his fastball.

No one suspected the three fourth graders who met behind the maple tree that same afternoon.

“What’s the raincoat for?” Lily-Matisse asked P.W. The sky was slightly overcast, but the chances of rain seemed slim.

P.W. slipped a hand inside his slicker. He withdrew a folded sheet of graph paper and a pencil.

“Another
invention?” said Lily-Matisse.

“No,” said P.W., mildly irritated. He handed the sheet to Leon, who eagerly opened it.

“A map?” P.W. nodded.

“What’s a Prooving Ground?” Lily-Matisse asked, pointing to the title that ran across the top of the sketch.

“That’s the phrase NASA uses for a testing facility,” said P.W.

“Actually, I think it’s sp—”

“The map is of the playground, right?” Leon said quickly, cutting in before Lily-Matisse could correct P.W.’s spelling.

“Affirmative,” said P.W. “See, this is where we’re standing at right now. And that, right there—that’s the teachers’ bench. And there’s the jungle gym. And the jump-rope area.” P.W.’s finger darted about. “I drew the map on graph paper so that we can plot test
results on a grid. It’ll make it easier to mark the exact range of the doll’s power.”

“How do you want to start?” Leon asked. “First we have to pace out distances,” said P.W. “You check how far it is from here to the jungle gym. I’ll do the same to the jump ropers.” He took a couple of long steps to show Leon the standard unit of measure.

“What about me?” said Lily-Matisse.

“Think you can pace off the distance from the teachers’ bench?”

“Of course,” said Lily-Matisse. It was her turn to feel annoyed.

The three surveyors parted company and reassembled a few minutes later to share results.

“Forty-seven paces from the jungle gym to here,” said Leon.

“Twenty-four from the bench,” noted Lily-Matisse. “By the way, the Hag’s grading our spelling quizzes.”

“How do you know?” Leon asked.

“I saw when I was measuring.”

“Guys, can we stay focused?” said P.W. “It’s thirty-eight paces from the jump ropers. So figuring three feet per pace …” He scribbled a few numbers on the map and drew some dotted lines.

“What’s next, Magellan?” said Lily-Matisse.

“We’ll start our tests here,” P.W. said, tapping a spot on the map. “And move in a few paces at a time.”

Leon eased the master piece from the pouch and glanced around to see if anyone was looking. “All clear?”

“All clear,” P.W. confirmed.

Leon took a bead on Miss Hagmeyer. She was hunched over a stack of paper. He aimed the doll and slowly lifted one of its arms.

Nothing happened.

P.W. scribbled some notes on the map. “We’re too far away,” he said, moving three paces closer to where Miss Hagmeyer was seated. “Try here.”

Leon joined him at the new spot and again flexed the doll.

“Still nothing,” said Lily-Matisse.

P.W. added the new data to the map and continued to close in.

After four moves and four tests, Lily-Matisse said, “I think I saw her twitch.”

Leon leaned forward and jiggled the doll.

Miss Hagmeyer noticeably wiggled her bony rump.

“We have liftoff!” P.W. said in an excited whisper. He made further notations before turning to Leon. “Okay, here’s the scoop,” he said quietly. “By my calculations, you can’t be more than about thirty or thirty-five feet away from the Hag. Beyond that she stops responding.”

“So now what?” asked Leon.

P.W. again reached into his raincoat. This time he pulled out the black toucan feather he had picked up at the Trimore. He brushed it under Lily-Matisse’s chin.

“Stop that, it tickles!” she complained.

“It’s
supposed
to,” said P.W. “How else can Leon wage a tickle attack?”

Leon’s eyes widened. “You mean
on the
Hag?”

“Of course on the Hag,” said P.W.

“You’d better be careful,” Lily-Matisse warned. “You don’t know how she’ll react.”

“That’s the whole point,” P.W. said.

Leon took a deep breath and brought the toucan feather against the parts of the doll he guessed would cause the most squirming. Under the arms. Behind the neck.

“She’s not giggling,” said Lily-Matisse.

P.W. gave a nod. “I bet you the master piece can make the Hag move, but it can’t make her
feel.”

“Makes sense,” said Leon. “Dollwork definitely numbs her.”

“That would also explain why she has no memory about the stuff she’s made to do.” P.W. said. He reclaimed the toucan feather and stuck it back inside his slicker. “Time to see if the master piece works through walls.”

He pointed to a recessed doorway on the map.
“Leon, hide here and see if you can get the Hag to do a couple of jumping jacks through the wall.”

Leon trotted off to the spot P.W. had selected. After flexing the doll so that its legs parted and its hands touched overhead, Leon glanced at the teacher’s bench to see if “blind” dollwork prompted Miss Hagmeyer to do jumping jacks.

P.W. gave him the thumbs down.

The news comforted Leon. He no longer had to worry about crushing Miss Hagmeyer unknowingly because of something he accidentally did to the doll.