Leon and the Spitting Image (25 page)

Leon spotted one element of the room that hadn’t changed—the countinghouse tally. He walked over to the chart and plucked the lowest yarn.

“The Hag better pass me,” he said adamantly as he watched the Sir Leon spool quiver.

“Why should she pass your master piece … of junk?” a familiar voice demanded.

Leon turned just in time to receive a thwack on the shoulder with a wooden sword. It was Lumpkin.

Leon eyed the door.

“Looking for the Hag to save you, Sir Panty Hose?”

“No,” said Leon, though that was precisely what he was doing. If he could bring Miss Hagmeyer, the doll, and Lumpkin within range of one another he
could discipline His Evil Lordship. And who knew? With the proper dollwork, he might even get Miss Hagmeyer to grab her instructional needle and turn the class pinhead into a pincushion!

“Well, well,” said Lumpkin. “What’ve we got in there?” He gave Leon’s pouch a poke with his sword.

“None of your beeswax,” said Lily-Matisse.

Lumpkin traced the lettering on the purple material with the tip of the blade. “L-E-O-N. Isn’t that
cute.”

DRRRRINNNNNG!

“That pouch wouldn’t be hiding your master
puke
, would it?” Lumpkin said, ignoring the bell. “I never did get to put that dumb thing in its place.”

“Nor will you now, Mr. Lumpkin!”

True to form, Miss Hagmeyer strode into class right on time. “Lower that blade and take your seat
at once!”

Miss Hagmeyer marched toward the front of the room, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about the kraft-paper landscapes and tinted windows.

“I’m putting everyone on notice,” she growled as she hung up her cape. “I have very little patience for carnivals conducted during school hours.” She began emptying her satchel but stopped when she noticed an empty desk.

“Where’s Phya Winit?” she demanded. “I hope he
isn’t using some trumped-up sickness to avoid final inspection.”

No one said a word.

Miss Hagmeyer shook her head and went back to emptying her satchel. “Honestly, I don’t know why schools squander valuable teaching time on end-of-year festivals. Greek Day. Sports Day. Farm Day. Science Fair. They’re all the same. Ridiculous excuses for children to dress up and run around jabbing each other with sharp, pointy objects. Togas and spears. Sweat suits and javelins. Overalls and pitchforks. Lab coats and scalpels.

“And this medieval carnival takes the cake! How much time has been wasted turning out swords in Mr. Groot’s woodshop? And why, I would like to know, is the banquet scheduled
before
I complete my inspections? That’s not the way it would have happened in King Richard’s time, I can tell you that! Banquets are supposed to
conclude
carnivals, not
disrupt
them.

“If I had my way,
this
is the only kind of pointy object that would occupy your fingers and your minds.” Miss Hagmeyer held up her instructional needle. “If
I
had my way, you would be making animiles and nothing but animiles. Unfortunately, Principal Birdwhistle has other ideas.”

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.

A
s 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.