Leon and the Spitting Image (14 page)

“That is correct, Miss Brede. I gave you that assignment so that you could better appreciate the master pieces on these walls.”

Guiding the group to a hanging on the far side of the room, Miss Hagmeyer said, “I would like you to focus your attention on that rose right there. It required no fewer than thirty-four stitches per inch—you heard me correctly,
thirty-four
s.p.i.”

“I’d settle for six,” Leon whispered.

Miss Hagmeyer neutralized Leon with a glower before continuing. “That exquisite rose is one of six hundred and twenty-seven similarly exacting flowers that blossom on
The Start of the Hunt
. I know because I tallied them up—twice. In addition to examples of the seven stitches of virtue that all of you should know, this master piece incorporates tent stitches, stem stitches, knot stitches—”

Miss Hagmeyer suspended her speech. “Did you wish to add something, Ms. Jasprow?”

All heads turned toward the art teacher, who was whispering to the coach. “What?” said Ms. Jasprow. “Add something? Me? Uh, no.”

“You are quite sure?” said Miss Hagmeyer. “We wouldn’t want to deprive the class of an
artist’s
perspective.” The snideness in her voice was unmistakable.

Ms. Jasprow turned red. “Sorry for the disturbance. Please go on.”

“It’s hardly a disturbance, Regina.
Enlighten
us.”

“Well, if you insist,” said Ms. Jasprow. “I was just telling Coach Kasperitis here that I find your perspective slightly”—she took a moment to choose the right word—“numbery.”

“Numbery?”

“You know what I mean. This many knots. That many flowers. When I look at these tapestries I tend to see something a little more, well,
magical.”

“Perhaps you should share your viewpoint more fully,” Miss Hagmeyer said icily.

P.W. whispered to Leon, “Let the joust begin.”

“Quiet!” Miss Hagmeyer yelled. “I wish to hear what Ms. Jasprow has to say.”

Everyone froze. Even the coach remained motionless, despite the wad of tobacco wedged against one cheek.

“Go on, Regina,” Miss Hagmeyer goaded. “Educate us on the
magic
of medieval and Renaissance embroidery.”

“Very well.” The art teacher waved her hand around the room. “All of this is
not
about numbers, Phyllis. It’s about adventure. It’s about mystery. It’s about struggle. And, above all, it’s about
passion.”

Miss Hagmeyer gave Regina Jasprow the onceover. “This from a woman who wears place mats!”

“At least I don’t turn my students into garment workers,” Ms. Jasprow snapped. “Tell me, Phyllis, are the kids making quota? I swear, if the school didn’t give me a break on tuition, I’d have yanked Lily-Matisse off your animile assembly line the minute I learned about the stitch counts and tally charts.”

Coach Kasperitis stepped forward. “Ladies,” he said nervously. “I think that’s enough.”

Miss Hagmeyer cut him off. “Butt out, Skip! Ms. Jasprow here is still telling us the
true
meaning of these hangings.”

Ms. Jasprow took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly. She then gazed up at a tapestry that portrayed a slain unicorn and said, “The artists who made this extraordinary work employed their needles and thread the way an alchemist mixes potions—to restore, to resurrect, to transform. They believed that a slain unicorn could be brought back to life through a supernatural occurrence we call
art
but that they, wisely, never named.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Regina!” Miss Hagmeyer
said derisively.
“Supernatural occurrence?
Do you honestly expect my kids to buy that piffle?”

“I do!” the art teacher replied fiercely. “Passion can reanimate the dead,” she insisted. “Passion can make fabric come alive.”

A
fter the unicorn animiles came greyhounds and after the greyhounds came stallions. Once the stallions were corralled in the finished bin, lions had to be made. Then lambs. Then falcons. With each new project, Miss Hagmeyer changed the eyeballs on her cape and moved the spools on the countinghouse tally closer and closer to May.

Naturally she kept dishing out the usual fourth-grade fare—math, English, social studies, science—but none of those subjects pleased her as much as the sight of a completed animile dropping into the finished bin.

Miss Hagmeyer monitored Leon with extra-special attention. She was forever asking him to straighten a crooked limb, thin a bulging belly, redo a substandard seam. And still Leon’s s.p.i.s remained borderline. His promotion to fifth grade was far from guaranteed.

That wasn’t the only thing bugging Leon. Where were all his animiles ending up? This mystery drove Leon and the rest of the class nuts. But try though they did, Miss Hagmeyer’s students never managed to uncover even the tiniest detail about their teacher’s
sideline business. Then one day in April, all that changed.

“I found out where the Hag’s taking our animiles,” Lily-Matisse told P.W. and Leon while swinging on the jungle gym. “Mom overheard her making arrangements in the teachers’ lounge.”

“What kind of arrangements?” Leon asked.

“Shipping arrangements,” said Lily-Matisse. “She was on the phone talking about a shipment of animiles, and she was looking through a black binder that said SOV on the cover.”

“What’s SOV?” P.W. asked.

Lily-Matisse shrugged. “It’s not like Mom could go over and ask her. She hasn’t spoken to the Hag since the Cloisters blowup. But she did check the phone book. All she found was a number for the Society of Ventriloquists.”

“A Society of Vampires would be a better bet,” said Leon.

“Or a School of Victims,” P.W. suggested. “I saw the Hag leaving yesterday with another garbage bag full of animiles. And when I checked the finished bin this morning—”

“It was empty, right?” said Lily-Matisse.

“Bingo,” said P.W.

“Someone’s got to stop her,” said Lily-Matisse.

“Yeah,” said Leon. “Someone should deposit
her
in the finished bin.”

* * *

After recess, Miss Hagmeyer began class by writing two words on the blackboard:

master piece

“Can anyone tell me what this means?” she asked. “You may recall I used the phrase during our visit to the Hall of Unicorns.”

A forest of hands sprouted up.

“Miss Brede?”

“An awesome thing?”

“That’s a start,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “But what’s the
nature
of the awesomeness? What exactly makes a masterpiece a
master
…
piece?”

The forest of hands fell. Miss Hagmeyer had to answer her own question. “A
master piece
is a special object crafted by an apprentice to gain entrance to the guild. I suppose you could call it a medieval final exam.”

The words “final exam” instantly made the whole class antsy.

“Settle down and let me explain,” Miss Hagmeyer said. “Suppose you were a lad living in the Middle Ages, and you were sent off to make wagon wheels. Where would you go?”

Pencils twiddled and feet tapped, but no one spoke.

“You would undertake an apprenticeship with a
master wheelwright,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “And that master would teach you his craft much the way I have attempted to teach you mine. As an apprentice, you would start with the basics. Tend the fire. Fetch buckets of water. Sweep curlicues of wood off the ground. After a year of tending and fetching and sweeping, you might get to shave down the spokes of a wheel. After another year, you might actually begin to
make
wheels. And after making hundreds and hundreds—under the master’s strict supervision—you might be allowed to strike out on your own.”

“Why would you want to strike out?” Henry Lumpkin asked.

P.W. turned to Leon and rolled his eyes.

“Striking out on your own has nothing to do with baseball,” Miss Hagmeyer specified. “It means you would become independent. You would start to work by yourself—and for yourself.”

“Oh,” said Lumpkin.

“But to earn that right you would first need to be declared a master. And how would that happen?”

Silence.

“I’ll ask again. How does an apprentice become a
master?”
Miss Hagmeyer tapped the blackboard with her chalk.

“By making a master piece?” Leon guessed.

“Bravo, Mr. Zeisel,” Miss Hagmeyer replied coolly. “To join the Company of Wheelwrights, an apprentice
would have to make a
piece
worthy of a
master
. In other words … ”

“A master piece,” a few students muttered.

Miss Hagmeyer gave a nod. “Naturally, apprentice wheelwrights weren’t the only ones creating master pieces. Apprentice bookbinders created them, as did apprentice goldsmiths and apprentice tailors. Now does anyone know where I might be going with this?”

Antoinette’s hand darted forward. “You want
us
to make medieval master pieces, don’t you, Miss Hagmeyer?”

“That is correct. Each one of you is to create an animile that confirms your command of the stitches of virtue. An animile that says, ‘I am a nimble-fingered master ready to handle fifth grade.’”

“What do we have to make?” P.W. asked.

“Ah,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “That is a crucial part of the challenge. Masters must have vision. They must create on their own, without guidance.”

“You mean no worksheets?” said Lily-Matisse.

“I mean no worksheets.”

“And no handouts?” said Thomas.

“And no handouts,” Miss Hagmeyer confirmed. “You must design your final animile from scratch, by yourselves. Draw up plans for a goshawk, if that’s what tickles your fancy. Stuff a quail. Piece together a patchwork pony. The choice is up to you. I will not intervene. In fact, I do not want to know about your
projects until they are complete.”

A buzz spread through the room. No worksheets! No handouts! No instructions! No surveillance!

“Just keep one thing in mind,” Miss Hagmeyer said. “Master pieces, both in design and execution, must celebrate the skill of the master.”

“When are they due?” Antoinette asked.

“The day of Carnival,” Miss Hagmeyer answered. “That gives you a little more than one month.”

Leon enjoyed his freedom—for a couple of days. But independence soon became a burden. With the possibility of flunking looming, he couldn’t decide what to make.

Leon thumbed through an illustrated encyclopedia of imaginary medieval beasts. The book was filled with crocophants and dragons and other mythical creatures. It even pictured a rude gargoyle that looked just like the one grimacing on the Cloisters downspout. Yet none of the beasts, gargoyle included, inspired Leon. He asked for suggestions at the hotel.

“What about a llama, Leonito?” Maria said. (Maria had a soft spot for llamas—they recalled her native Peru.)

“Not medievalish enough,” said Leon.

“How about a tiger?” Emma Zeisel proposed. “We’ve got the Amazing Lothar staying with us in July, and he’s bringing his entire act. I could ask him for a
few whiskers. You could add them to your creature.”

“July’s too late,” Leon moaned.

“Don’t torture yourself, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

But Leon did not think of something. And worse, Miss Hagmeyer caught wind of his waffling.

“Have you at least drawn some sketches?” she asked one afternoon.

“No,” Leon admitted. “I can’t seem to come up with
anything.”

“One must exercise one’s fingers to exercise one’s mind,” Miss Hagmeyer said unhelpfully.

“But—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts, Mr. Zeisel. If you can’t complete your master piece
this
year you will have plenty of time to do so
next
. Is my meaning clear?”

“Yes,” said Leon, feeling a terrible sense of despair.

“Now repeat after me. ‘I
will
make Miss Hagmeyer a master piece!’”

“I will make Miss Hagmeyer a master piece.”

Miss Hagmeyer shook her head. “Not good enough. Say it again. Only this time with feeling.”

Leon forced himself to say, “I
will
make Miss Hagmeyer a master piece!”