Leon and the Spitting Image by Allen Kurzweil Read Free Book Online

obey his less-than-nimble fingers.
    He put his sewing away and was about to leave Housekeeping when he remembered the other assignment. “Oh, I almost forgot, Maria. I’ve got to bring a towel to school tomorrow.”
    “A towel? Why? Your teacher planning to give you a bath?”
    Leon laughed. “I sure hope not.”
    Maria handed him a tattered Trimore hand towel just as Emma Zeisel stuck her head in.
    “Sweetie, I’m on break. Frau Haffenreffer has some sandwiches waiting for us.”
    And so with his homework more or less done, Leon ended the day sitting across from his mom in the Trimore Towers coffee shop. He didn’t want to gripe about school, but he couldn’t stop himself. Over PB&J (extra J) and a bag of Zapp’s Kettle-Cooked Mesquite Bar-B-Que Potato Chips (his current favorite), Leon complained about his needle-wielding teacher.
    “Nine months, Mom. I’ll have to deal with the Hag for nine months! That’s two hundred and seventy days!”
    “You’ll be fine,” said Emma Zeisel, sounding more wishful than confident. “And besides, there’s no need to include weekends.”
    “Whatever,” said Leon morosely.
    Depressing thoughts about sewing gnawed at Leon long after he’d finished dinner. They were still with him when he climbed into bed. What had he done to deserve the Hag? Why’d she have to scream at him? Would his entire year be filled with pink scraps of material, terry cloth hand towels, and liver-colored panty hose? Would he be able to handle the work?
    Click-click-click-buzzzz
…
    From the far side of the bedroom wall, the IceQueen started casting her evil spell. All hope of sleep disappeared.
    Grind-groan-rumble-CRASH!
    Leon rose from his bed and nervously paced around his room. The circuit took all of ten seconds to complete. He looked at his stuff. There was the fuzzy picture of his dad, taken a few months before the explosion at the factory. An empty fish tank that had, briefly, contained a piranha left by one of the guests. And of course the map of the world, with the pins marking the taxi drivers Leon had collected.
    After six or seven laps, Leon returned to bed. He tried to muffle the grinding noises of the ice maker by burrowing deep under his covers, but that did next to nothing. The Ice Queen’s mechanical hex lasted most of the night, spurred on by mimes whose loudmouth antics and desire for ice kept Leon awake.

S EVEN
Animiles
    I nspection time!” Miss Hagmeyer announced the next morning. “Fabrics out on the desks where I can see them!”
    She swept through the room like a castle guard, her instructional needle taking the place of a pikestaff. Occasionally she would lower the business end of her pointer onto a piece of cloth that she deemed especially attractive. When she did, her manner would soften.
    “This lacework is delicious, Antoinette. Belgian, is it?”
    “No idea, Miss Hagmeyer,” Antoinette answered. “Nanny told me to grab something from one of the guest bathrooms. She could care less what I took.”
    “You mean ‘couldn’t.’ The proper expression is
couldn’t
care less—Mr. Lumpkin!” Miss Hagmeyer’s mood changed abruptly. “Remove that pillowcase from your head this instant!”
    “Seems like an improvement to me,” Leon said aloud, before he could stop himself.
    “That’s enough out of you, Mr. Zeisel,” Miss Hagmeyer scolded.
    Lumpkin removed his pillowcase, turned, andgave Leon a look that made him instantly regret his quip.
    Miss Hagmeyer continued her rounds. “Gorgeous piece of silk, Phya Winit,” she cooed, rubbing his cloth between thumb and index finger.
    “My dad told me silk comes from boiled worms!” P.W. said enthusiastically.
    “Your father is correct—though technically it’s a caterpillar, not a worm, that gets boiled.”
    Miss Hagmeyer next stopped at Lily-Matisse’s desk. She reached for a piece of cotton tie-dyed in vibrant shades of purple, green, and yellow. “Did you make this, or did your mother?”
    “My mom