Free Leon and the Spitting Image by Allen Kurzweil Page A

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 befrank, 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 motorskills. 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