few more pastries before making his way to where the teachers were seated.
“No, thank you,” Miss Hagmeyer said, barely looking up from her embroidery. “I brought my cottage cheese.”
Regina Jasprow and Coach Kasperitis weren’t sorestrained. They each took one. The driver of the bus, Mr. Groot (the same fellow who taught wood shop and served as the school photographer) would also have accepted a napoleon if Miss Hagmeyer hadn’t intervened.
“A four-ounce pastry and a four-ton bus should not be handled at the same time, Mr. Groot. Satisfy your sweet tooth
after
we have parked. And with regards to the matter of safety, return to your seat at once, Mr. Zeisel.”
On his way back, Leon hit a roadblock.
“Hey, Sir Panty Hose,” said Henry Lumpkin. “You skipped me.”
Leon tried to push through the muscled olive drab arm that now doubled as a tollgate, but he couldn’t get by. Lumpkin repositioned his hand on Leon’s shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze.
“Would thouest like to wear those desserts like you wore the Hag’s underwear?” Lumpkin said.
Leon tried to pull away.
“What’s going on back there?” Miss Hagmeyer asked.
“Nothing, Miss Hagmeyer!” Leon and Lumpkin both cried.
“Back in your seats,” she admonished.
Lumpkin refused to let go. “So what’ll it be?” he said in a dark, low voice.
Even with his bladed birthday ring, Leon knew he was no match for Henry Lumpkin.
“Now, Mr. Zeisel!” Miss Hagmeyer commanded.
“Here, help yourself,” said Leon, suppressing the impulse to shmoosh a napoleon straight into Lumpkin’s face.
It was a picture-perfect November day when the bus pulled into the parking lot of the Cloisters. A crisp breeze gave the air a pungent odor of wrinkled apples. With Lumpkin temporarily bribed, Leon felt a brief sense of calm—until Antoinette started showing off, calling out architectural terms that she had plundered from the
Medieval Reader
.
“Turret! I see a turret!” she squealed. “And those are
definitely
crenels. And look! One, two, three …
four
loopholes!”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll find that dungeon I was hoping for,” said P.W.
“And if we’re really lucky,” said Leon, “it’ll have
two
empty cells. One for her highness and one for Lord Lumpkin.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the Hag?” said Lily-Matisse.
“Excellent point,” said Leon. “Make it three cells.”
At the museum ticket desk, Miss Hagmeyer quickly remedied the alphabetical chaos she had endured during the bus ride.
“Okay, pay attention,” she said. “A through Gsstay with me. Coach Kasperitis will take the H through Ns. Ms. Jasprow will monitor the rest of you rapscallions. We regroup at the tapestries in exactly one hour. Do not be late.”
Leon was less than thrilled that his last name separated him from Lily-Matisse and P.W., but at least he hadn’t gotten stuck with Miss Hagmeyer. Leading the O through Zs into the courtyard, Regina Jasprow explained to her charges how the museum’s ancient stone buildings had been shipped from France and Italy. “Every brick, every stone, every roof tile was numbered in white chalk,” she said breathlessly. “If you think your Lego constructions are complicated, try pulling apart a medieval church, complete with flying buttresses. Then try wrapping it up, sending it across the ocean, unwrapping it, and snapping it back together!”
At an archway, she stuck out her tongue at a carved stone monster that was making a similarly rude gesture. “See that gargoyle? What do you think caused the black stains on its teeth?”
“Didn’t floss enough?” said Thomas Warchowski.
“Nice try.”
“Chewed too much tobacco, like the coach?” Leon offered.
“Getting warmer,” said Ms. Jasprow. “The gargoyle did do a lot of spitting in its time. Any guesses what it spat?”
“Boiling oil?”
“No, that’s
too
warm,” Ms. Jasprow said. “Actually, it spouted harmless rainwater. But if
“No, thank you,” Miss Hagmeyer said, barely looking up from her embroidery. “I brought my cottage cheese.”
Regina Jasprow and Coach Kasperitis weren’t sorestrained. They each took one. The driver of the bus, Mr. Groot (the same fellow who taught wood shop and served as the school photographer) would also have accepted a napoleon if Miss Hagmeyer hadn’t intervened.
“A four-ounce pastry and a four-ton bus should not be handled at the same time, Mr. Groot. Satisfy your sweet tooth
after
we have parked. And with regards to the matter of safety, return to your seat at once, Mr. Zeisel.”
On his way back, Leon hit a roadblock.
“Hey, Sir Panty Hose,” said Henry Lumpkin. “You skipped me.”
Leon tried to push through the muscled olive drab arm that now doubled as a tollgate, but he couldn’t get by. Lumpkin repositioned his hand on Leon’s shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze.
“Would thouest like to wear those desserts like you wore the Hag’s underwear?” Lumpkin said.
Leon tried to pull away.
“What’s going on back there?” Miss Hagmeyer asked.
“Nothing, Miss Hagmeyer!” Leon and Lumpkin both cried.
“Back in your seats,” she admonished.
Lumpkin refused to let go. “So what’ll it be?” he said in a dark, low voice.
Even with his bladed birthday ring, Leon knew he was no match for Henry Lumpkin.
“Now, Mr. Zeisel!” Miss Hagmeyer commanded.
“Here, help yourself,” said Leon, suppressing the impulse to shmoosh a napoleon straight into Lumpkin’s face.
It was a picture-perfect November day when the bus pulled into the parking lot of the Cloisters. A crisp breeze gave the air a pungent odor of wrinkled apples. With Lumpkin temporarily bribed, Leon felt a brief sense of calm—until Antoinette started showing off, calling out architectural terms that she had plundered from the
Medieval Reader
.
“Turret! I see a turret!” she squealed. “And those are
definitely
crenels. And look! One, two, three …
four
loopholes!”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll find that dungeon I was hoping for,” said P.W.
“And if we’re really lucky,” said Leon, “it’ll have
two
empty cells. One for her highness and one for Lord Lumpkin.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the Hag?” said Lily-Matisse.
“Excellent point,” said Leon. “Make it three cells.”
At the museum ticket desk, Miss Hagmeyer quickly remedied the alphabetical chaos she had endured during the bus ride.
“Okay, pay attention,” she said. “A through Gsstay with me. Coach Kasperitis will take the H through Ns. Ms. Jasprow will monitor the rest of you rapscallions. We regroup at the tapestries in exactly one hour. Do not be late.”
Leon was less than thrilled that his last name separated him from Lily-Matisse and P.W., but at least he hadn’t gotten stuck with Miss Hagmeyer. Leading the O through Zs into the courtyard, Regina Jasprow explained to her charges how the museum’s ancient stone buildings had been shipped from France and Italy. “Every brick, every stone, every roof tile was numbered in white chalk,” she said breathlessly. “If you think your Lego constructions are complicated, try pulling apart a medieval church, complete with flying buttresses. Then try wrapping it up, sending it across the ocean, unwrapping it, and snapping it back together!”
At an archway, she stuck out her tongue at a carved stone monster that was making a similarly rude gesture. “See that gargoyle? What do you think caused the black stains on its teeth?”
“Didn’t floss enough?” said Thomas Warchowski.
“Nice try.”
“Chewed too much tobacco, like the coach?” Leon offered.
“Getting warmer,” said Ms. Jasprow. “The gargoyle did do a lot of spitting in its time. Any guesses what it spat?”
“Boiling oil?”
“No, that’s
too
warm,” Ms. Jasprow said. “Actually, it spouted harmless rainwater. But if
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