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Leon and the Champion Chip
Chapter One
The Purple Pouch
The eve ning before the start of fifth grade, Leon Zeisel was feeling unusually chipper. He sat on his bed in Trimore Towers -- the six- story, wedding cake- shaped one- star hotel he called home -- and prepared for school.
Three- ring binder? . . . Check.
No. 2 pencils? . . . Check.
Pens? . . . Check.
Lab notebook? . . . Check.
After making sure all required materials were present and accounted for, Leon reached under his bed and pulled out a large purple pouch containing the unrequired item that was making him so chipper. Keen though he was to peek inside the pouch, Leon resisted temptation. He didn't want to jinx things.
He placed the school supplies -- plus the pouch -- into his backpack, hung the backpack on the doorknob, and pushed the extra item out of his mind.
For a while.
But in the middle of the night, Leon awoke with a start. A single word pulsed through his head.
The word beat quietly at first: pouch! pouch! pouch!
But soon it got louder: pouch! pouch! pouch!
Then louder still: pouch! pouch! pouch!
Leon tried to ignore the chant. He couldn't. Eventually he hopped out of bed and padded over to the door, dragging his blanket behind him. He placed the blanket across the doorjamb, to keep light from seeping into the living room, then grabbed the backpack and switched on the lamp beside his bed.
As soon as his eyes adjusted, Leon unzipped the pack and removed the purple pouch. He took a breath. He squinched his eyes and clucked his tongue, a good-luck ritual performed to ward off worry. (And Leon Zeisel was feeling worried -- and thrilled and antsy and eager.) He loosened the drawstrings of the pouch and extracted two objects: a small glass bottle filled with tarry brown liquid and a nine- inch- long, handmade rag doll. He set the bottle aside and directed his attention to the tiny doll -- a boy dressed in an olive- drab army jacket. The boy had bright orange hair, a surly- looking mouth, and beady eyes that seemed to glower at Leon.
Leon glowered back. "You staring at me, Pumpkinhead?" he whispered sternly.
Pumpkinhead remained silent.
"Wipe that look off your face now, soldier!" Leon commanded in a low voice.
Pumpkinhead failed to obey the order.
"Okay, lamebrain, you asked for it." Leon dispensed a disciplinary noogie to show who was boss. Or rather, he made Pumpkinhead give himself a noogie by bunching up the tiny cloth fingers and grinding them into the figure's soft, stuffing- filled skull.
"And there's more where that came from," Leon promised.
Comforted by the one- way exchange, he began packing up. But as he reached for the bottle of brown liquid, he felt a slight tug on the leg of his pajamas. Suddenly his bed lamp came crashing down. A cord had wrapped around his shin.
Almost at once a voice called out from the living room. "Sweetie? You okay?"
"Fine," Leon managed as he groped about in the dark.
"What are you up to in there?"
Leon could hear the creaky springs of the pull- out couch, a sure sign his mother would soon burst in. "Just or ga niz ing stuff for school," he shot back, fumbling to re- pouch the bottle and rag doll.
The doorknob turned.
"What's blocking the door?" Emma Zeisel demanded.
Leon zipped up his backpack seconds before his mother pushed the blanket aside. She entered the bedroom and flipped on the wall switch.
Sniffing the air, she said, "I smell something fishy. You've been going through that collection of yours, haven't you?"
"No, Mom. It's just back- to- school jitters," Leon improvised.
"Well, jitters or no jitters, this is no time for mischief -- not the night before the start of fifth grade. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good," said Emma Zeisel firmly as she picked up the blanket. "Now get your behind back in bed."
As soon as Leon was under the sheets, his mother gave the blanket a single expert flick. It landed over her son with pinpoint accuracy. Quickly and effortlessly, she tucked in the corners. "There we go," she said, fluffing up the pillow. She gave her son a kiss and returned the bed lamp to the nightstand. "I'd tell you 'Lights out,' but you seem to have taken care of that all by yourself."
"I was just -- "
"Hush now, and get some shut- eye," she scolded gently. "You have to be up by six- thirty to walk Trudy Lite."
"Six-thirty?" Leon whined.
"At the latest, sweetie. You're the one who told Napoleon you wanted to get to school before the first bell. Remember, he's picking you up at a quarter to eight on the dot."
Leon and the Champion Chip. Copyright © by Allen Kurzweil. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
