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eighteen students. Each student is required to make two animiles. If only thirty-five animiles have been handed in, how many students have
failed
to complete their assignments?”
    Leon took a nervous swallow. He knew the answer without doing the math.
    “Sorry, Miss Hagmeyer. If it’s about my dinosaur—”
    “Sorry will not do,” she said harshly. “You need to pick up your pace. Perhaps my countinghouse tally will spur you on. Tallies were highly effective during the Middle Ages.”
    Even before he learned the nature and function of the countinghouse tally, Leon sensed he wouldn’t like it.
    Miss Hagmeyer confirmed his prediction later the same day.
    “I want everyone to pick a medieval title,” she announced just before recess. “Duke, prince, lady … the choice of title is up to you. Write it down, along with your name, on the gummed labels I’m handing out.”
    While the class worked on their labels, MissHagmeyer placed an empty wooden spool on each student’s desk. “Attach your labels to your spools, then pass them up,” she said.

    Once she had collected the labeled spools, she threaded them onto eighteen pieces of orange yarn and strung the yarn across a sturdy sheet of poster board. The handmade tally allowed the spools to move back and forth like beads on an abacus.
    Top to bottom the tally went from QUEEN ANTOINETTE (Brede) to SIR LEON (Zeisel), stopping along the way to register MASTER DHABANANDANA, LADY LILY-MATISSE, LORD LUMPKIN, PRINCE WARCHOWSKI, and the rest of the class.
    On the left-hand side of the chart Miss Hagmeyer wrote SEPTEMBER. On the right-hand side she wrote MAY.
    “This countinghouse tally,” she said, “will serve as an animile timeline. Nine months of school, nine animiles. Every time you finish a monthly project, I will push your spool one space to the right.”

    Leon recognized the evil implications of the chart instantly. It was a public record of everyone’s standing. It advertised who was ahead and—much more worrisome—who was behind.
    “Mr. Zeisel? Could you stay for a moment,” Miss Hagmeyer said when the recess bell rang and the class stampeded toward the door. “When might we be able to advance Sir Leon?” she asked.
    “Soon, I hope,” came the woeful reply.
    “Dinosaurs are supposed to help us
study
eons—not
take
them. You should be on to your
third
animile by now. Everyone else is.”
    “I
know
, Miss Hagmeyer,” Leon said, his voice quavering. “It’s just I can’t seem to get the seams tight.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let me see.”
    Leon retrieved his unfinished diplocaulus and offered it up for inspection. Miss Hagmeyer took a measurement. The results prompted her to shake her head. “You’re
still
averaging two s.p.i.,” she said disapprovingly.
    Leon responded with a hopeless shrug.
    “Are you getting enough sleep, Mr. Zeisel?”
    “I think so.”
    “Maybe you should stay in during recess and work on your technique.”
    “What if I practice at home?” Leon said desperately.
    Miss Hagmeyer mulled over the counterproposal.“I suppose we can try that. But remember, I want these seams tightened up.”
    “Oh, they will be,” said Leon. “I promise.”
    He headed for the playground before Miss Hagmeyer could change her mind. As usual, P.W. and Lily-Matisse were perched on the jungle gym.
    “Why’d she keep you back?” Lily-Matisse asked. She was hanging upside down by her knees.
    “Guess,” said Leon glumly.
    “Your dinosaur?”
    “Yup,” said Leon, pulling himself up to the highest crossbar.
    “What do you think about the medieval tally?” P.W. asked him.
    “L-A-M-E,” said Leon.
    “I’ll tell you what
I
think is lame,” Lily-Matisse said. “The way the Hag holds on to what we make.”
    Leon swung down. “I got my mom to ask about that at Parents’ Night. The Hag refused to answer. Probably she’s keeping the animiles to monitor our progress.”
    “What makes you think she’s
keeping
them?” said