Too Much Witch

by Nicki Greenberg

  As if I would badger Phoebe! I babbled that if I could help in any way I’d be willing to try, but MM rolled her eyes and said I’d done more than enough.

  Gulp.

  Eventually she asked me to please let her out of the door. I wriggled sideways and MM stalked past without even looking at me. Then, just before the door closed, she stuck her head back in and said, ‘And Zelda? Get rid of that uncouth language on your arm. Or at least correct the spelling.’

  Cringe.

  Friday 25 April

  No school today. It’s Anzac Day, so I’m baking Anzac biscuits in memory of Great-granny Esmeralda and the other witches who worked as battlefield nurses. According to Great-granny, everyone knew they were witches but pretended not to, because they were needed to look after the soldiers. She used to say that she hoped I wouldn’t have to hide my witchhood like she did. But I guess things haven’t changed quite as much as she hoped.

  Friday, 12 noon

  Barnaby ate all my Anzac biscuits. Sigh.

  Saturday 26 April

  The gang went out for dinner at Pixies tonight; my first time back there since my accident. When Amanita came to pick me up, she took one look at my butchered sleeve-hole and said that she wasn’t going anywhere with me dressed like a chewed-up rag doll. She tossed off a repair spell with a snap of her fingers, then insisted on tidying up the rest of my mangled outfits before we left. But she refused to clean up my Arm of Shame. She said it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the others of a good laugh.

  When they’d all had their giggle (and made me show the waiter as well), Jessamyn asked if she could have a go at zapping the writing away. She’s been trying to build up her powers, so she’s keen for any opportunity to practise, especially when it’s a full moon. She did it in one attempt, which made me feel like even more of a failure. Jessamyn’s magic has always been so wispy, and now she’s better than I am. I know I should be pleased for her, but I’m feeling a bit hopeless, what with my own powers sputtering and flaring like a faulty light bulb.

  Briony tried to reassure me. She said that everything would probably settle down once my cast comes off. I’m not so sure. What if the great big metal screw in my elbow is disrupting the flow of magic? Nobody really understands how this stuff works, least of all Ordinary doctors. Maybe the surgeon cut something important while he was poking around in there. Maybe it won’t grow back…

  Sunday 27 April

  Well, this is all I need. Mother is coming to school!

  She rang me just now, absolutely bursting with self-importance. Apparently MM called her today, ‘desperate’ for her assistance. She wants Mother to come in and have a go at unhexing Principal B. MM and Phoebe have tried and tried, but there’s nothing more they can do without actually revealing themselves as witches. So now MM wants to ‘bring in an expert’ to sort things out ‘quietly and discreetly’.

  Quietly and discreetly?? My mother doesn’t even know the meaning of the words! Surely MM could see that, the minute the two of them met at the hospital? This whole thing spells TROUBLE.

  Monday 28 April

  Obviously Mother’s visit was a disaster.

  A disaster for me, I mean. I don’t know what she’s doing to Principal B. But the poor guy might never recover from the experience of Mother in action.

  She wanted to come in and meet my class before her ‘consultation’ with Principal B. I knew it was a bad idea. But some little part of me – a very foolish part – wanted her to see me up there in front of my class. To see how they like and respect me. To see what a good teacher I am.

  Ha ha ha.

  As soon as I’d introduced her, Mother cried, ‘So these are the little gruesomes! Grizelda’s told me so much about you!’

  How utterly mortifying. I haven’t told Mother a single thing about my class! Of course I haven’t. And I never call them ‘little gruesomes’, Amanita does! But the kids didn’t even want to hear my blither of denials – they were all laughing too hard at my name. For the rest of the day it was I’ve finished my worksheet, Grizelda. Can I go to the toilet, Grizelda? When’s your mum coming back, Grizelda?

  Never. My mother is never coming back. Not after what she did next.

  The kids were squawking and yapping and Grizelda-ing, when Mother called out, ‘Who likes chocolate?’ The noise stopped dead and twenty eager hands shot up in the air. Then, ‘Who brought chocolate in their lunch today?’ Twenty hands sank down again. Mother looked surprised. ‘Really? Are you sure? I can definitely smell chocolate. Maybe you should check…’

  The kids caught on right away. They rushed for their lockers and, sure enough, when they looked into their lunch boxes, every sandwich, every apple and orange and handful of crackers had turned to chocolate. And not just plain chocolate, either.

  The big show-off had given them the exciting kind full of popping candy and honeycomb chunks and jelly bursts. They were ecstatic. They cheered and whooped and started gobbling down the goodies like a bunch of ravenous seagulls. Mother beamed and took a bow.

  I was furious. I’ve told the class that magic isn’t for playing around with, and now here comes my mother, pulling stunts for them like a party magician, filling them up with sugar and wild expectations, and then leaving me to deal with the consequences.

  My heart was hammering and my elbow was throbbing. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I knew that if I didn’t get myself back under control quickly, something really bad might happen. Nobody was paying any attention to me at all, so I closed my eyes and tried to slow my body down with some big deep breaths.

  Then I heard Mother barking out my name.

  I opened my eyes and almost fell over with shock: my entire class was floating in the air like a bunch of chocolate-smeared helium balloons. I gaped at them, frozen with astonishment, and they started to sink back down. Until I took another big breath in, and up they all went again.

  I was utterly mesmerised by my own trick. Breathe out, and the children began to drift down. Breathe in, and they floated up even higher than before. A few more breaths, and they were hammering on the ceiling panels with their fists, cheering me on.

  Mother frowned and clucked her tongue at me as if I were the irresponsible one, and said, ‘Really, Grizelda! There’s no need to show off. Do you think that Ms Martin would approve of this circus?’

  The nerve of her! I gave such a huff of outrage, I almost dropped the whole class on the floor.

  Mother flounced out and left me with the wreckage. The kids were all pounding on their desks, yelling ‘WE WANT TO FLY! WE WANT TO FLY!’ I refused, of course. But that was the end of any kind of productive work for the rest of the day. And probably for the rest of the year.

  Thanks a million, Mother.

  Tuesday 29 April

  Mother must be feeling quite remorseful about what she did with my class yesterday. She didn’t come home last night, and this afternoon both she and her suitcase were gone. But she’d run a tidy spell over the place, and left me a lasagne in the fridge – and a magnificent bunch of roses on the table as well. A dozen perfect, long-stemmed Ruby Flames. My absolute favourite. They smell like pure joy.

  I must say, it’s very out of character for Mother. She usually gives me boring, practical stuff like bladderwort or shepherd’s breath. Definitely not roses, which, as she loves to remind me, fall into the same category as glitter, teddy bears, and dogs, i.e., ‘Useless Things That Ordinaries Like’. Mother is terrible at saying sorry, but if she’s spending actual money on roses, I guess I should take that as an apology.

  The really big news from today is that Mother cured Principal B of his deadly child-allergy. I don’t know how MM persuaded him to let some strange witch come in and throw spells at him (especially a witch who is related to me) but the hex is definitely gone. I saw him walk across the yard at recess, right through a crowd of kids. He did get bonked on the head by a soccer ball – he’s obviously out of practice at ducking playground projectiles – but otherwise he was perfectly fine.
Maybe now he can start doing some work for a change.

  I’m still mopping up the damage from Mother’s performance yesterday. The class begged me to make them fly again, and when I said no to that, Harry whined that I could ‘at least’ give them a treat for morning snack ‘like your mum did’. I snapped back, ‘My mother has apologised for her irresponsible display yesterday. She shouldn’t have thrown her magic around in class, and neither should I. It won’t be happening again, so you can all stop asking right now.’ There were grumbles all round, and I heard Leila mutter, ‘You’re even meaner than Mr Bullen.’

  It was the right thing to do, though. I need to be the responsible one here. Plus, I’ve got Phoebe to think about. Mother set her an absolutely terrible example yesterday. I’ve got to show her how a witch with dignity behaves.

  Wednesday 30 April

  There is a weird smell in my classroom. I’m sure it wasn’t there yesterday, but this morning it whacked me right in the nose like a stinky softball. I can’t even blame the kids; I got to school early to do a bit of preparation (it’s impossible to concentrate at home with Barnaby gagging and moaning about my ‘nauseating’ roses) and there was no one in the classroom but me. It wasn’t like the usual classroom fug of farts and sweat and sandwich-breath, anyway. It was more of an animal smell, with a bitter, burnt twist that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  None of the kids seemed to notice it, but then, kids do have an incredible tolerance for stinky stuff. At lunchtime I asked Ben to come in and see if he could work out where the odour was coming from. He said that all classrooms smell revolting, that’s why he became a librarian instead of a teacher. But, weirdly enough, he couldn’t detect anything ‘worse than usual’ in my room either.

  By the end of the day I couldn’t stand it. As soon as the class had gone, I emptied the supply cupboard, looked behind the filing cabinets with a torch and went through every single locker. There were sandwich crusts and apple cores and mouldy peach stones galore, but nothing really putrid. I did get one surprise, though: my old friend Jeremy! He was hiding at the back of Zinnia’s locker, just as gruesomely lifelike as ever. When I reached into the locker and felt those hairy rubber legs touch my fingertips, I squealed like a gibbon and whacked my head on the shelf above. Just as well nobody saw me.

  Maybe I can get a laugh from the class with Jeremy tomorrow. They all thought he was hilarious last term. I don’t have to toss spells about, or play up to them with sweets for lunch like some people. I can still be a fun teacher and do the right thing.

  Thursday 1 May

  I did not do the right thing. I did exactly the wrong thing. I’m no better than Mother. In fact, I’m worse. Because I did it out of desperation, like a pathetic clown.

  When I pulled Jeremy out of my pocket and showed him to the class, all I got were mutters and bored sighs. They want magic. Not a dusty toy spider.

  I felt like a fool, standing up there with a rubber spider in my hand, begging for applause. And I guess I thought that one tiny spell couldn’t hurt. Nothing over-the-top, just a little kinetic spell to make Jeremy’s legs wiggle, so it would look like he was dancing on my hand. I wasn’t even sure it would work. But I got a whole lot more than I’d bargained for.

  Jeremy didn’t just wiggle. He sprang into motion and ran straight up my arm (ugh!), up the side of my neck (shudder!), and onto the top of my head. I could feel his feet twitching and scratching at my scalp and pulling at my hair, and my whole body recoiled. I had to clench my teeth and grab onto the desk so that I wouldn’t start thrashing my head and roaring like a lion with a scorpion caught in its mane. I closed my eyes and sucked in a big deep breath… completely forgetting what happened last time I did that.

  Whoosh. Up flew the kids. There was a great thundering cheer, and then they were somersaulting and laughing and ricocheting off the ceiling. Sweet Amelia swooped over me and flicked Jeremy off my head with a ruler, and he fell to the floor, a lifeless bit of rubber again. I sank down into my chair, still trembling, while the kids squealed with delight and cavorted in the air. And I let them. For about five minutes, I was the world’s coolest teacher.

  Or, more accurately, the world’s most recklessly foolish teacher. If MM had walked past – or Principal B! – I would have been in a truckload of trouble. And rightly so. What I did was dangerous. I took a ridiculous risk with those kids, playing with magic that I can’t fully control.

  Time to get a grip, Zelda. You CANNOT do ANYTHING like that again.

  Friday 2 May

  I wish I could be a bit more like Barnaby sometimes. He doesn’t have trouble saying NO to anything.

  But, as Boss Cat keeps reminding me, I’m not nearly tough enough with my class.

  The minute I walked into the room today, they were at me. Make us fly! Go on! Just for five minutes! What if we do all our maths before recess? Pleeeeeeeease!

  I did say no. But unfortunately it wasn’t the right kind of ‘no’. Instead of refusing flat out to do ANY more magic for them EVER, I told them a weaselly lie. I said my arm really hurt after all that power galloping through it yesterday, and that I couldn’t do any more spells right now in case I made it worse.

  They asked me for a Barnaby story instead, so I told them about the time he used my vacuum cleaner to suck all the goldfish out of next door’s ornamental pond. Not content with destroying my vac, he then tried to cook the stolen fish in my toaster, and broke that too. Now that I think about it, the only appliance Barnaby hasn’t ruined is the fridge.

  Oops – better go; Briony’s having the gang over for dinner, and Melvin is making us a seafood paella. I asked Barnaby if he’d like to come along, and he said no way, he’d rather swallow the mouldy zucchini in the bottom of the fridge than eat anything cooked by ‘that drippy excuse for a cat’.

  Well, it’s Barnaby’s loss. Everything that Melvin makes tastes like it came out of a super-fancy restaurant. And he does the dishes afterwards. He’s definitely never blown up a vac or stuck a goldfish in the toaster. Briony is so lucky.

  Friday, 10.40pm

  BARNABY!!!

  That mangy mousetrap destroyed my roses! I came home and found my beautiful bouquet in ruins – the vase tipped over, water all through the carpet, and the whole place strewn with squashed petals. Naturally the little beast is nowhere to be seen.

  Why is he so horrible? I know he hates roses, but couldn’t he have let me enjoy them for just a few more days? I put up with all the disgusting things that he drags in and leaves around the house!

  Well, he can clean up the mess. I’m going to bed.

  Saturday 3 May

  Barnaby has shut himself in the kitchen and is refusing to let me in. I keep knocking on the door and telling him that I didn’t do it on purpose, but he won’t even speak to me.

  It’s his own fault, anyway. I found him scowling on the end of my bed this morning, nursing his paw. He’d stepped on a rose thorn when he came in last night, and, would you believe, the little beast had the gall to blame me for ‘leaving those filthy flowers all over the place’!

  I filled my lungs with indignation, ready to give him a good dose of how-dare-you, and – WHAM! – Barnaby shot straight up in the air like a champagne cork and slammed into the ceiling. He stayed there, spread out against the plaster in a big black splat while I goggled in horror at what I’d done. Then I felt the air rush out of me, and – thud – he dropped flat onto the floor. Really flat. I thought I’d killed him. My own cat, dead, over a silly bunch of roses.

  There was an awful silence. Then the crumpled mess of fur opened one angry eye. I rushed over to pick him up, but he stuck out a warning claw and hissed at me to back off. Barnaby is very, very touchy about not landing on his feet.

  Three hours later, I am still very much unforgiven. I can hear him ransacking the fridge, while I’m stuck out here with nothing to eat except soggy rose petals.

  Sunday 4 May

  Only one more day until my cast comes off ! Hooray!

  H
ow shall I celebrate? Hmmm…Perhaps I’ll tie my own shoes! Eat with a fork AND a knife. Ooh, and pull up my pants without falling over! Ah, the glorious luxury of two moveable arms!

  I’m even looking forward to cleaning up this rat-hole of an apartment. The carpet smells of old vase-water and the kitchen looks like it’s been raided by pirates. I’m not expecting any help from Captain Cat; he’s still in an oceanic sulk, occupying my bed and demanding pizza. I’ve called up and ordered a family-size Napoletana with no olives and extra anchovies. And resigned myself to sleeping on the couch again tonight. I did nearly flatten him, after all.

  I am a bit nervous about what else might happen when my cast comes off. That cat-splat blowout was scary – and that was with the arm bound up in plaster. What kind of force might it unleash once it’s waving around unrestrained? What if I can’t control it at all? I’ll have to ask the doctor tomorrow. There might be some way to dampen these…episodes down.

  Monday 5 May

  My cast is off. But I don’t feel like celebrating. I’ve got a weird, wonky arm. And the doctor was awful.

  First I had an x-ray. The x-ray technician said that everything looked marvellous, and no wonder: my surgeon, Mr Sharkey, was ‘the best in the bone business’.

  Then the big fish himself came in. Mr Sharkey was dressed for golf, in pink-and-mustard checked trousers and a bright green jumper. He didn’t even say hello. Just glanced at the x-rays and directed his assistant to cut the plaster off.

  Nobody warned me about what would be inside. A shrivelled, pale, clammy thing, like a raw chicken wing. Ugh! My brain couldn’t actually comprehend that this alien limb belonged to me. When it moved, I almost screamed.