by Lexi Connor
George pointed to the steaming tray of meat loaf to tell the lunch lady what he wanted. “Spell ‘carbohydrate,’” he told B.
B checked out the cardboard pizza squares. She wished the cafeteria served real food. “C-A-R-B-O-H-Y-D-R-A-T-E,” B said proudly. “Beat that.”
“Umm, Mrs. Gillet? I changed my mind,” George said. “I’ll have some of that spaghetti.”
The lunch lady stared at George. She looked baffled underneath her white paper cap. “Spaghetti?”
“Right there,” George said, pointing to a steaming pan full of spaghetti with huge meatballs, like a real Italian restaurant.
Mrs. Gillet shook her head and reached for a new scooper. “Marge,” she called over her shoulder, “you forgot to put ‘spaghetti’ on the menu board this morning.”
B didn’t hear Marge’s reply. She was trying to decide between a stale brownie or gloopy pudding on the dessert tray. “Quiz me again.”
“Um … raspberry.”
B closed her eyes to picture the word. Rasp-berry, that was her trick. A raspy berry, prickly with tiny seeds.
“R-A-S-P-B-E-R-R-Y,” she said. “Got it right, didn’t I?”
George didn’t answer. He stood stock-still, staring at a cookie in his hand.
“B, hon,” Mrs. Gillet distracted her. “Have you decided what you want to eat?”
B pointed at George. “Sorry, Mrs. G. The same as him.” She reached for a milk, then elbowed George. “What’s gotten into you?”
George held out the cookie. “I could swear this had an Enchanted Chocolate Square in the middle of it a minute ago,” he said. “But now it’s got a jelly filling or something.”
“Looks good,” B said. “My mom makes something like that for parties.”
They took their trays to the cash register and swiped their lunch cards. They found empty seats near the window and sat down to eat. Outside on the athletic field, the eighth-grade boys’ gym class was playing soccer.
“So, you really want to win this spelling bee, huh?” George said. “All this practice spelling.”
“Are you kidding? I tried to get Mom and Dad to let me go see the Black Cats last year, but by the time I’d saved up my allowance money, the tickets were long gone.”
George twirled spaghetti onto his fork. “Nobody’s gonna win tickets if Mr. Bishop doesn’t find out who took them.”
“I don’t see how he could,” B said. “He’s new, he doesn’t know people.” She cut her meatball in half. “I think it’s up to us. We’re the ones who have it figured out.”
George examined his cookie. “What is this jelly stuff? Strawberry?”
“Does it matter?” B asked. “C’mon, hit me with some more words. You haven’t stumped me yet. And no more food words.”
George nibbled his cookie. “Okay,” he said. “Desert.”
B pictured the word in her mind, just to make sure. “Dessert” had two “s”’s, for “soft” and “silky.” Like a mousse, a two-“s” dessert. “Desert,” as in the Sahara, had only one “s.”
She took a breath. A tall blond eighth-grader scored a long-shot goal, and the commotion outside caught her eye. The sun beating down on the grass made the green so brilliant, it dazzled her. “Desert. D-E-S-E-R-T.”
George stuffed the rest of his cookie into his mouth, and slurped his milk. “Bravo.”
B pretended to bow.
Just then, they heard a loud beeping horn sounding outside. They looked up to see a huge dump truck backing up right onto the midline of the soccer field. The gym teacher blew his whistle and ran toward the truck, his arms waving.
“First fire trucks, now dump trucks,” B said. “What a day!”
Most of the kids in the cafeteria were clustered around the windows now.
George stood up to get a better view. “Look what they’re doing, B,” he said, his voice incredulous. “They’re dumping sand right onto the soccer field!”
B stood on tiptoe. “The truck must be from that construction site over there,” she said, pointing to some heavy equipment farther down the road.
“Coach is having a fit,” George said. Then he snorted with laughter. “Did you realize? You just spelled ‘desert,'” he said. “And now we have a desert of our own.”
B halted. She stared at George.
She’d spelled “desert,” and then a desert appeared?
Uh-oh.
B stared at the sand spilling from the dump truck.
Spelling?
It couldn’t be! Spells were couplets. Rhymes.
Holy cats, she’d spelled tons of words since her birthday. Hadn’t she?
A few minutes ago she’d spelled “carbohydrate,” and … she gulped. Spaghetti had appeared. Spaghetti Mrs. Gillet was not expecting. And what about George’s mysterious cookie?
“Magic,” she whispered. Had it finally happened?
B had never heard of a witch whose powers worked that way. Was it even allowed?
She had made things happen just by spelling words.
B had her magic at last!
Chapter 10
B tried to control herself. But she couldn’t help it. Her magic had finally arrived. First her toes started to tingle. Then her body wiggled. She broke out into her happy dance.
“What do you call that?” George said, mimicking her. “The Cauldron Boogie?”
B stopped midboogie. “What?”
“That little happy dance you do,” George said, demonstrating, holding both fists together out in front of his chest, then swinging them round and round. “You look like a hip-hop witch stirring a cauldron.”
B stammered and spluttered. “That’s just silly.” But she stopped dancing just in case.
Her elation faded as thoughts tumbled over each other. She had never heard of anyone casting spells without rhyming. What did it mean? Would her parents be happy that she had her magic, or did it mean she was some sort of freak?
George crumpled his empty milk carton and lobbed it into a nearby trash can. “What’s made you so happy?”
Despite her worries, B couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. “Oh, nothing.”
“No fair,” George said. “I always tell you my jokes. Want a Mint Fizz?”
“We already had cookies,” she reminded him, then popped a Mint Fizz in her mouth. But she nearly choked when she saw Jason dumping his tray.
Jason paused at the cafeteria door to check if anyone was watching and slipped outside, clutching his backpack.
“C’mon! Let’s not let him out of our sights,” B said, grabbing her tray with one hand and George’s arm with the other. “Those tickets are in his backpack. I’m sure of it.”
“If he stole the Black Cats tickets,” George asked, “does that make him a cat burglar?”
“Good one!” B laughed. “Come on, let’s go!”
B and George ditched their trays and ran out of the cafeteria. They hurried after Jason, into the deserted hallway, trying to keep their footfalls soft and quiet on the hard tile floor. They stopped at each corner like secret agents, peering around the wall in search of Jason, then tiptoeing to the next turn.
They spotted Jason crouching in front of his locker.
“We’ve got to get closer,” B said.
“I know!” George said. “We could disguise ourselves as bushes —”
But just then, the bell rang. Students flooded the hall, creating a barricade between them and Jason’s locker.
Jason shut his backpack inside his locker and stood up.
“Darn!” B said. “We were so close!” She sighed. “C’mon, let’s go to gym. We’ll think of something.” She made a quick mental note of which locker was his: fourth one to the left of the drinking fountain that usually blasted you in the eye.
“Look on the bright side,” George said. “The tickets, if they’re in his backpack, aren’t going anywhere for the next period.”
“Maybe I can sneak out to the bathroom during gym and get into his locker,” B mused.
So much for sneaking to Jason’s locker.
“However,” Mr. Lyons went on, his face flushed with anger, “some gravel company apparently got us confused with a sandbox today, and they’ve dumped a couple tons of sand onto our playing field!”
B bit her lip. She felt a little bit guilty. But I wasn’t trying to ruin the soccer field. I’ll have to be more careful.
“So today, it’s dodgeball, troops,” Mr. Lyons said. “Split up into two teams. Don’t cross the center line. Four balls in play. To the death!”
Half the class cheered. The other half groaned.
George nudged B. “Why not make your move now and dodge the dodge altogether?”
“Great idea,” B said. Those big rubber balls could sting, after all.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” she asked.
“Sure, sure,” said Mr. Lyons, waving at the kids to line up for the game. She took the bathroom pass down from its peg on the wall. She’d bet Mr. Lyons wouldn’t even remember she’d left, he was so caught up in the dodgeball frenzy. Perfect.
She raced through the first hall as fast as she could without making much noise, creeping up around the corners and watching both ways. Silly, she thought, laughing at herself. You don’t need to sneak. You’ve got a hall pass! Good thing, too, because the next hall, the long artery that ran from one length of the building to the other, had several teachers in it. B slowed her pace and nodded politely at them.
She slipped into the girls’ bathroom, as they would expect her to. She’d wait until they’d walked away. After testing all the taps, she decided it was safe to take a peek. The coast was clear and she was off on soft feet once more until she arrived at Jason’s locker. Fourth one to the left of the squirting drinking fountain.
She pulled the latch. Locked, of course. Some kids left theirs ready to reopen easily, but not Jason. That was no surprise. He didn’t trust anyone. Sneaks never did.
Magic would help, if she really had any. It was time to test it. She looked both ways to make sure no one was there to watch. What to spell? She wasn’t sure. She pointed at Jason’s locker, just in case that would help. “O-P-E-N,” she said.
With a terrific squeal and a bang, the doors to fifty lockers on either side wrenched open and clanged against the locker frames. Every locker in the hall, except Jason’s.
B stared at the open lockers. They looked like gaping mouths, as flabbergasted as she was.
It worked! B caught herself doing her Cauldron Boogie. But only for a millisecond, because astonished voices were drifting out from the classrooms. The noise! B realized, with a panic, that she only had seconds to fix this problem before half a dozen teachers appeared. They’d be sure to ask a few pointed questions about how all the lockers in the hall could suddenly open.
There wasn’t time to shut the doors by hand, and there wasn’t time to run away. “C-L-O-S-E.” She panted, her eyes closed tight.
They closed. All of them. With another huge bang.
B leaped into a narrow recess in the wall next to the drinking fountain. It might not be deep enough to shield her whole body, though. “H-I-D-E,” she whispered.
The drinking fountain disappeared. Rats! She squeezed herself tighter into the recess. I meant hide me, she thought desperately.
B stood frozen stiff, like a fugitive under a police searchlight.
“Lorraine! What on earth was that?” a teacher called to another.
“I don’t know, Earl. Air conditioner trouble, maybe?”
“Sounded like lockers.”
“Don’t see how it could have been. Everything looks normal.”
B could barely keep her breath quiet. Somehow, none of the teachers had seen her. But she felt certain they would hear her breathing, or her heart thumping in her chest.
She had her magic, that was certain. But she was going to need a lot more practice!
Chapter 11
B waited a minute more, until the coast was clear. She stepped out of her hiding place and spelled R-E-A-P-P-E-A-R, and the water fountain returned.
Only then did B realize she was trembling. That was a close one.
Her mouth was dry. She bent over the spigot to get a drink from the fountain. And got her face blasted with jet-powered water that went up her nose.
Typical, she thought.
As soon as her face was dry, she sprinted back down the hall. Once outside the gym, she slowed down, walked in nonchalantly, and hung the bathroom pass on the peg by the door.
George’s eyebrows rose, asking her how it went. She shook her head and rejoined the dodgeball game, hanging back where George was.
“No, what?” George whispered. “Meaning, no tickets?”
B could hardly hear him over the screech of rubber sneakers on the wood floor. “Meaning, couldn’t open Jason’s locker.” She leaped behind George to avoid a red rubber missile. George, startled, only barely caught the ball, sending Lisa Donahue to the bleachers.
“Does that mean we’re stuck?” George asked.
B didn’t answer. She wasn’t ready to admit that, but she couldn’t think of what to do next. While she puzzled over it, an easy throw from Carlos Wilson plastered her in the shoulder. Jason laughed, of course. B shambled over to the bleachers and buried her chin in her hands.
She didn’t have a backup plan. If only Jason would just tell the truth … Fat chance of that.
Unless, maybe, his honesty got a little magical help.
The phone in Mr. Lyons’s office rang, and he blew his whistle. “Take a break, kids,” he said, and disappeared to answer it. George came and sat by her.
“George,” B whispered, “let’s interrogate Jason. Like on detective TV shows. You can be all tough and macho. I’ll ask the questions.”
“Sure,” George said. “Sounds fun, even if there’s not a chance he’ll tell the truth.”
“We might be able to catch him in a lie.”
B hid a grin as George puffed out his chest and swaggered toward Jason.
Jason saw them coming and stood up to walk away.
“Hey, Jameson,” George growled, his voice much deeper than normal. “We wanna talk wich you.”
Jason scowled. “Well, maybe I don’t want to talk to you and Wasp Brain.”
“You usually have plenty to say to me, Rudolph,” B retorted. “We only want to ask you a question.”
“Yeah,” George said out of one corner of his mouth, still acting like a mobster. “The lady has some questions for ya, bub. And that’s Miss Wasp Brain to you.”
Jason blinked, not sure what to make of this. B took advantage of this distraction. She glared at Jason and whispered, “T-R-U-T-H!”
“So ask your stupid question, already,” Jason said. “Or else buzz off, Hornet.”
B cleared her throat. “Did you stay in the classroom after the fire alarm bell rang so that you could save Mozart?”
Jason looked as if he was trying to nod, but his neck had stopped working. His face contorted angrily. “No,” he blurted out. He clapped his hand over his mouth.
George glanced at B, forgetting to act tough.
B felt her confidence rise. “Did you steal something today and hide it in your backpack?”
Jason glared at B. His head was starting to twitch. He grabbed his chin and pinned his lips together, as if he wouldn’t let them open. Then his head nodded, apparently against his will.
George’s jaw dropped open.
“Was it the Black Cats tickets?” she asked.
“No,” Jason said, his eyes wide.
B was stunned. No? He hadn’t stolen the tickets?
Jason jumped up and pushed past them angrily, climbing higher on the bleachers. George was about to follow, when Mr. Lyons returned from his phone call. He clapped his hands. “C’mon, all-stars, there’s time for one
more game. Get off the bleachers and line up in teams.”
As George and B assumed their places on the gym floor, B’s mind reeled. Was it possible that Jason wasn’t the thief? That, maybe, he’d stolen someone’s lunch money or baseball cards?
Then B remembered Dawn’s friends and their beauty spells. Beginner spells didn’t last long. Maybe her truth charm had worn off.
“Look sharp there, Jameson,” Mr. Lyons called. “I said get off those bleachers and get into the game!”
Jason climbed down as slowly as he could.
“What’s the matter, Jason, you afraid to play dodgeball?” Jamal teased.
“Yes!” Jason whimpered, and ran into the locker room.
Now it was B whose jaw dropped. So the truth spell was still working! There was no way Jason the bully would have willingly admitted his fear to the whole class.
Jason didn’t come out of the locker room for the rest of gym period, leaving B to play dodgeball in peace. All the while, though, her mind was churning. If Jason didn’t steal the tickets, then who did? And what did Jason Jameson steal?
Chapter 12
“That was amazing! Jason admitted stealing,” George said as they headed down the hall after gym.
“It must have been your accent,” B teased.
George grinned. “I’m definitely gonna use that again. But now what? He knows we suspect him so he’ll be on his guard around us.”
“What we need,” B said, “is an eyewitness. Someone who passed the classroom at just the right moment or something.”
“I think you’re out of luck,” George said. “Everyone had left for the fire drill. Your only eyewitness would be Mozart.”
“Okay,” B said, laughing. “You go to science. I’ll just stop in Mr. Bishop’s room and interview Mozart.”
Wait a minute …
If magic could make Jason tell the truth, making a hamster talk might just work! At least, it was worth a try.
“Hey — what did the hamster say when asked why he likes to spin in circles?” George piped up. “Just keeping it wheel. Get it? They spin on those wheels.”
