by Lexi Connor
They lined up in the front of the room. B frowned at the paper in Mr. Bishop’s hands. Another printout of the spelling list. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jason eyeing it, too, struggling to suppress a cocky grin.
Darn that Jason! B refused to give up. What good was magic if she couldn’t …
Holy cats! Why didn’t she think of it sooner?
There was something B could do.
“C-H-A-N-G-E,” she whispered, staring at the paper and praying that it wouldn’t change into a walrus.
The paper remained a paper. Mr. Bishop watched her, the tip of his beard twitching. Maybe he’d overheard her spelling and thought she was practicing for the competition.
He looked back at the paper, blinked, and scratched his head. “This is strange,” he said. “I seem to have printed the wrong spelling list.” He glanced at B, then back at the list. “Never mind. These words will do just fine.”
“Uh … we can wait, Mr. Bishop,” Jason said. “Why don’t you go ahead and find the first draft? We’re not going anywhere.”
George leaned forward and turned to see B, his eyebrows wagging. Of course, he couldn’t know B had changed the list magically, but he knew this was bad news for Jason!
Mr. Bishop waved Jason silent. “The first draft, eh?” he said. “No, I like this list just fine.” He nodded, reading through it silently. “Extremely tricky words. This will be a lively competition.”
Jason slumped back in his chair.
B pressed her lips tight so the laughter she felt bubbling inside her wouldn’t spill out. She’d done it! She’d saved the spelling bee. She nearly burst into her happy dance. What was better than seeing Jason get what he deserved? Not much!
“Well, let’s get started. George, your word is ‘deceitful.’”
George sailed smoothly through, remembering the “i before e, except after c” rule. Other kids’ turns followed, and Jason, B was pleased to see, seemed more nervous than anyone else. He managed his first word, “festering,” without any trouble.
Then it was B’s turn. She held her breath. Would she be able to spell the word? She wasn’t afraid of not knowing the spelling … she was terrified of causing more mayhem.
“Business,” Mr. Bishop said.
“Business,” B repeated. Well, what harm could that do? She tried to empty her mind so that nothing could be influenced by her word. But emptying one’s mind is about as easy as not thinking of flaming salamanders when someone tells you not to think of flaming salamanders. So instead, she tried to think of her dad’s sales figures at Enchanted Chocolates Worldwide.
“You still with us, B?” Mr. Bishop said.
“Sorry,” B said. “Business. B-U-S-I-N-E-S-S. Business.”
She looked around the room. Nothing changed. No sirens approached, no tickets vanished, and there were no screams from the soccer field.
“That’s right,” Mr. Bishop said.
B nodded, smiling. So far, so good. She just hoped business would be good for Dad today.
They went around the class. Jimmy misspelled “embarrass,” and Claudia put an extra “s” in “disease” — B was grateful she hadn’t gotten that word — but otherwise everyone spelled their words right. George aced “fidelity,” and Jason managed “fiend” (like “friend,” without the “r,” that was B’s trick for it). Soon it was B’s turn again.
“Explosion,” Mr. Bishop said.
Oh, no!
Mr. Bishop watched her. His beard twitched.
B searched around the room for anything that could explode harmlessly. A squooshy stress-reliever ball on the teacher’s desk? Too risky. Even exploding marshmallows could be dangerous. And what if her magic didn’t work right?
“Explosion,” B whispered, her mouth dry as salt. “Um, E … X … P …”
She became conscious of all the other eyes in the room, staring at her. I have to misspell it, she thought miserably. There’s no other way. Bye-bye, tickets.
“B, are you all right?” Mr. Bishop asked.
She bit her lip and nodded.
“Why don’t you start the word again?”
“E-X-P-L-O …,” She paused, and sighed. “S-O-N.”
Jason Jameson snorted with laughter. George elbowed him.
Mr. Bishop lowered his paper. “I’m sorry, B, that’s incorrect.”
B met George’s gaze as she headed for her seat. If he was surprised she had missed such an easy word, he didn’t show it. She smiled to thank him. More than anything, she wished she could explain to George why she’d misspelled her word.
“Mr. Bishop,” Jason whined, “George hit me!”
Mr. Bishop glanced over the top of his paper. “Kim, you’re next, and your word is ‘rivalry.’”
Kim spelled the word correctly, and the competition went on. Several students stumbled during this round, which was some comfort — B wasn’t the only one to fall. Colby tripped on “mediocre,” Travis collapsed under “onslaught,” and Michaela flubbed “vacuum.” Even Jamal botched “asparagus,” adding an extra “u” in the middle.
Jason’s turn came around again. Mr. Bishop, B was sure, had a slightly evil gleam in his eye. “Surreptitious,” he said.
Jason looked like a soldier facing a firing squad. He thrust his lower lip out in a pout. “Mr. Bishop, these are really hard! We’ve never studied words like these before.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bishop said. “Does anyone here know what ‘surreptitious’ means?”
To her surprise, B found herself raising her hand.
“Yes, B?”
“It means sneaky,” B said, glaring at Jason. “Doing things on the sly so no one will know.”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “That’s right.” He paused, then pointed a finger at Jason. “Now, Mr. Jameson, will you please spell ‘surreptitious'?”
Jason swallowed. “Surreptitious,” he said, with a squeak in his voice. “Um, S-Y-R-U-P-T-I-C-I-O-U-S?”
B wanted to gloat, but she wasn’t about to stoop as low as Jason, so she folded her hands on her desk and studied Mozart like she’d never seen him before. He paused from licking his watering tube to wave a paw at her.
“I’m sorry, Jason. That’s not correct.”
Thwarting Jason the Sneak was a fabulous feeling. Almost as thrilling as winning the Black Cats tickets might have been. She gave George her best good-luck grin.
The contest went on. Soon it came down to a threesome of Jenny, George, and Kim, dueling like spelling swordfighters. Soon Jenny succumbed to “sanctimonious,” a word that drew gasps from the rest of the room.
Then George and Kim faced off. They went through three more rounds, and then Kim was handed “cemetery.”
Overconfidence was her downfall. “C-E-M-E-T-A-R-Y,” she spelled quickly.
Mr. Bishop shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kim.” He looked at George. “Young man, if you can spell this next word correctly, you are the class champion, and the Black Cats tickets are yours. Are you ready?”
George nodded. B gripped the edge of her desk so hard, her knuckles turned white.
“Your word is ‘conjurer.’”
B laughed quietly. She knew that one.
“Conjurer,” George said. “C-O-N-J-U-R-E-R.”
Mr. Bishop tossed his spelling list high in the air. “The winner!” And the whole class, or rather, almost the whole class, jumped up and cheered for George. Even Kim. B rushed over to hug her friend. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the spelling list drift down through the air like a feather and land on Jason’s desk. Jason tore it in two.
“You did it!” she told George. “You won the tickets!”
Other kids swarmed around George, patting his back and congratulating him. B smiled. Everything had worked out! Mr. Bishop hadn’t mentioned B in connection with the returned tickets. Jason the Sneak had lost, and her best friend had won. She was so proud of him.
Mr. Bishop handed the tickets to George just as the bell rang. Everyone grabbed their things and headed for the door,
talking loudly about the competition and groaning about the words they’d missed. In the middle of the commotion, George slipped something into B’s hand.
It was a Black Cats ticket.
She didn’t know what to say, except, “Holy cats!”
Her cheering froze when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. This sinking feeling was getting all too familiar.
“B,” Mr. Bishop said. “May I see you for a moment?”
Chapter 16
George was puzzled, but he didn’t pry. “I’ll see you at lunch,” he said, leaving B alone in the classroom with Mr. Bishop. But Mr. Bishop called after George, “Young man! Just so you know, B may not be able to join you at lunch today. We have a lot of work to do.”
B sat down in an empty desk and stared at its smudgy surface, her cheeks burning, waiting for whatever lecture or interrogation Mr. Bishop had in mind. Was he going to send her to detention for stealing the tickets? She still clutched her ticket in her sweaty palm, wondering if the teacher was going to take it away, since she was the supposed thief. Or maybe he would decide she would have to tell everyone what she’d done….
Mr. Bishop bent down and picked up the torn halves of the spelling list from where Jason had dropped them. He sat in the desk in front of B and twisted around to face her.
“Beatrix,” he said. Uh-oh, Beatrix again. “Did you misspell ‘explosion’ on purpose?”
B looked up, startled. How did he know? Helpless, she nodded.
“Why?”
B kept her eyes lowered. “I get scared of speaking in front of people,” she said. That part was true, at least.
“Yes, but to intentionally misspell a word that you know misrepresents your capabilities,” Mr. Bishop said. “It’s a form of dishonesty to let the world think you’re not as bright as you really are.”
B didn’t know what to think. Was Mr. Bishop trying to encourage her to have more self-confidence, or was he about to call her parents to report today’s act of dishonesty? B suddenly felt tired. She wished Mr. Bell had never bought that lottery ticket, and that none of this drama had ever begun.
Mr. Bishop indicated to the spelling list fragments. “Funny how this list changed into harder words, right before my eyes …” he said. Panic rose up in B’s stomach. “You know what I think, B?”
She couldn’t even imagine how he could explain magically appearing words. All she was sure of was that it would probably spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E. “What?”
“I think words are like birds; they flutter and flit. Use them wisely and who knows what might come of it?”
B cocked her head to one side. What a weird thing to say! It almost sounded like one of her mother’s couplets.
Then she realized that the words on the torn-up spelling list were leaping, one by one, into the air, like a flock of birds taking flight from a tree branch. They spun and twirled around B’s head, then popped, making twinkly sounds.
B stared at Mr. Bishop. The corners of his mouth twitched.
“You’re … you’re …”
“That’s right,” he said, grinning. “I’m a witch. Just like you.”
B rubbed her eyes and stared again at the blank paper where the spelling words had been. “But how did you know that I … Who told you …”
Mr. Bishop folded his hands behind his head. “I’m from the Magical Rhyming Society, B. I’m in charge of the Developmental Magical Inquiry Committee. I was sent to observe you, to try to discover why you hadn’t found your magical powers yet.”
B shook her head. “The Magical Rhyming Society was worried about me?”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “Waiting for magic to emerge is hard on anyone. We all remember what it was like. In my department, I study different kinds of magic. You, B, have an extraordinary gift — a rare and powerful form of magic.”
B felt like she was wading through molasses, just trying to keep up with this information. “You mean … Mr. Bell didn’t win the lottery?” she said.
Mr. Bishop laughed. “He did win. But, it may not have been entirely by chance.” He winked. “I suspect he misses you kids, and when he’s done loafing around on a Hawaiian beach, he may even want his job back. Not right away, though. I’m enjoying myself here. And it’s clear that the average sixth-grader in this town has a lot to learn about the power of words. I think I’ll stick around.”
“Good.” B smiled. And, she realized, she meant it. She always knew there was something she liked about Mr. Bishop, even when he was hard on her. This explained everything.
Almost everything.
“I didn’t steal the tickets, you know,” she said, relieved that she could finally set the record straight. “I was thinking about them when I spelled the word ‘disguise.’”
Mr. Bishop threw back his head and laughed. “I should have known! My biggest clue about your spelling magic was the chaos you’d caused. But I never made the connection with ‘disguise.’ You must have figured it out yesterday, when I caught you in the room with the tickets.”
“I had a little help,” B said. She looked over at Mozart. “S-P-E-A-K.”
“Well, it’s about time you two knuckleheads figured this out,” Mozart squeaked. “I’ve been trying to tell both of you: She’s a witch, and he’s a witch, and nobody took the tickets, she just hid ‘em is all, and I’ve been squeaking myself hoarse over here, and does anybody pay any attention to the hamster? Nooo, you just go on being dunderheads, having your spelling bees and blaming the wrong people left and right. Every time that girl got up to spell, I had to burrow deep in my sawdust for protection. No telling what might happen! And you! Big guy there, who should have known better, giving her the word ‘explosion'? Next time, just bring a stick of dynamite into the classroom. That’s what that girl is. Dynamite.”
“Enough!” Mr. Bishop clapped his hands over his ears. “I agree with you, Mozart, but enough already.”
“Sorry, Mozart,” B said. “S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S.” And Mozart went back to softly cheeping in hamster-talk.
“I was sure you were going to tell everyone I was the thief,” B continued.
“I just had a feeling that I should hold out,” Mr. Bishop said. “I was right, B. Your magic is powerful indeed. There are very few witches alive today who can do things like make animals talk. And your spells last awhile, don’t they?” He laughed. “The firemen had a terrible time getting the alarm system turned off. And Coach Lyons is still growling about the athletic field being covered in sand…. Did you have a hand in that, I wonder?”
B felt guilty again, but Mr. Bishop put his hand on her shoulder and spoke a rhyme.
“B’s power is sure to bring her notoriety.
Bring her now to the Magical Rhyming Society!”
A strong wind rushed around her and Mr. Bishop. The room seemed to spin and blur, and in a moment they were transported to the most enormous library B had ever seen — a circular room several stories high, with bookshelves lining every wall, and hundreds of magicians in glittering robes climbing the ladders and walkways to reach the books. The whole room positively hummed with rhymes. Whorls of sparkling light and showers of twinkling stars danced in the air with every spell cast. A wonderful fragrance, like berries in spring, and summer roses, filled the air.
“Welcome, B, to the Magical Rhyming Society,” Mr. Bishop said. “Only witches who have found their magic are able to enter. And here you are at last!”
Chapter 17
“Doug! Oh, Doug!” a shrill voice cried.
“Right here,” Mr. Bishop called, waving to a tall, skinny witch who was rapidly climbing down a ladder from the bookshelves in the topmost tower.
The tall witch slid, fireman-style, down the last few flights of the library, and raced to join them where they stood in the center of the room.
“Is this she?” the witch demanded, peering at B through purple crescent-moon-shaped spectacles. “Is this the spelling prodigy you told me about?”
“This is Beatrix,” Mr. Bishop said. “B, to her frien
ds. And yes, she’s every bit as extraordinary as I told you. Even more so.”
B blushed to hear this praise, but her attention was riveted by the extraordinary lady who stood before her.
She wasn’t just tall; she was extremely tall, and beanpole thin. Her hair wasn’t white, as B had first thought, but baby blue, and twisted into an elegant bun. Behind her purple spectacles, sparkling black eyes gave B the impression that she could read B as easily as she might read a book on one of these shelves. Her robe was woven of blue, green, and silver threads, and was so spangled with shiny silver charms that she looked like a beautiful coin collection. The charms on her robe tinkled when she moved.
“Well, Doug, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Sorry,” Mr. Bishop said. “B, this is Madame Mellifluous, Grande Mistress of the Magical Rhyming Society and Head Librarian of the society’s spell collection.”
Madame Mellifluous thrust out a bony hand for B to shake. “Call me Mel,” she said. “Mellifluous is a mouthful.”
“I can spell it,” B said quickly, then wished she hadn’t bragged.
Madame Mellifluous smiled. “I’ll bet you can.” She raised her arms high in the air, and clapped her hands loudly. Her wrists dripped with bracelets, from which hung even more charms.
“Everyone!” she cried. “Come and see our amazing new witch, whose powers are as strong as they are unusual.”
Witches in sparkling clothes swarmed across the landings and down the stairs to gather around Madame Mel.
And to stare in wonder at B.
“Um, Mr. Bishop?” B whispered. “Don’t I need to get back for gym class now?”
“Gym can wait,” he said.
“Send Coach Lyons a tardy slip.
B’s here on an important trip.”
And right before B’s eyes, a pink tardy slip appeared with Mr. Bishop’s handwriting on it. It folded itself into a tiny paper airplane and zoomed out a circular window.
“There,” her teacher said. “You’re off the hook.”
