by Lexi Connor
B Magical
The Trouble with Secrets
Lexi Connor
To Adam
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Preview
Other Books in the B Magical Series
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Chapter 1
B’s alarm clock went off for the third time, croaking like an angry bullfrog in her ear.
“Q-U-I-E-T,” she groaned. The alarm magically stopped, and B was again grateful that she’d finally discovered how her magic worked.
B buried her head under a pillow. She’d stayed up way too late last night reading, and she wasn’t ready to face the sunshine just yet. Besides, it was only 7:10.
7:10!
B sat bolt upright, upsetting Nightshade, her black cat, who’d been snoozing on B’s belly. He landed on the rug and stalked away, his tail twitching.
Getting up at 7:10 was not good. She had only ten minutes to catch the bus and she was still in her pajamas!
She skidded into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. Two minutes.
Back in her bedroom, she yanked open her drawers and tore through the piles of clothes for something to wear. Black Cats sweatshirt? Her favorite band. Always good. Purple jeans? Sure. Socks? She pulled out one pink and one green. No time to dig for mates. “M-A-T-C-H,” she said. They both turned green with pink polka dots. She yanked them on.
She stuck a headband in her hair, fastened her magical charm bracelet — the one she’d received from the Magical Rhyming Society when she discovered her spelling magic — and glanced at the clock. 7:16. Six minutes down, four to go. If only she could slow down time, she might be able to eat and make the bus. But slowing down time was advanced magic, and she hadn’t even had her first magic lesson yet.
If she missed the bus, no magic would avoid Mom and Dad’s irritation. She threw her backpack over one shoulder and laced her sneakers.
Sneakers. Feet. She couldn’t slow time, but she could speed herself up!
“F-A-S-T,” she told her feet. They leaped up and sped down the stairs. Her sneakers were a sparkly blur.
Into the kitchen she zoomed, snagging the warm banana-hazelnut muffin from her mother’s outstretched hand. Her feet dragged her, knees pumping crazily, to the front door. “Bye!” she cried, her feet still churning. By the time she stuffed a bite of muffin in her mouth, B was halfway to the bus stop on the corner.
Dawn, B’s fourteen-year-old sister, was waiting at the stop, her long blond hair shining in the morning sun. The bus was nowhere in sight.
Holy cats, my magic is awesome! B thought. I can sleep in every morning from now on.
But between one blink and the next, the bus stop was thirty yards behind her.
“Whoa!” she cried. “Slow! Stop! I mean, S-T-O-P!”
B’s feet planted themselves in the ground like cement posts. But the top half of her didn’t listen. She fell face-first, ker-splat, on the Peabodys’ front lawn, within an inch of their prize chrysanthemums, smashing her muffin into smithereens.
The school bus pulled around the corner, its brakes hissing.
“Isn’t that your bus coming, Beatrix?” Mrs. Peabody said, coming out onto the porch in a bathrobe and slippers. “What are you doing way over here?”
“S-sorry, Mrs. Peabody,” B stammered. “I, uh, got, um, carried away! Bye!” And she raced, normalstyle, to the bus stop.
Dawn stood waiting by the open doors, clearly holding the bus for B, but also glaring at her through narrowed eyes. She plucked a clump of dirt from B’s hair, tossed it over her shoulder, and boarded the bus. B sighed. She knew what Dawn’s look meant: You cut it pretty close, little sis. People could have seen you. Careless stunts like that put the whole witching world at risk.
B climbed the steps, promising herself she’d be more careful next time. It was so important that witches kept their powers secret from nonwitches. Problem was, Dawn and every other witch in the witching world made spells by composing rhyming couplets, but all B had to do was spell a word. Pretty quick and easy to do — and therefore, easy to get into trouble.
“Morning, Wonder Wasp,” Jason Jameson said, his freckly face sneering at B. She shoved past him down the aisle, and plopped, out of breath, into a seat next to her friend George.
“Morning,” George said, holding out a pouch of Enchanted Chocolate Caramelicious Cremes. George and chocolate were never far apart. He pushed his curly blond hair out of his eyes and did a double take. “What’s with you? You’re a mess. There’s dirt on your nose.”
“Is there?” B said as she tried to get it off. “I, um, tripped over my feet on the way to the bus.”
She couldn’t tell George what had really happened. Witches had to keep their powers secret from nonwitches, period, exclamation point. Even though George had been her best friend since preschool, she just couldn’t tell him. She didn’t like it, but there it was.
George wrinkled his nose. “You look like I do after soccer practice. Except, no cleats.”
“Oops,” B said, shrugging. “Hey, you got a new shirt!”
“Yeah, this is Sergio Vavoso’s jersey,” he said, pointing to his red shirt. “He’s a striker for the Wilmington Warlocks, and the best striker in the world. They call him the Italian zebra, because of the white stripe in his dark hair.”
“Va-Va-Vavoso,” B said.
“Hey, what’s black and white and red all over?” B sighed. “A newspaper?”
“La Zebra Italiana!” He pointed to his shirt. “Get it? Red all over, like his jersey?”
B groaned. “You’ll need to try harder next time.”
George grinned. Then his face grew serious. He leaned out into the aisle, and looked left and right, up and down the bus, several times. Aside from Jason Jameson sticking his tongue out at a pair of girls, B couldn’t see anything that should trouble George.
“What’s the matter?” B asked, poking him.
“Got a secret to tell you,” George said in a low voice. “Nobody else can know, got it?” He grinned. “Only you. You know all my secrets.”
But you don’t know all of mine. B swallowed the guilty thought. “Okay,” B said. “Promise.
What’s up?”
“I’m starting dance lessons,” George said, his cheeks turning a little pink.
“Excellent!” B cried.
“Ssh,” George said, looking side to side once more. “You can’t tell anyone. People wouldn’t get it, you know?”
B thought about it. There was nothing wrong with dancing. She caught a glimpse of Jason Jameson. No doubt, he’d tease George to death if he found out about the lessons.
“What is it that made you want to … y’know?” B dropped her voice.
“A lot of professional athletes study dance to improve their foot speed and coordination,” George explained. “Besides, it just looks fun. The dance studio is half an hour away, and Dad and I are going on Wednesday nights, so no one needs to know, you know?”
Just then a word seemed to ring out above the normal bus chatter. “Witch.”
B listened harder. The word was probably “which” or even “wish.”
“Really. A witch.” There it was agai
n. B turned around in her seat.
“A witch! A genuine, bona fide witch. Right here!” an older girl a couple of seats back said in a loud voice.
B’s skin went cold and prickly. People knew! She’d only had her magic for a week, and she’d blown it already, breaking the cardinal rule that even the toddlers in witching families knew — you don’t let nonwitches find out about magic.
Was it her speedy feet at the bus stop?
What else could it be?
Had she given the secret away before she’d even been a true witch for a month?
And if she had, what would happen when her school, her town, her family, and most importantly, her best friend found out?
Chapter 2
“There’s hip-hop, jazz, tap. The studio has ballet, too, but I’m not wearing a leotard. No way. No how.”
“I’m serious. A witch. W-I-T-C-H, witch.”
With each word from the girl in the back, B’s panic rose. Why, why did the girl have to spell it? B shuddered.
Then she realized George was watching her, a puzzled look on his face.
Focus, B.
What had he said? Something about dancing and leotards. “Um, that’s a great idea!” she said.
“Huh?”
B realized she’d goofed. “Huh, what?”
George sighed and laughed. “You spaced, didn’t you?”
B made an apologetic face, then laughed, too. “Sorry.”
The bus squealed to a stop. George rose, shouldered his bag, and headed down the aisle. B followed, her mind spinning. What would happen to her now? Would she lose her membership in the Magical Rhyming Society? Would she have to give back the silver charm bracelet she’d just earned for discovering her spelling magic powers? Would they — could they take away her magic altogether? And what about her parents — would they get into trouble, too?
B worried all the way to first period art class, and while she sketched the moon in charcoal, she racked her brain to think of a word she could spell to repair the damage she’d done. “Forget"? She could try to make the girls on the bus forget what they’d seen. But what if they forgot their mothers’ birthdays, too, or even their own names? Too risky. Besides, there was no telling who else on the bus might have seen her. “Reverse"? B didn’t want to be responsible for turning back time, maybe even altering the earth’s rotation. Definitely not the best way to start your morning. She sighed. Magic was so complicated.
When the bell rang for second period history, B’s stomach started rumbling. She thought of her mom’s amazing banana-hazelnut muffin, smashed into the grass on Mrs. Peabody’s front lawn, and wondered how on earth she’d make it to lunch without any breakfast. Her belly growled so loud that Jenny Springbranch, at the next desk, looked over and made a face. B decided to sneak a snack, for survival’s sake.
“M-U-F-F-I-N,” she whispered into her backpack, imagining a fresh muffin appearing there. And it did! When she peeked inside, there was a small, warm, crumbly muffin. A rich banana fragrance came from the bag. She reached in and broke off chunks all through class, popping them in her mouth when no one was looking.
But at the end of class, when Miss Taykin, the history teacher, asked everyone to pass up their reports, B got a shock. Her paper was gone! She had taken extra care to put a fancy report cover on it, with colored illustrations, too. And she had double-checked that she had all her homework during homeroom. How could it have disappeared?
The muffin! She must have turned her report into the muffin.
The bell rang for third period, and the class shuffled out.
“Did you turn in your paper, Beatrix?” Miss Taykin asked her as B rose, heavyhearted.
“ ’Fraid not,” B said, shaking her head. “I accidentally ate it.”
Jenny Springbranch giggled, and Miss Taykin tutted. “There’s no need for silly excuses, Beatrix. If you turn it in tomorrow I’ll only deduct ten points.”
“Thank you, Miss Taykin.” B would have to print it out again tonight.
Out in the hall B shook her fists at the ceiling. Why hadn’t she thought more carefully? Thinking with your stomach was dangerous … and spelling with your stomach, even more so.
“No, I’m serious, she’s actually a witch! She can …” A voice rose above the hallway chaos. A voice that sounded a lot like Jenny’s. Had she seen the muffin? Heard? Smelled? Guessed?
B felt queasy. She leaned against a pair of lockers and watched kids hurrying by through unfocused eyes. She even thought about visiting the nurse to lie down. Were people looking at her funny?
B decided to skip the nurse and head for class. At least Mr. Bishop would be there. He was not only her new English teacher, he was also her secret tutor on all things witchy.
Chapter 3
Moments later, George met B at a corner in the hallway, just as Jenny Springbranch and a pack of girls passed by. Jenny made a point of looking at B, then rolling her eyes.
B scowled at their retreating backs.
“What’s the matter?” George said.
“Doesn’t it seem like everyone’s staring at me today?” B said.
George laughed. “You’re nuts. No one’s staring at you. If they are, it’s because you’ve still got grass stains on your nose. C’mon, let’s go in.”
B rubbed furiously at her nose. “Can’t go in yet,” B said. “I’ve got to ask Mr. Bishop something. I’ll wait for him out here.”
“What’s up with Mr. Bishop?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” B said. “Just a question I had for him about, um, something I heard.” B hated to lie to George, but what choice did she have?
“Okay. See you in class.” He went inside, and B blew out her breath in relief. Even the smallest things could turn into headaches when you couldn’t tell someone the whole truth.
Mr. Bishop came around the corner, whistling a tune and clutching a stack of papers in one hand. His shirt and pants were dark, dark green. His clacking black cowboy boots echoed down the hallway.
She hurried to meet him halfway, out of earshot of the doorway.
“Mr. Bishop, I need to talk to you,” she stage-whispered.
“Well, hello to you, too, B,” he said. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”
B blushed. “Sorry. Hi, Mr. Bishop. How are you? Great. Now can I ask you something?”
Mr. Bishop sighed good-naturedly and stopped walking. “What’s on your mind, B? Counting the days till your Black Cats concert?”
George had won a pair of concert tickets in Mr. Bishop’s class spelling bee, and had given one to B. But that was the last thing on her mind now. She looked both ways to make sure the hall was empty, then tugged at his sleeve so he’d bend closer to her. “This morning I was in a hurry to catch the bus so I, um, used a little magic to help me get there, and I may have set a new Olympic speed record.”
Mr. Bishop’s eyes twinkled. “Congratulations. Nobody got hurt, I hope?”
“Only my muffin. But since then I’ve overheard a bunch of kids saying they saw a witch! A real one!” She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye, to see the disappointment she knew would be there. “Have I given the whole secret away?”
Mr. Bishop patted B’s shoulder. “Relax, B. The witching world has survived the adolescence of countless young witches before you. Your friends are talking about a so-called witch who’s part of the traveling fair that’s just come to town. ‘Enchantress Le Fay,’ as she calls herself.”
Whew! It wasn’t B’s fault! None of those people had been talking about her. And she’d been so sure they were.
But she was puzzled. “I thought witches weren’t supposed to be public about their witchcraft?”
He let out a snort of laughter. “If she really was a descendant of the legendary Morgan Le Fay, you can bet she wouldn’t be selling tickets to the fair. The real Morgan Le Fay was a powerful sorceress in ancient times. She has a garden named after her at the Magical Rhyming Society.” He shuffled through the papers he was carrying and
pulled out a glossy pamphlet. “See? There’s Enchantress Le Fay. The traveling fair dropped off these flyers this morning, and all the teachers got one in their mailboxes.”
B craned her neck to see the picture of the witch on the flyer. Great gobs of dark eye makeup, long black fingernails, bushy black hair, and a tall pointed hat. She looked nothing like any witch B had ever met. In fact, she looked a lot more like people she’d seen passing out candy on Halloween.
“So, she’s a professional fake witch?” B said.
“That sounds right to me,” Mr. Bishop said. “Listen, B, we don’t want to be late for class. But we’ll talk more about this after school, okay?”
B followed Mr. Bishop into the room. Mozart, the class hamster, waved a tiny claw at her from his cage near the windowsill. Checking to make sure no one was watching, she waved back. She and Mozart had bonded when B first discovered her powers.
“Hey look, it’s Stinkbug,” Jason muttered when B passed his seat. B rolled her eyes, but ignored him.
“Okay, class, we continue our grammar work with prepositions,” Mr. Bishop said. The class groaned. “As you’ll recall, a preposition is a little word that shows when something happened or where something is.” He dropped a plastic crate of small instruments on one of the front desks. “I want everyone to take an instrument from this box, and pass it along.” As the students passed the crate around the room, they took out triangles, maracas, bells, kazoos, and wooden blocks. B chose a pair of finger cymbals, and George took a plastic chili pepper filled with beans that rattled when he shook it.
“Okay, class, yesterday we learned about prepositions, so today we’re going to play Preposition Percussion. I’m going to read something to you, and when you hear a preposition, let’er rip, okay? It’s an excerpt from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz — anyone ever read it?”
Jason Jameson snickered. “Seen the movie a million times.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Jameson, the movie. But before there was a movie, there was a book — a very popular one at that. You should read it.”
Jason shrugged. “What’s the point in reading it if I already know what happens?”
