by Lexi Connor
“Mr. Bishop, can I call my mom? I can’t find my homework, I think I must have left it at home. My mom might be able to drop it off for me.”
“No need to interrupt your mother’s day over this,” Mr. Bishop said. “Stop by my desk after class and we’ll figure out what to do about your assignment, okay?”
George sat next to B. His face was drawn, his lips pressed tight together.
“Cursed …” Jason hissed, just low enough for Mr. Bishop not to hear.
Later, when Mr. Bishop stepped out into the hall for a second, B whispered, “George, what’s up?”
He shook his head. “I can’t say.”
B gave him a friendly jab with her elbow. “You’re not keeping secrets, are you?”
George sighed. “Later, okay?”
On their way to lunch, when Jason was nowhere near, B asked George again what was wrong. He looked away, but B teased him for an answer. Finally he relented.
“I overslept this morning and missed the bus,” he said. “Burned my toast. Broke a glass. Banged my head on a cupboard door, and my mom got a flat tire driving me to school. And, I forgot my homework.”
“I’m sorry,” B said, squeezing his shoulder. “What a rotten start to your day!”
“It’s that curse,” he whispered. “I didn’t think so last night, all that mumbo-jumbo and the vinegar trick. But after this morning, I don’t know. Maybe it is real!”
“But that’s ridiculous, and you know it!” B burst out. “One: You’re always running late in the morning. So that proves nothing. Two: Anyone can have a bad day. Three: Enchantress Le Fay is not a witch. That’s obvious!”
They reached the lunch line. B glanced at the board where the entrée was displayed. Oh, no. Shepherd’s pie. A fancy way to say dried-out potatoes over gray meat glop, with the occasional pea that was even grayer than that meat. George hated shepherd’s pie day, and B worried that he’d see it as more proof he was cursed.
B put a hand over her mouth. “L-A-S-A-G-N-A,” she coughed. A tray of carrots turned into a hot pan with melting mozzarella slathered over ruffly noodles and bubbling sauce.
“Look, George,” she said, trying to sound surprised. “One of your favorites!” Without waiting for his response, B told Mrs. Gillet, the server, “We’ll both have the lasagna, please.”
Mrs. Gillet scratched her chin, frowning at the hot pans. “Marge,” she called to the back kitchen, “how’d you have time to make a lasagna this morning without me knowing?”
“They don’t have any garlic bread,” George commented. B bent over, pretending to tie a shoe, and spelled “garlic bread,” thinking hard about the breadbasket.
“Are you sure?” she said, popping up. “Check again.”
“I’ve gotta get me some more sleep,” Mrs. Gillet mumbled, loading up their plates and looking as if she’d seen a garlic bread ghost.
“That’s lucky, isn’t it?” B said on their way to find seats. “Lasagna on today’s menu?”
“I guess.” They found a table and sat down.
B dived into her food, hoping George would follow her lead, but he barely nibbled his lunch. Soon B’s garlic bread felt like stale crackers in her mouth. She hated to see George so down, and for such a stupid reason, too. What good was magic if it couldn’t even cheer up a friend? She thought of Mr. Bishop’s reminder that friendship was a magic stronger than any spell. Maybe what George needed more than potions and “luck” was a best friend who cared.
“You haven’t told me any corny jokes all day,” B said. She reached over and felt his forehead. “I think maybe you need to see the nurse.”
George perked up a little. “What’s black and white and green and black and white?” he said.
B grinned. That was more like it. “I dunno, what?”
“Two zebras fighting over a pickle.”
“Aw, man!” She crumpled her napkin and threw it at him. “That wins a new prize for cheesiest joke ever.”
A smile was doing battle with George’s face, and winning. He took a big bite, then another, and said, “I got another one.”
B gulped a mouthful of lasagna. “Let’s have it.”
“What’s green and black and white and green?”
“Um, what?”
“Two pickles fighting over a zebra!”
“I was wrong,” B said. “That’s the cheesiest joke ever.” Her old pal was back! She’d broken the so-called curse.
George wiped up the last of the lasagna with his garlic bread, then stood to leave. “C’mon, let’s get to gym early and play Horse,” he said. But on his way to dump his trash, he tripped on a shoelace. His untouched cup of butterscotch pudding went flying … and landed, plop, all down the front of his jersey.
Every kid in the cafeteria burst out laughing.
B picked up the things that had fallen from George’s tray and helped him dump his stuff. Then they hurried out of the cafeteria.
“I’m doomed, B,” George said, looking shaky. “What if the rest of my life is like this? I’ll be like the cartoon character who has a piano drop on his head every day!”
“Don’t be silly!” But B wondered … could it possibly be true?
Later in science class, George and Jason were randomly assigned to be lab partners for a project involving a Bunsen burner. “I don’t want to work with him,” Jason said, hamming it up for the whole class. “He’s cursed! I’ll end up burned like crispy bacon!”
B knew she shouldn’t take magical revenge on Jason, but she got through her anger by thinking of the words she’d use if she did. “Chicken pox” was high on her list, as were “blistering warts” and “soaking wet.”
Mr. Lorry, the science teacher, who most days seemed half deaf, didn’t even try to stop Jason from bragging, “I’m going to have Enchantress Le Fay make me a curse-repellent potion to ward off any contagious evil sticking to this guy.”
Jenny Springbranch tittered.
When the dismissal bell rang, George and B headed for the bus.
B had to do something to cheer him up. “Want to go to the fair again?” B asked. “We never did try the roller coaster.”
“No, thanks,” George said. “I don’t want to be anywhere near Enchantress Le Fay.”
“Oh, come on,” B began, but she stopped when she saw George’s stricken face. Now wasn’t the time to tease him.
A clap of thunder struck, and in a matter of seconds, from seemingly nowhere, a rainstorm rushed in, drenching them. B shielded her head with her bag while George fumbled in his backpack for a travel umbrella. The sidewalk danced with raindrops as sheets of wind-blown rain slashed across the parking lot.
“Hurry!” B called. “I can’t believe this storm.”
When George finally popped his umbrella open, gusting winds took hold of it and flipped it inside out.
“Holy cats!” B cried.
“Unbelievable,” George said, looking at the umbrella corpse.
“Where’s the bus?” B said, shielding her face with her backpack. “We’re gonna get soaked!”
“We’re already …”
“Watch out!” B cried, leaping backward as a car drove by, close to the curb. A huge puddle had formed in the flash-flood conditions, and B and the others in line for the bus managed to jump back in time.
But not George.
A sheet of muddy water plastered him as the car sped past.
“You see what I mean?” George said, looking despondently at his shirt, which was now the color of butterscotch pudding. “Plain and simple: I’m cursed.”
Chapter 9
After dinner and homework time that night, B showered early and got into her pajamas. She crawled under the covers, and Nightshade, recognizing his usual invitation, jumped up and started kneading her belly with his paws.
“Geez, cat,” she told him, scratching between his ears, “I’m not a pillow.”
After reading for a while, she turned off the light and lay in the dark, worrying about George. Finally she pi
cked up the phone.
“George isn’t feeling well, B,” his mother told her. “Let me check to see if he can take your call.”
When he came on the line, George’s voice sounded thin and raspy, like he was 110 instead of 11 years old. “H-hullo?”
“What’s the matter with you?” B asked. “You sound terrible!”
“I’m sick.” He wheezed. “It’s getting worse. The witch’s curse did me in.”
“Oh, for the love of chocolate,” B said. “Stop being so melodramatic! One teensy little cold, and you’re getting hysterical!”
George didn’t say anything. He only coughed.
B fumed. Here she was, calling to be a comforting friend, but that stupid curse kept getting in the way.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway,” she said.
“Doubt it,” George said. “I’ll probably be under quarantine.”
B gave up. “If you say so,” she snapped. “G’night.”
“It’s been nice knowing you, B,” George said gloomily. “You can have my lucky soccer ball. You know. Just in case.”
“Good night, George.”
“ ’Night.”
B hung up the phone, then thumped her mattress with her fists. “Aaaargh!” Nightshade stalked away in disgust, the tip of his tail refusing to curl.
B lay in her bed for a long time, thinking. This had to stop. She wasn’t about to let magic, real or fake, come between her and her closest, best, most loyal friend. And the first order of business was to get rid of Enchantress Le Fay’s fake curse. The only question was how.
Sure enough, the next day George was absent from school. B spent the morning debating with herself what to do about him. By the end of English class, she’d made up her mind. She hung back after class to corner Mr. Bishop.
“What’s on your mind, B?” he asked after the room had cleared.
“It’s George,” she said. “I need your help.” B explained about Enchantress Le Fay casting a bogus curse on George at the fair, and about how George had been on a downward spiral ever since. “I’ve tried to use magic — and just plain old friendship — to cheer him up, but so far nothing’s worked.”
Mr. Bishop straightened his eggplant-colored sweater. “What would you like me to do about it, B?”
B wasn’t sure she had an answer. He was a witch, wasn’t he? An expert? He should know what to do.
“Well,” B said, “I’ve been wondering. You said that witches couldn’t be public about their powers without breaking all the rules. Right?”
Her magic tutor nodded.
“Could it be possible that Enchantress Le Fay is a real witch after all, hiding behind the costume of a fake one? Because as soon as she cursed him, bad things really did start happening.”
Mr. Bishop stood up and stretched, like a cat waking from its nap. “B, I really don’t think that’s likely.”
“But it’s not impossible, is it?” she said. “You’d be able to tell if you met her, wouldn’t you? Or if you tested one of her potions?”
Mr. Bishop sighed. He took off his glasses and nodded.
“Then, will you come with me after school today, and prove once and for all if she’s a real witch?”
Mr. Bishop twirled the curl of his pointy goatee around his finger. “I suppose …” he mused. “This could be a useful part of your magical education. We’ll meet at the fair just after school.”
Right after the last bell, B rushed to the fair and was surprised to find things quiet. It looked desolate, with soda cups and French fry trays cluttering the ground, and all the game stalls empty or with only one customer. There was no sign of Mr. Bishop, and B guessed she must have gotten there before the afternoon rush. She decided to look around while she waited. Maybe she could find out some things for herself about Enchantress Le Fay.
Behind the fairground stood a row of Dumpsters, and beyond that, a dozen or so trailers and campers were parked. That, B figured, was where the traveling fair workers lived. She walked along, reading the crazy bumper stickers from the Grand Canyon, the Everglades, Niagara Falls. What a life it must be, traveling the country with a caravan of colorful characters!
Then B saw a small trailer painted with black and green stripes and a license plate that read RCH WTCH. Rich witch? That must be Le Fay.
A flickering light shone from one of the windows. Was the light a sign of something magical? She had to get a better look.
B tiptoed closer and could hear Le Fay muttering to herself. What was she up to in there? More potion making? B peeped through a gap in the curtains. The light flashed again and B saw that it was a television playing an infomercial for some magic makeover cosmetics.
Enchantress Le Fay was flitting around the trailer, trying on rings and bracelets. Only it looked nothing like her. Her hair was short and blond. She wore a long, faded T-shirt and a red bandana in her hair. Every now and then she took a bite from a jelly doughnut. She wasn’t brewing up potions after all.
Maybe Le Fay wasn’t a witch. B decided there was one more place she could look for clues, especially while “the witch” was off duty.
She rushed back to the little tent, hoping to get a good look before Enchantress Le Fay came out for the afternoon show — and before Mr. Bishop showed up. It was busier now, but the area around the Enchantress’s stage was clear. B looked around, saw that no one was paying any attention, climbed the steps to the stage, and parted the curtain.
There stood the huge cauldron, looking a lot less impressive up close. It stood on a black rug. B lifted one corner of the rug and saw electrical cords running from the cauldron’s bottom to a power strip at the rear of the tent. Another cord connected to a foot pedal that lay obscured by the rug. This, B felt sure, was how Le Fay operated the cauldron.
She peeked inside the cauldron and saw a coiled-up mess of plastic tubing, with ends attached to the inner lip of the pot. Looking closer, she saw one tube labeled FOAM and the other, SMOKE. A plastic lid fit over the top, making it look like a boiling kettle of green goo. It was easy to see how this top, vibrating a bit, with bubbles spilling over the side, would look from a distance like a witch’s cauldron from a scary Halloween movie.
“Holy cats,” B murmured.
Just then, B heard voices approaching. She ducked behind the cauldron. It was Enchantress Le Fay, talking to … Jason! Jason Jameson. And they were approaching the tent.
B looked around. Was there a back way out? She couldn’t tell in the dim light. There was a footstep at the back of the stage.
B went the only place she could go. Face-first, into the cauldron.
Chapter 10
She pulled her legs in just as a beam of light entered the tent. Someone had opened the curtain. She was twisted uncomfortably, with cauldron tubing pressed against her face. Enchantress Le Fay and Jason were coming! What if they looked into the cauldron?
“C-A-M-O-U-F-L-A-G-E,” she whispered, hoping it wouldn’t turn her shades of khaki and green like George’s favorite pants.
“I promise I won’t be late, Enchantress Le Fay,” Jason was saying. “I’ll be here right after school tomorrow.”
“Call me ‘Your Greatness,’ ” the fake witch replied. “We don’t need all this ‘Enchantress’ business here. The show starts at six, but I need you here right after school. There’s a lot to prepare, and I can’t afford any mess-ups at tomorrow’s show. The Grand Spectacular is where I always make my biggest haul.”
There was a moment of silence. “Haul?” Jason finally asked.
“It means, Jimmy, that it’s where I take in the most money.”
“Oh.” Jason paused. “Your Greatness?”
“Yeah?”
“My name’s not Jimmy. It’s Jason.”
“Close enough. Listen up, we’ve got things to discuss.” B listened closely as Le Fay explained where all the hidden cords and switches were that made the bats with battery-powered red eyes flap, crystal balls levitate, and the creepy sound effects play at just the righ
t time.
“Next, the cauldron,” Le Fay said. “Before the show starts, make sure it’s plugged in, and test the pedal to make sure both hoses are working. Toe on the pedal makes smoke, heel on the pedal makes bubbles. When the curtain opens, you need to make lots of smoke. See?”
They tested the cauldron, and B had a moment of terror, wondering if she’d get an electric shock. But all she felt was the burbling of bubbles passing through the tubes. At one point, Enchantress Le Fay looked right into the cauldron, and B’s heart nearly stopped. But she seemed satisfied with what she saw, and went back to coaching Jason, while B practically melted into a puddle of relief.
“When folks start wanting to buy potions, be sure you’ve got lots ready to pass out,” she said. “Load up with little bottles, and work the crowd.”
“How do I know which potion is which?” Jason asked. “How do I tell money from love from success and stuff?”
Enchantress Le Fay laughed. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter! It’s all the same stuff.”
B could see Jason’s face as he processed this revelation. “You mean … there’s no magic at all?”
Enchantress Le Fay laughed again.
“I … I thought you said you were going to teach me magic!” Jason cried.
Enchantress Le Fay leaned over and looked Jason in the eye.
“Oh, I’ve got magic all right, kid,” she said. “And I’ll teach it to you. You watch me close. I’ll show you how I get fools and idiots to give me their money, night after night. You get good enough at that, you’ll be rich. That’s magic, isn’t it? Best kind of magic, if you ask me.”
B’s anger bubbled like fake cauldron foam. This greedy, selfish, ridiculous woman didn’t even care if she made people’s lives miserable, so long as she earned a quick buck. B thought of Madame Mel and the High Dictums: Never use your magic to harm others. You can’t make something from nothing, and you should never use magic to try to get rich. Enchantress Le Fay didn’t even have real magic, yet she’d torn the Three High Dictums into tiny pieces, and ruined George’s week. She needed to be taught a lesson — but how?
