by Lexi Connor
“I’m sorry, B. Shake it off, you know? There’s always next time.”
“Ugh! Next time.”
“Forget about next time,” George said, quickly changing course. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about the Trina thing. I’ve got a special, surefire, one hundred percent guaranteed way to find out her secret. We need to figure out where she lives.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got to take her the English homework assignment.”
“How can we figure that out?” B asked. “Calling Information?”
“Already tried that. Nope, my way is more sophisticated. Pure genius. Watch and weep.” He pushed open the swinging door that led to the school’s main office.
Most of the staff people had left for the day, except for Mrs. Armstrong, the secretary, who, B sometimes thought, really ran the school, not the principal.
“How’re you doing, Mrs. A?” George said, leaning against the counter and flashing his biggest smile.
“Fine, thanks, George,” Mrs. Armstrong replied. “Just got these report card grades to verify in the computer before I can leave for the day.”
“Grades good this term?” George asked casually.
Mrs. Armstrong wagged a finger at him. “Mind your business, young man.” Then she smiled. “Yours are good. As always.”
“Excellent.” He set his bag of chocolate pretzels on the counter as though he wasn’t giving a bit of thought to what he did. B noticed Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes jump to the silver-and-purple bag, then back again to her stack of report cards.
“Like chocolate, Mrs. A?”
“Oh … I shouldn’t.” She patted her belly.
“D’you like chocolate pretzels? Just try one of these. They’re amazing!” George waved the bag under her nose.
Mrs. Armstrong hesitated, then plunged her hand in. At the first taste, she closed her eyes and sighed. George sneaked a grin at B.
“Something I can help you two with?” Mrs. Armstrong said, reaching once more for the pretzels.
“Oh. Yeah,” George said as though he’d almost forgotten. “We’ve got a homework assignment we need to deliver. To Katrina Lang, the new girl in our class? She’s been assigned to be in our group for a poetry project.”
“How nice,” Mrs. Armstrong said, turning her focus to her computer.
“But we don’t know where she lives,” George said, pouring a few more chocolate pretzels onto the counter. “Would you mind looking it up for us?”
Mrs. Armstrong hesitated.
“It’s a big project. We need to start right away, or our grades might suffer,” George said.
Mrs. Armstrong popped one more pretzel in her mouth, then scooched her chair back. “Oh, okay. For you, George.” She left the room, and George gave B a quick high five. In no time Mrs. Armstrong returned with an index card in her hand.
“I’ve copied down her address,” she said. “It’s very thoughtful of you to take the assignment to her.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” George said. “Here. Take the last two pretzels.”
Once outside, George consulted the card. “Forty-seven Blossom Lane.” He whistled. “Isn’t that where they have the big gates up around all the mansions?”
“Figures,” B said. “If she’s got a chauffeur, she’s probably got a nice house, too.” She tugged on George’s backpack. “Come on, let’s go. We’ll get there quicker if we cut through the woods behind the soccer fields.”
They reached Blossom Lane and began searching for house numbers.
“What’s that one?”
“I can’t tell,” B said. “The house is so far back I can’t see the number.”
“Anything on the mailbox?”
B checked. “No mailbox at all. Maybe the mailman brings their mail straight to the swimming pool.”
“Maybe the butler takes the helicopter into town to pick it —”
“Look!” B interrupted. “That house is number thirty-nine.”
“Forty-one, forty-three, forty-five,” George counted. He pointed to a tall house of dark redbrick, with a pointy tower and a fountain in the yard. The driveway was buzzing with people and cars, as if they were having a party. “That must be Trina’s house.”
B hurried forward for a closer look. “Are you sure? Sometimes house numbers don’t work like they’re supposed to.”
George gestured toward a black sedan sweeping through the electronic gates and into the curving driveway. “The car would be one giveaway. And there’s Trina.” His face fell. “She saw us.”
“Some spies we are,” B said. “Now we look like snoops. No better than Jason Jameson.”
“Nah,” George said. “C’mon, let’s go. Don’t be embarrassed. We’re here for a good reason. The homework project, remember?”
“Suppose she invites us in? Man, I’d love to see the inside of that place.”
George elbowed B. Then B saw why.
“Hey, guys.” It was Trina, approaching them across the perfectly trimmed lawns. “What are you doing here?” She looked nervous, glancing over her shoulder at the cars and people.
Was she mad? Hard to tell.
“Homework,” George said. “Mr. Bishop assigned you to our group for a poetry project. Sounds pretty big, so, we, er …”
“We got your address from the office and stopped by to drop it off,” B finished. “Mr. Bishop wants us to pick a favorite song, analyze the poetic elements in the lyrics, then write new lyrics. Want to, maybe, start working on it a little today?” B watched for Trina’s reaction. “Since, you know, we’re here and everything?”
“It sounds like fun,” Trina said. “But now’s not a good time.”
“Ka-tri-na!” A voice from the direction of the house made Trina jump. It was shrill, and a little crackly.
“I’ve got to go,” Trina said. “Sorry we can’t get started now. That’s my grandmother. I need to practice … We need to work on a … project. Inside. An indoor project. We’ve got company.”
“A practicing project?” B asked, puzzled.
“One that can’t wait,” Trina continued. “So, tomorrow, okay? Gotta go now. Bye!”
And she turned and ran across the lawns. George and B watched her disappear into the huge front doorway of the home. Then they both turned to leave.
“Practicing,” George mused. “I know! Maybe she’s a Ninjitsu black belt, doing her daily exercises. Spies do martial arts all the time.” He dropped his body low into a karatelike crouch, bracing his arms against an imaginary attacker. “Though it seems strange to think she’d practice on her old granny….”
“Spies use weapons now,” B said. “She’s probably got to practice detonating the grenade secretly hidden in her lip gloss case.”
“I hope she doesn’t practice that on her granny, either.”
B laughed. “She’s probably just a princess, practicing shaking hands with dictators. Or maybe she’s just a shy girl with a crabby grandmother. Let’s go home.”
Chapter 6
B decided that she would wear a Black Cats shirt every day that week as a symbol of mourning for the broken band. At school, she found she wasn’t the only one clad in Black Cats wear. She counted eight Black Cats hooded sweatshirts, six T-shirts, and three hats, all with sparkly Black Cats logos. She spotted Trina easily, as she was one of her only friends not wearing any Black Cats memorabilia. B waved but Trina didn’t seem to notice.
“Hi, Trina!” B called but when Trina walked by, B noticed the headphones tucked into each ear. Trina was singing along quietly and enjoying herself. B decided not to disturb her.
B took a final gulp of pomegranate juice just as Jamal Burns slammed his locker, turned, and ran right into her. Dark red juice spilled all over her Black Cats shirt.
“Aargh!” Cold juice ran down her front, staining the light gray fabric. “That’ll never wash out!”
“Oops. Sorry,” Jamal said, disappearing into his homeroom.
The bell rang, and the hall emptied quickly as studen
ts scurried away. B stared at the hideous stain on her shirt. The Black Cats logo showed three black cats arching their backs and strutting underneath a full moon, but the pale gray moon was now maroon.
B looked around. Nobody in sight. Staring at the stained Blacks Cats logo, B whispered, “C-L-E-A-N.” The juice leaped out of the fibers of her sweatshirt in a big, jiggly pomegranate blob, then evaporated. Her shirt looked fresh as new.
“Holy cats,” B whispered, grinning. Sometimes she even impressed herself.
Just then, she heard a sound she’d never heard in school before. A meow?
From around the corner came a small kitten, smoky black from head to tail. The kitten scampered toward her and rubbed against her legs, then jumped into her arms.
B was stunned. How did a cat get here? She swallowed hard. Could she have accidentally conjured it up when she did her cleaning spell? It would be just the kind of thing her spells sometimes did. Maybe, B thought, it was because I was looking at the Black Cats symbol when I made the spell.
Now what? She was already late for class, but she couldn’t go to class with a kitten. Mrs. Armstrong will know what to do, B thought.
B started carrying the kitten toward the office, when, with a meow, it faded and disappeared in her arms, leaving only a sparkle before it winked out.
No question — that cat was magical.
B stood still, thinking. One problem solved: no cat to explain away. Another problem discovered: B’s crazy unpredictable magic was up to its usual tricks, and this time those tricks were creating living creatures! Good thing her favorite band wasn’t the Mighty Mighty Mammoths.
“Do you guys want to come over today after school to start our poetry project?”
B, George, and Trina swiveled around in their seats. The bell had just rung to end English class.
“Yeah, I guess we could do that,” George said to Trina, pretending to be nonchalant.
B tried not to smile. “We’d love to.”
Jason leaned in closer. Eavesdropping, undoubtedly. That snoopy Jason Jameson!
“Why don’t you meet me out front after school,” suggested Trina, “and I can give you a ride?”
Interesting, thought B. Why so open and inviting today, when yesterday she was so secretive?
George sat up straighter in his chair. “Sure! Yeah. Absolutely. I love cars.”
“Was there something you wanted to ask us, Jason?” B said.
“I’ve got nothing to ask you, Wasp, except for maybe when you’re going to buzz away and never come back,” Jason said. “I had a question for Trina. So, Trina, um, want me to come over some time and bring my Black Cats CDs? I remember you said you weren’t familiar with them.” He patted his chest. “I’m a Black Cats expert.”
“Is that so?” Trina polished her glasses on her sweater, then peered at Jason. “I have a question for you. Why would you think I’d want to hang out with you, when you’re always so rude to my friends?” She slung her plaid backpack over her shoulder. “C’mon, guys, let’s go to lunch.”
After school, George and B waited with Trina for her car to arrive.
“Have you guys got a favorite song you’d like to work on?” Trina began. “There’s this new band I like called the Frog Princes, and I thought maybe …”
“Ssh!” B interrupted her. “Don’t turn around, anyone. Trina, Jason Jameson is actually hiding in the bushes to spy on you.”
“What?” Trina rolled her eyes in disgust. “What is the matter with that kid? Everywhere I go, he’s in my face.”
“Maybe he’s got a crush on you,” George said.
“Oh, good, here comes Rick,” Trina said, visibly relieved. The long black sedan swept around the drive and into the parking lot.
“Rick?” B asked.
“The driver,” Trina explained.
“Don’t drool on the bushes, Jason,” George called. His cover blown, Jason poked his face out of the shrubs to scowl at them.
They climbed into the backseat of the car, and Trina introduced them both to Rick, a short, muscular man with friendly eyes. “Afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said, nodding to George. “Where are we bound today?”
“Just home, thanks,” Trina said. B elbowed George so he’d stop oohing and ogling the car’s luxurious leather interior and all its features: a minirefrigerator, snack bar, television, and even a video game system.
“Wow, do you use all this stuff?” George asked.
“Mostly only on long trips,” Trina said. “Anyway, about the song for our project, what would you think of —”
“Where d’you get a car like this?” George burst out.
B watched Trina’s face closely. George was excited about the car, she knew, but she could tell he was also keeping up his quest to find out where Trina came from.
“At a dealership, I guess,” Trina said. “I didn’t buy it personally.”
Rick pulled the car into the driveway at Trina’s house. They climbed out, and Trina invited them inside through the back door. They passed through the kitchen, where Trina opened the fridge and offered them sodas and juice, then headed into the living room. It was big, but otherwise pretty much like any normal living room, except that the walls were bare. No, not bare exactly — nails were spaced high on the wall as if they once held pictures. B noticed a bunch of picture frames leaning against the wall near the bookcase, with the pictures themselves facing the wall.
“You just moved in, right?” B said. “You’re unpacked except for the pictures.”
“Oh, you don’t want to see those,” Trina said quickly. “They’re … boring. I have an uncle who likes to photograph … dirt. Grandma says we have to hang them on the walls, but I don’t want to.” Trina grabbed a throw off the couch and tossed it over the stack of frames. “Pull up a chair, guys, and make yourselves at home.”
“Hey, is that an actual suit of armor?” George headed toward the front entryway, where a knight stood guarding the door.
“Wait! You can’t go out in the hall.” Trina blushed as they both turned to look at her. “You, um, have to stay in here. My grandma doesn’t really like visitors, so I’m only allowed to have people in the kitchen and the living room. The noise in the hallway would disturb her.”
B and George sat back down. B felt bad for Trina, living with a grandma who seemed so restrictive. Still, why all these secrets? Yesterday they weren’t welcome inside. Today they could come in, but so many things were off-limits. Strange.
“What about your parents?” George said. “Do they like visitors?”
“I live with my grandma,” Trina said. “My parents are, um, traveling.”
A telephone rang in the kitchen, and Trina excused herself to go answer it. While she was away, George and B exchanged a look. They didn’t need to speak. B knew George was thinking the same thing she was. Trina was getting more mysterious by the minute.
Chapter 7
“I’m back,” Trina said, returning to the living room. “Let’s get started. Did you guys have a song in mind?”
“‘Yowl’!” George and B said the word together.
“What’s that?” Trina said. Then, as her gaze rested on B’s Black Cats sweatshirt, she snapped her fingers. “I know. It’s by that band everyone’s talking about, right?”
“The Black Cats!” B exclaimed. “You still haven’t heard their music?”
Trina shrugged. “Maybe once or twice.”
“I know,” George said. “For our group project, instead of doing an essay or a poster, why don’t we sing the new song we write? I’ll bet Mr. Bishop would give extra credit for that.”
“No way,” B said. “You know I don’t like performing in public.”
“I don’t sing.”
George and B both looked at Trina. “Not even in the shower?” B asked.
“At all.”
Even stage-fright B was surprised at the determination in Trina’s voice.
“Okay,” George said. “I guess we’ll scrap that id
ea. The first thing we need to do is write down the lyrics to the song.”
“Ready,” B said, pulling out her notebook. “The song begins, ‘Midnight in the alley, the cats are on the prowl, they see the full moon risin’ —’ ”
George cut in. “‘That’s when they YOWL, yowl, yowl, yowl….’”
“It’s really just one ‘Yowl.’ The rest are the backup singers,” B said.
“Doesn’t matter,” George replied. “It’s still repetition. That’s a poetic element.”
“Whatever,” B said, writing as fast as her hand would go. “‘That’s when they yowl, yowl, yowl, yowl, yowl…. That’s when they yowl, yowl, yowl….’ Man, this line repeats three times! They could have thought up some lyrics with more variety.”
“I thought you really liked the song,” Trina said.
“Oh, definitely,” B said. “I just don’t like transcribing it.”
George continued. “So after the third ‘yowl, yowl, yowl’ bit, they say, ‘Throw your head back and HOWL, howl, howl, howl….’ ”
“‘The cats are on the prowl. Yeah!’” B finished her notes.
They wrote out the second verse in the same way, and once again it ended with plenty of yowls.
“No shortage of rhyme here,” George said. “What about the next verse?”
“This one has a different meter. Slower,” B said. “‘Night’s — the — hour — for — keep — ing — se — crets….’”
“Is that the chorus?” George asked.
“The bridge,” Trina said quickly.
B turned toward her, surprised. “The who?”
“The bridge,” Trina said. “That’s what you call that part of the song, where the verses and the tune change to something different. It’s not the chorus; it’s the bridge.” She looked confused for a minute. “At least, I’m pretty sure I saw that once on a TV show.”
“Learn something every day,” George said. Then he burst into song. “‘But — we — Black — Cats — ain’t — got — se — crets, want — the — whole — wide — world — to — hear — us — YOWL, yowl, yowl, yowl!’”
“You were a little bit off there, George,” B said. “It’s ‘But — we — Cats — ain’t — got — no — se — crets….’ ”
