The Spell Bind

by Barbara Brauner

  Dad unlocks the door and Abner strides in, his shiny green cowboy boots clicking on the tile.

  “Hi there,” Abner says. Even though he’s got a big, toothy smile, he also looks a little tired. “I was driving past and saw your sign. ‘The Hungry Moose.’ This is my kind of place.”

  “Dinner’s at five,” Dad says. “You should come back.”

  “Can I get some takeout? To be honest, I need a little comfort food. I just spent a week in focus groups for a new product, and it crashed and burned. I thought people would love pickle-flavored ice cream, but even pregnant ladies hated it. A year’s worth of research and development down the drain.”

  It’s too bad he wasted all that work, but even I could have told him that pickle-flavored ice cream was a bad idea.

  Abner looks so sad that Dad hands him a menu. “Here at the Hungry Moose, we specialize in comfort food. I’ll make up anything you want.”

  “Thank you so much,” Abner says. He makes a lot of mmmm sounds as he looks through the menu.

  Dad asks, “What brings you to town?”

  “I just built a little vacation cabin near the lake.” Abner puts down the menu. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like one of everything.”

  “I’d be happy to…on one condition.”

  Abner looks at him suspiciously. “What is it?”

  Dad disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a five-gallon tub of Abner’s Pickles. “Will you autograph this for me?”

  Abner laughs. “Not a problem!”

  Dad waves at me. “Lacey! You’ve got to get a picture of this!”

  I use my phone to take a picture of Abner signing the jar and Dad making a goofy face and pointing. I’m sure this will get framed and put on the Hungry Moose wall next to the photo of the egg with three yolks.

  Then Dad stands me next to Abner to take a picture of us together, too. “Lacey, smile!” If Abner can smile after failing with pickle ice cream, I should be able to smile after failing as a fairy godmother.

  But somehow, I just can’t.

  “The pickle guy showed up again? Was it another one of your misbegotten spells?” Katarina asks me as the waves lap against her boat. (Tonight, her 60 percent of the bedroom looks like an endless, calm, blue ocean.)

  “No, he saw the restaurant sign. He was driving by on his way to the lake.”

  Katarina peers at the picture of Dad and Abner on my phone. “Your father is easily impressed. Just look at him. And that Abner. Pickles! What a way to waste your life.”

  “Abner’s Pickles are Sunny’s favorite. And he gives a lot of money to charity.”

  I tap the picture to enlarge the part of the label that reads A percentage of every sale goes to fund good causes in your community.

  “Well, hooray for Abner. I don’t know why you’re wasting time taking pictures of pickles when you should be thinking about Martin.”

  Katarina’s right. Abner’s Pickles has absolutely nothing to do with my problem. I’m about to put down my phone when I read the “good causes” part on the label again. I say, “Wait a minute! Lincoln Middle School is a good cause.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And our school is in our community!”

  “So what?”

  “Maybe he could sponsor a new carnival. Or fix the water tower. It could have a sign on it that says ‘This water tower brought to you by Abner’s Pickles.’”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “No, I’m completely lusional!” (Is that a word?) “Tomorrow I’m going to go talk to Abner and ask him to help Lincoln Middle School.”

  Katarina looks at me thoughtfully as she bobs up and down in her little boat. “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Martin you’re supposed to be focusing on here—he’s got to be involved, too. Cinderella’s fairy godmother didn’t go to the ball for Cinderella; she made it possible for Cinderella to go to the ball. For Martin’s life to not-stink, he’s the one who needs to get the credit.”

  Suddenly curious, I ask, “Did you actually know Cinderella’s fairy godmother?”

  Katarina makes a retching sound deep in her throat.

  “You didn’t like her?” I ask.

  “No. Cinderella’s godmother was lovely. I’m seasick.” Katarina, looking woozy, clutches the edge of her boat as it bobs up and down on the waves.

  Suddenly, a cold breeze gusts out of Augustina’s magic portal, which is now a couple of inches wide. I tell Katarina, “It’s getting bigger!”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course it isn’t.”

  Then another, much stronger breeze blasts out of the portal into my room, and a thin sheet of ice forms on top of the waves. A moment later, the sky behind Katarina turns from deep blue to steel gray.

  The ice thickens, and Katarina’s little boat stops bobbing and freezes in place.

  Katarina stares at the frozen sea around her, worried. Finally, she nods. “The portal is getting bigger. The fairies are sending us a preview of coming attractions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t help Martin, this is what our future will look like. Ice, cold, and Antarctica. And that’s not the bee’s knees, as you kids say.”

  That’s not something even my grandparents say, but I still shiver, and not just from the cold.

  Ka-scrape, ka-scrape, ka-scrape is the sound I hear when I wake up the next morning.

  I open my eyes and see that the portal got even bigger overnight. Not a lot bigger, but enough so now there’s not only wind blowing into the room, there’s snow, too. The ka-scrape noise is from a little snow shovel that scoops up the snow on the floor and dumps it back through the portal.

  Katarina is perched on the edge of my dresser, taking the curlers out of her hair.

  “What’s going on?” I ask sleepily.

  “Snow removal, obviously.”

  Then there’s a terrified little screech from the snow shovel, and it gets sucked right through the portal. Katarina, who doesn’t look away from the mirror, flicks her wand to create another shovel. “Augustina is trying to make my life difficult with her portal spell. I’m not letting that blue-haired buzzard get the best of me! Watch an expert at work.”

  “I can’t! I have my internship at the petting zoo this morning.”

  “Leave! I’ll stay here and look after things. And you, missy, figure out how you’re going to get Martin to go with you to talk to Abner.”

  “How am I going to do that?” I ask Gus the pony at the petting zoo. Gus ignores me and keeps eating his oats.

  For the next two hours, I try to figure things out. And I come up with—nothing. It’s really hard to be a fairy godmother to someone who doesn’t want to be fairy godmothered.

  Even if I do talk Martin into going, how will we get to Abner’s house? The lake is pretty far. When Dad drives us up to swim in the summer, it takes ninety-one bottles of beer on the wall to get there; over two hundred bottles if the traffic is bad.

  As I’m doing all this thinking, I look out the petting zoo gate and see Scott, his face shiny with sweat, slowly pedaling up the steep hill on his unicycle.

  “Hi, Scott!” I call.

  He’s so breathless, he has trouble getting the words out. “Hi, Lacey! Did you forget that the Uni-Cylones were practicing hills today?” (Only when he says it, there are a lot of spaces from panting between the words. I mean, a lot.)

  Eight more breathless unicyclists pedal up the hill behind him. I did forget about the club. Maybe, since I have no Martin ideas, I can hang out with them for a little while.

  “I’m almost finished here,” I tell Scott. “I’ll meet you guys at the top of the hill.”

  “Did you bring your unicycle?” he asks.

  “Uh…of course!” I lie. Not only did I not bring my unicycle, I never even asked Mom and Dad about getting one. (I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.)

  The second Scott and the other unicyclists are gone, I pull my wand
out of my pocket. What can I zap? Then I notice a Frisbee that some kid tossed onto the roof of the feed shed. That’s perfect. It’s even round like a wheel.

  I raise the wand and chant, “Frisbee, Frisbee, on the shed, be a unicycle instead!” When I toss the spell, a swirl of sparkles forms over the Frisbee, and it transforms into a gleaming silver unicycle with a bright pink seat.

  The unicycle tilts upright, rolls off the shed roof, and lands at my feet. Very cool. But when I grab for it, it rolls out of reach. “Come back here,” I tell it.

  Instead, whoosh, it flies to the other side of the fence. It’s not acting like a unicycle—it’s acting like a Frisbee. “Stop flying! You’re not a Frisbee anymore! You’re a unicycle!”

  It ignores me and zooms up and over the treetops in a shiny silver blur, out of sight. “Come back! Come back! Come back!” I call.

  But the Frisbee-unicycle doesn’t return. I peer over the tops of the trees, looking for any sign of it. It’s gone! I’d need something like Martin’s jetpack to catch it, if the jetpack really worked instead of just making farting noises.

  Then I have a lightbulb moment, as if there’s a giant idea light right over my head.

  And the bulb keeps blinking one word: Jetpacks. Jetpacks. Jetpacks.

  I send two quick texts, one to Scott to tell him I can’t do the Uni-Cyclones today because I’m going to have to help at the Hungry Moose (not true), and one to Mom to tell her I’m going to be working on a project with Martin this afternoon (completely true). Then I race out of the petting zoo.

  I skulk around the side of Martin’s house like a burglar and peer down into the basement window, but the room is dark. Then, above me, I hear the sound of a violin playing a slow, sad classical piece. It’s coming from one of the second floor windows.

  I’ve got to be a little sneaky—there are two cars in the driveway, so Martin’s parents must be home. I cup my hands around my mouth and call, “Psssst! Hey, Martin! Martin!” And then I add about a million more pssssts in.

  Finally, the violin stops playing. Martin opens the window and sticks his head out. “Lacey, are you crazy? What are you doing here?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Go away! I’m grounded, remember? And I’m supposed to be practicing!”

  “Take a little break. It’ll be worth it.” I raise my wand over my head and chant, “You won’t believe your eyes, when my backpack flies!” and toss the spell over my shoulder.

  Two jets of brilliant pink sparkles burst out from behind me, and I shoot up into air above the trees like I’m tied to a rocket.

  I grab the front straps to hold on, and suddenly I slow down and hover, with Martin’s house far below me. That was scary! But so far, so good.

  I pull on the left strap, and I glide left. I pull on the right strap, and I glide right. I pull down, and with the backpack still spewing pink sparkles, I glide down until I’m face-to-face with Martin outside his window. His eyes are just about popping out of his head.

  “Welcome to the Future Flyers Club,” I tell him. “Today’s meeting is all about jetpacks.”

  “Awesome!” Martin says. “Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Do the sparkles really need to be so…pink?”

  He’s right. Jetpacks are usually such a boy thing: high-tech and sci-fi. But when you add a ton of pink sparkles, they turn into something that my sister, Madison, might have dreamed up. “Sorry. Fairy godmothering is all about pink sparkles. So does that mean you don’t want one?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I want one. I don’t care if you paint me pink! Make me one! Make me one now!”

  I grab onto the window frame and climb into the room. Within seconds, Martin’s entire room is filled with pink rocket exhaust.

  “You’ve got to turn off the jetpack,” Martin says.

  He’s right—but how? It’s not like I can just ask the jetpack to turn itself off. Or can I? “Jetpack? Please turn off.”

  Problem solved. It looks like an ordinary backpack again.

  Sometimes I just love magic.

  “We’re going on a field trip,” I tell Martin. “I need your backpack, too.”

  Right then there’s a voice from outside the room: it’s Martin’s mom. “I don’t hear any practicing in there.”

  Martin picks up his violin and bow and starts playing again. He whispers, “I can’t go anyplace. I’ve got to practice for another two hours.”

  “Two hours! That’s a lot of practicing.”

  “My mom wants me to audition for this fancy teacher in Chicago. He only takes three students a year, and she thinks I need to be one of them. So I’m stuck here.”

  I give him a smug smile. “Lucky for you, you’ve got a fairy godmother.” I raise my wand and chant, “Pick up the slack, till Martin gets back.” Then I toss the spell at the violin and the bow. They leap out of Martin’s hands and, floating in the air, start playing all by themselves.

  Sometimes I even impress myself.

  With the magic jetpacks scattering sparkles behind us, we fly high above the streets. I glide along like a normal person—or at least as normal as you can be when you’re wearing a magic jetpack—and Martin zips around like a maniac, leaving trails of brilliant pink sparkles in the sky.

  I’m worried that people will look up and see us, but nobody does. For one thing, the jetpacks don’t make a single sound. And for another, the few people who are on the street are all staring at their phones, not up into the sky. We could be dancing the cha-cha up here and no one would see because they’re texting.

  Martin zooms half a block ahead of me. “Come back!” I shout. “I need to talk to you.”

  He ignores me and pulls his backpack straps so he can do crazy loop-the-loops instead. “This is so maar!”

  Martin soars high above me until he’s just a little speck in the clouds, and then he zooms back down until I’m sure he’s going to smash on the ground. I shriek and cover my eyes. I wonder what happens to fairy godmothers whose clients end up squashed like bugs?

  “This is really, really, really, really maar!” he says, sounding very close.

  I open my eyes and see Martin right next to me, not squished. “I wish I could fly forever,” he says.

  He’s acting like this is a game, when it’s really serious fairy godmother business. “We can’t fly around all day,” I say. “We have to go talk to Abner at his lake house.”

  Martin looks at me, confused. “Abner who?”

  I explain all about seeing Abner at the Hungry Moose yesterday, and about how I think he might be able to give us money for the school. I finish up by saying, “And you have to be the one to ask Abner. You were the one who caused all the problems, so you have to be the one to solve them. Sound like a plan?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Martin points up ahead of us. “There’s the lake. Which one is his house?”

  The lake glitters in the distance, and there are dozens of houses around it, maybe even hundreds. “I’m not really sure,” I say. “He said he just built a little cabin. All we have to do is find it.”

  Martin and I jet around the lake, peering down at the houses. We see big ones and small ones, but we don’t see anything that looks like a new cabin. I never thought this would be so hard.

  When we’ve circled almost the entire lake, Martin starts to laugh.

  “What’s funny?” I ask.

  “I think I found his ‘little cabin.’” He points down at the biggest house I’ve ever seen, along with a huge garage and what looks like a barn.

  “That’s not a cabin!”

  “No. But I’m sure it belongs to Abner.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at the swimming pool.”

  I study the oddly-shaped pool. It’s not a rectangle—it’s a curvy-sided oblong, and its walls are green instead of the usual blue. I start laughing. “It’s a pickle?”

  Martin nods. “A big pickle!”

  We skid to a s
top on the lawn outside Abner’s house, leaving behind two swirly clouds of pink sparkles. A moment later, we just look like two ordinary kids wearing ordinary backpacks.

  Martin stares at the big, green front door. “So now we ring the bell and ask Abner for money?”

  “I guess.” I was so worried about getting here that I didn’t really think about what we would say. I take a deep breath and then go to the front door and ring the bell.

  A tall, no-nonsense-looking woman wearing a housekeeper’s tunic opens the door and stares down at us. “Yes?”

  Trying to sound confident, I say, “Hi! We’re here to see Abner.”

  “He’s very busy. You can call his office in the city and set up an appointment.”

  Martin flashes a confident smile. “He’s expecting us. We’re, uh, writing a report about the history of pickles in America. And you can’t write about the current state of condiments without including the Big Pickle himself.”

  The woman starts to close the door. “As I said, he’s very busy. Good luck on your report.”

  “Mrs. Gibbs, wait,” a voice calls out from inside the house. “I have a few minutes to spare.” A moment later, Abner appears at the door, smiling. He reaches out to shake our hands. “I’m always happy to talk about pickles! Come in, kids!” He looks at me a little closer. “And hey there—aren’t you the Hungry Moose girl?” I nod, and he smiles. “Great to see you again!”

  Abner leads us through the gigantic living room, which has a huge stone fireplace and a high beamed ceiling. You could fit my entire house in here.

  Then the three of us go into a smaller room that only half my house could fit inside. I only have one word to say about it: green. The walls are green. The carpet is green. The ceiling is green. The lights are green. Even the desk is green.

  A stained-glass window covers half of one wall. It shows a pickle jar with the words Veni, Vidi, Condivi on it.

  “I just had the window installed,” Abner says proudly.

  “What does it say?” Martin asks.