by Lexi Connor
“Wow, Trina,” he said. “That was … unexpected.”
“It was amazing!” B cried. “That song was so beautiful! And the pictures … so romantic … It’s like Mr. Bishop’s own special music video.”
Trina blushed. “Thanks.” She watched Mr. Bishop nervously. “Did it work? I mean, was the song … something you would like?”
Mr. Bishop rested his hand on Trina’s shoulder. “Maybe a little too much. It reminded me of a band my friends and I formed in college. We used to play that kind of music.”
Trina smiled, looking like she was trying not to make it too big. B could tell she was really pleased.
“You’re next, B,” Mr. Bishop said, and all the pleasure of Trina’s spell evaporated.
“I don’t have anything even close to that,” B began. “I’ve tried lots of things, but I can’t even think of a good idea. The best I could come up with last night was a cleanup spell for a messy bedroom, but I guess clean bedrooms aren’t my thing.” She grinned. “With or without magic.” Her mother would attest to that.
“The best magic comes from our unique talents,” Mr. Bishop said. “Try to think about what’s unique about you.”
“That’s easy,” Trina said. “I’ve never heard of another spelling witch. I mean, one who spells words in order to cast spells.”
B sighed. “So, what should I do? Conjure up a dictionary? Being able to spell words is no special skill. People’s computers can do it for them.”
Mr. Bishop twisted the tip of his shiny black goatee. “Tsk, tsk! How many of my English lectures have you sat through, and you think the most magical thing about words is how they’re spelled? Think, B! Words are wondrously powerful! What else can you do with them?”
“Me?”
“Anybody.”
B hated trick questions, and this felt like one. Mr. Bishop clearly had a specific answer he wanted, and B had no idea what it was. “You, er, talk using words,” she said, “and write with them.”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “Yes, yes. But what? Not just grocery lists and to-do lists. What can you tell or write with your words?”
B’s gaze fell on a stack of books piled next to Mozart’s cage. Mozart, the class hamster, lived in a tank on the windowsill in between the pencil sharpener and the class collection of paperback copies of Where the Red Fern Grows.
“Stories,” B said. “Words can be shaped into stories.”
“Exactly!” Mr. Bishop rubbed his hands together. “Trina came up with a songwriting spell, which, frankly, is pretty advanced magic. You could try a storytelling spell, couldn’t you, B?”
B concentrated hard. This was one of the big problems with spelling words to perform magic. You only got a word or two. Rhyming and singing witches could describe what they wanted in much better detail. B had to focus hard to make her words produce the right results. Sometimes, even when she thought she’d focused perfectly, the spell still came out wonky.
“S-T-O-R-Y,” she said, thinking hard about Mr. Bishop, stories, storytellers, and happy endings.
A gust of wind swept slowly through the room, ruffling the pages of books on desks, and even levitating a few paperbacks off the shelves. B watched nervously. What was going on?
“Once up on a time …” a voice began.
B breathed a sigh of relief. It worked! The voice had a cool British accent. Trina squealed and gave B a high five.
“… there lived a family of giants.”
Giants? Well, why not? Mr. Bishop’s smile stretched from ear to ear.
“They lived in a cave in the side of a mountain and ate schoolteachers for breakfast, lunch, and supper each day.”
Mr. Bishop laughed out loud, but B grew nervous. This wasn’t the kind of story she had in mind at all!
“Their favorite kind of schoolteacher to eat was the kind that was also a witch. One day, the mother of the giant family, Mama Murgatroyd, got out her big copper kettle and began sharpening her chopping knives. ‘Today’s the day,’ she told her big son Earl, ‘that we’ll go and hunt ourselves down a nice, plump …’”
“S-T-O-P,” B said, and flopped into the desk she used for English. “Never mind. That was horrible.”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Bishop asked. “I loved it! It had all the makings of a classic. Of course, if there are any little kids in the audience, they might be traumatized….”
“You just need more practice. That’s all,” Trina said. “That was only your first time trying. You should have heard my first song spells! The beat was off, and the instruments were out of tune.”
“Thanks for the idea,” B said. “I’ll definitely keep practicing.” She shouldered her backpack. “I just hope there’s time to make it come together before Friday.”
Because if there isn’t, B thought, then the only thing I’ll want to perform on Friday is a disappearing act.
Chapter 4
The next day, trucks and vans full of film equipment filled the driveway in front of B’s school. People B had never seen before swarmed the campus, running in and out with lengths of cable, makeup bags, extension cords, and big black boxes of lighting and sound equipment. B had to admit, it was pretty exciting. She found herself hoping for a glimpse of Clifton Davro.
When the bell rang at the end of the day, the competitors auditioning for the talent show lined up outside the auditorium. Kids of all ages from all over the city had come to try out. The line was snaking out the front door of the school. Dawn stood near the front of the line, flexing and stretching her leg muscles to get ready for her dance. She was all decked out in her dance costume, a pair of black jeans and a matching black T-shirt with “DIVA” in big white letters across the chest, and, capping it all off, giant hoop earrings and a pink hat cocked over a sleek blond ponytail.
“Good luck, Dawn,” B said. “You look great. I love your costume.”
Dawn gave B’s arm a nervous squeeze. “Let’s just hope I can remember all my moves.”
George appeared farther back in the line, jostling a bag full of rope, locks, and other props. Trina showed up with her jacket and backpack, ready to leave. She thumped George on the back for good luck.
“Break a leg, George,” Trina said.
“I just might,” he said, “if I can’t get myself untangled in time. I’ve got bruises all over from falling when I practiced.”
“You’ll be great,” B said. “They’ll love you. I really wish I could come watch your audition.”
George shook his head. “The auditions are closed to the public. Judges and contestants only, this time around. That’s what it says.”
“I’d better get going,” Trina said. “I promised my grandma I’d come straight home and practice for my … for, er, Friday’s thing.” She winked at B. “What are you up to?”
B felt that dread creep into her stomach — the familiar one that appeared whenever the Young Witch Competition was mentioned. “I … I need to practice today, too,” she said. “I guess I’ll stop by and see if Mr. Bishop is still here. Maybe he can give me some more tips.”
With one last wave to Dawn and to George, B headed off to find Mr. Bishop. But when she reached his classroom, it was empty.
She sat in her usual seat near the window. Her gaze fell on a row of paperback novels standing on one of the shelves by the window. She picked up a few and looked at their covers. The Last of the Mohicans. Gone with the Wind. Mr. Bishop read everything.
Then she got an idea. Maybe her storytelling spell needed more guidance. Maybe she should think more about genre, or the kind of story she wanted to hear.
“W-E-S-T-E-R-N,” she said.
Something settled on her head. The cactus on the windowsill had transformed into a ten-gallon Stetson cowboy hat!
A storytelling voice filled the room, but this time it had a cowboy drawl. “Howdy, pardner,” it said. “Rassel them dogies up and get ’em out to pasture before the dinner gong.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” B said. “S-T-O-P. I never d
id like Westerns, and my spell could probably tell.” She took a deep breath. “R-O-M-A-N-C-E.”
To B’s surprise, the cowboy hat floated to her desk and transformed into a cheerleader’s pom-pom. The storytelling voice started, this time in dreamy tones. “Trevor lifted off his football helmet and gazed at Mandy. He had grease marks under his beautiful, deep blue eyes. Even after a grueling game against the Rudgertown Raiders, he was the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen — and she’d cheered varsity three years straight.
“‘Who’s taking you to the homecoming dance?’ he asked.
“Mandy giggled and said, ‘You are, silly.’”
“Yuck!” B said. “Stop, S-T-O-P, stop!” The pom-pom vanished. She was glad no one was around to hear those embarrassing story attempts. The Young Witch Competition was just three days away, and B was nowhere near ready. She sighed and sank down into a chair.
A movement near the window caught her eye. It was Mozart, standing on his hind legs in his tank and waving frantically to B. She opened the lid to his tank and lifted him out. B and Mozart had shared quite a few adventures since B found her spelling magic. She always had a soft spot for the cheeky little furball.
He snuffled around in the palm of her hand, then gazed at her, his whiskers twitching, his beady eyes shining.
“What is it, fella?” she said.
Mozart blinked at her. His meaning was obvious.
“I really shouldn’t make you talk,” B said. “Mr. Bishop wouldn’t like it.”
Mozart blinked again.
“Oh, okay, just for a minute,” B said. “S-P-E-A-K.”
“Phew! It’s about time, missy. I’ve been waving at you for days but do you notice the lonely hamster? Noooo!”
“Hiya, Mozart,” B said, grinning. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
Mozart jumped up and down in B’s hand. “I’ve been stuck in that box all week, listening to kids yammering about the TV people and the talent show. Lemme go see it, will ya? I could be a star.”
“Holy cats, Mozart, do you realize how dangerous that would be?”
The hamster twitched his whiskers at her. “C’mon, missy, don’t you realize how boring it is to live in a cage and watch all the fun pass you by? The kids come; the kids go. You smell their lunch on their fingers when they come back from eating, and all you get is hamster chow. You hear them talk about cool things they do, but all you can do is dig in sawdust and run on your wheel.” He thumped his tiny paw on his fluffy chest. “I’ve got dreams! I was made for better things! I’ve got as much talent in my little finger” — he held up his nearly microscopic claw — “as that nasty freckle-face boy has in his whole body.”
“Jason Jameson?” B said. “That’s a fact. I’d pick you any day over him.”
“That’s not saying much.” He blinked at her once more. “Pretty please, missy? Just one little peek at the talent show. That’s all I ask.”
B hesitated. Mozart had a point. Didn’t he? She would hate to be stuck in a tank, missing out on everything. What could go wrong?
A lot, actually. But, still … B really wanted to watch George and Dawn audition. Her magical practice sure wasn’t making any progress. She’d have to be stealthy and absolutely quiet.
“You’ve got to promise me you won’t run off or cause any trouble,” B said.
“Hamster’s honor,” Mozart said.
“And you’ll keep quiet?”
“Quiet as a mouse,” Mozart said, “though where that saying came from, I don’t know, because the mice I know, you can’t get a word in edgewise around them. Talk your head off, a mouse will. I’m more the strong, silent type.”
B grinned. “Is that so? Well, come on, Mozart. Let’s check out that talent show.”
Chapter 5
All the doors to the auditorium were locked. Peeking through a crack between one set of doors, B could barely make out the aspiring contestants seated in the front half of the auditorium, and a singer clutching a microphone on the stage. How could she get in without attracting attention? Her transportation spell didn’t always work as well as she’d like. There was usually no telling where she’d land. And she didn’t want to sit in the audience and get mistaken for a contestant — that would be awful! She needed a place to watch that was completely inconspicuous.
Carefully, soundlessly, she tugged on a backstage door, but it, too, was locked. She checked from side to side to make sure no one was watching, then spelled, “U-N-L-O-C-K.” The bolt slid aside and the handle turned gently when she tried it. Good thing I’d never be a thief, B thought, suppressing a little smile.
She slipped inside. At first B couldn’t see anything past the dozens of curtains in the wings, blocking her view. She tiptoed forward, still holding Mozart cupped in her palm, until she had a glimpse of the stage. B peeked into the auditorium and saw rows and rows of kids all waiting their turn to audition. A girl in a tutu was bowing, and the judges, seated behind a long table at the far side of the stage, clapped halfheartedly. The man seated at the middle of the table wore sunglasses and a leather jacket, and his hair was all spiky. It was Clifton Davro!
As the ballerina left the stage, Clifton Davro conferred with Ms. Andrews, the school drama teacher, who seemed to be telling him about the next contestant as she took the stage. B noticed Ms. Andrews’s cheeks were pinker than usual, especially when Clifton Davro leaned closer. Two other judges sat at the table, one on either side of Clifton Davro and Ms. Andrews, but B didn’t recognize either of them.
B scooched in closer. “Dawn Cicely,” an announcer called. “Let’s see if You’ve Got It!”
Dawn! B felt a flutter of sympathetic nerves for her sister. But Dawn strode out onto the stage like she was born there. She struck a pose with one leg crossed over the other as she waited for her music to start, one hand tipping the brim of her pink hat low over her forehead. She looked like a star, and her act hadn’t even started!
The sound system guys seemed to be having a hard time finding the music. Dawn waited, keeping her pose straight.
“What’s the matter?” B heard Jason Jameson yelling loud and clear from the auditorium. “Waiting in line for the bathroom? Try the boys’ room. There’s never a line.”
Why didn’t they disqualify him then and there? B couldn’t believe they let people heckle like that. But Dawn didn’t bat an eyelash. For all anyone could tell, she’d never even heard.
The opening beats of “Swagger” filled the auditorium, and Dawn launched into a perfect twirl. B had to admit, it was pretty neat watching her sister dancing like a pro to a song sung by one of her best friends for a TV judging panel.
“That’s my sister, Mozart,” B whispered. “Isn’t she great?”
“Sure, yeah, she’s got some moves,” Mozart said.
Dawn didn’t miss a single step. Even B, who had watched Dawn’s recitals for years, was impressed. Her sister was electric today. B could tell the judges and the audience agreed.
“Swagger” finished with Dawn doing a perfect break-dance spin on the stage. The audience erupted with applause, and B grinned. She couldn’t clap while still holding Mozart, and of course she wasn’t supposed to be there at all, so she kept quiet otherwise.
Clifton Davro jumped to his feet and raised his sunglasses. “You’ve got it!” he yelled, giving Dawn a huge thumbs-up. Dawn blushed pinker than her hot-pink hat, bowed, and ran off the stage.
The announcer called for Frankie Hotchkiss, an awkward sixth-grader wearing suspenders and a red bowtie. B heard snickers of laughter run through the audience. Frankie heard them, too, but he faced the microphone with a grim sort of courage that made B vow to go out of her way to say hi to him from now on. She had a feeling she knew just how scared he was, and she had to hand it to him for trying anyway. His music began, and more kids laughed. It was a well-known song from a movie popular with little kids. Frankie opened his mouth and began to sing.
Then the laughing began in earnest. Frankie Hotchkiss might sound all right si
nging in the shower, but his was not a voice meant for show business. Jason Jameson’s familiar, mean laugh rose above the others. B felt even more upset. Poor Frankie. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t sing well. Jason had no business being cruel to him.
“Listen to the pork chop try to sing,” Mozart squeaked. “He sounds like a pencil sharpener chewing through a metal pen.”
“Hush, Mozart,” B hissed. “No talking! You’ll get us in trouble.”
“You’re right,” Mozart said. “He sounds more like a school bus driving away with its parking brake still on.”
“Quiet! And stop being mean, too. One more peep out of you, and I’m taking you back to your tank.”
“Aww, you wouldn’t do that to your old pal Mozart, would you? I’ve only heard one song so far, and this rotten kid singer doesn’t count.”
“Amazing!” said a voice behind her.
B felt a chill of terror run down her spine. She looked up to see a tall woman peering down at her. She wore a headset and carried a clipboard, and her steel gray hair was coiled up in a tight bun. I’m in big trouble, B thought. Then she saw where the woman’s eyes were fixed. It’s worse than I thought! The woman couldn’t take her eyes off Mozart!
“I could have sworn that gerbil was actually talking!” the woman said.
“Hamster,” B said, her stomach sinking.
“You’re quite the little ventriloquist. My name’s Nancy. I’m the director of the show,” the woman said. “You shouldn’t be back here, you know. You should be in the audience with the other contestants. What’s your name? Where are you on the list?”
“My name’s Beatrix Cicely, but I’m not on the list,” B began. “I’m just …”
“Well, we’ll fix that,” Nancy said. “Let’s not wait. This act is about to finish, and we’ll get you right on. Cliff’s gonna love you.” She frowned. “But you haven’t got a costume. Hmm.” She snapped her fingers. “I know! Where’s that trunk …?” She reached around a curtain and pulled out a tall silk top hat. Without a word, she clapped it onto B’s head.
“Nice hat,” Mozart said.
