by Lexi Connor
B’s good friend Trina walked in and dropped her plaid backpack on her seat. Her full name was Katrina Lang, an everyday sixth-grader who also happened to be “Kat,” the lead singer of the Black Cats, a superstar pop group at the top of the charts. When she first moved to B’s town she tried to keep that fact a secret, but it wasn’t long before B and George found out. Now everyone knew, and they’d mostly stopped spazzing out about it. Her real secret, which no other kids but B and George knew, was that Trina was also a witch.
“Whatcha got, B?” Trina said, coming over to investigate the commotion.
“New chocolates my dad gave me to share,” B said. “You would have gotten some yesterday, if you hadn’t had Black Cats practice.”
“Sorry,” Trina said, grinning. “What are they?”
“Fabulous Fruits, dipped in three kinds of chocolate. Want some?”
Trina peered into the box. The first layer was nearly finished and the crumpled wrappers lay scattered. She shook her head. “No thanks. Not just yet. Too early in the morning for candy.”
Later, in English class, B sat in her usual seat next to George and near Trina. She left the chocolates on her desk and went over to greet Mozart, the classroom pet hamster, and refill his water dish. She returned to her desk just as Mr. Bishop arrived and began announcing the day’s assignment. It looked like several chocolates were missing. No matter — everyone was welcome to them. But when Mr. Bishop started writing on the blackboard, George slipped her a note.
Jason swiped a handful of chocolates, the note read. He was acting all sneaky about it, like he was stealing them.
B looked around to make sure Mr. Bishop didn’t see her passing notes, then took out her pencil and wrote, That’s weird. I would have given him some. Dad wanted me to share with everyone. Did you try any today?
George read the note and shook his head no. There were only a couple left in the box, so B put them away for George.
When the bell rang at the end of English class, and Mr. Bishop and most of the other students had filed out of the room, B reopened the box to give George the last few candies. She was hoping the taste would be back to normal now.
“How are they, George?” B said. “Any better than yesterday?”
George nibbled thoughtfully, swallowed, and shook his head. “Nope. Same,” he said. “B, I really should talk to your dad. I think maybe he’s so excited about this launch that his taste buds aren’t working like they ought to. Can we stop at Enchanted Chocolates after school?”
“That would be amazing!” Trina said. “I’ve always wanted to see inside a chocolate factory.”
B packed her backpack and stood. “I don’t know. Dad’s sick, but he still went to work today because a bunch of his employees called in sick this morning. He’s probably super busy, and super tired.”
“I won’t take much of his time,” George said. “Can’t we just stop by his office for a few minutes?”
B hesitated. “Oh, all right. Just for a few minutes. I’d kind of like to check on him and see how he’s feeling anyway. C’mon, let’s go eat.”
They each stopped at their lockers. B was just about to head to the caf when a tall girl with a scarf over her head and neck grabbed her hand.
“Hey!” B said. She turned to peer under the girl’s scarf. “Dawn? Is that you?”
The hooded figure nodded. “Help me, B,” she said, her voice weak and scratchy. “Look!” She lifted the scarf, and B gasped to see thick purple spots bubbling out all over her sister’s usually flawless complexion.
“Jumping jinxes, Dawn, are you okay?”
Dawn shook her head. “I’m exhausted. I’ve got to get home to bed, before anyone sees me. I was worried you were sick, too, but you look fine.” She blew her nose loudly. “All morning, every time I sneezed, my teachers got a new fashion accessory, poof!” She blew her nose again. “The styles got lamer and lamer. It was awful!”
“C’mon, let me take you to the office. I’ll call Mom and tell her to come pick you up.”
“Then that stopped,” Dawn said, as though she hadn’t heard B, “but these nasty boils appeared. What if my face is scarred for life? How will I get my senior portrait taken?”
B led Dawn by the arm down the long corridor to the main office. “That’s years away,” B said. “You’ve got the same symptoms Dad had last night. The spots went away when he chewed on pages from the rhyming dictionary. But it didn’t help his magic any.”
“Ugh, gross,” Dawn moaned. “I don’t want to eat ink.” She sneezed, and a nearby locker flew open. “I got text messages on my Crystal Ballphone from Stef and Macey. They both went home sick today, too. Same purple spots. What’s weird is, I just saw them last night at a witching class party, and they seemed fine.”
“So did you, though, right?” B said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Dawn agreed.
“What’d you do at the party?”
“Not much. Just told each other’s fortunes — aaaaah-chooo! — and then ate pizza and some of Dad’s new Fabulous Fruits.”
“Doesn’t sound dangerous,” B said.
Dawn held up her hand and showed B a new purple welt that had just appeared there. “I’m hideous! Am I going to lose my magic, too?”
“Try a rhyme,” B urged. “Anything. Some simple thing that no one would notice.” She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out a stubby pencil. “Try sharpening my pencil magically.”
Dawn’s bleary red eyes blinked as she tried to focus on the pencil.
“Let’s hope my magic won’t disappoint.
Grind B’s pencil to a nice, sharp pants.”
She shook herself. “Pants? A nice, sharp … pajamas! No. Pumps? What’s the matter with me?”
“Ssssh,” B cautioned as her sister’s anxious voice rose. “Never mind. Dad had the same thing. You just need to rest.”
“I don’t know,” Dawn said, wiping her nose with a tissue. “I just hope the Board of Magical Health comes up with a cure or something soon.”
B steered her sister into the office. “I’m sure they will. You’ll feel better in no time. Sit here and relax, while I call Mom.”
B smiled to reassure her sister, but her mind was spinning. Why are so many witches getting sick all of a sudden? Why are they losing their magic?
And will I be next?
Chapter 7
That afternoon, when B, George, and Trina reached Enchanted Chocolates, the receptionist, Janika, greeted them with a smile, then paged B’s dad to let him know they were there. B’s dad told Janika to issue the kids security badges so they could come join him in the Fabulous Fruits wing. They headed down the halls.
The security checkpoints they’d passed through the day before were empty. When they reached the fruit-dipping machines and had put on their white safety suits, B’s dad greeted them with a halfhearted smile. B was glad to see that her father’s purple spots were completely gone, and he didn’t appear to be sneezing anymore. But he sure didn’t look like his usual cheerful self. His hair stood straight up, like it always did when he was worried, because he’d run his hands through his hair so many times.
“How’re you doing, Dad?” B asked.
“Not so great,” her father answered. “So many workers are out sick that we can’t run all the dipping machines, and we’ve got a lot of sample-size packages of Fabulous Fruits to fill and send to candy stores around the country. We’re way behind schedule.”
“No, I meant, how are you feeling?” B asked. “You know? Your, er, cold?”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Somewhat better, but not one hundred percent.”
“Dawn seems to be catching cold, too,” B said. “She went home early from school today, sneezing a lot.”
B’s dad frowned. B knew he understood what she was really telling him. His forehead creased with worry. “Poor Dawn.”
George tugged on his sleeve. “Um, can I talk to you about the chocolate? From yesterday? You know, some feedback?”
B
’s dad ran his fingers through his hair again. “Sure, George. What’s on your mind?”
George looked like he was working hard not to hurt B’s dad’s feelings. “You know I’m Enchanted Chocolates’ number one fan, right? So, I know how good your chocolate always is.” He swallowed. “The chocolate in Enchanted Fruits isn’t good. It’s just not as delicious as your chocolates normally are.”
B’s dad listened intently to George. Even after George finished speaking, he stood there rubbing his scalp for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “You only tried it yesterday, correct?”
“And today, too,” George said. “The ones that B brought to school.”
B’s dad nodded. “That would do it. Makes sense — the machines were brand-new. It could be that the machines weren’t mixing the chocolate ingredients together properly. The proportions may have been wrong. I’m sure it will taste better to you now. Let’s have you try a fresh batch.”
He poured a big bowl of strawberries into the hopper of a nearby dipping machine, then flipped the switch. A wheel of mechanical arms began to spin, then the claw at the end of each arm plucked up a fat red berry and dipped it in all three chocolate flavors. A jet of frigid air gave a quick flash-freeze to each chocolate coating to help it set faster. In no time, shiny Fabulous Fruit strawberries were rolling out on the conveyor belt.
“Trina? George? Help yourself, and please, tell me what you really think of them.”
Trina sank her teeth into her Fabulous Fruit, and closed her eyes. “Mmmm! That’s scrumptious!”
B’s dad rubbed his palms together and grinned. “I knew it! I knew the machines just needed to get warmed up to mix the chocolate right.”
George chewed his chocolate and slowly shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, but the chocolate’s still not right.”
“Why not, George?” Trina said, popping another berry in her mouth. “I think it tastes great!”
“Well, sure,” George said. “Enchanted Chocolate makes the best chocolate in the world. Even on a bad day. Mediocre Enchanted Chocolate is still better than anything else. And this chocolate” — he pointed to the half-eaten berry in his hand — “is just that. Mediocre. There’s a funny aftertaste. Some people might not notice it, but I” — he made a little bow — “I am a chocolate expert.”
“Aaah-chooo!”
A dipping machine worker, just passing by, let out an enormous sneeze, and the rotating wheel of fruit-dipping arms began spinning at triple speed, shooting berries all over the floor.
“Uh-oh,” B’s dad said with an uneasy glance at George, “machine malfunction! B, why don’t you and your friends go up to my office and play darts till I get this cleaned up, okay?”
“Aaah-chooo!”
Another worker produced an earsplitting sneeze, and a tub of fresh pineapple slices transformed into miniature palm trees.
“Bert! Miranda! Looks like you’re not feeling well,” B’s dad said in a loud voice. “Let me take you down to the infirmary so you can rest.” He steered them both out the door. Poor Dad, B thought.
The Fabulous Fruit room was empty now except for B and her friends. The machines lay still, the vats of chocolates sat unstirred.
“Weren’t you saying earlier, B, that a bunch of workers were out sick today?” George asked. “There must be some kind of epidemic going around here.”
“No kidding,” B said, looking sadly at the empty room. “Seems like all the Enchanted Chocolates workers are catching it.”
“I wonder why,” Trina said.
“Hey, Trina,” said George, “how do you make an apple turnover?”
Trina stared at him like he had bats flying out of his ears. “I don’t know. How?”
“You roll it down hill!” George hooted with laughter.
Trina rolled her eyes.
“What do you call a grouchy fruit?” George said.
“What?” Trina said reluctantly.
“A crab apple!”
B was used to George’s jokes, so she paid him no attention. An idea had begun to form in her mind. “Jumping jinxes,” she said. “I think I’m onto something.”
“What?” George and Trina said at the same time.
B paced slowly around the room, thinking aloud as she did. “Enchanted Chocolate workers,” she said. “Dad. Dawn. Dawn’s friends. What do they all have in common?”
George and Trina looked at each other. “We don’t know,” Trina said. “What do they have in common? What’s going on with Dawn and her friends?”
“They’re sick, too,” B said. “And you know why I think they are?”
“Why?” George and Trina asked at the same time.
“They all ate Fabulous Fruits!”
Trina dropped the chocolate-covered strawberry she’d just bitten into the trash, then scrubbed her hands on her jeans furiously, as if to wipe away the contaminated candy. George put a hand over his mouth.
“Dad ate some,” B said, numbering people on her fingers. “All the workers got a taste. Dawn ate some. Her friends did — Dad gave her a box to take to her get-together. The only reason I’m still healthy,” B went on, still pacing, “is because I never ate any Fabulous Fruits.”
Trina looked positively green.
“Wait a minute,” George said. “I’m still healthy.” He cleared his throat and sniffed. “I mean, I think I am. Do I look sick to you?”
B studied his face. Same old George, his blue eyes half hidden by his glasses and his mop of curly yellow hair. “Nope,” she said. “You look healthy as a lizard.”
“So what’s the difference?” Trina said. “How come everyone is sick except George?”
B circled around George, thinking, thinking. Then it hit her. It was so obvious! How could she have missed it?
“Because you’re not a witch, George,” she said. “Everyone who works here … Dawn and all her witchy friends … They’re sick. But you’re not. Of course! Why didn’t we see it? The symptoms of the illness are obviously magical — bogus spells spouting all over the place. It’s got to be a witch-only sickness.”
The relief on George’s face was immense. B turned to Trina. “I’m sorry, Trina,” she said, “but I think you’re going to get sick.”
Trina tried to shrug it off but B could tell Trina was worried.
“I don’t understand it,” said George. “This factory’s as clean as an operating room. They’ve got all that security to make sure the chocolate’s not contaminated. How could it be making people sick?”
“You’ve got to tell your dad, B,” Trina said. “He’s got to stop making the chocolate. He shouldn’t give away any more samples, either.”
B’s ear caught the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall. “That’s Dad, coming back,” she said. “You guys wait here, while I go talk to him.”
B intercepted her father in the hallway and told him what she’d figured out. “Something in the chocolate — I mean, something in Fabulous Fruits — is making witches sick, Dad,” she said. “Every witch who’s tried them is now ill. You’ve got to stop making them.”
B’s dad raked his hair with his hands once again. “Oh, dear,” he said, realizing that B was right. “I’m afraid you’re right, B. All that beautiful chocolate, wasted. Truckloads of premium fruit! And no explanation I can think of that makes any sense.”
B squeezed her father’s hand. “I know. It’s a mystery.”
“One thing is certain,” he said. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. The Magical Rhyming Society needs to be told so they can treat all the sick witches. And they’ll need to come here to help us figure out what magical sickness this is actually spreading.”
“You’d better go tell them right away,” B said. But her father shook his head.
“My magic still doesn’t work,” he said. “I’ll need you to take the message for me. Have you learned how to transport yet?”
B gulped. Sort of, yes. But this was a big deal, her father letting her travel alone and entr
usting her with an important message like this. She didn’t want to seem lacking in confidence.
“Yep,” she said truthfully. “I have learned how.”
“Then, there’s no time to lose,” her father said. “I’ll go in there and distract George and Trina while you transport. Hurry!”
Chapter 8
The door swung behind B’s dad as he reentered the Fabulous Fruits room. B knew she only had a few minutes to transport to the M.R.S., notify Madame Mel, Grande Mistress of the Magical Rhyming Society, and get back again before her dad started getting nervous that George and Trina would notice she was missing.
Okay. Transportation spell. She had done it before, during magic tutoring sessions with Mr. Bishop, but there’d been a few mishaps. Focus. That was the key. You had to really focus on where you were going.
She tried to clear her mind and imagine herself in the M.R.S. She pictured the towering bookshelves in the main library, filled with sparkling volumes of magical books, guarded by floating librarian apparitions. She pictured the tall towers where once her traveling spell had landed her — whoops! Better not think about that…. B refocused her thoughts on the inside, where Madame Mel could always be found, striding around the corridors, her powder blue hair in a bun, her purple spectacles perched on the tip of her long nose, and her multicolored robe tinkling with thousands of silver magical charms.
“T-R-A-V-E-L,” she said, then looked both ways to make sure no one in the corridor felt the rushing cyclonic wind that signaled a traveling spell. It whipped B’s hair into her eyes and made the fabric of her shirt flap. But sure enough, it deposited her at the M.R.S. — unfortunately, on a pile of parchment that Madame Mel herself was trying to write on, atop a table in the library.
“Good afternoon, Beatrix,” Madame Mellifluous said, without even looking up.
“How did you know it was me?” B asked, fearing and expecting to hear the Grande Mistress comment on B’s notorious magical near misses.
