Missing Magic (3 page)

The next day when B walked into English class, the first thing she saw were the tickets to the Black Cats concert pinned to the bulletin board. And she wasn’t the only one. A cluster of students jostled near the board.

“These tickets are worth a fortune!” Jason Jameson said.

“Mr. Bishop must know somebody connected to the band,” Kim Silsby said.

“Well, I’m going to win them,” Jason declared. “I practiced spelling for two hours last night.”

B had done a lot more than that. She’d stayed up late copying words by hand. But she knew she couldn’t prepare for all that … staring. She sank
into her chair. Adding to her worries was the fact that she was still magic-less. That morning, she’d tried to fill Nightshade’s bowl with a brilliant twist on “cat food” and “bad mood,” but no luck.

“Hey, B,” George said, sitting next to her and holding out a bag of Enchanted Chocolate Mint Fizzes. “Got one for you. What do witches put on their hair?”

“Huh?” B said, startled.

“Scare spray!” he cried, laughing. “Get it?
Scare
spray?”

B breathed a sigh of relief, and reached for a chocolate. “I get it,” she said. “From your Halloween joke book, right?”

George nodded.

“I like the ghost one better,” B said.

George shrugged and popped a Mint Fizz in his mouth. “You ready for the practice round?”

“Hope so,” she said, watching her classmates drool over the tickets.

Tickets
, she thought.
Think of the tickets. You can do this. Maybe you can’t
cast
spells, but you
can
spell.

“I wanna hold them,” Jason was saying, reaching for the thumbtack that held the tickets in place.

“Mr. Jameson.” Mr. Bishop’s warning voice came from the doorway. “Hands off, please. Nobody touches those tickets until I hand them to the class spelling champion. Understood?”

Mr. Bishop was dressed in dark red today — red pants, even! But he still wore those black cowboy boots.

“Yes, sir,” Jason said meekly, returning to his seat like a perfect student.

“Take your seats, let’s get settled,” Mr. Bishop said. “Anybody absent? All seats filled? Good!” He rubbed his hands together. “See this, class?” Mr. Bishop held up one finger. “This is my magic pointer. It will tell us who should go first.” Tying his polka-dot handkerchief around his eyes, he staggered around the room, pointing wildly.

Everyone laughed, including B, until Mr. Bishop stopped, with his magic finger pointed right at her. “Beatrix!” he cried, peeking out from under his scarf. “You’re numero uno!”

“Um, Mr. Bishop?” It was George’s voice.

“Yes?”

“She’s B,” George said. “She doesn’t like to be called Beatrix, really. Everyone calls her B.”

“I stand corrected,” he said. “What do you say, B, want to kick off our spelling bee? You’ve got the name for it.”

Well, she might as well get this over with. “Okay,” she said.

She stood and shuffled to the front of the room. She tried not to look at the sea of faces staring at her. She focused on her slightly grubby sneakers instead.

“Here’s how it works. I say the word. You repeat it, you spell it, then repeat it again. So, if I were given the word ‘cat,’ I’d do this: ‘Cat. C-A-T. Cat.’ Got it?”

B nodded.

“The first word is …” Mr. Bishop paused dramatically, “‘scratchy.’”

That’s easy,
B thought. She’d been gearing up for something like “dentifrice,” which was a fancy way of saying toothpaste.

“B? Are you with us?” Mr. Bishop asked.

“Sorry,” B stammered, catching sight of the class staring at her. She was determined to ignore the panic rising up in her stomach. Her hands were beginning to sweat. “Scratchy. S-C-R-A …”

Jason coughed loudly. He stared straight at her, mouthing “Loser,” but of course Mr. Bishop couldn’t see. Darn him! She looked away. George’s blond head stood tall above the others, nodding encouragingly at her. Jenny Springbranch smirked like she expected she’d win herself. B felt her heart thumping and had to stop herself from running back to her seat.

Where had she been? “C-H-Y. Scratchy,” she said in a rush, and hurried toward her seat.

“I’m sorry, B, but that’s incorrect,” Mr. Bishop said.

What?

“Since this is practice only,” her teacher went on, “does anyone here think they can spell that word correctly?”

“I can, Mr. Bishop!” Jason Jameson was hovering over his chair, waving his hand high in the air.

“All right, Mr. Jameson, come up here and show us what you can do.”

Jason reached the chalkboard and turned around. He bent at the knees like a baboon and scratched his hair with one hand, his ribs with another, all the while leering at B. “Scratchy,” he said. “S-C-R-A-
T
-C-H-Y. Scratchy.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Bishop said. “And thank you for the demonstration as well.”

Jason scratched a few more times on his way back to his seat and whispered, “Loser,” as he passed.

B caught George’s eye, and whispered, “Isn’t that what I said?”

George shook his head sadly. “You dropped the ‘T.’”

B slumped down low in her seat. Such an easy word, and she flubbed it. She felt queasy. Jason was totally cheating by distracting her, but if she wasn’t so scared of standing up in class, he wouldn’t be able to get to her. It was so frustrating!

They went around the room, taking turns spelling words. B spelled every word correctly in her
head, even the ones that others tripped on, like “believe” and “recommend” and “exaggerate.” She knew all the rules about “i before e,” and nearly all the exceptions, too. By the time her turn came around again, B was so angry at her mistake, and at Jason’s teasing her, she was ready, even if it meant braving the staring faces.

“Disguise,” Mr. Bishop said, watching her closely.

She closed her eyes and thought about the Black Cats tickets. Then she pictured the word “disguise,” just as it would appear on a printed page.

“Disguise. D-I-S-G-U-I-S-E,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. B knew she had nailed it. “Disguise.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Bishop said. But B already knew that. She made sure to give Jason a triumphant look before sitting down.

The rest of the kids took their second turns, but B didn’t bother spelling their words in her head anymore. She’d proven her point. She could spell with the best of them.

“One more round, then we’ll wrap it up,” Mr.
Bishop said. “I’ll turn on some Black Cats tunes while you complete this week’s section in your vocab workbook. Deal?” Everyone cheered. “B, you’re up.”

B walked to the front of the room. It was getting a little easier every time.

“Chaos,” Mr. Bishop said.

At least it’s short,
B thought. Jason did more of his ridiculous scratching at her from his seat, but she was determined not to let him get to her. She looked up and focused on the ceiling tiles.

“Chaos,” she said, picturing the word in bold, black letters in her mind’s eye. “C-H-A-O-S. Chaos.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Bishop said.

Just then, two big drips of moisture landed on B’s head. She touched her hair and looked up in time to see the overhead sprinklers kick into high gear and blast the classroom with water.

Sploosh!

Everyone gasped and squealed and held their arms over their heads. The showering water sounded like an indoor rainstorm.

Meeep — meeep — meeep …
The fire alarm began blaring, its warning strobe lights flashing in the classroom ceiling and down the corridors. Warning bells chimed from the loudspeaker, and the principal’s voice came on.

“Teachers will lead their classes out to their designated safe spots,” he said. “This is not a scheduled fire drill. I repeat, this is not a scheduled fire drill.”

“Do you think there’s a real fire?” B asked George as they filed through the corridors, the alarm ringing deafeningly overhead.

George sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any smoke.” He elbowed B. “Here’s one you’ll like: What did the fireman say when the church caught on fire?”

Leave it to George to make jokes at a time like this! “What?”

“Holy smoke!” George laughed to himself again.

Classes streamed out of every room, hurrying outdoors. Usually during a fire drill the students would joke about the noise and the inconvenience. But now the teachers moved quickly and looked
serious, not to mention wet. The sprinklers had gone off throughout the entire building. Mrs. Fox, the librarian, looked ready to murder someone.

They exited onto the soccer fields under the bright noonday sun. B had to shield her eyes. Mr. Bishop passed behind her, striding up and down the length of his class’s line of students, counting heads and muttering to himself.

“Someone’s missing,” Mr. Bishop said loudly. “Class, please stand still while I count again.”

Just then the fire truck swung into view and disappeared behind the school.

“It’s Jason,” Kim called out from the end of the row. “He’s not here.”

Mr. Bishop turned toward the school, but before he took off running, out staggered Jason, clutching Mozart’s hamster cage.

Jenny started clapping. “Jason’s a hero!” she cried. “He saved Mozart!”

She seemed to expect the rest of the class to join in her applause, but no one did. Mr. Bishop relieved Jason of the cage, then said, loud enough
for the whole class to hear, “It was extremely irresponsible of you to linger in the classroom during the fire alarm. Especially when you heard the principal’s warning.”

Jason stuck out his lower lip. “I … I was afraid of something bad happening to Mozart.”

B and George exchanged a glance. Just yesterday he was torturing the poor hamster. B wasn’t convinced by Jason’s heroics, and neither, she could tell, was George. He must have been up to something.

Finally, the principal announced that there was no fire and it was safe to return. One by one, the classes straggled back in. George went on ahead, chatting with Jamal about last night’s soccer game, but B hung back to hold the door open for Mr. Bishop, whose hands were tied up with Mozart’s cage.

“Thanks, Beatrix. I mean, B. Sorry.” He gave her a friendly nudge. “To be or not to be.”

“That is the question.” B knew that line of dialogue because her mom said it to her all the time.

“Do you know where the quote is from?” Mr. Bishop glanced at B out of the corner of his eye.

“William Shakespeare wrote it,” B said, stepping up her pace to keep up with Mr. Bishop. “It’s from
Hamlet.”

Mr. Bishop smiled. “Any student who can quote from plays and poetry is all right in my book.”

B felt a flutter of pride. She stood a little taller. “I do like to rhyme.”

“Magnificent!” Mr. Bishop said. “When this spelling business is finished, I plan on a poetry unit. Tell me, do you make up any rhymes of your own?”

B had to swallow a laugh. If only he knew! “I try,” she said. “But they don’t really work.”

They reached Mr. Bishop’s classroom. B’s class was gathering up their bags and books, which were damp from the fire alarm sprinklers.

Things were looking up. Maybe Mr. Bishop didn’t think she was a total loser. And she decided that she wanted to win the spelling competition even more to impress him. With a little luck, the
Black Cats tickets would be hers. B glanced at the bulletin board, where the tickets were pinned.

Except, they weren’t.

B gasped.

Jenny Springbranch had noticed, too. “Oh! Oh! Mr. Bishop!” she cried, pointing to the bare thumbtack. “Someone stole the spelling bee prize!”

Mr. Bishop stopped in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room, his brow furrowed. B thought she saw his lips move, as if he was muttering to himself. The tip of his beard waggled.

“Does anybody have anything they’d like to tell me?” he said, looking from student to student.

B had never heard a class this quiet.

“It wasn’t easy getting those tickets,” Mr. Bishop said, pacing up and down the aisles. “I thought it would be worth the effort, though, to have something exciting to motivate you to do your very best on this spelling bee. But this …” He pointed to the ticketless bulletin board. “I’m very disappointed.”

B felt her insides squirm as though she were guilty. And she hadn’t done anything wrong! Teachers’ lectures always made her feel jittery.

The bell to end the period rang.

“I have to dismiss you now,” Mr. Bishop said, “but I’m going to investigate the disappearance of those tickets fully, mark my words. It would be far better for the person who took them to return them to me and apologize. Do you all understand?”

Twenty heads nodded. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at their shoes.

Mr. Bishop opened the door. “See you tomorrow.”

B hung back toward the end of the line of kids filing out the door, her mind a whirl. Black Cats tickets, stolen. Who’d have the nerve to do such a thing?

George fell into step beside her, his eyes wide with astonishment. The rest of her classmates had scattered off to lockers and lunch, leaving the hallway nearly empty.

“I’ve got to stop at my locker and pick up some more chocolate,” George said. “I’ll meet you in the caf.”

“How can you possibly think of chocolate at a time like this?” B said. “We’ve got to find out who took those tickets.”

“Well, I can’t think on an empty stomach,” George said. “See you in a minute.”

George headed off toward his locker, and B wandered toward the cafeteria. As she rounded a corner she stopped short. Jason Jameson! Standing alone, in the middle of the hall, looking both ways. B ducked out of sight and peeked back around the corner.

He opened his backpack, looked inside it, and giggled to himself.

Holy cats! Now
there
was suspicious behavior.

Who would be more likely to steal tickets than Jason Jameson? Jason often took cookies off other kids’ lunch trays in the cafeteria.

But how could he have managed to steal the tickets?

The fire drill! Of course! When everyone else left the room, he stayed back, supposedly to rescue Mozart. The hamster that he always picked on.

He’s the only one who’s been alone with the tickets.

And now, there he stood, staring in his backpack and chuckling to himself like he’d gotten away with something.

B had to act, before he really did.

“Hey, Jason,” B called, stepping into view. Jason jumped, then quickly zipped his backpack shut.

“Whatcha hiding in that bag?” B called, catching up to where he stood.

“Oh, nothing, Bumble B,” he said, sneering. “Just something …
scratchy.
”

B took a deep breath. “I
can
spell scratchy, and I
would
have if you hadn’t messed me up. S-C-R-A-T-C-H-Y. See?”

“Ooh, you’re sooo smart,” Jason said. He scratched his chest hard. Then he dropped his backpack and scratched all over his body like an orangutan.

B groaned. “I am so sick of your teasing,” she
said. “Scratch yourself silly. I’m not sticking around to watch.” And she stomped off down the hall and hurried to the cafeteria.

George caught up with her, sprinting like it was track and field day.

“You know what I think?” B told him as he skidded to a stop beside her.

“What?”

B dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think Jason Jameson took the Black Cats tickets.” And B told George all she’d seen, and how Jason had reacted.

George whistled. “That skunk! It’s just like something he’d do. But how can we prove it?”

B pressed her lips together. If only she had her magic, this could be so easy.

Still, magic or no magic, she would make those tickets reappear.

“I’ll find a way,” she said. “You watch.”