Missing Magic (5 page)

“That was amazing! Jason admitted stealing,” George said as they headed down the hall after gym.

“It must have been your accent,” B teased.

George grinned. “I’m definitely gonna use that again. But now what? He knows we suspect him so he’ll be on his guard around us.”

“What we need,” B said, “is an eyewitness. Someone who passed the classroom at just the right moment or something.”

“I think you’re out of luck,” George said. “Everyone had left for the fire drill. Your only eyewitness would be Mozart.”

“Okay,” B said, laughing. “You go to science. I’ll just stop in Mr. Bishop’s room and interview Mozart.”

Wait a minute …

If magic could make Jason tell the truth, making a hamster talk might just work! At least, it was worth a try.

“Hey — what did the hamster say when asked why he likes to spin in circles?” George piped up. “Just keeping it wheel. Get it? They spin on those wheels.”

George was unstoppable. B felt a little pang for her friend. If her spell worked, George would love a talking hamster. She didn’t like keeping this secret from him.

“I forgot my homework,” she said. “I’ll see you in class.” B hurried toward Mr. Bishop’s room, hoping he’d be in the faculty lounge, the office, the bathroom,
anywhere
but in his own classroom. Sure enough, when B got there, the room was empty, except for Mozart, who was licking the knob of his slow-drip water bottle. B knew she didn’t have much time.

“S-P-E-A-K,” she whispered.

Mozart stopped slurping at his drinking tube and started yelling.

“Oh, c’mon, c’mon, why can’t you just for once flow, you stupid nozzle, I am so thirsty from running on that wheel I could drink a whole bottle in one gulp but
nooooooo,
you make me lick and lick and lick and lick until my tongue’s about worn out, and then there’s nothing else to do but run on that wheel. Run, lick, run, lick, eat, sleep, poop. I was born for more than this!”

Suddenly, he turned his attention to B, who was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. “And why can’t the great galumphing idiot humans, like
you,
see that? ’Cause you only see what you want to see, you never pay attention to what’s really going on right under your nose. And you smaller ones are the worst of the lot. Why did I end up being a middle school hamster and not a retirement home hamster? There’s a cushy job, sit on a soft lap once in a while, the old folks pet you real gentle. But
nooooo,
I’ve got to put up with rotten noisy brats jabbing at me with pencils, like they think I’m a
water balloon for them to pop. And banging on my cage! How’d you like it if some giant banged on the walls of your rooms anytime, night or day? Bet you’d be freaked out. Wouldn’t you?”

Mozart stamped his tiny foot, which rippled the fur on his belly. He peered up at B angrily, his soft pink nose twitching.

“Holy cats,” B said softly to herself. “It worked, and now I’m being chewed out by a hamster!” It was hard to believe this wasn’t a daydream. “I’m sorry, Mozart,” she said. “I’m really sorry some of the kids make your life so hard.”

Mozart picked up a piece of hamster kibble between his front paws and nibbled it. “And this garbage they feed me! I should be eating fresh, tender, succulent grasses. They go down nice and easy. Not like this” — he punted the brown chunk of kibble across his cage — “this
cardboard
you humans buy.”

And B thought she had it bad, eating cafeteria food every day at lunch. “I’m sorry about that, too, Mozart.”

“Ah, well,” he said, “it is what it is, what am I gonna do about it, you know what I mean? Don’t go crying your brains out on my account. You’re the one who tries to save me from that one nasty kid. The one with all the blotchy things on his face?”

B grinned. “They’re freckles,” she said, “and that’s Jason.”

When B spoke Jason’s name, Mozart spat out his mouthful. “I don’t trust that one,” he said. “Not as far as I can throw him.”

B giggled, trying to imagine Mozart throwing Jason. But she didn’t have time to waste.

“Mozart,” she said, “what did Jason do when he stayed in the classroom today? I mean, after the fire drill. You know, the water and loud noises. He told us he stayed to rescue you.”

“Me! Rescue me? Are they feeding you bad lettuce? He was messing around over there” — Mozart pointed toward Mr. Bishop’s desk — “making noises.
Beep … beep!
Ch-ch-ch-ch.”

The teacher’s desk was nowhere near the bulletin board where the tickets had been pinned. B had
to keep asking questions. Her palms were sweaty with anticipation, not to mention the fear of getting caught talking to a hamster.

“Mozart,” B said, using her gentlest voice, “did Jason take the tickets that were pinned to the bulletin board?”

Mozart’s paunchy cheeks quivered with chewing. “Trying to get me to tell on your classmate, are ya?” Mozart said, crumbs of kibble falling from his teeth. “I ain’t no rat.”

B glanced at the clock. Any second now, someone was bound to come in.

“Mozart,” she said softly, “this is Jason we’re talking about. The blotchy kid who pokes you.”

Mozart polished off his kibble and began pawing through his sawdust, fluffing and patting it into a little nest. B was just about to give up.

“Tickets, you say?” Mozart said, through a cloud of sawdust. “Those white things?”

B froze. “That’s right,” she said, not daring to breathe. The first bell rang for class.
I should go,
B thought.
I’m so close to an answer, though ….

But now Mozart was cozying and burrowing
down into his nest of fluff. He seemed much more interested in a nap.

“Well?” she asked. “Was it Jason who took them?”

Mozart poked up a pink nose. “Nope.”

“No?”

Mozart chattered his teeth at her. “I already told you. No.”

B clenched and unclenched her fists. Jason had said he hadn’t, under the influence of a truth spell. And now Mozart, who certainly had no use for Jason, was backing up his story! B was flummoxed. She picked up her bag and started to turn away.

“If it wasn’t Jason who stole the tickets,” she thought aloud, “who did?”

Mozart stamped and patted his nest in an ever-quickening frenzy. Wood shavings went flying. Then suddenly, he stopped and stared at her. “You really want to know who made them disappear?”

B looked into his beady little eyes. “Yes!”

He pointed a tiny clawed paw at B.

“You.”

Voices from the hallway snapped B out of her bewilderment. She’d better get out of there.

She darted toward the door.

“That’s all right, don’t thank me for solving your little mystery,” Mozart called. “I get no respect.”

Whoops! She couldn’t leave Mozart ranting. “S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S,” she hissed, concentrating on the furry creature. Then she ducked her head and scrambled out the door, nearly colliding with a couple of eighth-graders.

For the umpteenth time that day, B sprinted her way silently through the halls, praying at each turn not to get caught. With every step, B’s mind reeled from Mozart’s revelation.

She
stole the tickets?

She, Beatrix, who never stole a thing in her life except gum from Dawn’s book bag, and that didn’t count since a) she was her sister, and b) Dawn always helped herself to B’s licorice?

It was impossible!

Had she been sleepwalking?

Did she have an evil twin?

Did Jason Jameson have a B costume?

No, no, and no. Those were all ridiculous. But so was the thought that she’d taken the Black Cats tickets. She wanted to
earn
them, not steal them.

Could Mozart have confused her with some other girl? Maybe humans looked alike to him?

B remembered the accusation in his voice. For a four-inch rodent, he seemed pretty sure of himself.

While she gathered her science book from her locker, B’s thoughts split in a hundred different directions. She hadn’t stolen the tickets, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t going crazy. But why would Mozart lie? What made him think B was the thief?

She tried to play through all that had happened
in class. She had left the room with everyone else, so it had to be before the fire alarm. But before the alarm, they’d all been practicing spelling.

Spelling!

She’d spelled … chaos. That was it. And right after that, the sprinklers and smoke alarms started going crazy.

Could it be that
she
had caused the fire alarm by spelling “chaos”? But chaos shouldn’t have made the tickets vanish into thin air.

Vanish.

No, not vanish.

But what about
disguise?

That was the other word she’d spelled! And she’d been thinking about the tickets when she did it! The tickets must have disguised themselves.

Holy cats! She’d solved the mystery. She could fix this in a snap, and the spelling bee could go on. Competing in the spelling bee would clearly be tricky with her new powers, but B felt sure she could find a way.

B rushed back to her English classroom, which was still empty.

“Thanks, Mozart,” she called out on her way to the bulletin board. She reached up and felt the area around the thumbtack. Rough corkboard, and then, smooth paper. She sighed with relief, and said, “R-E-V-E-A-L.”

And the tickets shimmered into view.

B couldn’t help herself. Once more she stroked the tickets.
I’m gonna win you,
she thought.

“There,” she told Mozart. “Problem solved.”

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Bishop’s voice from the doorway.

B froze.

This, she knew,
really
did not look good.

Mr. Bishop approached and leaned against the bulletin board. “I’m glad you returned the tickets, Beatrix,” he said. He folded his arms across his chest. “But I’m deeply sorry you took them in the first place.”

B’s mouth felt as dry as the desert she’d accidentally conjured in the soccer field.

“You made the right choice,” Mr. Bishop said. “I will, however, need to speak with your parents about this.”

B clamped her eyes shut so the tears welling inside them wouldn’t show. It stung terribly to be thought a thief. And there was nothing she could say to disprove it! She couldn’t tell him about her magic.

“I must say, Beatrix,” Mr. Bishop went on, “I expected better things from you.”

B nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to face him.

“Is there anything at all you’d like to say to me?” he said, watching her closely.

“Can I go to science now?” she mumbled.

Mr. Bishop sighed. “I guess you’d better.”

B’s feet carried her the short distance to science class. She sat down at George’s table. He stared at her through lab goggles. “What’s the matter with you? Need a Mint Fizz?”

B blew her nose. “No, thanks,” she said. “Nothing’s the matter.” She tossed her tissue into the trash. “Listen, it wasn’t Jason who stole the tickets.”

George’s eyebrows rose under his goggles. “How do you know?”

B sighed. “I just know. Anyway, they’re back, and the spelling bee can go on now.”

“Cool!” George said.

“But …”

“Backpacks away, long hair pulled back, goggles on, class!” Mr. Lorry cried, bursting into the room with his lab coat on. “Today we experiment with fire!”

B was glad Mr. Lorry cut her off. How could she explain to George that
she
was the thief?

At the end of the day, B hurried out without waiting for George, grabbed her things from her locker, and headed for the bus.

She had been so excited about getting her magic and solving the mystery of the missing tickets — but both things had turned out to get her into serious trouble. She’d be able to explain to her parents what happened, but she’d still have to take whatever punishment Mr. Bishop gave her, because she couldn’t tell him the truth.

But worst of all was George. What was he going to do when he found out, after helping her chase after Jason all day?

What a mess!

Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe Mr. Bishop wouldn’t tell the whole school.

All this was enough to make B wish she hadn’t gotten her magic.

George caught the bus the next morning, and, much to B’s relief, was his normal, friendly self, telling jokes and giving her chocolate, which meant that Mr. Bishop hadn’t told everyone about the tickets yet. But B knew it was just a matter of time.

She hadn’t been able to warn her parents, either, because they’d been out at an Enchanted Chocolate Ball until after she’d gone to bed.

B and George trudged into school together, just behind Jason, who pushed past them to walk into school first.

“I wish we could have figured out what he stole,” George said.

“You and me both,” B said. Then something caught her eye. She held out an arm to stop George from going farther. “What’s he doing now?”

Jason had stopped by his locker. He was leaning in, then looking around suspiciously. George and B walked up behind him. Jason had taken a paper from his backpack and was studying it, it seemed, his eyes scanning rapidly through the rows, his lips moving.

“He looks like he’s practicing spelling!” B whispered as she and George continued down the hall. “Do you suppose …” Her mind whirled back to the strange noises Mozart had made when he described Jason’s actions, over by Mr. Bishop’s desk.
Beep … beep. Ch-ch-ch-ch.
Those were the sounds a printer would make!

She grabbed George’s sleeve. “I think Jason stole the word list for the spelling bee!”

George’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t we think of that before? It’s just the kind of thing he’d do!”

“We’ve got to prove it, or he’ll win the bee — and the Black Cats tickets — for sure,” B said. “Let’s get closer.”

But Jason finished his cramming and stuffed the paper back into his bag. He slammed his locker and took off down the hall. What could they do? They couldn’t tackle him in front of a hundred students.

B smiled grimly. Being a witch had its advantages. She focused her eyes on his backpack — not easy to do as he darted through the halls. Softly she whispered, “U-N-Z-I-P.”

Jason’s backpack unzipped and the front flap uncurled like a banana peel. Papers, books, and wadded-up candy wrappers cascaded onto the floor.

George glanced at B, astonished. “What are the chances of that?” he said. “C’mon, let’s see what he’s got!”

They scurried to where Jason knelt, scrambling to gather his things.

“Let me help you with that, Jameson,” George said, picking up Jason’s bag. “Oh, geez, looks like every single thing fell out of your backpack. That’s a shame!”

“Give me that!” Jason snatched at his bag.

“Here,” B said. “These must be your papers. Why,
what’s this?” She examined one with interest. “Your older sister’s book report on
Charlotte’s Web?”

“None of your beeswax,” Jason snapped.

George, standing behind Jason, caught B’s eye and waved a folded sheet of paper in the air. He winked. Jason, seeing B look at George, turned to follow her gaze. B grabbed Jason’s sleeve to distract him while George stuffed the paper into his pocket.

“Hey, Jason,” B said. “Who do you think’s gonna win the spelling bee today? Kim? Jenny? Everyone knows they’re the smartest kids in our class.”

“No, they’re not,” Jason said. “I got a higher grade on both of the last two book reports than either Kim or Jenny.”

“Yeah, but they do better than you on spelling quizzes. And so does George.”

From behind Jason’s back, George gave B a thumbs-up.

“Well, see you in class,” B said. “May the best speller win.”

Jason stuffed his papers and books in a crumpled mess back into his bag. “I’m sure he will, Hornet,” he said with a sneer. He hurried off.

George grinned at B, pulling the paper out from behind his back. “Got it!” They raced around the corner so they could examine the list. “That was so cool, how his bag came open!” He unfolded the paper. “There it is, the spelling list. ‘Grade Six English Spelling Bee List, Draft One,’” he read.

“Don’t read the words,” B said. “We’re not cheats like Jason. But now we’ve got the proof, and we can take it to Mr. Bishop….” B’s smile faded. “Oh, no!” She felt sick to her stomach.

“What’s the matter?”

B crumpled the paper into a ball. “We don’t have proof that Jason stole the list,” she said. “What we have is proof that
we
did.”