Sadie's Story (2 page)

Chapter 2

Britches for Witches

I
n the kitchen she found her father, fussing with his blender. Sliced fruit lay everywhere. “This is going to be the best smoothie ever,” he announced without turning around.

“Dad, I think the playhouse is on fire!”

“What, sweetheart?”

“Look!”

Clutching a kiwi, her father followed her over to the window. Squinted. Took off his eyeglasses, cleaned them with his shirtsleeve, and put them back on. “No smoke, no flames. Everything looks okay to me.”

Sadie stared hard at the patch of sky above the playhouse. There was no trace of white, not even a cloud. The smoke was gone. If it had ever been there in the first place.

“Besides, the playhouse is plastic. If it was burning, we'd smell dioxin. All I smell is”—he stuck his nose down by the open windowsill—“a neighbor cooking something yummy.”

“I guess,” she said. “But I think I'll double-check.”

Her father chuckled and kissed the top of
her head. “Let me know if we need to call the fire brigade.” He returned to the counter, dropped the kiwi, and scooped up some mango. He popped a piece into his mouth. “Heaven!” he exclaimed between chews. “Want to try a bite of heaven, Sadie?”

“Sure. When I get back.”

Outside she filled the watering can with the hose. Just in case.

Through the gap between two blue plastic shutters she spied a flash of black. Something was moving! Or someone. And what was that strange smell? Like the something-someone
was baking a cake out of orange peels, cinnamon, and . . . bicycle tires?

One step. Two steps. Before she knew it she stood at the playhouse door. The door she'd opened a thousand times before while playing with Jess and Maya. But this time she had no idea what she'd find on the other side.

She crouched, setting down the watering can. She raised her fist to knock. She lowered her fist. She raised it again.

Jess wouldn't be scared. Jess would have burst through the door already without knocking at all.

Rap, rap.
“Hello?” Sadie called softly. Then with more volume, “Hello?”

Silence. Wilson pressed his whole body
against her calves as if trying to nudge her forward.

She knocked again. “I know someone is in there.”

“I'm not hurting anything,” said a thin, scratchy voice.

“That's good. But what are you doing?”

“Just a minor hex.”

“A minor hex? Something's on fire!”

“Not really.” The voice was stronger now. “Everything's under control.”

Hunched in the dirt with one hand on the pink plastic doorknob, Sadie paused to, as Maya would say, evaluate. There had to be a
logical explanation. “Are you homeless?” she asked.

“Not anymore.”

“Running away?”

“I'm a little old for that.”

“So you're a grown-up.”

“Dearie me, no. Not one of those dull, horrid specimens.”

Not sure what to do next, Sadie glanced down at Wilson. He stared at her mutely. She tried again. “Okay. But who are you?”

“Why don't you and Wilson come inside and see?”

Sadie slowly opened the door. There, beside a bubbling cauldron, stood a tiny woman holding a long wooden spoon. She was dressed all in black—black smock dress,
black pointy shoes, black pointy hat.

Sadie began, “You're not a—”

“I am.”

“Anybody can put on a costume.”

“True. But their ‘costumes,' as you put it, don't come from Britches for Witches.”

The tiny woman took off her hat, revealing matted gray hair. She flipped the hat over. “Read the label.”

Sadie peered inside the sturdy felt cone. “It does say ‘Britches for Witches.'”

“Surely you've heard their jingle.” The woman cleared her throat noisily and sang, “Britches for Witches. Black cats and hats. Broomsticks and cauldrons and thousands of gnats.”

“Gnats?”

“For annoyance spells. Very useful at picnics.”

Sadie couldn't stand all the way up in the little doorway, so she duck-walked a few steps forward. “If you're a real witch, prove it.”

“How about this: did you see me sneak into your playhouse?”

“No.”

“Exactly. I just appeared. Poof!”

Wilson sniffed at the cauldron, the contents of which glopped and gurgled until the woman gave them a brisk stir.

“But I haven't been staring at my playhouse all day,” Sadie countered. “Could you do something more . . . supernatural?”

“Like a trick?”

“Yes.”

“A trick is by definition meant to deceive. I don't want to deceive you. Why don't you sit down, Sadie, and let's get to know each other?”

“How did you know my name? I didn't tell you my name. Come to think of it, I didn't tell you Wilson's name, either.”

The woman's smile was a bit snaggletoothed, but it seemed friendly. “Sit down, my dear.”

Sadie sat.

Chapter 3

Just Doing Magic with a Friend

S
omehow, even with all three of them, plus the cauldron, the space inside the playhouse did not feel cramped.

Wilson, normally wary of strangers, settled down at the witch's feet and closed his eyes. Not quite proof that the woman was magical, Sadie decided, but pretty solid
evidence that she was, well, different.

Raising the spoon to her lips, the witch sipped and cocked her head. “It needs something,” she said finally.

“What are you making? Is it a potion?” Sadie imagined Jess and Maya calling from the road and asking what she was up to.
Oh, nothing much. Just doing magic with a friend. Nobody you know.

“It's soup,” the witch said.

“For the hex?”

“For lunch. I finished the hex. Next I have to work on a spell. After that, a nap. I wonder if you could find me a blanket.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

Sadie crawled back out into the bright
afternoon sun. “C'mon, Wilson,” she called over her shoulder. The cat blinked but otherwise didn't move. Great. Even Wilson was deserting her. A couple more defections and she'd be an orphan.

“May I keep him here?” asked the witch. “Just for a little while.”

“Aren't you supposed to have a cat of your own?” Sadie said grumpily.

The witch shook her head. “Long story. After the blanket, perhaps.”

On the way to her room, Sadie passed her mother upside-down against a wall in the hallway.

“How about coming along to the studio with me later?” Her mother worked as a yoga instructor. Sadie was accustomed to having conversations with her mother's feet.

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I don't want you wandering in and out of the study every few minutes. Dad took the summer off from teaching to write his book, not to listen to you moan about how bored you are.”

Looking directly at her mother's ankles, Sadie answered, “I'm not bored. Not anymore.”

“Well, good for you, honey. Keep your spirits up. Your friends will be home soon. If you start to miss them, take deep cleansing breaths.”

“Okay.” Sometimes Sadie wondered if spending all that time on her head had dented her mother's brain.

A quick rummage through the bin at the foot of her bed produced what the witch had requested. She tucked the blanket under her
arm, not hiding it exactly, just trying to avoid pestering questions from her father, who stopped her at the back door with two glasses of foamy purple liquid.

“Here,” he said, handing her a glass. “This will make us feel young.”

“Dad, I am young. I'm nine. Besides, you're supposed to be writing.”

“That's what the blueberries are for. To recharge my creative energy. Though maybe I should have added kale. . . .” He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, mumbling something about antioxidants.

Sadie took the smoothie back to the playhouse, where she gave the witch her
old, light pink blanket with the chubby yellow ducklings all over it. Her baby blanket. A babyish blanket, she realized, noting the one shriveled corner she used to suck on when she was little. How embarrassing.

But the witch stroked the soft fabric and murmured, “This is perfect, Sadie. Thank you.” She folded the blanket and tucked it away in the corner. Then she said, “The soup should simmer for a while. How about we tackle that spell?”

We
. Sadie almost dropped her smoothie. “You want me to help?”

“Of course. Why do you think I came?” The witch smiled broadly at her. “Now let's
head outside. This particular enchantment requires a bit more room.”

Facing each other in the yard, the witch and Sadie measured almost the same height, though the witch's pointy hat made her seem taller. Music from the classical radio station Sadie's father always listened to trickled from the open kitchen window. “Could we move behind the playhouse?” Sadie asked. “I don't want my parents to see us.”

“What would they see? Just two friends casting an innocent spell.”

“It's that part about the spell that worries me.”

“I'm sure they wouldn't mind you helping a sorceress in need, but whatever makes you more comfortable, dear.”

A squirrel scrabbling across the back fence stopped briefly to gawk at them, spied Wilson, and kept going. The witch positioned Sadie near the lilacs and took four big steps to stand across from her. “I'll begin the incantation, and you follow along.”

“Is this dangerous?” Sadie was almost breathless.

“Not at all,” the witch assured her. “It's a simple finder spell, but if done right, it can be very powerful.” She closed her eyes and began chanting softly.

“Excuse me, should I be doing something?” Sadie interrupted.

The witch opened her eyes. “That was just the preliminaries. We're ready now.”

Sadie's whole body tingled, the way it did
when she rode a roller coaster up a steep hill or looked down from the edge of the high diving board or had to stand up in front of the class to recite a poem.
Here we go.

Solemnly, the witch crooned, “Put your right leg
in.” She extended a pointy-toed shoe in front of her like a ballet dancer. Sadie copied the motion. “Put your right leg out.” She stretched her leg behind her, and Sadie did the same. “Put your right leg in. And, summoning all the turbulence in all the spheres of heaven, shake it all about.”

Instead of mimicking the witch's wild flailing, Sadie just stood there. “This isn't a spell. It's the hokey-pokey!”

“I beg your pardon. In my circles, we call it the hocus-pocus.”

“How can it be magical?” Sadie said as she watched the witch slow to a wibble, then a wobble, then a quiver. “I did the hokey-pokey last month at my uncle's wedding.”

“And you found things, didn't you?” said the witch, struggling to catch her breath. “The church? The reception hall? The cake?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Okay, then. Now let's turn ourselves around.” She revolved slowly in a circle.

After a moment's hesitation, Sadie revolved, too, and then, once they were face-to-face again, said, “I don't think this is working.”

As if Sadie's words were scissors cutting the strings that held the witch up, she sagged. Drooped. Sank to the ground in a puddle of black dress. “I'm not sure of anything anymore. I am an optimist by nature, but I am starting to wonder if I will ever find them.”

Sadie sat beside her in the grass. “What are you looking for?”

“Not what. Whom. Two whoms. Ethel and Onyx.” Wilson padded over, waded across the witch's skirt, and climbed into her lap.
She scratched him forcefully behind the ears before saying, “The soup should be ready now. We'll have lunch, and I'll tell you a story.”

“I'd like that,” Sadie said, hoping she sounded encouraging. “I like stories.” For the first time she noticed the witch's eyes. Beneath the crinkled lids they were green, the same as her own.

“I do, too, dear. I just wish this one had a happier ending.”