The Cat-Astrophe (2 page)

Trina sat down, looking relieved.

“Today we’re going to talk about poetry,” Mr. Bishop said, taking his chalk in hand. “We have so much to learn, and there will be a flash quiz at the end of class. We’ll discuss rhythm, meter, and rhyme; alliteration and assonance; form and genre. Everybody ready?” He whirled about and faced the
class. B turned sideways to see her classmates’ dumbstruck faces.

“What? You don’t want a poetry test today?” Mr. Bishop teased. Twenty heads shook vehemently.

“Then how about we analyze an old-time poetry classic instead?”

The class sighed in relief.

Mr. Bishop produced a stack of papers. “Everybody take a copy of this handout and pass it back. We’ll start with one of my all-time favorites: ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ by Robert Service.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold….
”

They took turns reading stanzas aloud. When the bell rang, B almost didn’t hear it because the class was laughing so hard at Mr. Bishop’s reenactment of the poem. She stuffed her things into her bag quickly and turned to leave with George and Trina.

“Can I see you for a minute, B?” Mr. Bishop said just as they reached the door.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” B told her friends.

The room emptied. “What’s up, Mr. Bishop?” B asked. “Need to reschedule our next magic lesson?”

“Nope,” her teacher said. “I got a note from Madame Mellifluous this morning. M.R.S. Express Post! A little slip of parchment appeared wrapped around my breakfast fork.”

B laughed. That would be just Madame Mel’s style. “What did the note say?” B asked.

“It said,” Mr. Bishop replied, pulling a lavender slip from his pocket and unrolling it, “
‘that the novice’s preliminary oral progress assessment has been tentatively calendared for tomorrow afternoon pending confirmation by the addressee.’”

B wiggled a finger in her ear. “Huh? Translation, please?”

Mr. Bishop handed her the slip. “It means that the novice — that’s you, the beginner at magic — will meet with Madame Mel tomorrow afternoon for a preliminary oral progress assessment. In other words, a spoken test.”

B’s schoolbag thudded on the floor. “A magic test?
Tomorrow?”

Mr. Bishop sprinkled a handful of hamster chow in Mozart’s food dish. “Yep. That’s not a problem, is it?”

“You bet it’s a problem!” B cried. “I’m not ready for a magic test. I’m terrible at spoken tests. I get so nervous. And everything I do with magic comes out screwy anyway.”

Mr. Bishop raised a finger in front of his mouth. “Careful, B, that no one hears you,” he said in a low voice. “Besides, that’s nonsense. ‘Everything’ you do with magic does not come out wrong. You’re incredibly talented.”

B sank into a desk chair. “What am I going to
do? I’ll fail — I know I will. And then what? Will they kick me out of magic tutoring?”

Mr. Bishop twirled the tip of his beard with one finger. “B,
re-lax
! It’s only a very beginner test, basic spells and potions. It’s as much a test of how well
I’m
teaching
you
as it is a measure of your ability.”

“Sure,” B said miserably. “I’ve heard that before.”

“You’ll be fine. Now, get to lunch, and enjoy the rest of your day. Piece of cake.”

B stood and shuffled toward the door. “‘Kay.”

“And, B?”

She paused.

“I’m glad you and George have made friends with the new student. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

B nodded, then left the classroom. She tried, all the way to the cafeteria, to shake off the dread she felt about tomorrow’s magic test. Would it be in front of a roomful of witches? The first time B went to the M.R.S., Madame Mel put her on the spot in front of hundreds of witches and asked B to perform a spell. B ended up shattering all the lamps in the room. Just the memory of it made her shudder.

She pushed the cafeteria door open and looked for George and Trina. She spotted them just as George tossed a grape high in the air and caught it in his mouth. She waved to them both, then hurried through the line to pick up her own tray. Tacos today, with peanut butter cookies for dessert. Definitely could be worse!

She sat down with her friends.

“Knock-knock,” George said, looking at her and smiling expectantly.

B grinned at Trina. “Who’s there?”

“Katrina.”

The new girl’s eyebrows rose.

“Katrina who?” B said obediently.

“Ka-Trina come out and play kickball?”

“George, that’s awful!” B protested, but Trina’s eyes sparkled.

“Ooh, here’s another. Knock-knock,” George said.

“Who’s there?” B and Trina said in unison.

“Katrina.”

“Katrina who?”

“Ka-Trina take my test for me today, teacher? I forgot to study.”

Trina groaned, but she couldn’t quite stop herself from laughing.

“George, you need to go to a joke doctor,” B said. “I think your funny bone is sprained.”

“I’ve got one,” Trina said.

B stuffed a bite of taco in her mouth and turned to listen.

“Knock-knock,” Trina said.

“Who’s there?” B and George chimed.

“George-and-B.”

“George-and-B who?”

“Georgian bee makes more honey than an Alabama bee!”

George gave Trina a high five. “Your jokes are even cheesier than mine.”

“And that’s saying something,” B said, sticking a straw in her chocolate milk.

Trina smiled and tucked a flyaway strand of hair back into her unruly bun. Her cheeks shone pink from laughter. She looked very different from the shy girl B had met in art class just that morning.

“I’m so glad you moved here, Trina!” B exclaimed. “We’re going to have a lot of fun.”

The bell for fifth period rang. Trina stood up and wadded her lunch wrappers into a ball. “Thanks, B,” she said. “I’m glad I met both of you. See you tomorrow.” And she headed for the door.

“Tomorrow?” B asked George. “We might have more classes together later.”

“Nope,” George said, dumping his napkins into the trash and returning his tray. “I saw her schedule. She doesn’t have any other classes with either of us.”

“Too bad. She’s fun.”

George held the cafeteria door open for B. “Yeah. I think so, too.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out his bag of Peanut Butter Pillows. “Must — have — chocolate. I’m starving!”

B poked his belly. “How can you be starving when you just had lunch?”

After school, B watched out for Trina along the hall of lockers, but there was no sign of her. She headed outside for the bus line, and then noticed Trina standing by herself, some distance away from
the other kids, her plaid backpack dangling from one hand.

“Hey, Trina!” B called, jogging over to her.

“Incoming!” George hollered, sprinting toward them like he’d been shot from a cannon.

Trina nudged B with an elbow. “Does he always make an entrance like this?”

“Only outdoors,” B said, rolling her eyes.

“Want us to walk you home?” George offered.

Trina took a step backward. “No, thanks. I, uh, I’m all set. I’ve got a … someone coming to pick me up. Any minute now. So thanks.”

She kept her gaze pointed at the beginning of the drive leading up to the school. B paused curiously. Was it her imagination or was Trina acting strangely?

“Whaddya say, George? It’s a nice afternoon,” B said. “Want to ditch the bus and walk home with me?”

“Sure,” George said. “Race you to the street.” Before B could protest, George bolted down the sidewalk.

“See you, Trina,” B said, and she took off, hoofing along after George. She didn’t have butter’s chance on hot toast of catching George, and she knew it. George was just enjoying his own speed.

A long, gleaming dark sedan pulled into the driveway just as B reached George, who had flopped down on the grass to wait for her. George whistled at the sight of the car as he stood up. “Lookit those wheels!” he said. “Practically a limo.”

“Nah, it isn’t really,” B said. “Just a big car.”

“Yeah, but what’s it doing at school?”

“Search me.” B hitched her backpack up higher. “Wait a minute.” She shielded her eyes from the afternoon sunlight with her hand. “Look, George. Trina’s getting into that car.”

The sedan glided around the drop-off circle and headed back down the drive, toward where they stood openmouthed.

“Turn around,” B whispered. “Keep walking. Don’t let Trina see us staring at her car.”

They turned abruptly and headed down the street toward home. The sedan turned onto
the street and passed them, its engine barely making a sound.

“That car has a
professional
driver,” George said. “A guy in a suit and one of those chauffeur hats.”

“S’pose she’s a princess?” B asked.

“Maybe she’s in the Witness Protection Program, and that driver guy works for the government,” George said. “I know! Maybe,
maybe
her father is a former member of the Mafia who got busted for money laundering, and only escaped jail time by testifying against the godfather! Maybe …”

B laughed. “I don’t know, George,” she said. “That’s a lot of maybes.”

“I know, but when have you ever seen a kid picked up from school by a chauffeur in a limo?”

B shook her head. “Never.”

“Maybe it’s not the Witness Protection Program,” George conceded, “but it’s a mystery, just the same.”

“Think we can solve it?”

George grinned. “All it takes is a little magic.”

B stopped in her tracks and moaned.
“Magic!”

George looked alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

B walked in circles around her best friend. “I meant to tell you! I didn’t have any warning, and there is no way I’m going to pass …”

“Pass what?”

B stopped pacing. “My first ever magic test. With Madame Mellifluous, the Grande Mistress of the Magical Rhyming Society.”

George nodded. “Ah. Her.”

Butterflies were having a heyday inside B’s stomach, and the test was still twenty-four hours away. How horrible would she feel tomorrow?

“Will you help me study?”

“Sure. I’ll try. But how can I? I don’t know anything about it.” A worried look crossed his face. He patted his forehead. “You’re not going to practice on me, are you?”

B flinched, and shook her head. Last time she experimented with magic around George, he turned into a zebra, and it was a stressful week of trial and error before B figured out a reversal for the spell.

“I won’t do any magic on you,” B said. “Just help me think of ideas. Things I can practice.”

He snapped his fingers. “Here’s a practice spell for you. Conjure up some chocolate for me.”

B looked carefully around. The street where they walked was quiet. No cars, no playing kids. There weren’t even any houses close by. She nodded. It should be safe enough.

In an unmowed patch of grass between the sidewalk and the road, a tall stand of late-autumn wildflowers bloomed. B picked two, one with delicate, white lacy blossoms, and the other with short, brick red blooms.

George looked puzzled. “What do I do with them?”

“Take a good look at them.”

When George had had a chance to look, B took back the flowers, turned aside so she couldn’t see George, and spelled “C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E.”

“Unbelievable!” cried George, who’d been peeking over her shoulder. The delicate stems and flower petals transformed into wafer-thin filaments of creamy brown chocolate, still etched with all the lines and patterns they’d had as wildflowers. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

George took one of the flowers and bit off a blossom. He sighed with pleasure. “Awesome. Your dad’s factory couldn’t make it any better,” he pronounced.

B grinned. Some of her worry lifted from her shoulders.

George fed the entire flower, long stem and all, into his mouth. “You’ve got nothing to worry about on that test.” He devoured the other flower and licked his lips. “Just make this Madame Mel lady some chocolate and you’ll definitely pass.”

The next morning B’s eyes flew open well before her alarm clock had a chance to make its bullfrog croak. Thoughts of her test filled her with dread.
Maybe,
she thought,
some extra practice before breakfast will do me good.

B scanned the room for inspiration. She spotted her collection of stuffed animals piled under her Black Cats poster. She loved to hear the Black Cats sing. Maybe she could form her own band. “S-I-N-G,” she instructed the colorful lump of toys.

Instead of a choir singing in harmony, her stuffed bear roared, her purple puppy yapped, the pink seal barked, the parrot squawked, and the huge bumblebee George had given her last Christmas buzzed like a chain saw. Nightshade leaped from beneath the pile. He arched his back, every hair standing to attention, hissed at the noisy animals, and darted from B’s room.

“Sorry, Nightshade,” B called. “S-I-L-E-N-C-E,” she spelled quickly. The duck-billed platypus gave one final grunt before the room went quiet. Why couldn’t her magic work the way she wanted it to? How was she ever going to pass her witchy test?

She stared at her Black Cats poster again. She knew what her problem was. She couldn’t concentrate. Last night her older sister, Dawn, had been watching an entertainment news program on television, and the host had said the Black Cats would be making a special announcement the next morning about the remaining stops on their concert tour. B couldn’t wait to hear it. New songs? New dance routines? Maybe some sort of contest, with winners from the audience.

B gave up magic practice and crawled out from under the covers. She jumped in the shower, dressed, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Her mother was in the kitchen, sprinkling chopped macadamia nuts and lime juice over halved papayas filled with fresh pineapple. Hawaiian breakfast boats, she called them. A frying pan full of eggs was scrambling itself on the stove, the spatula stirring and flipping the eggs to perfection. B gave her mom a hug, then turned on the kitchen television.

“Set the table, will you, B?” her mother said.

B distributed the plates, then reached for a pile of napkins. She cleared her mind and focused
on them. “F-O-L-D,” she said. The napkins leaped into the air one by one and folded themselves — one became an airplane, another an origami swan. One became a Spanish galleon in full sail. B smiled as she admired her handiwork.
Maybe the test will go okay.

“Lovely, B,” her mom said, setting a platter of eggs on the table. “I think, though, that they may be hard to use. Why do you have the TV on?”

“There’s supposed to be a … Here it is!” B pointed to the screen as the Black Cats’ familiar logo flashed above the news reporter’s shoulder.

“The Black Cats are still at the top of the charts, and their concert tour has been the most talked-about in years. But now, in a stunning turn of events, the Black Cats announced this morning that they’re canceling the remainder of their sold-out, forty-seven-city worldwide tour.”

The handful of forks B was holding clattered to the floor. “Noooooo!”

B’s mom placed comforting hands on B’s shoulders as the view on the television screen shifted from the newsroom to the steps of a hotel with palm
trees in the distance. “Here’s Len Michaels, the Black Cats’ publicist, speaking from Los Angeles earlier this morning,” the reporter’s voice said. A man in a suit and sunglasses spoke into a cluster of microphones.

“The Black Cats regret to announce they are canceling the remainder of their Cats Unite tour and taking a break from recording for personal reasons. Ticket buyers will receive full refunds.”

A reporter waved a notebook and called out, “Is it true that their last concert was cut short?”

The Black Cats’ publicist raked his fingers through his short, slicked-back hair. “A sprinkler system malfunction. Yes, that’s right. But it —”

The same reporter interrupted again, “Wasn’t it during their ‘Wet Cats’ song?”

“The audience thought it was part of the performance, but that has nothing to do with this announcement,” the publicist said, removing his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes before continuing. “The Black Cats want to thank their fans for their support and apologize again. I’ve got no further comment at this time.”

The camera cut back to the newsroom. B’s grip on the remote control shook as she clicked the television off.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” her mom said, wrapping her arms around B. “And you had backstage passes.”

B buried her face in her mom’s fuzzy bathrobe. “I can’t believe it.”

She heard her dad and Dawn coming down the stairs, so she pulled herself together. She picked at her breakfast without eating much, then kissed her parents good-bye and ran for the bus stop, early for once. George was there waiting for her — that almost
never
happened — so B figured he’d heard the news as well. One look at his face confirmed it.

“Canceled!” George moaned when the bus arrived. “Why on earth would they cancel?”

“Why couldn’t they have canceled the rest of their tour starting
next
week?” B said as they settled into a seat.

George shook his head. “For the biggest band around to suddenly break up … It’s horrible!” He dropped his backpack underneath the seat. “I’ve
been counting the days till the concert ever since I got the tickets.”

B folded her arms across her chest and slumped low in her seat. Telephone poles whizzed past her view. “What a rotten way to start the day.” Splatters of rain began to streak against the window. “And I’ve still got that test to worry about.”

“Test?” George said. “Oh. Right. That one.”

The bus slowed, and a group of kids boarded. One of the boys pointed out the window. “Look at that car,” he said. George and B looked to see Trina’s car pulling out from an intersection on its way to school.

George bent over low so he could speak in a quieter voice. “I’ve been thinking more about Trina,” he said. “What if she’s the daughter of an oil tycoon?”

B shrugged.

“Or maybe some software billionaire?”

“What if she is?” B said. “There must be a reason why she’s keeping things from us. I think she wants to be friends.”

“Well, whatever her story is, I think I can get it
out of her,” George said, crossing his hands behind his head. “My special, never-fail method.”

B prodded him in the ribs. “Which is?”

“Wait and see.”

B’s morning classes limped along miserably. In art, she smudged purple background paint all over Nightshade’s paws. In history, she nearly blurted out “Potions!” when the answer should have been “Poland.” And every kid she bumped into had the same thing on their minds — the canceled concert. She felt about as cheerful as an alligator on a diet when she slouched into her chair in English class.

“Morning, B.” Trina’s voice made B jump.

B tried to shake off her gloom. “Where were you this morning?” B asked. “You missed art class.”

Trina shrugged her shoulders out of her plaid backpack. “Oh, I had some stuff I had to take care of. You know. From … moving here.”

B nodded but she wasn’t sure she believed her.

Trina sat down. “Hey, how come everybody looks so upset today?”

“Haven’t you heard?” B said. “Of course, I forgot you’re not into the Black Cats. They were going to have a concert here this weekend, and just this morning they canceled the rest of their tour.”

Trina watched B thoughtfully. “I guess that must be really hard on a band’s fans, huh?”

B rested her head on her folded arms. “I was so excited to go Saturday. It would have been my first ever rock concert.”

Trina patted B’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re so disappointed, B. I really am.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Katrina, good morning!”

B blinked and raised her head off the desk. Something didn’t seem right. Was that
Jason Jameson’s
voice sounding polite and friendly?

If her ears were deceiving her, so were her eyes. It
was
Jason, and he had perched himself on Trina’s desk. Trina looked like a caged animal, desperate for an escape.

“How’re you settling into the new school?” Jason said. “Learning your way around okay?”

Trina nodded.

“Anything I can help you with? Did you have any trouble finding your way
home
yesterday?”

He’d seen Katrina’s car and the driver, B realized, and was kissing up to her because he figured she was rich, as always, Jason’s slimy motives were crystal clear, and B had no patience to spare for him. Not today.

“Jason Jameson, get
off
Trina’s desk!” she said. “She sure doesn’t want
you
there.”

Jason sneered at her. “Buzz off, Bumblebee,” he said. “I’m just having a chat with my new friend Katrina. Keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

Trina dropped a pencil on purpose, and Jason jumped down to grab it. She quickly dumped her books on her desk so that Jason couldn’t sit there again. “To answer your question, Jason, I’m settling in just fine. My
friends,
B and George, have been showing me around. So, thanks for asking, but I’m all set.”

Jason frowned, then quickly smiled again, showing his braces. “If you ever decide you want to hang out with nonlosers, let me know.”

The bell rang, and George ran into the room, followed by Mr. Bishop. George scooted to his seat. He passed B a note, whispering, “For Trina.”

B glanced at the note before passing it on.
“Hey, Trina,” it read. “How do you like your new school? Is it better or worse than your old one? — George.”

Mr. Bishop started bouncing around the front of the room talking about poetry. B slipped Trina the note and peered sideways at her. Trina bit her lower lip, then wrote something on the note and slipped it back to B.

“Hey, George,” it read. “Some parts are better, and some parts are worse. — Trina.”

B handed George the note, and it soon came back to her.

“Bet you’re not used to this fall weather or all this rain.”

B slid the note to Trina. It returned.

“I’m used to fall and rain. §”

George took another stab at his not-so-subtle game. B began to worry that Mr. Bishop was going to catch her passing notes.

“So, are they mostly Lakers fans in your neck of the woods? Nicks? Bulls? Celtics?”

Trina’s reply:
“I don’t know. I’m not really into football.”

B smothered a laugh. George was listing
basketball
teams in a desperate attempt to find out where Trina came from. She’d never heard of the Black Cats and didn’t know one sport from another.
George’s never-fail method is no match for Trina, B decided.

George was furiously writing another note when Mr. Bishop’s classroom phone buzzed. George hid his paper. Mr. Bishop answered the call, nodded, then hung up the receiver. “Katrina,” he said, “you’re needed down in the office. Some, er, old friends are eager to see you. You’d probably better take your bag. I’ll have someone get the homework assignment to you, okay?”

Old friends? All these missed classes? What was going on?

Trina nodded and rose, gathering her things. She didn’t look surprised or upset at all, even though
Jason Jameson made a little
oooh
sound. She turned to face him suddenly, and he sat up straight, as if it were someone else who’d done it.

Mr. Bishop wrapped up the poetry lesson by assigning a group project. “Pick a popular song,” Mr. Bishop said. “Any song you like. Write down the lyrics and analyze their poetic elements. Then, using the tune from the song, write some lyrics of your own.”