The Cat-Astrophe (3 page)

Jenny Springbranch’s hand shot into the air. “Can we pick our own groups, Mr. Bishop?”

“Nope,” Mr. Bishop said. “I’m assigning the groups.”

“Mr. Bishop,” Jason called out, “I’ll be happy to take Katrina her assignment. Why don’t you put her with me?”

Mr. Bishop’s eyes sparkled under his thick, dark eyebrows. “That’s very generous of you, Jason, but I’ve already assigned our newest student to George and B.”

George and B exchanged excited glances. It sounded like a fun project. And maybe, in the process, they’d solve the mystery of Trina!

“I’ve got an idea for how we can learn more about Trina,” George told B as they left gym class two periods later. “Want to meet up right after school?”

“Can’t,” B said, feeling the lunar moths stirring up her stomach again. “I’ve got that test.”

“Oh. Right.” George gave B’s shoulder a friendly punch. “What’re you worried about? You’ll be great!”

“Thanks,” B said. “I’m not so sure.”

George checked his watch. “So, you should be back from the … whatchyoucallit … by around four o’clock, right?”

“The M.R.S.,” B said. “Yeah, I should back by then.”

“Perfect. That’s not too late. I’ll meet you here by the front entrance.”

B hoisted her backpack over her other shoulder. “What’ve you got in mind?”

“You just focus on your test,” George said; then he disappeared down the hall to his next class.

Somehow B got through the rest of the school day. She shuffled through Mr. Bishop’s classroom door five minutes after the last bell rang.

“There you are! Let’s go; we can’t keep Madame Mel waiting.” He pulled the classroom door shut after first peering down the hall in both directions. “Get a good sleep last night? Eat a power breakfast? Ready for action?”

B set her backpack down next to Mozart’s cage. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mr. Bishop’s eyebrow rose but he ignored B’s remark. Instead, he spoke a traveling spell.

“Wild winds that whistle from south, east, and west,

Whisk us away to B’s first magic test.”

The familiar travel-spell cyclone whipped through their hair and transported them to the M.R.S.

They had landed in a hallway just outside a large circular door that was thickly studded with round medallions of purple, green, and blue glass, all inlaid in silver.

“Let me guess,” B said, searching for a peephole. “Madame Mel’s office.”

“Naturally.” Mr. Bishop pressed one of the medallions — B never would have guessed it was the doorbell. A dizzying peal of chimes rang out.

The door opened, and Madame Mel’s head poked through. Her baby blue hair was tucked into a bun, as usual, but a large peacock feather poked out from the coil of hair. She peered at B through her purple spectacles, perched as always at the tip of her long thin nose.

“Come in, come in!” she cried. “You’re twelve seconds late. What a day, what a fuss! I’ve misplaced my best pen, my Crystal Ballphone keeps dialing Madagascar, and my teakettle won’t boil. It just blows soap bubbles. Silly witch practical jokes.”

She beckoned them both inside. B gazed at Madame Mellifluous’s office. Teetering towers of books lined the walls. Huge tapestry cushions were scattered across the carpet in front of the fire. An antique globe spun slowly, a model moon orbiting around it. Fluttering over Madame Mel’s desk were a dozen butterflies. B looked closer. They were wafer-thin butterfly cookies, hovering over a plate. Madame Mel’s empty teacup rattled indignantly in its saucer, but over in the corner, instead of boiling over its steady blue flame, the teakettle puffed out pink and purple bubbles faster than they could pop.

And sprawled on a chair, soaking in the sunlight that poured in from a round window, was a live skunk.

B took a step back.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Madame Mel said briskly, shuffling through a stack of parchments on her desk. “It’s only Hermes. He won’t spray you unless you annoy him. Which I surely hope you won’t, because I’ve just had the carpet shampooed. Now, where on earth is that pen?”

“Madame Mel?” B ventured.

“Hm?”

“I think it’s on your head.”

The Grande Mistress paused, groped at her hair, then plucked out the feather stuck into her blue bun. “So it is.” She nodded at B, and gave Mr. Bishop a wink. “Your student knows what to do with her eyes, it appears. Let’s see if she knows what to do with her magic.”

B gulped.

“Good luck, B,” Mr. Bishop called on his way out. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

Easy for you to say
, B thought.

Madame Mel seated herself behind her desk. With a swoosh of her sparkling sleeve, she swept all the parchments onto the floor and sent the butterfly cookies flapping over to the window. Then she snapped her fingers at the skunk. “Hermes! I need you, please.”

The skunk slowly roused itself, slid off the chair, and waddled over to Madame Mel. She scooped him up and set him on the desk, where he proceeded to sniff for butterfly cookie crumbs.

“Now, B, let me explain the testing procedure. There will be three tasks. First, a basic spell. Second, a potion. And third, an object transformation spell. Got that?”

B nodded, her mind racing. That wasn’t much detail to go on.

“Would you begin by making Hermes talk?”

B relaxed. “Sure. That’s an easy one. I’ve made Mr. Bishop’s hamster, Mozart, speak lots of times.” She cleared her mind of distractions, focused on the foraging skunk, and said, “S-P-E-A-K.”

Hermes peered at B. He blinked, stretched, yawned, then curled himself into a ball for another rest.

Uh-oh.
It hadn’t worked!

“S-P-E-A-K,” she whispered, repeating the spell as softly as possible, just in case.

“Was there a topic,” Hermes’s voice said, sounding thin and refined, “upon which you wished me to converse?” He shut his eyes as though he were drifting back to sleep.

B sagged with relief. “Anything you like,” she said.

“Somnology interests me,” Hermes said.

“Som-
what?”

“Somnology. The scientific study of sleep.” Hermes shifted his position to find a more comfortable curve for his body. He let out a long, slow breath. “Sleep is underappreciated. Lack of sleep” — he stretched his spine once more — “is associated with a wide range of health problems, in humans as well as skunks. Sleep can be divided into four stages …”

B glanced at Madame Mel to see how she was reacting to B’s performance thus far. Her chin rested in her hand, her elbow propped on her desk, and her eyelids, behind her spectacles, were drooping.

“… with most dreaming taking place during the rapid-eye-movement stage….”

B coughed loudly. Madame Mel’s eyes flew open. “Hm? Oh. Sorry about that. Hermes’s lectures always make me sleepy.”

“Where has he learned so much?” B asked. “He sounds like a science teacher!”

“Reading, of course,” Madame Mel said. “The same way science teachers and anybody else
learns. You read the paper for me, don’t you, Hermes?”

Hermes sniffed. “When I must. I much prefer the
Journal of Magical Medicine.”

“Who doesn’t?” Madame Mel said dryly. “Give me an article on sleep science over the funny pages any day. Turn him off for me, will you, B?”

“S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S.” Hermes’s mouth went silent. He nuzzled deeper into the folds of Madame Mel’s sleeves, till only his face, with its blinking button eyes, poked out.

“Thank you. Nicely done.”

B blushed with pleasure. She’d done it. Her first test had obviously gone well. “I like Hermes,” B said, grinning with relief. “I get along well with small mammals.”

“That will be useful, I’m sure. Now, let’s move along, shall we?” Madame Mel pulled a drawer right out of the desk and dumped out its contents. A crazy jumble of odd bits and bric-a-brac spilled out onto the desk. B scanned the assortment. Her palms began to sweat.

Madame Mel set a cauldron on her desk. “Please select from these items, B, anything you wish, and use them to make a potion.”

B swallowed and stared at the assortment of ingredients. Her mind was as empty as Madame Mel’s desk had been a minute before.

“Whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting.”

“What kind of potion?” B was pretty sure Madame Mel could tell she was stalling.

“I leave it to your creativity.”

Relax, B. You can do this. You’ve done potions before.
B took a deep breath. Odd bits of leather, string, ribbon, crystals, pencils, markers, coins, ornaments, earrings, amulets, spices, snacks, arrowheads, nuts and bolts, pebbles, feathers, twigs, tools … There was neither rhyme nor reason to the collection of junk from Madame Mel’s drawer. Lots to work with, but nothing that suggested a theme. It was just a mess.

She thought of what she knew about potions.
The real trick wasn’t so much in the ingredients. It was in your state of mind as you chose them.

She riffled through the junk heap. A huge, hairy spider made her jump. She poked it. Only rubber, but her skin still tingled, giving her an idea.

B reached for the cauldron. She dropped in the rubber spider, an orange feather, and a can of soda. Madame Mel’s eyes followed B’s movements. B tried to ignore it. She reached for a pepper grinder and cranked a few twists into the pot.

Close. One more thing. But what?

She plucked a short strand of miniature Christmas lights from the debris and stuffed it into the cauldron. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the ingredients and how they made her feel. Tickle her skin, tickle her tongue, tickle her nose, tickle her fancy! She chuckled to herself.

“T-I-C-K-L-E,” she said. The ingredients spun and melded into a shimmery pink sauce. Whew! B poured some into a tiny goblet and held it up in the air.

“Shall I drink it?” she asked Madame Mel.

“Let me.” The Grande Mistress of the Magical Rhyming Society tossed back the tickle potion in one quick gulp. For a moment she sat quietly, her face still with concentration. A nostril twitched, and then the other.

“Hoo-hah-hah-hah-hooooo! Hee hee!”

Hermes took a flying leap off Madame Mel’s lap and scuttled underneath a grandfather clock.

“Hah! HAH! Ooh, oh, make it stop, ah-hah-hah-hah-hoo!”

Madame Mel threw herself back in her rocking chair, clutching at her sides. The chair went over backward. All B could see were Madame Mel’s electric blue boots kicking furiously in midair. Then there was silence.

“Madame Mel! Are you okay?” B ran around the desk, afraid to find her injured from her fall. But Madame Mel was only gasping for breath so she could laugh harder. She slid out of her upturned chair, still writhing with laughter.

“Make …
hee!
… it …
hoo-hoo-heh
… stop!”

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” B said. “Do you?”

“Can’t …
heh-heh-heh …
rhyme …
hah-hah
… like this!”

What could she spell? UNFUNNY? SERIOUS? What if Madame Mel ended up in the hospital because of B’s renegade potions?

At last Madame Mel’s hysterical laughter subsided. She lay on the floor for a few seconds, limp and exhausted, before climbing up and brushing herself off.

“Sorry about that,” B said. “It did tickle you, though, didn’t it?”

Madame Mel adjusted her powder blue bun and peered down her nose at B. “Hmph.”

Uh-oh.

After setting her chair back on its legs, Madame Mel sat down once more and folded her hands together. “For the final part of your exam, please turn my paperweight into an orange.”

B turned to see a glass paperweight, etched to look like a basketball, holding down a stack of parchment.

“A basketball?” B said, turning it over in her hands.

“I’m especially fond of college hoops,” Madame Mel said. “Turn it into an orange, please.”

Just yesterday she had turned flowers into chocolate. She could do this. She thought about the paperweight and thought about oranges. Basketball made her think of George. Her best friend. George loved chocolate.
Focus, B!
Paperweight. Orange. “O-R-A-N-G-E,” she spelled.

The glass basketball turned into an orange … made out of chocolate.

“Look,” B said, her heart sinking. “I can peel off the dark chocolate skin. Ohh, it’s milk chocolate inside. That’s pretty neat, huh?”

Madame Mel held out her hand. B handed her the half-peeled orange.

“Look at the texture,” B added, feeling like a television salesman. “It’s so lifelike.”

Madame Mel finished peeling the “orange” and popped a section into her mouth.

“Lovely chocolate,” she said, licking her fingers. “As good as Enchanted Chocolates.”

B reached for her last straw. “Any chance it’s orange flavored?”

Madame Mel didn’t answer. “Excuse me for a moment.” She pressed a button on her desk, and in seconds the door opened. Mr. Bishop entered. B wandered over to where Hermes sat, sunning himself in front of the grandfather clock, while Madame Mel and Mr. Bishop whispered to each other.

“S-P-E-A-K,” B whispered. “How’d I do, Hermes?”

“A conundrum,” the skunk replied. “Is a laugh a tickle?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“And that orange that wasn’t an orange … even if she liked the chocolate.”

B heard the door close. She turned and saw that Madame Mel had left the room.

“Sorry, pal,” B whispered. “S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S.” She turned to where her magic tutor stood, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mr. Bishop sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you didn’t pass. Don’t feel bad. Many witches don’t pass their first test on the first try. If anything, the fault is mine. I was
eager for Madame Mel to see the progress you were making.”

B flopped into Hermes’s old chair. “I’m sorry I made you look bad.”

Mr. Bishop shook his head. “It’s nothing. No harm is done. You can retake the test.”

B felt like her face had been splashed with cold water. “You mean I have to do this again?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Let’s get back to school.”

B barely listened to his traveling couplet. First she lost the Black Cats concert; then she failed her magic test. What else could go wrong today? In seconds she was standing in Mr. Bishop’s English classroom. She grabbed her bag, said good-bye to her teacher and to Mozart, and hurried down the hall toward the front entrance. It was almost 4:00.

George stood waiting for her, munching from a big bag of Enchanted Chocolate Double-Dipped Pretzels. “How’d it go?”

B didn’t respond.

“Need a pretzel?”

B took a handful.

“I’m sorry, B. Shake it off, you know? There’s always next time.”

“Ugh! Next time.”

“Forget about next time,” George said, quickly changing course. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about the Trina thing. I’ve got a special, surefire, one hundred percent guaranteed way to find out her secret. We need to figure out where she lives.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got to take her the English homework assignment.”

“How can we figure that out?” B asked. “Calling Information?”

“Already tried that. Nope, my way is more sophisticated. Pure genius. Watch and weep.” He pushed open the swinging door that led to the school’s main office.

Most of the staff people had left for the day, except for Mrs. Armstrong, the secretary, who, B sometimes thought, really ran the school, not the principal.

“How’re you doing, Mrs. A?” George said,
leaning against the counter and flashing his biggest smile.

“Fine, thanks, George,” Mrs. Armstrong replied. “Just got these report card grades to verify in the computer before I can leave for the day.”

“Grades good this term?” George asked casually.

Mrs. Armstrong wagged a finger at him. “Mind your business, young man.” Then she smiled. “Yours are good. As always.”

“Excellent.” He set his bag of chocolate pretzels on the counter as though he wasn’t giving a bit of thought to what he did. B noticed Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes jump to the silver-and-purple bag, then back again to her stack of report cards.

“Like chocolate, Mrs. A?”

“Oh … I shouldn’t.” She patted her belly.

“D’you like chocolate
pretzels?
Just try one of these. They’re amazing!” George waved the bag under her nose.

Mrs. Armstrong hesitated, then plunged her hand in. At the first taste, she closed her eyes and sighed. George sneaked a grin at B.

“Something I can help you two with?” Mrs. Armstrong said, reaching once more for the pretzels.

“Oh. Yeah,” George said as though he’d almost forgotten. “We’ve got a homework assignment we need to deliver. To Katrina Lang, the new girl in our class? She’s been assigned to be in our group for a poetry project.”

“How nice,” Mrs. Armstrong said, turning her focus to her computer.

“But we don’t know where she lives,” George said, pouring a few more chocolate pretzels onto the counter. “Would you mind looking it up for us?”

Mrs. Armstrong hesitated.

“It’s a big project. We need to start right away, or our grades might suffer,” George said.

Mrs. Armstrong popped one more pretzel in her mouth, then scooched her chair back. “Oh, okay. For you, George.” She left the room, and George gave B a quick high five. In no time Mrs. Armstrong returned with an index card in her hand.

“I’ve copied down her address,” she said. “It’s very thoughtful of you to take the assignment to her.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” George said. “Here. Take the last two pretzels.”

Once outside, George consulted the card. “Forty-seven Blossom Lane.” He whistled. “Isn’t that where they have the big gates up around all the mansions?”

“Figures,” B said. “If she’s got a chauffeur, she’s probably got a nice house, too.” She tugged on George’s backpack. “Come on, let’s go. We’ll get there quicker if we cut through the woods behind the soccer fields.”

They reached Blossom Lane and began searching for house numbers.

“What’s that one?”

“I can’t tell,” B said. “The house is so far back I can’t see the number.”

“Anything on the mailbox?”

B checked. “No mailbox at all. Maybe the mailman brings their mail straight to the swimming pool.”

“Maybe the butler takes the helicopter into town to pick it —”

“Look!” B interrupted. “That house is number thirty-nine.”

“Forty-one, forty-three, forty-five,” George counted. He pointed to a tall house of dark redbrick, with a pointy tower and a fountain in the yard. The driveway was buzzing with people and cars, as if they were having a party. “That must be Trina’s house.”

B hurried forward for a closer look. “Are you sure? Sometimes house numbers don’t work like they’re supposed to.”

George gestured toward a black sedan sweeping through the electronic gates and into the curving driveway. “The car would be one giveaway. And there’s Trina.” His face fell. “She saw us.”

“Some spies we are,” B said. “Now we look like snoops. No better than Jason Jameson.”

“Nah,” George said. “C’mon, let’s go. Don’t be embarrassed. We’re here for a good reason. The homework project, remember?”

“Suppose she invites us in? Man, I’d love to see the inside of that place.”

George elbowed B. Then B saw why.

“Hey, guys.” It was Trina, approaching them across the perfectly trimmed lawns. “What are you doing here?” She looked nervous, glancing over her shoulder at the cars and people.

Was she mad? Hard to tell.

“Homework,” George said. “Mr. Bishop assigned you to our group for a poetry project. Sounds pretty big, so, we, er …”

“We got your address from the office and stopped by to drop it off,” B finished. “Mr. Bishop wants us to pick a favorite song, analyze the poetic elements in the lyrics, then write new lyrics. Want to, maybe, start working on it a little today?” B watched for Trina’s reaction. “Since, you know, we’re here and everything?”

“It sounds like fun,” Trina said. “But now’s not a good time.”

“Ka-tri-na!” A voice from the direction of the house made Trina jump. It was shrill, and a little crackly.

“I’ve got to go,” Trina said. “Sorry we can’t get started now. That’s my grandmother. I need to practice … We need to work on a … project. Inside. An indoor project. We’ve got company.”

“A
practicing
project?” B asked, puzzled.

“One that can’t wait,” Trina continued. “So, tomorrow, okay? Gotta go now. Bye!”

And she turned and ran across the lawns. George and B watched her disappear into the huge front doorway of the home. Then they both turned to leave.

“Practicing,” George mused. “I know! Maybe she’s a Ninjitsu black belt, doing her daily exercises. Spies do martial arts all the time.” He dropped his body low into a karatelike crouch, bracing his arms against an imaginary attacker. “Though it seems strange to think she’d practice on her old granny….”

“Spies use weapons now,” B said. “She’s probably got to practice detonating the grenade secretly hidden in her lip gloss case.”

“I hope she doesn’t practice that on her granny, either.”

B laughed. “She’s probably just a princess, practicing shaking hands with dictators. Or maybe she’s just a shy girl with a crabby grandmother. Let’s go home.”