The Runaway Spell (2 page)

“Get these off me!”

B rolled on her back, laughing. “You asked for it, George! You wanted to be the Zebra; you got it.”

“All right, all right, you had your little joke,” George said. “Now make the ears go away.”

B sat up, wiping her eyes. “It wasn’t a joke, I swear,” she said. “I was really and truly trying to turn you into that Zebra guy.”

George sank back against the couch cushions, tugging on his zebra ears. “So, you can’t get rid of them?”

“They’ll go away on their own in a few minutes, tops,” B said. “Just sit tight.”

George fidgeted with the armrest. B leaned back in her beanbag chair, waiting. Would the ears shrink, or just
poof,
disappear?

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Any minute now.

How about … now?

Why haven’t they disappeared?

Uh-oh …

“Kids!” Mr. Fitzsimmons’s voice sounded from upstairs. “Chinese food’s here! Come get an egg roll before I eat ’em all!”

George jumped up and started pacing around the rec room. “What’m I gonna do? What’ll my parents say? How in the heck do I hide zebra ears?”

B looked around the basement. “Got any more hats?”

“Ha-ha,” George snapped. “Very funny. You’re not the one with zebra ears. At least you could
try
a spell to get rid of them.”

“You really want me putting another spell on you?”

George looked at his watch. “It’s been five minutes. If the effect was temporary, wouldn’t they have vanished by now?”

B swallowed. “Probably.” Some of George’s anxiety was beginning to rub off on her. What if the ears didn’t go away? What if they were still there
tomorrow?
A few people were bound to notice — in particular, Mr. Bishop, their English teacher who was secretly her witching tutor. And if he found out that she’d let slip about her magic … who knew what the M.R.S. would do to her!

B rubbed her hands together. “Okay, you ready? I’ll give it a try.”

George sat down, twisting an action figure in his hands. Fortunately, Zeus’s waist swiveled.

“R-E-V-E-R-S-E.”

No change to the ears, but a plastic armored tank began rolling backward across the carpet.

“Ha-ha,” George said, not really laughing.

B licked her lips. “U-N-D-O.”

Nope. George’s shoelaces untied, though.

“U-N-Z-E-B-R-A.”

“Unzebra?” George said, tugging on his new ears. “That’s not even a word! What happens when you spell words that aren’t words?”

“Nothing, apparently,” B said, frowning at George’s head. Tufts of black and white hair jutted up through his curls, while his new ears twitched at every sound in the room, almost with a life of their own.

“Looks like you may be wearing a hat for a while,” B said. “I’m sure the ears’ll go away. If not, I’ll think of something.”
With any luck,
B added silently,
before the Magical Rhyming Society finds out.

“B-but, B!” George stammered. “You can’t leave me like this!
Do
something! You’re the witch!”

“I told you transformations were risky,” B said sadly.

“Kung pao chicken, going once!” Mr. F bellowed from up the stairs. “Going twice!”

George found a hat, pulled it down hard over all four of his ears, and held the door open for B. “You will figure it out, won’t you?”

B patted his shoulder, trying to sound surer than she felt. “I promise.”

The next morning B waited anxiously at the bus stop, watching for George to appear. Her sombrero, worn for Crazy Hat Day, flapped in the wind. Her nerves danced like Mexican jumping beans in the pit of her stomach.
Please, please, let the ears be gone!

The bus came, and there was still no sign of George, so she boarded and sat down. The bus started to leave, then the driver hit the brakes and opened the door once more. A disheveled-looking George climbed on board.

“Hey, everybody, look at George,” Jason Jameson yelled. “He thinks it’s Christmas! Nice earmuffs, Fitzsimmons! You call that a hat? Gonna make a snowman out of leaves?”

George ducked into B’s seat and slid down so his head didn’t show. B leaned over the back of the seat to glare at Jason, then looked at George anxiously. He wore a blue knit ski cap over his head and a
fuzzy red pair of earmuffs over his ears — his
human
ears.

B bit her lower lip. “Let me guess …”

George nodded miserably. “They’re still there. Do you know how much you hear with two sets of ears? I could barely get to sleep last night. Every little creak in the house, every car passing by … it was horrible.”

B sighed. “That explains the earmuffs.”

“Yup. I figured all the noise on the bus would make me crazy. As it is, I can still hear Mona Blair in the backseat, telling Allie Rogers that” — he cocked his head to one side — “Trevor Harding is ‘totally hot.’
Blech.”
He shuddered. “Way more info than I needed.”

B sank lower in her seat. She tried to think of a way to change the subject. “Got any chocolate?” she said.

He shook his head. “Nope. I’m in no mood for chocolate today.”

B chewed on a knuckle and tried to think. The day her best friend, George, was in no mood for chocolate might as well be the day sunshine was
abolished forever. It couldn’t, and shouldn’t, happen.

She racked her brain to think of spells that might fix the problem. Barely moving her lips, she thought about George’s zebra ears and whispered faintly, “N-O-R-M-A-L. D-I-S-A-P-P-E-A-R. R-E-V-E-R-S-E.” But those bumpy spots under his ski cap remained. Fortunately, she figured, no one else would be likely to realize something was unusual.

“I can hear you, you know,” George muttered. “Nice try, but it’s not working.”

B slumped even lower. “Sorry, George. I’ll figure something out.”

“Just because you’re wearing goofy hats today doesn’t excuse you from paying attention,” Mr. Bishop said, tapping the wide brim of the Stetson hat he had on — black, matching his sweater and jeans, as well as his horn-rimmed rectangular glasses and glossy, pointed beard. “Am I the only person here who isn’t obsessed with Thursday’s game?”

“Pretty much,” Jamal Burns said. The class giggled.

Mr. Bishop was right — with the buildup of Spirit Week leading to the championship game, everyone was having trouble thinking about science or math. Now it was English class, and B was
distracted, too, but not by soccer. She had zebras on the brain.

“Observe,” Mr. Bishop said, removing his Stetson hat and holding it up so the class could see the inside. B knew another one of Mr. Bishop’s “magic” tricks was on the way — except she knew what kind of magic Mr. Bishop really could do.

“See anything inside this hat?” They all shook their heads. “Miss Springbranch, will you make sure? Check the lining, please.”

Jenny Springbranch examined the hat and handed it back, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

“You’re quite sure?”

Jenny nodded.

Mr. Bishop frowned at the inside of the hat, shook it upside down, then scowled inside it once more. Muttering to himself, he reached inside and pulled out a soccer ball.

“No way,” George whispered.

“How d’you
do
that?”

“It’s impossible!”

Mr. Bishop tossed the ball to George, who caught it. He spun it around to show everyone the
GO,
TIGERS
inscribed on one panel in permanent marker.

“Thanks, Mr. Bishop!” George said. “Wow!”

The class applauded, and Mr. Bishop took a bow. Then he said, “Now that we’ve gotten soccer out of our heads, for the moment, I want you to follow me to the computer lab. We’ll practice conducting research online. Next month’s project is to write a research paper. You’ll need to pick a subject to write about, research it, and write a three-page paper.”

There were groans and protests as their class shuffled down the hall toward the computer lab, but B didn’t mind the assignment. She knew exactly what she’d be researching.

Zebras.

There was a new bounce in B’s step. Of course! She needed more facts about zebras. That was probably why she couldn’t undo the curse yet — she was dealing with subjects she didn’t fully understand.

Well, it might help anyway.

She and George found computers right next to each other and logged in. While Mr. Bishop was lecturing the class on how to choose trustworthy
sources for facts online, she quickly went to her favorite online encyclopedia and softly typed “zebra” in the search field.

Oh, rats.

There were lots of kinds of zebras.

Well, let’s see. She looked more closely. There were three species of zebra, and several subspecies. The different types had English names and Latin names. She scrolled up and down, scanning the pictures to see if any of the different types had ears just like George’s.

That was the problem — they all did. B stuck her hand underneath her sombrero and scratched her head.

George peered over at her screen. “Find anything useful?”

B dreaded facing George. He still had on those silly earmuffs. She kept her eyes glued to the screen. “This is sad!” she whispered. “One subspecies of zebra, the quagga, has already gone extinct! And the Grevy’s zebra is endangered.”

George adjusted his glasses, which kept sliding down his nose. “They all look the same to me.”

“Yeah, but they’re different,” B explained. “There are three main species of zebra: Plains, Mountain, and Grevy’s. Subspecies, too … the, um, Dauw, Burchell’s zebra, Chapman’s zebra, Wahlberg’s zebra, Selous’s zebra, Grant’s zebra …”

“Shhh,” George hissed.

B looked up to see Mr. Bishop peering down at her from under his Stetson. “Oops,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

Mr. Bishop grinned. “You’re doing great research, B,” he said, “but keep it down, okay? Especially when I’m still lecturing. Zebras, is it?”

B nodded.
Please, oh, please, let me figure out how to get rid of those ears before Mr. Bishop finds out what I’ve done ….

For the rest of the class, B read everything she could find about zebras, copying the list of zebra names on a sheet of paper, in English and Latin. When the bell rang, everyone filed out of the computer room, but B tugged George’s sleeve.

“Let me try this,” she said. And, tacking a “U-N” before each name, she rattled through the list, thinking about George’s ears.
Equus quagga,
Grevy’s
zebra, Hartmann’s mountain zebra, she spelled them all.

“Well,” George said, patting his ski cap, “the ears are still there.”

B sighed. “That’s probably because those aren’t really words anyway.” She snapped her fingers. “Let me try one other thing, okay? Take your hat off again.”

George complied. Staring hard at George’s ears, B spelled the word slowly and carefully. “D-I-S-A-P-P-E-A-R.”

The ears vanished.

“Holy cats!” B whooped for joy. “Look at yourself, George! They’re gone!” The worry B had been feeling all day about getting caught suddenly disappeared. She had gotten away with it.

George stared at the dim reflection of himself in the window. “Are they really gone? I can still hear like crazy. When you hollered, you just about busted my zebra eardrums.” He inspected his face and profile more closely. “But they’re gone, aren’t they?”

“Not a trace of zebra ears,” B said proudly. What a relief!

“Today’s pizza day,” George said. “Let’s go before the mega-meat pie’s all gone.” He turned toward the door.

That’s when B saw it.

“Eep!” B couldn’t help herself. The sound slipped out.

“What’s the matter?”

B stood and pointed toward her own lower back. George twisted and craned his neck to see … a zebra tail, poking out through a new hole in his jeans!

George stared at B.

B stared back, feeling her elation crash to dread. “Oops?” she said.

“‘Oops?’” George repeated. “‘Oops?’ I’ve got a tail now. A
tail!
Make it go away, quick!”

B, still shell-shocked by this new development, shook her head feebly. “I don’t think I dare try.” Turning the ears into a tail was
not
good progress, and who knew what zebra feature would come next if she took the risk.

George twisted around and wiggled until he could stuff the tail down into his jeans.

Why can’t I control my magic?
B thought despairingly.

Finally George pulled off his “La Zebra” sweatshirt and tied it around his waist to hide the bumps and hole. “You are going to fix this, right, B? Because there’s no hat I can put on over my backside, if you know what I mean.”

B nodded. “I’ll fix it, George,” she said. “Somehow.”

“Race you to the caf, then,” George said, and B, relieved that he wasn’t too angry at her, nodded. They grabbed their bags and headed out the door.

B could never really beat George in a race — he was the sixth-grade champion in the fifty-yard dash — but today George had nearly reached the end of the long hallway before B had even gotten halfway. He was flying!

Galloping, more like. Like a horse.

Like a zebra.

After school, George took off to the athletic fields for soccer practice, and B headed to Mr. Bishop’s room for magic tutoring. She always looked forward to her magical studies, and she’d never needed instruction more than today. But she almost dreaded today’s session. It felt as though she had something to hide from him. Well, she did … George’s tail! And that was the very reason she needed so much help.

But how could she ask Mr. Bishop for help without him figuring out what she’d done? She tried to picture the scenario: “Suppose, Mr. Bishop, I were to turn my best friend, who’s nonmagical, into a zebra? How would I fix that problem?”

Nope. No good.

She would just have to figure it out on her own, as long as things didn’t get any worse. If they did, B would
have
to confess, and face whatever consequences there were for breaking the no-telling rule.

She reached the classroom and sat down next to Mozart, the class’s hamster, who lived in a cage on the windowsill. She and Mozart were old friends — in fact, the opinionated hamster had helped her solve her first magical mess. At the sight of B, the hamster stood on his hind legs and waved a paw, his tiny nose quivering.

She reached in and pulled him out, nestling him in the palm of her hand.

“S-P-E-A-K,” she said after checking to make sure no one was lingering in the room.

“Hiya, Missy,” Mozart said, sniffing. “What’s the matter with you? You look like someone’s fed you bad lettuce. Chin up! Want a kibble? Help yourself.”

“No thanks, Mozart,” she said. “I’m just worried. Know anything about fixing magical spells that’ve gone screwball?”

“Hey, I’m just a hamster. What do I know about
magic?” he said. “Food, that’s what I know. You got to keep your strength up. Spend at least half your day eating, that’s my advice, and the other half sleeping. You do that, you’ve got no problems.”

B shook her head and rubbed her cheek against Mozart’s soft fur. “That’s not such a good idea for humans. We’re supposed to do more than just eat and sleep.”

“That’s why you get yourselves into such trouble,” Mozart sniffed. “But what do I know? I’m just a hamster.”

“But for a hamster,” Mr. Bishop said from the doorway, “you sure have a lot to say.” He took off his Stetson and hung it from a peg by the door. He smiled at B. “Caught you off guard, didn’t I? No worries. But be careful, B, to make sure nonmagical people don’t accidentally discover what your spelling can do.”

B gulped.
If only you knew,
she thought.

“Sorry, Mozart,” she whispered. “S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S,” she spelled, and stroking the hamster between the ears with her pinky finger, she placed
him gently back in the cedar chips at the bottom of his cage.

Mr. Bishop sat in a student desk opposite B. “Well, B, how’s life?”

B shrugged. “It’s okay.”

He watched her closely. “Are you sure? You don’t seem like yourself today. Is something on your mind?”

Oh, man, was it that obvious? She already felt guilty enough without his psychic X-ray vision peering into her brain and figuring out the truth.

“I’m looking forward to reading your zebra research paper,” Mr. Bishop added.

At the word “zebra,” B flinched. She rapidly changed the subject. “I’ve got a, uh, question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

B twisted her fingers underneath her desk. “It seems like I do all these spells, and they don’t usually come out quite right.” Good, good. A safe approach so far.

Mr. Bishop smiled. “That’s typical for beginner
witches. I seem to recall
someone
spelling the word ‘chaos’ and setting off the school’s fire alarm….” His dark eyes sparkled.

B smiled, remembering when she didn’t know she had her magic and had caused all sorts of trouble. “Exactly. How do you, er, clean up a magical mess? Reverse a bad spell? Things like that?”

Mr. Bishop cracked his knuckles. “Good question. In the case of the fire alarm, we just rode it out, didn’t we? Waited for the alarm to stop, and for all the water to get mopped up.”

B swallowed hard. “But what if it doesn’t go away on its own?”

“Most spells can be undone,” Mr. Bishop said, “but sometimes a witch gets in over her head and the Magical Rhyming Society Dismantle Squad has to be called in.”

B’s mouth went dry. “Dismantle Squad?”

Mr. Bishop laughed. “Don’t let the name scare you. Usually, they are only there to help.”

B tried to smile, but the “usually” worried her. If she had to face the Dismantle Squad,
what
exactly
would they be dismantling? Her … or George? She didn’t want to think about either.

Something else was bothering B. “What did you mean by ‘most’ spells? Any spell
can
be undone, can’t it?”

Mr. Bishop twirled the tip of his beard. “There have been some famous cases of irreversible spells, usually when witches attempt magic too advanced for them,” he said. “There’s a fascinating book about it at the M.R.S. library — often the spells start to intensify the more the witch tries to reverse them.”

Irreversible spells. Witches attempting advanced magic …

“Don’t worry, B,” Mr. Bishop said. “The kind of spells I’m teaching you aren’t likely to do permanent damage.” He rose. “Now, let’s get started on today’s lesson. First, we’re going to try something a little exciting…. Most witches your age can’t do this, but you just might.” He paused, and B smiled weakly. “I want to see what happens if you attempt a traveling spell. So we’re going to see if you can magically transport us to the Magical Rhyming Society
without my help. Once we get there, we’ll pay a visit to the library and learn how to conduct magical research.”

B had to put irreversible spells, the Dismantle Squad, and George’s zebra tail out of her head. She had to focus if she wasn’t going to let Mr. Bishop see how nervous she was.

“Okay.” B placed her sombrero on her desk and stood up. “What do I do?”

“Well, that’s the question,” Mr. Bishop said. “For other students, I encourage them to compose a rhyming couplet that will take them there. For you, we’ll need to find the right combination of thoughts and a word to spell. I would imagine you’d think hard about the M.R.S., then spell ‘travel.’ How does that sound?”

“It sounds awfully simple,” B said.

“Often, the simplest spells are the most effective,” her teacher said. “Hold on to my sleeve so you take me with you, and give it a whirl.”

B clutched the sleeve of Mr. Bishop’s sweater, closed her eyes, and tried to think about the Magical Rhyming Society. Her mind was jumpy
with worries about zebra George, but she focused on the M.R.S. It was a happy place to think about. No other place B knew was so, well, magical! All those rhyming witches experimenting with magical methods everywhere you turned … something interesting was always happening.

“Are you worried?” Mr. Bishop asked.

B opened her eyes, hesitated, then shook her head.

“Don’t worry, B,” her teacher said. “Relax, and trust yourself! You’ve got powers most young witches take years to develop. Believe me. Believe in
yourself
.”

“Okay,” B said, scrunching her eyes shut once more.
M.R.S.!
she thought.

“T-R-A-V-E-L,” she spelled.

She felt the magical travel cyclone whip around them both, plastering her dark hair across her face.

But the wind didn’t die down when it normally would have.

Cautiously, B opened her eyes.

Uh-oh.