B and Trina arrived together at Mr. Bishop’s classroom a few minutes after the last bell rang.
“Come in, come in,” he cried, beckoning toward them. “We have so much to cover today. Are you both ready with your special spells for Friday’s Young Witch Competition?” He smiled. “Or has Clifton Davro–mania infected you, too?”
“Not me,” B said. “Can you see me on a TV talent show? No, thanks.”
“Me neither,” Trina said. “I’ve met Cliff Davro a bunch of times. I’m much more interested in the magical competition. I’ve been working hard on my spell.”
B looked down at her shoes. She’d been working hard, too. She’d stayed up late the night before, brainstorming and practicing different ideas. But none of them had worked out.
“Let’s see it, then,” Mr. Bishop said. “Show us what you’ve got.”
“You first, Trina,” B said.
Trina removed the treble-clef-shaped charm necklace Mr. Bishop had made for her. Trina’s magic was different, too. Trina sang her rhyming spells in order to create magic. Without the treble-clef amulet, anything she sang made magic happen — a dangerous problem for a pop star! But now Trina wanted her singing magic to work. She planted her feet, threw back her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Her rich singing voice filled the classroom as she sang her spell for Mr. Bishop.
“For you, compose a melody;
Let magic make the harmony
And match the music perfectly
To what you love to hear.
Lilting lyrics reach down deep,
Make memories you’ll want to keep.
A song to soothe you, help you sleep
While picture-dreams appear.”
“Wow,” B said. “That was so pretty.”
“Wait,” Trina whispered. “Listen.”
At first it sounded like it came from far away, but gradually the sound swelled. It felt as if there was a live acoustic band playing right here in the classroom, with a virtuoso guitarist picking out the intricate chords and runs of a lively yet gentle song. The guitarist was soon joined by a mandolin, a fiddle, and a flute. The song had a folksy feel to it, but it was the kind that anyone would like. Each movement in the music sent waves of color shimmering up in the air, like drifting silk scarves, in front of Mr. Bishop. The images changed into an oceanfront scene, and then a field of grasses and wildflowers. B realized she was swaying back and forth to the tune.
Then an invisible lead vocalist, a woman, began to sing.
“Do you remember
Far, far away,
Our Summer’s Eve day?”
A woman’s face appeared. She had kind eyes and long, wavy brown hair, and she gazed fondly at Mr. Bishop. His eyes widened, and his face turned red. B felt a twinge of guilt, watching him, but she was too amazed and curious to stop.
“I still remember.
I can’t forget
Our walk on the dunes.
My heart is there yet.”
The music circled to a close, and the magical images faded. Mr. Bishop wiped his eye with a fingertip. He and B clapped enthusiastically.
“Wow, Trina,” he said. “That was … unexpected.”
“It was amazing!” B cried. “That song was so beautiful! And the pictures … so romantic … It’s like Mr. Bishop’s own special music video.”
Trina blushed. “Thanks.” She watched Mr. Bishop nervously. “Did it work? I mean, was the song … something you would like?”
Mr. Bishop rested his hand on Trina’s shoulder. “Maybe a little too much. It reminded me of a band my friends and I formed in college. We used to play that kind of music.”
Trina smiled, looking like she was trying not to make it too big. B could tell she was really pleased.
“You’re next, B,” Mr. Bishop said, and all the pleasure of Trina’s spell evaporated.
“I don’t have anything even close to that,” B began. “I’ve tried lots of things, but I can’t even think of a good idea. The best I could come up with last night was a cleanup spell for a messy bedroom, but I guess clean bedrooms aren’t my thing.” She grinned. “With or without magic.” Her mother would attest to that.
“The best magic comes from our unique talents,” Mr. Bishop said. “Try to think about what’s unique about you.”
“That’s easy,” Trina said. “I’ve never heard of another spelling witch. I mean, one who spells words in order to cast spells.”
B sighed. “So, what should I do? Conjure up a dictionary? Being able to spell words is no special skill. People’s computers can do it for them.”
Mr. Bishop twisted the tip of his shiny black goatee. “Tsk, tsk! How many of my English lectures have you sat through, and you think the most magical thing about words is how they’re spelled? Think, B! Words are wondrously powerful! What else can you do with them?”
“Me?”
“Anybody.”
B hated trick questions, and this felt like one. Mr. Bishop clearly had a specific answer he wanted, and B had no idea what it was. “You, er, talk using words,” she said, “and write with them.”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “Yes, yes. But what? Not just grocery lists and to-do lists. What can you tell or write with your words?”
B’s gaze fell on a stack of books piled next to Mozart’s cage. Mozart, the class hamster, lived in a tank on the windowsill in between the pencil sharpener and the class collection of paperback copies of Where the Red Fern Grows.
“Stories,” B said. “Words can be shaped into stories.”
“Exactly!” Mr. Bishop rubbed his hands together. “Trina came up with a songwriting spell, which, frankly, is pretty advanced magic. You could try a storytelling spell, couldn’t you, B?”
B concentrated hard. This was one of the big problems with spelling words to perform magic. You only got a word or two. Rhyming and singing witches could describe what they wanted in much better detail. B had to focus hard to make her words produce the right results. Sometimes, even when she thought she’d focused perfectly, the spell still came out wonky.
“S-T-O-R-Y,” she said, thinking hard about Mr. Bishop, stories, storytellers, and happy endings.
A gust of wind swept slowly through the room, ruffling the pages of books on desks, and even levitating a few paperbacks off the shelves. B watched nervously. What was going on?
“Once up on a time …” a voice began.
B breathed a sigh of relief. It worked! The voice had a cool British accent. Trina squealed and gave B a high five.
“… there lived a family of giants.”
Giants? Well, why not? Mr. Bishop’s smile stretched from ear to ear.
“They lived in a cave in the side of a mountain and ate schoolteachers for breakfast, lunch, and supper each day.”
Mr. Bishop laughed out loud, but B grew nervous. This wasn’t the kind of story she had in mind at all!
“Their favorite kind of schoolteacher to eat was the kind that was also a witch. One day, the mother of the giant family, Mama Murgatroyd, got out her big copper kettle and began sharpening her chopping knives. ‘Today’s the day,’ she told her big son Earl, ‘that we’ll go and hunt ourselves down a nice, plump …’”
“S-T-O-P,” B said, and flopped into the desk she used for English. “Never mind. That was horrible.”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Bishop asked. “I loved it! It had all the makings of a classic. Of course, if there are any little kids in the audience, they might be traumatized….”
“You just need more practice. That’s all,” Trina said. “That was only your first time trying. You should have heard my first song spells! The beat was off, and the instruments were out of tune.”
“Thanks for the idea,” B said. “I’ll definitely keep practicing.” She shouldered her backpack. “I just hope there’s time to make it come together before Friday.”
Because if there isn’t, B thought, then the only thing I’ll want to perform on Friday is a disappearing act.