The Cat-Astrophe Read online

  B Magical

  The Cat-Astrophe

  By Lexi Connor

  To David

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Preview

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books in the B Magical Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  B’s paintbrush hovered over the rough paper tacked to her easel. With the faintest of strokes, she trailed the tips of the bristles in a graceful arc.

  Perfect.

  Another whisker for Nightshade, her cat.

  Only about twenty more to go.

  With an apron tied around her waist and a spare paintbrush stuck in her ponytail, Beatrix, or “B” for short, glanced at the photo of her black tomcat pinned to the corner of the easel, dipped her brush in black paint, and carefully sketched another whisker.

  Miss Willow, B’s art teacher, strolled around the room. “Nice job, B,” she said as she passed B’s easel.

  “Thanks,” B said, quite pleased with how her masterpiece was turning out. She just couldn’t stop thinking of black cats. The Black Cats were B’s favorite band, and B was going to see them this Saturday live in concert.

  “Quit humming, Bumblebee,” Jason Jameson said. “You sound like a beehive, and you’re giving the rest of us a headache.”

  B glowered at Jason, who’d been a raging pest ever since preschool. Now they were in sixth grade, and he was even worse. She hadn’t realized she was humming as she painted, but that didn’t mean she was going to let Jason Jameson have the last word. He and his insect insults, reserved specially for B, drove her buggy.

  “What’s the matter, don’t you like the song?” B said, pretending to sound innocent. “I thought everyone liked the Black Cats.”

  “Was that ‘Yowl’ you were humming?” Jamal Burns asked. “That’s their newest song.”

  “I bet that’ll be the first song they play on Saturday,” Kim Silsby said. “I’m so jealous that you get to go, B. You’ll have to tell us everything about the concert.”

  B grinned. “I’m only going because George is the best friend ever.” He’d won the tickets by coming in first in their English class’s spelling bee and shared one of his tickets with B. “I can’t wait until Saturday night.”

  “You’re not the only one with tickets, Cockroach,” Jason scoffed. “My parents bought me a seat in the second row. Betcha don’t know how much that cost!”

  “Who cares what it cost? Quit showing off, Jason,” Kim said and turned back to B. “Don’t you and George have front-row tickets?”

  “Yes,” B said, almost unable to contain her excitement. Her smile stretched so big her face almost hurt.

  “Front row!” Jamal interjected. “Man, you’re so lucky. You’ll get to see the color of their eyes. Maybe even what they had for dinner.”

  “Ew, gross!” B laughed. She couldn’t wait until Saturday to see her favorite band and her first real rock concert. It was like Christmas, Easter, the Fourth of July, Halloween, and her birthday all rolled into one.

  “Students,” Miss Willow interrupted. “Please! No chitter-chatter. Everyone back to their work.”

  B’s classmates slipped behind their easels. B carefully painted another whisker, and then another, peering at the photograph between strokes to get each one perfect.

  She was on her second-to-last one when Miss Willow’s voice made her jump, causing B to drag her brush across Nightshade’s face and smear one of his amber-colored eyes.

  “Everyone,” her art teacher said in an extra-cheery voice, “I have an announcement to make.”

  B groaned. Her painting was ruined! Here was where a little spot of magic would come in handy. Checking quickly to see that no one was looking at her easel, B whispered, “E-R-A-S-E.” The black smudge disappeared, as B had known it would — but so did all the whiskers she’d added that morning. B sighed. It was typical of B’s special brand of magic. When she spelled words, things happened, but not always the things she had in mind.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t paint all over yourselves, Dustin and Jake! Now, class,” Miss Willow said in that same extrasweet voice, “I want you all to meet a new student in our school, just joining us today. Her name is Katrina Lang.”

  B forgot her ruined painting and peered around her easel once more. There, next to Miss Willow’s cluttered desk, stood a shy-looking girl in a dark skirt and a cream-colored sweater, very trim and proper except for her dark hair, which was pulled back into a messy bun. She wore thick-rimmed glasses that pointed upward at the corners — cat’s eyes, B’s mother had called them once at a costume shop. The kind of glasses people wore when B’s mom was young. She had a green-and-pink plaid backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks original, like a one-of-a-kind painting in a museum, B thought.

  “I hope you’ll all make Katrina feel welcome here in our school,” Miss Willow continued.

  “What a nerd!” Jason whispered to Jenny Springbranch, who tittered softly. Katrina looked up briefly from staring at her shoes, her jaw set in a hard line. It was only for a split second, but B felt sure the new girl had heard what Jason said, even from all the way across the room.

  Miss Willow steered Katrina toward the corner where B was working, and clipped a fresh piece of paper to the empty easel beside B. “Beatrix, will you show Katrina where the paints are kept, and help her find the supplies she needs? Katrina, we’re painting animal portraits today.” Miss Willow headed back to her desk, praising students’ artwork as she went.

  “Her name may be Kat-trina,” Jason whispered loudly to Jenny, “but she looks more like a mouse to me. Hey, Kat-trina!” His freckle-plastered face broke into a nasty grin. “Why doncha paint a mouse self-portrait?”

  Katrina’s jaw set in a hard line once more. B steered her toward the back counter where the paints were kept. “Just ignore him,” B said. “That’s Jason Jameson. He’s like that to almost everyone. Don’t worry, though. Most people here are nice.”

  Katrina studied B’s face for a minute, her dark green eyes wary and doubtful.

  “Here, let’s fill your paint tray,” B said. “What animal are you going to paint?”

  “A panther,” Katrina said without hesitation.

  “Excellent!” B said. “Here’s the bottle of black.”

  Katrina filled her tray with black paint, a little white, and a splash of yellow, while B got her a supply of brushes, an apron, and a cup of water.

  “Thanks, Beatrix,” Katrina said, this time with a warm smile.

  “Not a problem. Call me ‘B.’ ”

  “Okay.” Katrina grinned. “Call me ‘Trina.’ ”

  “Trina. I like that.”

  “For that matter,” Trina added, “call me anything but late for dinner.”

  B laughed. Wow, she’s a different person when she’s relaxed.

  They returned to their workstations. Jason Jameson grabbed bottles of green and orange paint, squirted way too much of it into the tray on his easel, and bumped into B’s easel accidentally-on-purpose after returning the bottles to the back counter.

  “Out of my way, Stinkbug!”

  B steadied her wobbling easel. “Watch where you’re going!”

  Jason snickered and dipped his brush in the orange paint. “Stinkbug!” he repeated to himself as if he was proud of his joke.

  B fumed. She stared at Jason’s paints. “S-P-I-
L-L,” she whispered under her breath.

  Jason’s easel pitched toward him. His paint tray flipped upside down, landing on his jeans before clattering to the floor.

  Seeing Jason Jameson get what he deserves, B thought. Now, that’s a work of art!

  “Class, class!” Miss Willow cried over the chorus of laughter. “Back to your work, please!” She ran for the paper-towel dispenser.

  Jason stared at the spatters of green, orange, red, and white paint that plastered his jeans so thickly you could barely see the blue cloth.

  “You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Kim said. “You know, the abstract spattery stuff?”

  “Very funny,” Jason snapped. He scrubbed at the paint with a paper towel, but that only smeared the splatters into a horrible mess.

  “Run along to the washroom and get yourself cleaned up,” Miss Willow said, handing Jason more towels and a hall pass. “You can go to the nurse’s for a change of clothes.”

  B bit her lip and stared closely at her painting. Oh, she shouldn’t have done that, she knew. But it had been worth it. She glanced sideways at Trina. The new girl seemed to be working hard not to laugh. B gave her a wink, and Trina nearly lost the battle.

  With Jason gone, the atmosphere lifted. B decided to tackle Nightshade’s whiskers again.

  “I’m painting my cat, Nightshade,” B told Trina in a low voice. “He’s kind of like a miniature panther. I love black cats, and I especially love the Black Cats! Do you?”

  Trina pursed her lips. “Umm … huh?”

  B stopped in midstroke. “You know! The Black Cats? The band?”

  Trina studied her shoes. “Never heard of them.”

  “Never heard of …” B checked her astonishment. She didn’t want to embarrass her new friend. “Well, then,” she said, “you’re in for a treat. They’re fantastic. My best friend, George, won two tickets to their concert Saturday, and he’s taking me. I’m their biggest fan.”

  Trina, who had thus far painted only one black stroke on her sheet of paper, rinsed her brush rapidly in the cup of water B’d gotten her.

  “What’s the matter?” B asked.

  “Can I get another sheet of paper?” Trina said. “I … I changed my mind. I don’t want to do a panther. I think I’ll do a penguin instead.”

  B shrugged. “Okay.” She got Trina a fresh sheet, then tackled Nightshade’s whiskers once more. They came out even better the second time. She was just finishing the last one when the bell rang.

  “What’s your next class?” B said, turning to Trina’s easel. But her new classmate was already gone. B caught sight of her plaid backpack disappearing out the art room door. Too bad — B had planned to show her around the building a bit, maybe compare schedules. Even though Trina was definitely shy, B felt sure she was going to like this new girl.

  There was no sign of Trina in second period, but in the hall on the way to English, B spotted Trina just as George came around a corner.

  “Hey, Trina, meet George,” B said. “He’s the friend I was telling you about, remember? The concert tickets?”

  Trina blinked, then nodded. She held out a hand for George to shake. So old-fashioned! But George took Trina’s hand and shook it without any fuss.

  “George, this is Trina Lang. She’s new. We had art together.”

  George nodded. “Hey, Trina. Nice to meet you. What class do you have next?”

  Trina consulted an index card. “Umm … English. Bishop. Room two-two-seven.”

  “That’s where we’re headed,” B said. “C’mon. Mr. Bishop’s great. You’ll like him.”

  “Yeah, he can do magic,” George said.

  Trina paused. “Huh?”

  B suppressed a smile. George was far more right than he knew! “He means,” she told Trina, “that Mr. Bishop’s great at doing magic tricks. You know, pull the rabbit out of the hat? That sort of thing.”

  “Oh.” Trina headed down the hall, reading the numbers on each classroom door.

  Mr. Bishop was more than just a great, if eccentric, English teacher. He held important duties at the Magical Rhyming Society, or M.R.S., where witches studied and practiced casting spells using rhymes. And he was B’s magic tutor, assigned to help her figure out how her unusual brand of word-spelling magic worked, and, perhaps more important, how it didn’t.

  But Trina didn’t need to know about any of that. If she ever found out … B shuddered. Trina couldn’t know. No one was supposed to know that she and Mr. Bishop were witches — except George, who had accidentally discovered B’s secret, and that couldn’t happen again.

  “Want some chocolate, Trina?” George said, holding out a bag of Enchanted Chocolate Peanut Butter Pillows.

  “George never leaves home without chocolate,” B observed as Trina helped herself to a handful. “That’s why I keep him around.”

  “Enchanted Chocolate! That’s my favorite kind,” Trina said.

  “Me, too.” B didn’t bother mentioning that her father worked for Enchanted Chocolates Worldwide. Some kids were jealous of B for that very reason — but it wasn’t as if he brought home bags of chocolate every night. Once a week, maybe. What none of the other kids knew was that Enchanted Chocolates was a company run by witches.

  They reached Mr. Bishop’s classroom. Trina wiped chocolate from the corner of her mouth. B noticed George peering at Trina curiously.

  “What’s up, George?”

  George’s answer was directed at Trina, not B. “I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  Trina gulped down a big chocolate mouthful and shook her head. “Doubt it,” she said. “I just moved here from practically across the country.”

  The bell rang, and the students took their seats. As usual, Mr. Bishop was late to arrive. Trina slipped into the only empty seat left, against the wall near the sawdust-filled cage where Mozart, the class pet hamster, snoozed.

  “Hey, look, everybody, Kat-trina the mouse is sitting next to the hamster,” Jason Jameson said. “Rodent to rodent, how cozy.”

  “Knock it off, Jason,” Jamal Burns said.

  “Good morning, good morning, good morning,” Mr. Bishop said, breezing through the doorway, dressed from head to toe in black, with a chain of Navajo turquoise beads at his throat. He twirled the tip of his dark beard between his thumb and fingertip, and clapped his hands. “Ah! She’s here. You must be Katrina, yes? Our new student?”

  Trina blinked and shrank back in her chair, but nodded.

  “Stand up, stand up!” Mr. Bishop said, heading for her desk. “Tell us all about yourself.”

  B hunched down in her seat, embarrassed on Trina’s behalf. She knew how much she hated being thrust into the spotlight like that, by teachers trying to be friendly. Poor Trina. She must have stage fright, too.

  Trina stood up. Her fingers entwined behind her back, and she twisted awkwardly. “There’s not much to tell.”

  “There’s something special about everyone. Tell us one special thing about you.” Mr. Bishop beamed at her expectantly.

  “Honestly, there isn’t,” Trina said, her face flushing pink. She stared at the top of her desk. “I’m just an everyday student.”

  Mr. Bishop took a step back, hesitated, then turned toward the chalkboard. “Well, Katrina, we’re delighted to have you here,” he said. “Everyday students are welcome in my class every day.”

  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.
r />   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?”

  Chapter 2

  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.”