The Trouble with Secrets Read online

  Mr. Bishop sighed. He stroked the pointy tip of his goatee. “Let’s hear it for prepositions! Your objective is to make noise whenever you hear a preposition. Tonight’s homework will be to circle them in a longer excerpt from the same book. Ready? Here we go.”

  “ ‘Dorothy lived in the midst —’ ” B clanged her cymbals “ ‘— of the great —’ ” she clanged them again, and Mr. Bishop smiled over the top of his book. “That’s right. ‘In’ and ‘of’ are prepositions.” He continued, “ ‘Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry’ ” — the rest of the class was beginning to catch on and starting to sound their instruments, — “ ‘who was a farmer’ ” — a bunch of kids shook their instruments, but Mr. Bishop shook his head and winked at B, who had kept her cymbals silent.” ‘Who’ is not a preposition. Common mistake.” He cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the book again.

  Just then the principal stuck his head into the doorway. “What is this, band practice?” Mr. Bishop hurried to the door to explain and stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. A bunch of kids started goofing around with their instruments.

  Jason was dinging his triangle like he was ringing a fire alarm. “I’m totally gonna win this preposition contest,” he said.

  “It’s not a contest, Jameson,” George said, twisting in his chair to glare at Jason. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, B’s been getting them all first.”

  “Whatever,” Jason replied. “I got a magic potion from Enchantress Le Fay yesterday to make me smarter, with better-looking thrown in at no charge.”

  “Too bad it didn’t work,” George said.

  “Ooooh,” Jenny and a few of her friends said, then laughed.

  “Like you know anything, Georgie-Porgie,” Jason said. “Enchantress Le Fay is a real witch. And you know what? I’m going to be her apprentice, and when I’m a real magician, I’ll make myself a rich-and-famous potion, and you’ll all be sorry.”

  B twiddled her pencil between her fingers. She trusted Mr. Bishop when he said Enchantress Le Fay was a phony — he ought to know. But this whole conversation made her nervous.

  “You serious, Jameson?” George said. “You sound like you think it’s real. You’re nuts if you believe in a fake witch.” He started to laugh. “Everybody knows there’s no such thing as witches.”

  Chapter 4

  B’s pencil slipped from her fingers, rolled off the desk, and clattered to the floor.

  George reached down and picked it up.

  B’s mind was whirling. Well, what had she expected? That George would believe in witches? No, of course not. Then why did his words leave her feeling so uneasy?

  George gave her a grin as he handed her the pencil. For a moment, B wished that she could go back to the good old days, before discovering her magic, when everything was normal between her and George. Could there ever be such a thing as normal between two friends when one of them was secretly a witch?

  After class, George lingered by the door, waiting for B so they could walk together to their lockers before lunch. He picked up an extra copy of the homework packet and handed it to her.

  “Want to go check out the fair after school? I hear they’ve got a decent roller coaster.”

  “Sure!” B said. “And we could stop and see Jason’s new girlfriend, the witch.” B had to see what this “witch” was all about.

  George shook his head, laughing. “He’s crazy. Witches and potions! That’s baby stuff.”

  B smiled, keeping her thoughts about witches and potions to herself. Then she realized — she’d forgotten her magic lesson! Her first one was right after school. Rats!

  “I can’t go right after school,” B said, watching George closely. “I’ve got, um, some tutoring with Mr. Bishop. How about four o’clock?”

  “Tutoring?” George asked. “Since when does Mr. Bishop tutor? I never heard him mention kids staying after.”

  Oh, no. More secrets! “Well, he’s, um, private about it. Doesn’t want anyone to get embarrassed. How about if I meet you at four o’clock in the park?”

  George hesitated. “Okay.”

  After classes ended that day, B returned to Mr. Bishop’s empty room. Empty, that is, except for Mozart, the hamster, who jumped off his wheel and twisted his little body around in happy circles at the sight of B.

  “Hi, Mozart,” B said, going over and lifting the lid off his cage. He squeaked and cheeped at her. She peeked over her shoulder, then whispered into the cage, “S-P-E-A-K!”

  As if a switch had flipped, Mozart’s squeaking turned into talking. “Hiya, missy, what’s the matter, you got too much homework or something? How come you ain’t been stopping by to chat lately, huh? I was starting to think you weren’t my pal anymore.”

  B smiled. “Of course I am.” She reached in a hand, offering it to Mozart, who climbed into her palm. She lifted him out and stroked between his soft shoulder blades with the tip of her pinky finger.

  “Then I got a favor to ask you,” he said. “Friend to friend. Listen, can you put a word in with the boss to get me some variety in my diet? All I ever get is box pellets, box pellets, and water. Blech. Is it so much to ask for a little celery stick now and then? A broccoli bud?” He sighed. “Some spinach?”

  “The boss, eh?” B said. “Is that what you call him?”

  “Yeah, and he’s standing right behind you,” Mozart said.

  “Hi, Mr. Bishop,” she said, without even turning around.

  “Hi, B. C’mon, we have to go. Better turn off Mr. Talkative before he tells the janitor where we’re going.”

  B lowered Mozart into his cage. “Bye, Mozart,” she said. “S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S.” Mozart silently scritch-scratched his way through the cedar chips, back to his exercise wheel.

  “Ready?” Mr. Bishop asked. After B nodded, Mr. Bishop said,

  “Our lesson is short, we have so little time.

  Whisk us to the library of Magical Rhyme!”

  “Good one, Mr. Bishop!” B said. Even though rhyming couplets weren’t how her own magic worked, she was still impressed by the talented rhymers in the witching world.

  Her words were swallowed up by the wind that swept through the classroom, ruffling papers on the bulletin board and setting B’s hair flying. It swirled around Mr. Bishop and B like a magical cyclone, blurring the room. In a blink, B found herself standing in the great round library of the Magical Rhyming Society.

  Stacks of bookshelves stretched upward for what felt like miles, and witches in glittering robes whizzed around on rolling ladders, browsing the shelves. Books and scrolls danced through the air, carried by sparkling magical spells, trailing scents of cinnamon and apples or honeysuckle.

  “Before we get started, B,” Mr. Bishop said, “I want to explain a few things to you. Let’s sit down.” He gestured toward a table. “As you know …”

  Poof! B jumped at the magical appearance of a tall, thin woman in a sea green robe covered in silver magical charms. Her baby blue hair was twisted up into an elegant bun, and her purple spectacles sat crookedly on the tip of her pointy nose.

  “Hi, Madame Mel,” B said, grinning. She found it impossible not to be cheerful around Madame Mellifluous, Grande Mistress of the Magical Rhyming Society and Head Librarian of the Society’s spell collection.

  “Good afternoon, B, Doug,” the Grande Mistress replied. “Lessons beginning, I see? Good. I’m here to give you your orientation. It’s always my job. Though perhaps,” she said, frowning at her crooked spectacles, “I should call it the dis-orientation.” She straightened them. “Ready? Here we go.

  “Three High Dictums of Magical Art

  Which all young witches must know by heart:

  One, keep your magical powers concealed,

  And never to nonmagic mortals revealed.

  Two, magic can’t fashion things from thin air.

  We move and transform what is already there,

  Or conjure illusions to protect, amuse, teach.

  That’s t
he extent of our magical reach.

  Three, no witch may attempt to use magic for ill,

  To harm, steal, swindle, or grow rich without skill.

  Those are the dictums that rule our ability.

  Young witches, use caution and responsibility!”

  Mr. Bishop applauded. “Excellent!” He winked at B. “She makes up a new rhyme every time.”

  “It was nothing,” Madame Mel said, blushing all the same. She glanced at her watch, a huge time-piece with a crystal ball face and flying purple bats that told the hour. “Heavens to Pete! I must fly. I’m late for the Annual Senior Witches Rhyme Off. I’m the judge. Can’t keep a room full of professional rhymers waiting. They’ll have their hair in a snare or their rhymes out of time.” She rested a hand on B’s shoulder. “See you soon, B.”

  She rose from her chair and chanted,

  “Don’t bother with elevators, spare me the broom.

  But scurry me now to the Grand Conference Room!”

  And she was gone.

  B blinked.

  “She is a bit of a whirlwind, isn’t she?” Mr. Bishop said, laughing. “Where was I?”

  “Um, I don’t think you’d gotten very far.”

  “Right. Well, then. Being a witch means you inherit powers that most people could never dream of. But you have to make sure that you just blend in and keep your magic hidden. No one who’s not a witch should ever know about our powers.”

  “Then how can witches be friends with nonwitches,” B asked, “without all the secrets getting in the way?”

  Mr. Bishop’s dark, sparkling eyes gazed thoughtfully at B. “You’re thinking of George, aren’t you?”

  B nodded.

  “I’ve seen the two of you together,” Mr. Bishop said. “Remember this, B. Friendship is a magic stronger than any spell. I have faith in you. You’ll figure it out.”

  B took a deep breath.

  Mr. Bishop rose from the table. “Let’s have a look around, and I’ll show you some of the subjects we’ll be working on over the course of your training. You get to pick what area we work on first.” They started climbing one of the ladders that stretched to the top of the library. “On this floor, we have volumes and volumes on spells.” They climbed to another level. “And this one has potions. These books tend to be full of strange stains, I’m sorry to say. And up here” — they reached another floor — “are charms, and above that, crystal balls. The levels beyond are advanced magic you probably won’t reach until your college years.” He jumped off the ladder, landing lightly, despite his cowboy boots. “Well, B, what’ll it be?”

  B turned to look down into the enormous room filled with books and words and knowledge. This place was amazing. So many choices, and all of them hers to devour! She turned back and looked at the spines of all the magical volumes, inlaid with silver and gold letters and glistening gemstones. She couldn’t wait to read them all. But where to begin?

  “Potions,” she said, surprising herself with her decision. What could be more witchy than potions?

  “Good choice.” Mr. Bishop clapped his hands.

  “Potions, from Latin ‘po-tar-e,’ to drink,

  Will challenge my pupil to learn and to think.”

  The magical cyclone formed again and carried Mr. Bishop and B to a huge laboratory with shelves full of jars and bottles of colorful concoctions lining the walls. At individual workstations, witches were tossing a pinch of this and a fistful of that into shiny copper cauldrons, or frowning over tubes full of bubbling solutions. Every now and then somebody sneezed, or something popped, or someone’s hair turned pink.

  “Welcome to the Magical Rhymatory,” Mr. Bishop said, “where new rhyming remedies are brewed up daily.”

  Chapter 5

  They found an empty workstation. Beneath a gleaming stone countertop were rows of drawers and cupboards, and along the wall were more shelves of colorful bottles and jars.

  B stroked her finger along a row of shiny bottles. “So, are potions essentially recipes? Cup of sugar and teaspoon of salt, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes and no,” Mr. Bishop said. “Recipes are the simplest kinds of potions. We’re going to start in with the potions that really require magic.”

  “Sounds good,” B said, still exploring the shelves. “Mr. Bishop, what is this stuff? It’s not scorpion blood or salamander eyeballs or anything like that, is it?”

  Her teacher laughed. “Once upon a time it was,” he said. “But not now. What you’re looking at is a collection of Slushy-Ice Flavored Syrups that one of my former students made last year. They give you a little energy boost, using magic instead of caffeine. She earned high honors for her mocha butterscotch.” He opened a small freezer door that B hadn’t noticed, scooped out a cupful of shaved ice, poured a shot of syrup over the top, and handed it to B.

  “This is fantastic!” B said, chomping the ice. “It tickles.” She giggled and felt a surge of energy shoot from her head to her big toe.

  “She works at Enchanted Chocolates Worldwide now,” Mr. Bishop said, “inventing all kinds of treats. But here’s the thing: The ingredients in a potion are only a small part of what makes the potion magical. The real power comes from the spell the witch casts as she’s brewing it. And powerful spells are made when the witch’s mind is strongly focused on what she’s doing, and how she wants it to work, and why.”

  B nodded.

  Mr. Bishop pulled up a stool, and gestured for B to do the same. “B, how do you focus your magic in your head? How do you know what your spell will do?”

  “Well,” B said through a big bite of mocha-butterscotch ice, “I’m still trying to figure that out. I guess it’s whatever the last thing was I was thinking of before I spelled a word. If I thought of the water in a pan and spelled ‘boil,’ I’d better make sure I don’t start thinking about anything else, you know? It’s really important not to let my mind wander.”

  “Exactly!” Mr. Bishop said. “Whether you make magic with rhymes or with spelled words, focus is the key.”

  “Then why do we even need potions?” B said. “Wouldn’t spells alone be just as good? If we want someone to be happy we can just perform a spell to make them happy.”

  Mr. Bishop started opening cupboards and taking out equipment. “Sometimes that works,” he said. “But what if you want to make the spell now, and use it later? Or give it to someone else to use at their convenience? Or ship it to Milwaukee for someone there to use?”

  “Ah,” B said as Mr. Bishop put a copper cauldron on the counter. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Potions are portable, potable magic,” Mr. Bishop said. “Know what ‘potable’ means?”

  B frowned. She hated not knowing a word.

  “It means drinkable,” Mr. Bishop said. “It has the same root as ‘potion.’ ”

  “Potare,” B said, remembering his spell. “That’s Latin for ‘to drink,’ right?”

  “Bingo. Though in reality, potions can also work through the skin, or by breathing in their vapors, though not always as well.” He gestured toward the cauldron. “Let’s get started. I want you to try to make a simple laughing potion. These drawers and cupboards are full of ingredients — the fridge, too. Help yourself to anything you see.”

  B wasn’t sure where to start. “I can just pick anything?” B asked. “Isn’t there a book I can look at?”

  Mr. Bishop shook his head. “Just trust your instincts.”

  B tossed her slushy cup in the trash and rubbed her hands together. This could be fun. Looking through the drawers and cupboards, B found rubber bands, matchbox cars, playing cards, bits of fabric and string, rusty nails, twigs, old pennies, marbles, some colored hair bands, old stickers, clothespins, beads, and odds and ends she couldn’t even name.

  “I thought the ingredients would be, um, spices and things,” B said. “Herbs. Oils. Stuff like that. This drawer is full of junk.” Row after row of drawers revealed the same assortment.

  B opened the fridge. “T
here’s nothing here but Swiss cheese, mustard, and pickles!”

  “I was sure there was bread in the cupboard,” Mr. Bishop said, nosing around. “Nothing helps a potion like a cheese and pickle sandwich. Do you like mustard?” He found a bag of bread and set it on the counter.

  B was baffled. “Am I supposed to put a sandwich into my potion?”

  “Certainly not,” he said, pulling two slices of bread from the bag. “You eat the sandwich. Gets your creative juices flowing.” He started spreading the mustard. “C’mon, B, think. A witch rarely has powdered diamonds and dried rosemary when she needs them. But everyone’s got a junk drawer. Part of witchcraft is learning how to make do with what you’ve got. So, find some ingredients that you think suggest laughter, and brew them up.”

  It sounded mumbly-jumbled to B, but who was she to argue? She poked through the drawers and cupboards. She selected a joker card, a frog-shaped pencil eraser, a bubble wand, and a fake feather.

  “Feather?” Mr. Bishop asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “For tickling,” B said. “That always makes me laugh. Oh, wait, one more thing.” She reached into the jar with a fork and pulled out a pickle.

  “Pickles are funny, don’t you think?” B said. “Just saying the word makes me smile.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Mr. Bishop said. “Usually pickles make me hungry.”

  B tossed all her ingredients into the cauldron and stared at them. They sat on the shiny bottom of the pan, doing absolutely nothing, looking like bits of clutter, not like the pieces to a magical puzzle.

  “Well,” her teacher said, “at this point in the process I would usually instruct my students to think up a rhyming spell to bind the potion together and create the liquid. So, let’s see what you can do with word-spelling.”

  As she munched on her sandwich, B wondered what word she should spell. She decided she’d try the obvious one. She tried to focus on the sound of laughter, but it was hard to ignore all her stray thoughts.

  “L-A-U-G-H-T-E-R,” she spelled, but a bit of sandwich almost caught in her throat. She hoped it wouldn’t mess up her potion. Soon, a bubbling sound came from the cauldron. She peered in to see the ingredients melting away like ice cubes, forming a pool of amber-colored liquid. When it was done brewing, Mr. Bishop poured some into a cup, took a deep breath, and drank. A little puff of cloudy vapor rose from the mouth of his cup, then vanished.