The Trouble with Secrets Read online

  “Hm,” he said. “Hic! I’m not hic! laughing. Hic! I seem to be hic! — uping.”

  “Oops,” B said.

  She waited, embarrassed, for the hiccuping to stop. At last it died down.

  “Fortunately, I didn’t drink much.” Mr. Bishop wiped his mouth on his sleeve and he said:

  “Recycle the magic, rekindle the spell.

  Polish the pot and perform the charm well.”

  B’s cauldron emptied as little whirring objects leaped out of the cauldron and hopped back into an open drawer. B could barely see what they were, except she knew they were unfamiliar. “Hey, those weren’t the things I put in,” she said. “What happened?”

  “I drank some of it,” Mr. Bishop said, “which changed the individual components. Now, try it again. You had the right idea with your ingredients but I think you lacked a little focus.”

  B tried again, this time with other ingredients: a tiny plastic rabbit, a ripe strawberry, a bit of paper folded into an origami swan, a quarter minted the year she was born, which, naturally, made it lucky. She spelled “laughter” again and tried to concentrate. Mr. Bishop took a sip.

  “Iiiiiiii’m not feeling funny,’ Mr. Bishop warbled in a lovely bass singing voice. “Iiiiiii just feel like singing! Sing, sing, sing, sing, singing my cares awaaaaaaayyyy …”

  All the other witches in the laboratory turned to watch. B desperately wanted to duck down below the counters and wait till the tiny smidge of potion Mr. Bishop drank wore off.

  At last Mr. Bishop’s mouth clamped shut. He loosened his collar, blushing even brighter than B. “Whew!” he said. “That was a first.”

  “You could teach music,” B said, “but maybe I should test my own potions. C-L-E-A-N,” she told the cauldron, then to her teacher she added, “It would save you the risk.”

  “As your teacher, I need to test them to see if they work, or I won’t know how to help you fix them,” Mr. Bishop said. “But listen, B, this is important. Don’t make any potions at home and give them to anyone. Not until I’ve signed off on them, okay?”

  “Sure,” B said. She couldn’t imagine a reason why she would. “My potions wouldn’t even polish the furniture.”

  “Nonsense,” her teacher said. “You’re off to a great start. Your potions are doing something — just not the something you want, yet. Be patient. Some witches just plain can’t do potions at all, did you know that? Now, let’s have one more try with the laughter potion. Maybe change the word you spell a bit.”

  B sighed and searched yet again for ingredients. She found an empty soda can, which reminded her of a hilarious moment in a movie. She found a bit of cord, which made her think of microphones and stand-up comedians. And she found a dog collar, which reminded her of George’s dog, Butterbrains, who was always “playing dead,” sticking his long shaggy legs up in the air. “L-A-U-G-H,” she spelled, half giggling as she said it.

  Mr. Bishop took a taste, and immediately started chuckling. “You’ve got it! Ha-ha!”

  “I think I get it,” B said. “Or I’m beginning to. It’s not enough just to think about laughter. I have to really get myself in the right frame of mind. So in this case, I had to get myself laughing!”

  “You’re on the right track. Hee-hee! Pour the rest into a bottle, and stopper it. A good laughing potion is always valuable.” B did as her teacher said. “This potion earns the Bishop Seal of Approval. Congratulations on an excellent first lesson. Now, let’s go back to school.”

  Chapter 6

  As soon as Mr. Bishop deposited B back in the English classroom, she sprinted out of the school and down the street toward the park. Her watch told her she only had five minutes to reach George at the park. Speedy feet sure would come in handy now, B thought. But she knew better than to try it. She used her Crystal Ballphone — a recent gift from her parents in honor of her finding her magic — to make a quick call home, letting Mom know about her plans to go to the fair, and her first-ever potion at her first-ever magic lesson. Mom was proud, as B knew she would be.

  All in all, she was only three minutes late when she found her friend alone on the swing set, swinging so high it looked like he’d flip over the top. Behind him, flags and banners from the huge white grandstand tent of Merlin’s Spectacular Fair flapped in the breeze. George scuffed his feet in the dirt to slow down.

  From behind them, calliope music blared. George and B turned just as a unicyclist burst out from the entryway. A juggler and a fire-eater stood on either side of the colorful arch, demonstrating their skills, and a hawker shouted a welcome at passersby.

  George and B looked at each other. “What are we waiting for?” George asked. “Roller coaster, here we come!”

  They bought their entrance tickets and hurried through the turnstile.

  “Cotton candy!” George ran to a vendor and came back with a big blue blossom of spun sugar. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” B said. “I want a candy apple. Then I want to find Enchantress Le Fay!”

  “Huh?” George seemed to be having trouble unsticking his bottom jaw from his top because of the cotton candy. “Whynf … oomp …” He swallowed. “Why d’you want to see her?”

  B hated that she couldn’t explain the real reason for her curiosity. She dodged the question with a question. “Aren’t you curious about her, and those, um, crazy potions of hers and stuff?”

  “Nah. I want to see the trapeze artists. And hit the rides.”

  B glanced at a big poster that showed the schedule of all the fair shows. “The trapeze show doesn’t start for half an hour. And the rides will be more fun when it gets darker. Don’t you want to see what Jason’s so excited about?”

  George tossed his stick in the garbage. “Okay,” he said. “But then it’s go-cart time!”

  “Deal.” They set off to look for Enchantress Le Fay.

  “Step right up, step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for a sight you won’t see every day!” A barrel-chested man with a red tuxedo and a black handlebar mustache stood outside a large booth surrounded by black and purple drapes, shouting in a megaphone. “From the far reaches of time, from the dark forests of Olde England, comes a living descendant of Morgan Le Fay, the sorceress who bedazzled King Arthur’s court! Need a love potion? A cure for baldness? Searching for the elixir of life? Look no further! Enchantress Le Fay waits to help you!”

  Several people passing by stopped, and soon a good crowd was gathered.

  Then, the mustache man pulled a rope, which separated the two halves of a frayed and faded curtain, patched in parts. Plumes of gassy green vapor billowed forth, making B’s nose itch. When the mist cleared, the first thing she saw was …

  “Jason Jameson!” George wrinkled his nose.

  Sure enough, standing next to the enormous cauldron, with a huge smug smile on his freckly face, was their classmate from English.

  Jason caught sight of George and B in the audience and made a big show of pinching his nose like they were skunks. He only stopped when Enchantress Le Fay made her grand entrance onto the little stage.

  She was tall, with thick, frizzy black hair streaked with white at the temples. But she didn’t look old. Her skin was smooth, and plastered with makeup. She wore a tight black dress that buttoned in front with hundreds of tiny black buttons, but hung in torn strips around her knees, showing her tall, black pointy-toed boots. Around her neck were dozens of chains bearing heavy brass charms, or leather pouches of something or other. The tip of her witch’s hat bent downward in the back, but Enchantress Le Fay stood stiff and straight, her eyes closed, her chin thrust high in the air as though she were sniffing the wind like a hunting hound.

  “Gather ’round, gather ’round, ladies and gents,” Jason called out in a failed imitation of the mustache man. “I, Jason the Magical Prodigy Apprentice, announce …” Enchantress Le Fay elbowed him, scowling. Jason gulped. “Er, the show’s about to begin.”

  The crowd surged forward, sweeping B and George along with it.r />
  They waited.

  Enchantress Le Fay breathed.

  And then she screeched. “I … SENSE … SUFFERING!”

  Everyone jumped. She had a gravelly kind of voice, sort of like Dawn’s sounded the morning after a softball tournament, when she’d been cheering for twelve hours straight.

  Now the so-called witch’s eyes were open wide — wild and frantic. She jerked her head this way and that, pointing randomly to different people in the audience.

  “You!” she said at last, pointing to a heavyset man in the back of the audience. “Do you still grieve at the death of a parent?”

  The big man’s jowls quivered. “H-how,” he sniffed, then burst into loud sobs. “How did you know about M-Mother?”

  People in the audience gasped. Enchantress Le Fay took a small bow. She pulled a little bottle from the sleeve of her dress. “Apprentice,” she ordered Jason, “take this to our suffering friend. For fifteen dollars, my sadness remedy will heal his broken heart.”

  The man counted out the bills, downed the contents of the bottle, and left beaming and blowing kisses of gratitude to Enchantress Le Fay.

  “For crying out loud,” George said to B. “What a phony! I saw that guy counting change in the ticket booth a few minutes ago.”

  B stifled a laugh. Enchantress Le Fay shot an angry glance at George, then cleared her throat. “Apprentice,” she said, “fetch me my case!”

  Jason disappeared behind the curtain, then returned dragging a large, dingy suitcase. He pulled a lever, and telescoping legs popped out from each corner. After some fumbling with the latch, he opened the case, revealing a traveling pharmacy full of vials of liquid, all in tiny corked green bottles.

  Enchantress Le Fay gestured across the surface of the suitcase with a sweeping motion, trailing the loose fabric of her sleeves. “My friends,” she cried, “how much need I sense among you! Painful joints and lonely hearts! Aching teeth and boring jobs! Naughty children and bad grades! Oh, oh, the suffering!” She pulled a red silk handkerchief from the bosom of her dress, and dabbed at her eyes. “Here in my stores you’ll find the fruits of a lifetime of study and toil! And I offer it all to you, starting at only five dollars a bottle. But that’s not all! At Friday’s Grand Spectacular Show, on the last day of the fair, I shall demonstrate cures and remedies so astonishing, they’ll curl the hair on your toes. Come one, come all! Bring your ailing aunts and uncles! But don’t wait until Friday. Step up now to relieve your suffering.”

  Enchantress Le Fay gave Jason a sharp nod. He looked confused for a moment, then began calling, “Step right up! That’s it, step right up, ladies and gentlemen, form a line, don’t all try to be the first to sample Enchantress Le Fay’s magical cures!”

  B shook her head in disbelief. This was what people thought of as a witch? This … this tacky show-off? She tried to picture her mother, who was both an excellent cook and potions mistress, dressing up in those phony rags and strutting around like Enchantress Le Fay. The idea was preposterous.

  “What’s funny?” George said, nudging B.

  “Oh, nothing,” B said. “Want to get in line and have a peek at the potions?”

  George grunted. “No point. I can’t believe all these other people are lining up. There’s no such thing as witches!”

  A little hush fell over the people lined up in front of the cauldron. It seemed as if everyone looked first at George, then at Enchantress Le Fay, to see what she would do.

  She scanned the crowd, then thrust both hands out wide so that her long, spooky sleeves flapped like bat wings. “There are always those who doubt or deny my power,” she said in her screechy voice. “Young man, I was peering into the secrets of eternity before you wore your first diaper.”

  George shrugged. “Maybe you should have worn glasses.”

  All the eyes moved back to George. It was as if a tennis match had sprung up between B’s best friend and the wannabe witch.

  Enchantress Le Fay pointed a long-nailed finger at George. B couldn’t help noticing that the witch’s nails were painted green, with black bats on each nail.

  “I am not in a mood to be vexed by unbelievers,” Enchantress Le Fay said. “You don’t believe witches exist?” She cackled with TV-witchy laughter. “I’ll prove it to you.”

  Chapter 7

  Enchantress Le Fay whipped her hat off her head, and held it up for all the audience to see that it was empty. She pulled a wand out of her sleeve and tapped the upturned brim of the hat. “Hoobedy doobedy fizzledy-hop!” she cried, then pulled a white rabbit out of her hat.

  There were oohs and aahs from the crowd as Enchantress Le Fay held up the squirming bunny for all to see, but George wasn’t impressed. “Any magician could do that with a trick hat,” he said. “Easy peasy.”

  “Hmph,” Enchantress Le Fay snorted. She handed the rabbit to Jason and shooed him away. With a long paddle, she stirred whatever was in her great black cauldron. Wafts of vapor emerged, which she waved through the air with strange hand motions. “Tell me, Cauldron,” she cried, “is there anyone here, besides me, who possesses a witch’s skill and talent? Boil once for yes, and twice for no!”

  Her cauldron bubbled up, releasing more jets of vapor, not once, but twice.

  “I thought not,” Enchantress Le Fay said smugly.

  A lot you know, B thought, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “There’s probably a button she’s stepping on,” George said. “C’mon, B, let’s go ride the rides.”

  But Enchantress Le Fay wasn’t done with George yet. “You,” the fake witch said. “Boy with Glasses. You’re not afraid of my powers, are you?”

  George pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “As if! You’re about as scary as a stomachache.”

  The would-be witch pulled two large bottles from a table behind her. She poured amber liquid from the first bottle into an old-fashioned goblet, muttering “dragon’s tears… .” She shook some powder from a pouch around her neck and swirled it into the cup. “Serpent’s teeth …” Then she uncorked the second bottle, and with trembling fingers, prepared to pour some of it into the cup. “Morning dew.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, should I do it? Is it too cruel? No! He needs to be taught a lesson!” Her eyes flew open. “Stand back, everyone!” she cried. “This potion” — she glared at George — “curses the unbelievers who deny my power. Beware!”

  George laughed aloud.

  Enchantress Le Fay poured the other bottle into the cup. It bubbled and frothed instantly, pouring over the mouth of the cup in foaming blobs.

  “Just as I feared,” she hissed. She pointed a green-tipped finger at George. “This curse will remain in force upon you, until the day you crawl back to me, declaring my powers are real and begging me to reveal my secrets to you!”

  She threw the contents of the foaming goblet into her cauldron. There was another burst of stifling green smoke.

  A handful of people clapped. The smoke cleared, and Enchantress Le Fay’s triumphant face appeared.

  What a phony, B thought. A mean, annoying phony.

  But George only laughed. “Vinegar, detergent powder, and soda water,” he said. “Anybody can do that trick.”

  “C’mon, George,” B said. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yeah,” George said, following B toward the rides. “I’ll bet you’ve seen enough this afternoon to know for sure that witches aren’t real, right?”

  Um … B forced a laugh. George would never know just how much proof she had that witches were real! Time to move the conversation to safer ground. “Look!” she said, hurrying away from the tent. “There’s not much of a line by the go-carts.”

  They paid for their tickets and went roaring around the track, kicking up clouds of dust thicker than Enchantress Le Fay’s smoke screens. But when George’s go-cart was halfway around the track, it stopped, and B bumped into him. George tried and tried to restart the car, but it didn’t respond. Cars piled up behind them, and people ho
llered out to see what was wrong.

  A fair worker with “Snowball” tattooed in big letters on one arm came over to investigate. He ordered George to climb out of the cart and then moved it off the track. He pulled B’s car off, too, as she joined George.

  “Well, look who’s here,” a voice said. “Bee Sting and her sidekick, Georgie-Porgie.”

  It was Jason Jameson, leaning over the fence to jeer at them, a candy straw dangling between his teeth.

  George ignored Jason. But when a group of teenagers who’d been stuck in the traffic jam zoomed by and yelled, “Hey, little kid! Learn to drive!” and Jason started laughing, B could see George’s patience start unraveling.

  “I know how to drive it,” George said, kicking a tuft of grass. “The stupid car stalled.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re cursed,” Jason said. “Enchantress Le Fay got you good.”

  “Don’t you have a plastic cauldron to scrub, apprentice?” B said.

  “Yeah,” George said. “Go refill her bottles of vinegar and soda. Potion, my eye. That’s the oldest chemistry trick in the book.”

  “So what if it is?” Jason said. “When a real witch does it, it still makes a curse. And you’re the one that’s cursed.”

  Chapter 8

  The next day, George wasn’t on the bus. B watched for him all morning, but when she arrived in Mr. Bishop’s room for English class, there was still no sign of George. B fed Mozart a baggie full of celery sticks, and laughed as the hamster snarfed them like a kid eating Halloween candy. But all the while she wondered, where could her friend be?

  Mr. Bishop started reviewing last night’s homework, and a few minutes later, George burst in. His “La Zebra Italiana” jersey was inside out, and his hair, which was always a bit of a shaggy blond mop, was practically standing upright. He ran into the room just as Mr. Bishop was collecting the preposition packets.