The Spell Bind Read online

  Sunny asks Martin, “Didn’t your mom say you don’t have time for a club?”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. This is going to be maar! That’s Elvish for great and excellent!”

  Just when I thought Martin couldn’t get any more unusual, he starts talking Elf! No wonder people think he’s a little strange.

  “What’s the club about?” Paige asks.

  “We’re going to build a real, working, low-cost jetpack! I’ve got the plans all drawn up—I just need six club members with leaf blowers,” Martin explains. “And by the end of the month, we’ll be flying!”

  Sunny picks up the clipboard with the sign-up sheet. “How many people do you have so far?”

  “Well, no one. That’s why I’m doing this demonstration.” Martin picks up a bullhorn and turns it on, sending out an ear-shattering screech of feedback. Kids all around us look at him and cover their ears. “Everybody! Prepare to be amazed!”

  He holds the G.I. Joe figure in the air. “By the end of the month, my goal is to make a working, full-size version of this!” The kids watch, curious, as he pushes a button on G.I. Joe’s backpack.

  But Joe doesn’t fly—he just makes a really, really, really loud farting noise: POOOT!

  Every kid in the parking lot laughs. I do, too. I can’t help myself—farts are funny. But when Martin turns bright red and looks miserable, I feel guilty.

  When the laughter finally dies down (it takes a long time), Sunny tells Martin, “It almost worked. And nobody thought you made the sound.”

  At the edge of the parking lot, Makayla peers into her cell phone camera and says, loudly, “This is Makayla Brandice, your eyes and ears of the school. And that was a demonstration of a so-called jetpack.”

  The phone of almost every kid in the parking lot—including mine—buzzes with a school webcast alert. I look at it and see that Makayla has uploaded a video with the heading “Fartin’ Martin.” It already has over two hundred clicks, and the numbers are going up every second.

  Martin looks away from his own phone, straightens his shoulders, and says, “Onward! Every great invention has a few bumps along the way.” He turns to me, Sunny, and Paige hopefully. “You guys are signing up, right? The club meets Thursdays.”

  Sunny, Paige, and I all look at each other. We like Martin, but that’s when Craft-N-Crunch meets. Future flying just can’t compete with jewelry and Rice Krispies.

  “We can’t,” I say. “We already signed up with Mrs. Fleecy.”

  Sunny tells him, “But don’t worry! A lot of kids are going to think your club is really great. You won’t even miss us.”

  Then there’s another fart from G.I. Joe.

  Madison sticks Mom’s cell phone into my face: “POOOT!” She giggles hysterically.

  Mom and Dad stand at the Hungry Moose’s prep table, scooping the middles out of dozens of little, round loaves. “Madison! Cut the farts!” Mom yells.

  Dad laughs, but he stops when Mom gives him a look. “Madison. Turn off the phone.”

  “But it’s sooooooo funny!”

  I peer down at the screen and see that the Fartin’ Martin video now has over four thousand views. He’s never going to live this down.

  Trying to change the subject, I ask Mom and Dad about the scooped-out loaves.

  “They’re bread bowls for the chili,” Dad says.

  “And you know what chili makes you do!” Madison squeals as she hits play on the video. The sound of farting fills the kitchen.

  “Madison, I mean it!” Mom says. “No more farting!”

  Dad and I can’t help it: we laugh.

  After a moment, Mom laughs, too. “It might not have been the best day to serve beans.”

  When I get home, I’m greeted by a big KEEP OUT sign on my closed bedroom door. It’s in my handwriting, which is odd because I didn’t write it. And the door is locked, which is also odd because my door doesn’t lock.

  I knock. “Katarina? Let me in!”

  “What’s the magic word?” Katarina trills from inside.

  I can’t believe I have to ask permission to get into my own room. “Please let me in.”

  There’s a faint click and the door swings open. I go into my room, not knowing what to expect. I certainly don’t expect this.…

  My small, cozy room—the one where everything is arranged just the way I like it—has been transformed into a gigantic palace bedroom. The walls are covered with tapestries and gold paint. (Knowing Katarina, it’s probably real gold.) Glittering crystal chandeliers, lit by flickering candles, hang from the ceiling. And the bed is bigger than any bed I’ve ever seen.

  Katarina, looking tiny, lounges on a silk pillow, reading an equally tiny copy of French Vogue. “Hello, Lacey. I’ve done a little redecorating. Isn’t it lovely?”

  “Lovely? Where’s my stuff? Where’s my computer? Where are my clothes?”

  “Stop whining. They’ll be back at midnight. This is the first time I’ve had a permanent home, and I want to be comfortable.”

  “My room was comfortable!”

  Katarina rolls her eyes.

  I think about what she just said. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, it’s the first time you’ve had a permanent home? Don’t you have a little house or an apartment someplace? Or a fairy condo?”

  Katarina shakes her head. “I’m always on assignment. If I do get a few days off, I stay at the Ritz in Paris.”

  “You rent a room?”

  “No, I stay in a flower arrangement in the Coco Chanel Suite. It’s heavenly! I used to stay in an orchid plant in the Elton John Suite, but there were too many parties.”

  I’ve never thought about what Katarina’s life is like when she’s not with me. “So you’ve never had a home? Or a family?”

  “Homes! Families! Stop asking me so many questions!” She waves her hand at my redecorated room. “You’re a fairy godmother now. This is a room suitable for a fairy godmother.”

  I try to look on the bright side. “At least you made me a nice bed,” I say.

  “Oh, this isn’t your bed. This is my bed.” Katarina points to a hard little cot in the corner of the room. “That’s your bed.”

  I’m mad again. “I’m not sleeping there, not even just till midnight! It’s not fair!”

  Katarina smirks. “You mean it’s like sleeping in a little, uncomfortable jewelry box?”

  Oh. I sort of get that—but why does she need to be so rude? I close my eyes and count to ten, the way Mom does. Actually, I’m so mad that I count to fifteen. Finally I tell Katarina, “I’ll work on getting you a better bed. One that doesn’t disappear at midnight.”

  Katarina keeps on smirking. “This bed is just fine. Yes, it will disappear at midnight, but you can magic me up another one when you get up at 12:01 to do your anti-cat spell.”

  “That’s all I need. More homework.”

  “Speaking of homework…where is your book report on Renaissance godmothering?”

  “Uh.”

  “Just as I suspected! You’re shirking!”

  “I am not! I’m just late with my homework!”

  “That’s shirking!” Katarina flicks her wand, and a thick notebook plops into one of my hands and a pencil into the other. “I want you to write ‘Only jerks shirk their homework’ a hundred times.”

  “Teachers don’t say ‘jerk’!”

  “I do!”

  And then—because I’m tired, and still upset about my room—I say something I probably shouldn’t. “Good teachers don’t say ‘jerk.’”

  Katarina scowls. “I’ll show you a good teacher! Write ‘Only jerks shirk their homework’ a thousand times.”

  I consider writing just the words Only jerks shirk their homework a thousand times and handing the notebook back to her, but Katarina looks angry enough that I decide I’d better not risk it. What if she makes me write it ten thousand times? My hand would fall off.

  Since my desk is gone, I sit on my hard little cot and start to write. I fe
el more like Cinderella than a fairy godmother.

  At midnight, I don’t need my alarm to wake up, because, THUD! I fall from where the hard little cot used to be onto the floor. Still groggy, I see that Katarina’s gigantic palace bedroom has disappeared, and she’s sleeping in the middle of my bed, looking very comfortable.

  All I want to do is go back to sleep, but I stumble over and pull my wand out of my backpack. I raise it—ow! My hand hurts from the blister I got writing only jerks so many times. Then I chant, “This room is more terrible, when Katarina tastes bearable.”

  I toss the spell at Katarina, and pink sparkles land all over her. A moment later, she sits up and growls.

  I know what you’re thinking: I messed up. But you’re completely awake (you are, right?), and I am half asleep. Plus I just whacked my head on the floor. And my hand hurts. You can’t blame me for getting my words mixed up a little.

  Eek! Katarina’s hairy. She’s got claws. Her teeth are long and sharp. She’s a bear. A three-inch-tall bear who wears a dress and has beautiful butterfly wings.

  Actually, she’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. She’s a beary godmother! I awww at her—which makes her growl louder. I stroke her little furry head with my finger. “I know you can’t talk, but it’s going to be all right.”

  “I can talk just fine!” my beary godmother shouts. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again! You are a disgraceful student!” She looks at her little black claws and yells, “And I just did my nails! Now look at them!”

  “I’m sorry! I mixed up the words! It’ll wear off at midnight!”

  “That’s a whole day!” She totters up on her little bear feet and tries to swat at me.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll stay home from school and take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself! I might be a bear, but I still have my magic wand.” She straightens her glasses, which don’t fit very well on her bear nose. She glares at me though them. “Now stop apologizing and make me some porridge.”

  “Can’t you just make it yourself with your magic wand?”

  “MAKE ME SOME PORRIDGE!” she snarls, so fiercely that I back away. Wow, I thought Katarina was cranky before. But Katarina-bear is super cranky.

  “We don’t have any porridge. I can make you oatmeal.”

  “Oatmeal is porridge, you nitwit,” she snaps. “Make me some, now!”

  I guess she’s as hungry as a bear.

  And that’s why Dad finds me in the kitchen making oatmeal in the middle of the night.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  “Midnight snack,” I say.

  Dad smiles. “When I was your age, I used to get up and make scrambled eggs. Nobody in my family was too surprised when I grew up and opened a restaurant. Maybe you’ll be a chef, too.”

  I’d rather be a chef than a fairy godmother. But I don’t have any choice.

  Dad stirs the pot of oatmeal and takes a taste. “What do you say we add a little butter and cinnamon?”

  Hmm. I wonder if bears like cinnamon?

  Bears love cinnamon. Katarina sticks her entire snout into the spoonful of oatmeal I brought her and scoffs it down like she hasn’t eaten all winter.

  Maybe she’ll hibernate.

  “Give me porridge! Give me. Give me. Give me. PORRIDGE.” I wake up and find Katarina-bear hanging on to my earlobe with her little bear paws and ROARING at me. Talk about morning breath—she has bear morning breath!

  I bring her a bowl of oatmeal with a side of breath mints, which for some reason she doesn’t think is funny.

  After school, I’m happy to go to Craft-N-Crunch instead of dealing with Katarina the fairy bear. Including Sunny and Paige, there are nine girls sitting in the art classroom watching Mrs. Fleecy put two heavy plastic tubs down on the table. She smiles at us. “I’m so sorry I’m late! I’m afraid I didn’t make Rice Krispies treats.”

  We all groan. We’re less than a minute into Craft-N-Crunch and it’s already a disappointment. But then Mrs. Fleecy smiles, opens one of the tubs, and pulls out a plastic bag. “Instead, I made chocolate chip Rice Krispies treats!”

  Applause erupts as Mrs. Fleecy delivers on the “crunch” of Craft-N-Crunch. I love this club!

  “It’s a new recipe I’m trying for next month’s school carnival. If I say so myself, they’re scrumptious!” Mrs. Fleecy reaches into the other tub and pulls out boxes of beads and spools of wire. “I thought we’d start with jewelry making. You can never have too much bling.”

  Then I have a great idea. I ask, “Mrs. Fleecy? Do we have to make jewelry?”

  “Goodness, no! These two containers have everything but the kitchen sink in them!”

  Half an hour later, eight girls have made eight sparkly necklaces, and I’ve made one sparkly fairy bed. I’m hoping that when I give it to Katarina, she’ll forgive me for the whole bear thing.

  To make the bed, I started with a tiny cardboard box. I cut it down on three sides to make a headboard, padded the bottom with cotton balls, and covered the cotton with red satin. Finally, I glued beads and glitter to the outside. I think it looks awesome.

  Mrs. Fleecy holds it up for all the girls to see. “Look what Lacey made! An itsy-bitsy bed!” She hands it back to me. “It must be for a special doll.”

  “She’s special, all right.”

  I pack the bed in Bubble Wrap, place it in my backpack, and hope Katarina likes my craftsmanship. It’s a lot better than a jewelry box.

  When Craft-N-Crunch is over, we walk down the hallway and past Room 102, the smelly classroom near the Dumpsters. Inside, Martin is sitting all alone beneath the whiteboard, where he’s drawn a design for a jetpack. At least I think it’s a design for a jetpack. It kind of looks like a stick figure with Twizzlers strapped to his back.

  “Hi, Martin,” Sunny says.

  Martin leaps to his feet excitedly. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to the Future Flyers Club!”

  He reaches into a big shopping bag. “As charter members, you get this great stuff! It’s swag that will put swagger in your step!” Almost before we know what’s happened, we’re holding Future Flyers T-shirts and refrigerator magnets and coffee mugs and baseball caps and bumper stickers and pens that write in four colors.

  “Thanks, Martin, but—” I start to say.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking. ‘How am I ever going to get all this great stuff home?’ Problem solved! Tote bags!” And he hands Sunny, Paige, and me promotional Future Flyers bags.

  “This is so cool,” Sunny says.

  “I’m really happy you guys changed your minds about joining the club,” Martin says. “Have snacks!” He holds up a platter of cheese, crackers, and gummy worms. “I hope you brought your leaf blowers. We have a lot of work to do!”

  Martin looks so happy and hopeful that I feel terrible telling him the truth. “We’re not here for your club. We were just walking by.”

  “Oh,” Martin says. “That’s okay. But keep your promotional gifts, and tell your friends. Not many people signed up for Future Flyers, but I think it’s a publicity problem. I need to get the word out.”

  Paige looks around the empty room. “Didn’t anybody come?”

  “I’m expecting Ura Soser to be here any minute now.”

  “Who’s Ura Soser?” Paige asks.

  “I don’t know, but she was the only one who signed up.” He shows us his clipboard, and I peer at the name, scribbled sloppily in blue ink. Oh, poor Martin. It doesn’t say “Ura Soser” at all. I take the clipboard away and put it on the table, upside down.

  I wink at Paige, “You know Ura. She’s in science class.” Then I wink again—which Martin sees. (I should have stopped with just one.)

  He turns the clipboard around and looks at it again. “Oh. It’s not ‘Ura Soser.’ It’s ‘U R A Loser.’” He smiles a crooked smile. “It’s kind of clever when you think about it.” Martin hears footsteps approaching the door. “Hark! I think I hear a Future
Flyer!”

  But it’s not a Future Flyer. It’s Principal Conehurst. He’s tall, and shiny-bald, and has a beard; it’s like his hair has moved from the top of his head to the bottom of his chin. Principal Conehurst puts a hand on the light switch. “So have you people invented the low-cost jetpack yet?” He says it with a smile that shows he thinks the whole idea is so impossible, it’s cute. I bet if he really thought Martin was inventing a jetpack, he would shut the whole show down for safety reasons. There’s no way a principal would let kids zip around with leaf blower rockets strapped to their backs.

  But Martin doesn’t see that the principal is humoring him. “We’re in the design stage, but I’m sure we’ll have a working prototype in a month or less!”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to taking the first one out for a spin myself,” the principal says, still smiling.

  Martin shakes his head. “You weigh too much!”

  Principal Conehurst flips off the light and waves us toward the door. “Time to shut things down here. Wrap up the club meeting.”

  “Oh, we’re not in the club,” Paige says.

  Principal Conehurst looks surprised. “So who is?”

  Martin raises his hand. “I am.”

  “And who else?”

  “Umm…”

  “Clubs have to have at least five students—it’s a Lincolnite rule,” Principal Conehurst explains. “And the last day for sign-ups is Friday.”

  Martin gulps. “You mean Friday next week?”

  “No, I mean Friday tomorrow. Five students or no club.” He sounds a little grouchy about it. Martin probably shouldn’t have mentioned that he weighed too much.

  But Martin stays confident. “No problem!”

  As we walk out of school together, Paige asks Martin what we’re all thinking. “How, exactly, do you plan on getting five kids in your club by tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.” Martin suddenly turns to me and says, “Tell the truth, Lacey. Why don’t people want to be in my club? I’ve been handing out T-shirts and magnets all day, but no one came to the meeting.”