The Superstar Sister (2 page)

Trina and B exchanged a look. In spite of herself, B started to giggle.

“See? See? I’m making you laugh!” George said. “But these ropes aren’t getting loose.”

“Maybe that’ll be enough for the judges,” Trina said. “You look pretty funny, anyway.”

“Help me get out of this, will you?” George said. “I guess I need to work more on the escape part of the act. Either that, or I need someone to tie me up more loosely.”

B and Trina started tugging at George’s rope.

“We’d better hurry,” Trina said. “The bell’s about to ring.”

Just then, a movement from the opposite side of the gym caught B’s eye. She turned just in time to see somebody duck behind the bleachers against the far wall.

“That dirty rotten sneak,” B muttered to her friends. “He’s spying on us.”

“Who is?” George craned his neck to look.

“You might as well come out of hiding, Jason Jameson,” B yelled across the gym. “We can see you.”

Jason poked his freckled face out, then sauntered across the gym to where they stood.

“What’s this little outfit, George?” Jason said, pointing to the rope. “Wait — let me guess. You’re practicing your act. Are you going for the ‘Biggest Idiot’ award?”

“How could he,” B fired back, “when you already hold the world heavyweight title?”

But Jason only smiled his nasty smile, showing all his braces. He tried to peek behind George’s back, but George twisted and maneuvered to keep the padlock out of sight.

“Are you trying out, Jason?” Trina asked.

“I’m not just trying out,” Jason said. “I’m going to dominate the competition. Nobody else will even
dare
compete after they see my act.”

“Ooh, we’re scared,” B said.

“You should be, Bumblebee,” Jason said. He was always calling B bug names. “After they’ve seen my act, the judges will probably cancel the rest of the auditions.”

The bell rang. Other kids from their gym class
began pouring through the double doors. George scooched back out of sight and worked harder to escape from the rope.

“I pity you, George,” Jason said. “Your act is so lame! The judges are gonna boo you right off the stage.”

George’s voice sounded worried. “He’s right, isn’t he?”

B’s anger at Jason flared higher. “No way,” she said. “Don’t you dare let that rotten Jason make you feel bad about your act. It’s … unique. You go for it. We’re behind you all the way.”

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,

Do you remember

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.

The next day, trucks and vans full of film equipment filled the driveway in front of B’s school. People B had never seen before swarmed the campus, running in and out with lengths of cable, makeup bags, extension cords, and big black boxes of lighting and sound equipment. B had to admit, it was pretty exciting. She found herself hoping for a glimpse of Clifton Davro.

When the bell rang at the end of the day, the competitors auditioning for the talent show lined up outside the auditorium. Kids of all ages from all over the city had come to try out. The line was snaking out the front door of the school. Dawn stood near the front of the line, flexing and stretching her
leg muscles to get ready for her dance. She was all decked out in her dance costume, a pair of black jeans and a matching black T-shirt with “DIVA” in big white letters across the chest, and, capping it all off, giant hoop earrings and a pink hat cocked over a sleek blond ponytail.

“Good luck, Dawn,” B said. “You look great. I love your costume.”

Dawn gave B’s arm a nervous squeeze. “Let’s just hope I can remember all my moves.”

George appeared farther back in the line, jostling a bag full of rope, locks, and other props. Trina showed up with her jacket and backpack, ready to leave. She thumped George on the back for good luck.

“Break a leg, George,” Trina said.

“I just might,” he said, “if I can’t get myself untangled in time. I’ve got bruises all over from falling when I practiced.”

“You’ll be great,” B said. “They’ll love you. I really wish I could come watch your audition.”

George shook his head. “The auditions are closed to the public. Judges and contestants only, this time around. That’s what it says.”

“I’d better get going,” Trina said. “I promised my grandma I’d come straight home and practice for my … for, er, Friday’s thing.” She winked at B. “What are you up to?”

B felt that dread creep into her stomach — the familiar one that appeared whenever the Young Witch Competition was mentioned. “I … I need to practice today, too,” she said. “I guess I’ll stop by and see if Mr. Bishop is still here. Maybe he can give me some more tips.”

With one last wave to Dawn and to George, B headed off to find Mr. Bishop. But when she reached his classroom, it was empty.

She sat in her usual seat near the window. Her gaze fell on a row of paperback novels standing on one of the shelves by the window. She picked up a few and looked at their covers.
The Last of the Mohicans. Gone with the Wind.
Mr. Bishop read
everything.

Then she got an idea. Maybe her storytelling spell needed more guidance. Maybe she should think more about
genre
, or the kind of story she wanted to hear.

“W-E-S-T-E-R-N,” she said.

Something settled on her head. The cactus on the windowsill had transformed into a ten-gallon Stetson cowboy hat!

A storytelling voice filled the room, but this time it had a cowboy drawl. “Howdy, pardner,” it said. “Rassel them dogies up and get ’em out to pasture before the dinner gong.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” B said. “S-T-O-P. I never did like Westerns, and my spell could probably tell.” She took a deep breath. “R-O-M-A-N-C-E.”

To B’s surprise, the cowboy hat floated to her desk and transformed into a cheerleader’s pom-pom. The storytelling voice started, this time in dreamy tones. “Trevor lifted off his football helmet and gazed at Mandy. He had grease marks under his beautiful, deep blue eyes. Even after a grueling
game against the Rudgertown Raiders, he was the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen — and she’d cheered varsity three years straight.

“‘Who’s taking you to the homecoming dance?’ he asked.

“Mandy giggled and said, ‘You are, silly.’”