The Superstar Sister (6 page)

B and her friends darted out the door and collapsed in a heap behind it, panting. Jason was long gone. B racked her brain to think of how to undo her spell. “N-O-R-M-A-L S-I-Z-E,” she spelled. Nothing happened. “G-R-O-W.” Trina’s hair started to wave and lengthen, until it stretched down to her mouse-size waist!

Mrs. Gillet’s loud voice echoed from within. B knew she didn’t have any time to spare.
Think. Think!
She’d done this once before. But how? She needed to turn them back to their regular selves. Without any mouse parts.

Themselves. She pictured them in her mind. “K-A-T-R-I-N-A,” she spelled. And,
voila!
Trina appeared in her normal size. No mouse ears, no tail.

Mrs. Gillet stuck her nose out the door. “Hi there, young lady,” she said. “You haven’t seen a handful of mice running around, have you?”

“Um, no, definitely not,” Trina said.

“Well, if they’re in my kitchen,” she said, clutching her broom with white knuckles, “I’ll find them!” And she disappeared back inside.

B knew she had better get everyone back to normal right away.

“G-E-O-R-G-E,” she spelled. And
pop!
George sprang back to full size.

B didn’t need much time. “B,” she whispered. Then she felt herself stretch alarmingly tall and, quick as lightning, B was standing there next to her friends.

“Whew,” B said. But she was still no closer to finding out what Jason was up to.

That afternoon at home, B worked on her potion for the Young Witch Competition. It was only a day away, and B knew she had a lot of work left to do before she’d be ready. She decided that her bedroom would be a good place to try something like Dawn’s makeover spell, brewing it as a potion. That was where she had the most beauty ingredients
available, though B didn’t have anywhere near as much stuff as Dawn did — nail polish and earrings and cool shoes and hair clips. But she gathered together what she could find.

First she combined a gold necklace, a hairbrush, a snip of silk ribbon, and a department-store sampler of perfume, and stuffed them into a shiny makeup bag. Then she spelled, “G-L-A-M-O-U-R.” The spell made the ingredients melt together into a shimmery liquid. She took a whiff of the potion and gasped when she saw herself in the mirror. The spell had gone a little too far — her hair was teased out to the max under a wacky hat. She was wearing an oddly cut glittery gold dress and high heels, and her makeup made her look like an alien.

“Holy cats,” B told her reflection. “I look more like a clown than a fashion model.” It was not at all what she had in mind.

Next she combined a pink hair twisty, a sparkly lip gloss, a polka-dot sock, and a smiley-face T-shirt. “S-T-Y-L-E,” she spelled. Her hair formed itself into two pigtails. Her sweatshirt transformed into a
denim jacket, and pink and yellow daisy embroidery appeared all over her jeans. Lace ruffles poked out from under the cuffs of her pants, trimming the edges of her socks.

“Well,” B told Nightshade, her black cat, who rubbed against her ankles, “it’s a cute look, but maybe a little cutesy for what I was picturing for the competition. I’ve got to keep trying.”

She pawed through her trinkets and experimented with different combinations. Finally she combined a dangly earring, a blusher brush, a Black Cats fan pin, and a black mock railroad-worker’s cap. What to spell? Aha. She found the perfect word.

“A-T-T-I-T-U-D-E.” She breathed in a smidgeon of the pink potion. And before you could say, “Black Cats,” B’s clothes transformed once more. She looked like one of Trina’s backup dancers, decked out in camouflage cargo pants, a hot-pink T-shirt, and a leather vest, with purple high-top sneakers, and glittery bangles clinking at each wrist.

“Awesome,” B whispered. She poured the potion from the makeup bag into a little plastic vial, and
slipped it in her purse so she’d remember to put it in her pocket tomorrow. “Potion’s done, anyhow,” she told herself — and Nightshade, in case he was listening.

Just then Dawn stuck her head through the door. She looked like she was about to say something, but at the sight of B’s fashion getup she stopped. “What’s all this?”

B felt sheepish. “Oh, I was just working on a potion for tomorrow’s Young Witch Competition.”

“A makeover potion?” Dawn said. She spied the makeup pouch in B’s hands. “A bag-cauldron concoction? My special trademark? That’s what you’re doing?”

“Well, you made it look so cool, and it was all I could think of,” B said, feeling awful.

“What else are you going to steal from me?” Dawn snapped. “First you sneak into the tryouts and try to cheat and use magic to win. Now you steal my recipe for a makeover potion?”

“Not your recipe,” B said. “Just the general idea. And Dawn, I wasn’t trying to audition …”

“I don’t want to hear any more about it.” She pulled the door shut.

B sighed. She hated having Dawn mad at her. But what could she do if Dawn wouldn’t let her explain?

B practiced her storytelling spell until her mom called her down for dinner. B tried hard to keep plot, character, action, theme, setting, and motivation all clearly in mind each time she cast her spell. She’d gotten to the point where her spell could tell a passably decent fairy tale each time, even if somebody usually got eaten by a troll. But, B figured, fairy tales were sometimes like that. Maybe she really did have a shot at winning the competition.

B went downstairs to the kitchen table to find a skillet full of sizzling onions, peppers, and chicken strips, and a plate of steaming tortillas. Fajita night! Her mother’s Mexican cooking kick clearly hadn’t run its course yet. Everything smelled delicious. Her mom, who never ceased muttering rhyming spells to herself when cooking, spoke some words that made a pan of black beans, and another of Spanish
rice, magically transport themselves onto the table. The family sat down to eat.

“This dinner,” B’s mom said, snatching her magical chopping knife before it could dice the tomatoes too fine, “is an early celebration of Dawn’s talent competition tomorrow night and B’s Young Witch Competition. You’ll both do a wonderful job, I’m sure. We’re so proud of you.”

B’s dad helped himself to a tortilla and loaded it up with fajita fixings. “I just can’t believe both competitions happen on the same night,” he said. “Of all the rotten luck! Two superstar daughters competing, but I only get to see one.”

“Yeah,” Dawn said, taking a mouthful of rice. “Who’s going to go see which competition?”

Their mother’s face fell. “Oh, it’s such a shame that we have to choose,” she said. “Your father and I finally flipped a coin. Dawn, your father will be there to watch you compete, and B, I’ll come to the M.R.S. to watch you.”

B dug into her dinner. She felt torn between being sad that her father couldn’t come watch her
and wondering if she wanted
anyone
there. That storytelling spell … Was it reliable enough to demonstrate in public?

“Now, remember, both of you,” Mr. Cicely said, “whatever happens tomorrow, your mother and I are so proud of you. So just relax and don’t worry about a thing.”

“But be sure to do your best,” Mrs. Cicely added. “Don’t be
too
relaxed.”

“I find,” Mr. Cicely added, “that when I have a big meeting or presentation at work that I’m worried about, it takes the nervousness away if I just imagine all the people I’ll be speaking to wearing polka-dotted underwear.”

“Felix!” Mrs. Cicely scolded. “What a thing to say to the girls! Underwear …”

“B,” her dad said, “remember, if they ask you who developed the first permanent invisibility potion, it’s a trick question. It wasn’t Wallace Waxby. It was Abigail Waxby. She was his wife, and she was trying to make him invisible because he was so ugly. But
he got all the credit because she accidently inhaled some potion and was never seen again.”

“The things you say, Felix!”

“Just being helpful, Stella,” Dad said. “Excellent dinner, tonight, my dear.”

B smiled.

“I don’t know why we’re all in such a fuss,” their mom said. “B, you just focus on your high kicks and, Dawn, you just brush up with your Quickfire Questions flash cards, and we’ll all be fine.”

“
We’ll
be fine?” Dawn said. “
You
need to get your daughters straight, Mom.”

They all laughed. Mr. Cicely raised his glass. “To the talented ladies in my home,” he said. “To Dawn, the incredible dancer, and to B, the up-and-coming young witch, and to their beautiful mother, whose cooking is the best in the witching world, bar none, even if she was robbed at last year’s Witchin’ Kitchen Competition by whatshername’s butterscotch crème brulée. Cheers.” They clinked their glasses together.

Friday evening, the butterflies in B’s stomach were so fluttery, she had to try three different socks on her left foot before she got the one that matched her right. She considered using a dab of her attitude beauty potion to snazz up her looks, but decided she didn’t dare. She’d already sniffed it once. Would sniffing it again use up all its magic? It was possible. And then where would she be?

She reached for a pot of lip gloss stored in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Just then, Dawn barged in, looking for something.

“Good luck tonight, Dawn,” B said. Dawn made a grunt of acknowledgment, and B figured that was about the best she would get from her sister tonight. B couldn’t wait until their argument blew over.

“Dawn, let’s go!” their dad called up the stairs. “I want to get a good parking spot.”

“Wish we could just transport there,” Dawn grumbled. B was just glad that Dawn had finally spoken to her.

Their mom appeared. “Are
you
ready to transport, B?”

“I guess so,” B said. “But could I hold your arm while you do it? I feel so nervous. I sort of want to conserve my magic for the competition.”

B’s mom smiled. “Of course.” She planted a kiss on Dawn’s head, then took B’s arm, recited a spell, and together they whisked away. They arrived in the coat room at the M.R.S. and hung up their things. B’s mom took a seat in the audience while B hurried to find Trina.

“I was wondering where you were,” Trina said. “It’s almost time to start. Knock ’em dead, B!”

“Same to you,” B said. Trina didn’t seem anywhere near as nervous as B felt, but that made sense. Trina was used to performing with the Black Cats. As for B, even just reading an assignment
in front of her English class was enough to ruin her day.

Before B had much time to think, the Quickfire Questions began. She waited in the wings as the first young witch went on. Someone actually did get the permanent invisibility potion question. B nearly laughed out loud. The contestant, a nervous eleven-year-old boy, answered, “Wallace Waxby,” instead of his wife, Abigail. Madame Mel gave him partial credit.

And then it was B’s turn. She stepped out onto the stage. This was twenty times worse than a class spelling bee and more terrifying than the audition with Mozart. The great round library room looked different tonight. All the desks and tables had been cleared away, and hundreds of chairs brought in to make room for the magical community, and especially the parents and family members of the young witches present. The stage stood against one side of the room and, below it, the table where Madame Mel sat judging the competition. Lights flooded the stage, making it hard for B to see clearly. The
butterflies in her stomach suddenly felt more like woodpeckers.

“Name one of the legendary witches memorialized in the foundation stones of the M.R.S.,” Madame Mel said.

B’s mind went blank. She had no idea whose name was carved in the foundation stones! A legendary witch? All she could do was guess.

Then she remembered. Back when she’d first gotten her magic, she’d learned about a legendary witch because of a cheap circus performer claiming to be her long-lost umpteenth granddaughter. It was worth a try.

“Morgan Le Fay,” she said, surprised at how loud her voice sounded. There must be magical microphones at work.

“That is correct,” Madame Mel said. “What is one of the prohibited forms of magic?”

B knew that one well from having violated this rule with George. “Human transformations,” she said. “You shouldn’t turn people into something
they’re not.” Such as part-mice, she thought ruefully. But at least that had been an accident.

“Very good,” Madame Mel said. “Last question. What is the best way to choose a cauldron when making potions?”

Cauldrons. Cauldrons. B tried to think. She’d studied potions with Mr. Bishop in the Magical Rhymatory, but cauldrons were supplied as part of the lab equipment. There was never anything about how to choose them, was there? There had been a textbook,
Pre-teen Potions.
Had there been anything in there about choosing cauldrons?

She was taking too long. She could feel all the eyes of the audience upon her, even though she couldn’t see their faces well.

Then she remembered her makeover potion, and how she brewed it up in a cosmetic pouch, much like Dawn had done. A
bag-cauldron
!

That was it!

But when Dawn crossed her mind, she remembered Jason and his tricks. She wondered if her sister was okay.

“Ahem.” Madame Mel cleared her throat.

Focus, B!

“A basic cauldron is okay,” B said, “but it’s even better if the cauldron is a container that fits the … mood or the subject of the potion you’re trying to brew. Then it, er, lends its qualities to the concoction.”

“An excellent answer, B,” the Grande Mistress said. “Very perceptive.”

The audience broke out in applause. B only barely heard it. She turned and walked off the stage, so happy and relieved she nearly collided with the next contestant. B found Trina and they sat together on a couch in the hallway surrounding the main library room. There were lots of young witches milling around, waiting for their turns.

B looked at her watch. “The talent show semifinals will have begun by now,” she said. “I wonder how much longer until the Special Spell part of our competition begins.”

Trina gave her a suspicious look. “Why?”

“It’s Dawn,” B said. “I’m worried about her. Even though she’s mad at me right now … I know Jason is going to play dirty. Isn’t there a break between Quickfire Questions and Special Spells?”