by Debi Gliori
Mum is right. Tomorrow is a Very Big Day.
Two:
Pants to that
‘Just like one big happy family,’ Dad said at breakfast on the Very Big Day.
‘Happy?’ snorted Jack in a sort of disbelieving way. ‘What’s so happy about families?’
Daisy agreed with Dad, though. ‘HappyappyappyAPPY,’ she bawled, stabbing a bit of toast into her yoghurt and mashing the whole mess into her hair.
‘Euughhh Daisy. That is disgusting,’ Mum said. ‘Shtop. STOP. No. Don’t rub it in.’
‘I went to a very small school,’ Dad continued, ignoring Daisy’s bread-and-yoghurt head massage. ‘All of us in one classroom. Never did me any harm. You’re going to love it, Lily.’
‘Luvvit, luvvit, Lily,’ Daisy echoes as Mum hauls her off to the bathroom.
Jack shudders and puts his earbuds in. Tsss, tsss, Tssss. Lucky him. His school doesn’t start till next week, whereas Daisy and I start today. Suddenly I’m not hungry any more. I wonder - if I rubbed bread and yoghurt in my hair, would Mum let me off school? Probably not.
Dad sees my face and comes over to give me a huge hug. ‘Come on, flower,’ he says. ‘By tonight you’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about. By tonight it won’t be a new school any more. It’ll be your school. Things are rarely as bad as you imagine they’ll be. Honest. You’ll have a great time.’
An hour later, standing outside the new school and trying to ignore Way Woof running around in circles, I’m hoping Dad’s right. However, despite his cheery advice, I feel as if I’m about to be eaten by monsters; as if a volcano is about to erupt beneath my feet; as if there’s a meteorite rushing towards planet Earth and I’m standing right where it’s going to hit.
‘Right, Lily,’ Mum says in her let’s-be-cheerful-even-if-we’re-being-gnawed-by-piranhas voice. ‘I’ll just take Daisy in to playgroup and stay with her for a bit. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’
Er. I look around. Sadly there are no monsters, erupting volcanoes or falling meteorites heading my way. No. It’s far worse. There’s a group of strange children and their parents. And WayWoof.
‘Um. Yes. I’ll be fine,’ I say in a strangled voice that doesn’t sound like me at all.
Mum smiles. ‘I know it’s early days, but let’s hope playgroup will be good for Daisy and that she’ll make some friends …’ Then she notices that Daisy’s already started making friends. My Witch Baby’s down on her hands and knees, growling softly to herself and patting the shoes of a little boy who looks as if he’s about to faint with terror. Somehow, I don’t think this is what Mum meant.
‘Stop it, Daisy,’ Mum hisses. ‘Leave his laces alone.’
Daisy smiles at me.
Uh-oh.
I know that smile.
And WayWoof is fading fast.
Uh-oh. Incoming spell Alert.
Daisy? I look down. The little boy’s shoelaces are whipping backwards and forwards as if they’re angry. Now they’re slipping out of his shoes like twin snakes.
Oh no.
They are twin snakes. Before this goes any further, I have to distract Daisy from her spell. If I don’t, anything might happen. The snakes might bite. They might wind themselves round the little boy’s legs and strangle his ankles. I have to do something right now, before it’s too late.
‘Daisy. Look!’ I yell, flinging myself onto my hands and turning a cartwheel. ‘LOOK, DAISY!’ I bawl. ‘See if you can tell what colour my pants are—’
Yes. I know. I was desperate. If I’d really thought it through, of course I would never have done such a stupid thing.
‘Lily. For heaven’s sake,’ Mum hisses, ‘beHAVE.’
I stand up. I’ve just spotted WayWoof sloping out from behind the school’s wheelie bins. Phew. If WayWoof’s back, then Daisy isn’t doing her snake spell any more.
‘Pink,’ says Daisy firmly.
‘No they weren’t,’ says a familiar voice.
Oh NO.
‘Your big sister’s pants are blue,’ the voice continues, making me want to die of embarrassment. It’s my one and only friend, Vivaldi. At least, she was my one and only friend until five seconds ago. But now, after the pants-in-the-air incident, she’ll probably fade out of my life even faster than WayWoof does when Daisy’s Up To No Good.
‘However,’ Vivaldi continues, ‘my pants are purple with yellow stars.’ And to my relief, my brilliant, loyal and slightly mad friend turns three cartwheels to prove her point.
Mum’s eyes are out on stalks, but Daisy is laughing like a drain. The little boy with the laces takes one look at us and flees into the school. From somewhere in the building a bell rings.
Time to go. My first day at my new school is off to a flying start.
Three:
In with a hiss
‘School?’ The Nose’s voice climbs to a shriek.
‘Whatever are they thinking of?’
The Toad doesn’t reply. She’s poring over a recipe book, trying to find a new and tasty way to cook rats and nettles. Until the Sisters of Hiss come to grips with the Internet or work out how to drive to the nearest shop, nettles and rats are all there is to eat.
‘I said,’ hissed the Nose, ‘whatever are they thinking of?’
There is a loud and exasperated hiss from the other side of the room, and the Chin’s face appears round the side of her computer monitor.
‘What is it now?’ she demands, her tone waspish, her eyes shrunk down to two little slits of menace. The Chin is completely fed up. Two hours of struggling with the computer have put her in a foul mood.
‘School,’ the Nose repeats. ‘They’re sending our Witch Baby to school. They’re idiots. MORONS. Nitty-witty pea-brained fruit LOOPS!’
‘Calm down,’ the Toad mutters. ‘There’s no point in getting hysterical. You’ll only end up doing something awful.’
From over by the fireplace comes a plaintive meow. The postman-cat agrees with the Toad. He knows all about the awful things a hysterical witch can do.
‘But… but… you don’t understand,’ the Nose wails. ‘If our little Witch Baby goes to school, she’ll learn all sorts of rubbish. That’s what they teach at human school. rubbish. Her head will be stuffed full of twiddle-twaddle and then it’ll take us years to unstuff it before we can even begin to teach her anything useful.’
‘Mmmm-hmm,’ agrees the Chin, but you can tell that she hasn’t really been paying attention. In fact, the Chin is only aware of what is on her computer screen. Somehow, she’s finally found her way onto the website for a major supermarket. At long last there’ll be something other than rats and nettles for supper.
‘Yesssss!’ she squeaks, typing in the word ‘chocolate’ when the computer asks what she would like to buy. Just for fun, she types in the number 13 when it asks how many deluxe boxes of swiss chocolate she would like delivered to Arkon House.
There is a beep as thirteen hugely expensive and delicious boxes of chocolate are added to her online shopping basket. In the background, the Chin is dimly aware of the Nose rattling on and on about teachers and schools and Witch Baby. The Chin nods, but she’s not listening. Instead, she’s tapping in the magic number 13 in answer to the question of how many 12-portion cheese-and-pepperoni pizzas with extra chillies she would like delivered. The Chin has no idea what a pizza or a chilli might be, but because she’s a witch, she loves the idea of a food that looks like the full moon.
By the time the Nose has finally finished her rant, the Chin is triumphantly pressing the ‘enter’ key to complete her online shopping order.
‘There,’ she says, sitting back in her chair with a terrifyingly wide smile running like a gash straight across her face. ‘That’s that settled.’
‘Really?’ the Nose squeaks. ‘You mean, you’re quite happy about going in?’
The Chin’s forehead wrinkles up in accordion pleats. Whatever is the Nose talking about? ‘Going in?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ the Nose explains. ‘T
o the school. To keep an eye on our Witch Baby. You know. Go in and pretend to work at the school.’
The Chin is somewhat taken aback. ‘Wh-wh-what?’ she quavers, ‘Why me? Why do I have to do everything around here?’
‘Because,’ the Nose says wearily, ‘toads don’t, as a general rule, get jobs in schools, and I can’t read or write.*7 So you have to go to school.’
‘But …’ the Chin begins, but she knows the Nose is right. One of them has to make sure that playgroup doesn’t turn their Witch Baby back into a human baby.
‘But how will you tell?’ the Toad enquires, closing her recipe book with a sigh. There are no good recipes for rats and nettles.
‘Tell what?’ the Nose says.
‘How will you tell if our Witch Baby’s being turned into a human bean?’ the Toad asks, adding, ‘I mean, what are the first signs of bean-brain?’
‘There are three main things to watch out for,’ the Nose begins. ‘One: humans watch television in the afternoon. Two:—’
‘Hang on,’ the Toad squeaks. ‘You watch television in the afternoon—’
‘That’s different,’ snaps the Nose. ‘That’s research. You don’t think I’m doing it for fun, do you? Now shut up and let me finish. Two: humans love to drink sweet fizzy liquids, although why this is so I fail to understand; and Three: humans love to eat that hideous stringy flatbread stuff. Oh, what’s it called? Pits? Pat’s? Pete’s?’
‘Pizza?’ says the Chin. ‘I think I’ve just ordered thirteen of them on the computer. I had no idea they were so dangerous. Oh, well. Never mind. We can always feed them to the cat.’
‘But … what will you do,’ asks the Toad, ‘if you find our Witch Baby being taught to eat pizza washed down with fizzy liquid in front of a television in the afternoon? What then?’
‘Then?’ says the Nose. ‘That’s easy. I’ll call up a Vortex of Vanishment spell, and cause the school, the teachers and all the children except for our little Witch Baby to de-exist.’
At this, the Toad gulps and lowers her eyes to her recipe book. The Chin turns whiter than lemon yoghurt and quavers, ‘Th-th-that does seem a little harsh, sister dear.’
‘HARSH?’ shrills the Nose. ‘Tampering with a Witch Baby’s destiny is a bad, bad thing,’ she insists. ‘What possible use is there for a TV-watching, pop-swilling, pizza-pigging witch? Hmmm? Where’s the mystery? Where’s the history? We’re the Sisters of HiSS, not the Sissies of Fizz. We are as old as the hills, as permanent as the mountains and as wise as the—’
‘All right, all right,’ groans the Chin. ‘Keep your wattles on. I’m going in. I’ll make sure that our dearest little Witch Baby is unharmed by the evils of a twenty-first-century nursery. I’ll keep her safe.’ And with this, the Chin sweeps out of the door and off to school for the first time in hundreds of years.
Four:
The hairy eyeball in action
‘Everybody? Let’s say hello to Daisy, shall we?’
Miss McPhee has hold of one of Daisy’s hands and WayWoof is nuzzling the other comfortingly. Not that Daisy needs comforting. Miss McPhee, her playleader, is lovely. She smells of flowers, has loads of wild red hair and wears big black boots. Daisy keeps gazing up at her in adoration, and is paying no attention to her new classmates. In front of Daisy are a dozen small children, none of whom are paying any attention to a Witch Baby and a WayWoof in their midst.
Hah. If only they knew what Daisy is really like, they’d run, shrieking, out of the classroom, far away from the school, and wouldn’t stop until they reached John o’ Groats. And if they knew what WayWoof really smells like, they’d jump into the sea at John o’ Groats and wouldn’t stop swimming till they reached Norway.
However, none of them know Daisy and WayWoof like I do, so all the small children carry on doing exactly what they were doing when Daisy and WayWoof arrived.
Daisy shuffles closer to Miss McPhee and turns to wave at me. ‘Go ‘way, Lillil. Ba-bye. See later, cockodile.’
‘In a while, alligator,’ I say, dreading what happens next.
Because next it’s …
My New Classroom
by Lily MacRae
I open the door and there they are. A room full of staring strangers, among whom are three faces I recognize. Only one of the three is smiling. This is even worse than I’d imagined. I blink. It’s Vivaldi smiling at me and patting the empty seat beside her. Standing by a desk on the other side of the room is Mrs McDonald, my new teacher.
Gulp. My legs begin to shake. Smile, Lily, I tell myself.
Mrs McDonald waves me in. ‘Come away in, Lily dear,’ she says. ‘Now, everybody, let’s welcome Lily to our school.’
One by one, the strangers stand up and introduce themselves. I smile and smile, but inside I’m thinking, Aaaargh, when will this be over?
‘Hi, Lily, my name’s Yoshito Harukashi.’
‘Craig.’
‘Hello, Lily, I’m Vivaldi’s wee sister, Mozart.’
‘Lily? Like the flower? Hmmm. We’ve met already. I’m James Nicholas Dunlop and this stinky haddock-breath here’s—’
‘Oh, shut up. I can speak for myself actually, Jamie. I’m his sister, Annabel. We met before. We came to your moving-in party in your tiny cottage. We’re from Mishnish Castle.’
‘Ah’m Shane and ah’m the oldest in the class.’
My head is spinning. We aren’t even halfway round the class and already I’m getting them all mixed up. Thankfully, Vivaldi grabs my arm and hauls me onto the seat beside her.
‘Nightmare, eh?’ she mutters. ‘Annabel never misses a chance to go on about her biiiig house and Shane always has to tell you that he’s the oldest - basically because he’s so small and weedy.’
Yoshito has her hand up. ‘Can we make name badges, Mrs McDonald?’ she asks. ‘To help Lily remember who we are?’
Mrs McDonald considers Yoshito’s idea for a moment, and in the silence we hear Craig say something very rude under his breath. Mrs McDonald turns round very slowly until she’s facing Craig. Uh-oh
‘I didn’t quite catch what you said, Craig dear. Care to repeat it?’ Then she puts her head on one side, like a bird trying to decide whether to eat a worm.
Craig flushes bright red and folds his arms around his chest.
‘Forgotten it?’ Mrs McDonald asks.
Craig looks as if he’s trying to make his head disappear down his neck, like a tortoise. In a barely audible voice he whispers, ‘Aye.’
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ says Mrs McDonald. ‘Never mind. Can’t have been too important, hmmm?’
Craig is staring at the floor and not looking up at Mrs McDonald.
Mrs McDonald smiles. ‘Name badges. What a good idea, Yoshito. Let’s start right away. And not another peep from you, Craig, hmmm?’
‘No,’ mutters Craig, then, ‘No, Mrs McDonald.’
Craig hardly says another word, rude or otherwise, for the rest of the morning. And unlike my old teacher back in Edinburgh, Mrs McDonald doesn’t roar or shout once. She doesn’t even raise her voice. I think I’m going to really like her. She’s the kind of teacher who makes you want to get along with her. Fierce but fair. She doesn’t have to roar and shout; all she has to do is look*8 at you.
Mind you, when you’re the new girl, everyone looks at you. Sneakily like Annabel (in the mirror over by the book corner, when she thinks I can’t see), or creepily like Donald (he just stares and stares with an open mouth as if he’s about to take a bite out of me), or even shyly like Yoshito, who turns pink if I smile back at her.
But Shane doesn’t look at me. Not once all morning. In fact, he acts as if I’m not there, which is pretty rude. Shane’s friend Craig is rude too, but he’s also horrible to the little ones in our class. When he thinks Mrs McDonald can’t see him, he makes faces behind their backs, sticks his foot out to trip them up and nudges them so that they drop stuff. He’s so huge that nobody dares to say anything back to him.
We’re supposed to be making nam
e badges, which would take me about five minutes at home, but here at school it’s taking for ever.
‘Mrs McDonald,’ Jamie says, ‘I need a bigger bit of card for my badge. I can’t fit all my names onto this one.’
Vivaldi rolls her eyes at me.
‘Just leave some of them out,’ suggests Mozart. I had to. Or else write them in wee writing.’
‘WEE writing?’ snorts Shane. ‘Yeeeurchhh. Jamie’s writing in wee, Jamie’s writing in w—’
‘Shane dear,’ sighs Mrs McDonald, and Shane slumps back in his chair.
Vivaldi writes What an idiot in pencil on her badge and immediately rubs it out before Mrs McDonald sees. Yoshito saw, though. She’s holding her mouth and turning pink, and she looks as if she’s about to explode with trying not to laugh out loud. I have to look away, or else I’m going to start laughing hysterically too. It’s not even all that funny, either. It’s just that I’m so nervous about this first day at school that it wouldn’t take much to make me laugh, or scream or even burst into tears.
This must be what it felt like the very first time I started school, when I was tiny. I can’t remember much about it, except Mum said I clung to her knees and cried and cried for ever. Obviously I didn’t do that this morning. For one thing, I would have had to lie down in the playground to get my arms round Mum’s knees. And for another, I’m nine and a quarter years old, and clinging to my mum and begging her to take me home is … well, it’s not going to help me make friends. So I’m very, very grateful that Vivaldi is here today. With her as my friend guiding me through the first few weeks, I might just about survive without making a complete idiot of myself.
Five:
Burning down the house
Although I really wanted to stick to Vivaldi like glue, at break time I had to go and check that Daisy was all right. After all, this was her very first time ever away from Mum. I couldn’t work out whether this would make her even more of a witch than usual, or if it would calm her down. So, apologizing to Vivaldi, I rushed outside to check that Daisy hadn’t turned everyone in her playgroup into worms, or worse. I found her in the little nursery play area, wandering in and out of the Wendy house with WayWoof behind her. Phew. Thank heavens for WayWoof.