The Cat-Astrophe

by Lexi Connor

  George shook his head. “No, I’m positive it’s ‘we Black Cats ain’t got.’ ”

  “Nope. They don’t say ‘Black’ in that line,” B said. “I’ve only listened to this song about a million times.”

  Trina cleared her throat. “You’re both wrong. It’s But — us — Cats — don’t — want — no — se — crets.”

  George and B stared at Trina. “You said you didn’t know the song!” B exclaimed.

  “Who cares? I think she’s right.” George started singing again, and B joined in. Even Trina hummed along.

  “Mad dogs in the alley

  Show their teeth and growl.

  But they’re no match for street cats

  Who bare their claws and YOWL, yowl, yowl, yowl….”

  B stopped singing. Even just humming, Trina’s voice was amazing! It seemed to fill the room, despite the noise she and George made.

  Trina swayed back and forth to the rhythm of the song, closed her eyes, and sang.

  “Night’s the hour for keeping secrets.

  But us Cats don’t want no secrets,

  Want the whole wide world to hear us YOWL….”

  A trunk in the corner of the room sprang open with a bang all by itself, as if by magic. Clothes, shoes, and papers came flying out. Trina stopped singing. George shot a glance at B. She knew what he was thinking, because she had the same concern. She hadn’t spelled a thing! How could her magic be this uncontrollable? What if Trina got suspicious?

  Trina hurried to clean up the spilled things and close the trunk. “Boy, that’s weird,” she said anxiously. “Must be the springs are broken or something.”

  B wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Then she caught sight of something on the floor.

  “That’s a Black Cats suit!” B cried. “The catsuits they wear, with the rhinestones. And the boots! Where’d you get a costume like that?”

  Trina didn’t answer, but stuffed the costume back in the trunk and closed the lid.

  “And where’d you learn to sing like that?” George demanded. “You said you don’t sing, and you don’t like the Black Cats! You … you could practically impersonate them.”

  Trina turned to face them, looking sheepish. “Well …,” she said, “… I guess I am a secret fan after all.”

  “Why keep it a secret?” B reached down and picked up a Black Cats album cover that had blown out of the trunk with the clothes, but escaped Trina’s notice. B stared at the cover. Then she stared back at Trina. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  “Holy cats! You’re the lead singer! You’re KAT!”

  Trina blew out a long, slow breath. “Well,” she said, “so much for secrets. That one didn’t even last a week.”

  George and B both sank down onto the couch, too stunned to speak. B pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  “I knew I’d seen you before,” George said. “I thought, maybe, I’d seen you at the mall.” He laughed. “I guess I probably have seen you at the mall, at the record store.”

  “And the movies,” B added. “Remember they did that movie last summer?”

  Trina sat on the floor and plucked at the carpet.

  “What’s the matter, Trina?” George said, playing on an imaginary electric guitar. “I’d love to be in a rock band. Most kids would kill to be you.”

  “It is fun,” Trina said. “But that’s just the problem. Kids might think they’d like to be me, but once they find out I’m Kat from the Black Cats, they treat me differently. All they see is a rock singer.” She leaned back on a cushion. “Not a person.”

  “Yeah, but …” George was so excited he could barely find the words. “You get to ride around in a limo, and travel all over the world, and … sign autographs!” He collapsed back into the couch. “Buckets of money for all the chocolate you could ever want!”

  Trina laughed, but only for a second. “That stuff’s fine, but people chasing you gets old pretty quick. Photographers and reporters’ll follow you into the bathroom if they can.”

  B whistled. She’d never thought of it that way before.

  “It’s like hundreds of Jason Jamesons,” Trina continued. “He’s only hovering around because he thinks I’m rich. That’s nothing compared to how people react when they find out you’re famous.” She sighed. “I thought, if I came here and lived with my grandma, I could start fresh.” She smiled sadly. “It was really fun having genuine friends again.”

  B jumped up. “Well, who says we’re going to change? We’re not!”

  “We’re not like that,” George said. “We were just surprised for a second. Nothing’s going to be different.”

  Trina sat up. “You mean that?”

  “Of course we do.” B tossed a couch cushion at Trina playfully. “We can keep a secret, can’t we, George?”

  “Sure.” George gave B a knowing look. She knew he was thinking of the secret they already shared — B’s magic.

  “We won’t treat you differently, so long as you promise not to treat me differently when I’m a world-famous soccer player,” George said.

  They all laughed.

  “Deal,” Trina said. “What will you be famous for, B?”

  B shrugged. “Oh, I dunno … I’m pretty good at, um, spelling.”

  Trina’s eyes lit up. She lobbed the couch cushion back at B. “I get it — Spelling B! You’ll be a world-famous spelling bee champion. You’ve got the perfect name for it.”

  B grimaced. “I don’t need to be famous. I’d hate to have everyone watch me.” B remembered her most recent spelling bee, before she understood how her spelling magic worked. She’d flooded the whole school building! “Let’s get back to work on our project before it gets too late.”

  Trina jumped up. “I’ve got a better idea. You’ll like this.” She reopened the trunk in the corner. “Do you guys want to see my Black Cats stuff?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Trina unloaded one thing after another — costumes, props, promotional posters, jam session tapes, autographed photos. In no time the living room was full of Cat-abilia.

  “This is so cool,” George said. “You guys are the hottest band around. Why did you cancel your concert tour?”

  Trina sank back on her heels. “I know. I’m so sad about it. I’ll miss the band so much. They came over yesterday to say good-bye. At least for now.” She pressed her lips together. “But, that’s a band secret that I can’t share.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  B considered teasing her for more info, but the look on Trina’s face changed her mind. She and George had almost stumbled onto the Black Cats’ farewell yesterday. She tried not to show it, but she was even more impressed with Trina. It took the sting out of the canceled tour.

  “We all felt terrible about it, but it was unavoidable.”

  “Ka-TRI-na!”

  It was the crackly voice B’d heard the day before, calling from upstairs.

  “Grandma,” Trina said. “Sorry guys, but …”

  “Are those children still here, Katrina?”

  George and B climbed to their feet. “We were just leaving,” B said. “We’ll figure out another time to work on our project. Thanks for having us over, Trina.”

  “Yeah, and thanks for showing us all this stuff!” George said.

  “Wow, can you believe that? Kat from the Black Cats, right in our class!” George exclaimed on the way home. “This kind of thing just doesn’t happen!”

  “I know,” B said. “I’m so glad we got to know her first.” B still had a strange feeling that there was something else Trina wasn’t telling them.

  George said, “So now I’ve got a witch and a Black Cat for a friend. Which reminds me … why did you use magic to open that trunk? That was pretty risky to do in front of somebody else, wasn’t it?”

  B shivered. “Oh, my gosh, I was so nervous that Trina would get suspicious. Turns out she was more worried about her own secret. But that’s just it. I didn’t mean to do
it. I have no idea how it happened.”

  George scratched his curly blond head. “You mean, you didn’t spell any words in your head or something?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t.” B jumped over a puddle in the sidewalk. “Did I?”

  George stopped to look at B. “You wouldn’t ever let her in on the secret, would you?”

  B shook her head. “No way. I can’t. You’re not even supposed to know, George. But I’m worried. There’s more than just that trunk. Somehow, today, without meaning to, I conjured up a magical kitten. Something’s really wrong. More proof that my magic is out of control.”

  Chapter 8

  B arrived at school early the next day. She’d barely slept, worrying about her unpredictable magic, so in the morning she decided to go straight to the person who could help.

  She tiptoed into Mr. Bishop’s classroom. “Good morning.”

  Her magic tutor jumped at the sound of her voice. “B! What brings you here so early?”

  B greeted Mozart and poured some kibbles into his dish. “It’s my magic. It’s gone haywire. First I failed the test. Then, yesterday morning, I did a quick spell to remove a stain from my shirt, and a little magical kitten appeared. I have no idea why. It jumped into my arms, then vanished.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Bishop twirled the tip of his black beard. “Go on.”

  “Then, yesterday afternoon, I was at a friend’s house. I didn’t spell anything. All of a sudden this trunk springs open, bang!” She closed Mozart’s cage. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Mr. Bishop pulled on his jacket. “Hmm … could be a magical malady. And now’s not a good time for one! Madame Mel asked to reschedule your makeup test for after school today. So we’d better get your magic examined.”

  “How?” Then B shook herself. “Wait a minute. Did you say my retest is today?”

  Mr. Bishop nodded. “Same time, same place.”

  B rocked on the heels of her sneakers. “But I can’t! I’m not ready. I need more time to iron out the kinks. And the kinks are getting weirder than ever.”

  “Then there’s not a moment to lose.” He looked at his watch. “Come on. I’ll take you to someone who can help.”

  “Who?”

  Mr. Bishop’s cowboy boot heels clicked on the floor as he moved to stand next to B. “To a witch doctor, of course!”

  Mr. Bishop’s travel spell deposited them in a waiting room filled with magical mobiles that spun without any breeze and chairs spangled with stars. In one corner sat a miserable-looking young witch with a boxful of tissues. Every time she coughed, a ladybug flew out from her throat.

  “At least it’s not spiders, Maudie,” the older witch beside her said.

  A witch in long, loose robes covered with cartoony pictures of frogs and a stethoscope around her neck handed them a clipboard.

  “New patient? Yes, I thought so. Fill out these forms, please. All twenty-seven of them.”

  “Can we bypass the formalities this time, Dorcas?” Mr. Bishop said in a low voice. “This is a special, rush-rush case. This young lady here has a magical exam in just a few hours.” He dropped his voice even lower. “I think she might have caught Spontaneous Spellulitis.”

  B gulped. That sounded awful!

  The nurse’s eyebrows rose. She consulted her watch, then beckoned for them to follow her. “Right this way.”

  She showed them into a small room with a counter, sink, desk, and cot. The walls were plastered with bits of parchment with poems written on them — things like, ORAL HYGIENE WON’T BE RUSHED, HAPPY TEETH ARE FLOSSED AND BRUSHED, and COLDS DON’T HAVE TO BE AN ISSUE, CATCH YOUR SNEEZES WITH A TISSUE.

  “I thought you said this doctor treated magical maladies,” B said, pointing to the couplets on the wall.

  “Witches can get regular sicknesses, too,” Mr. Bishop explained. “Dr. Jellicoe treats magical and nonmagical illness.”

  B was just reading the diploma on the wall for Marcellus K. Jellicoe, Doctor of Magical Medicine, when there was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” Mr. Bishop called.

  “Doctor Boo,” the voice replied.

  “Doctor Boo who?” Mr. Bishop said, grinning at B.

  The door burst open. “Don’t cry — you’re not getting shots today!” The doctor threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a good one, isn’t it? Just thought it up on my way down the hall.”

  B stared at the man. He was short, barely taller than B herself, and round as a soccer ball, yet light on his feet. His witching robe was a large white lab coat, big enough to fit around his girth. He thrust out a hand to B. “I’m Dr. Jellicoe. What can I do for you?”

  “This is my student, B,” Mr. Bishop said. “She’s been having strange magical anomalies — spells cast around her when she never said a thing. She’s a spelling witch, Doc, not a rhyming one. We wondered if you could give her a quick checkup before she goes into a witching exam today to make sure she doesn’t have Spontaneous Spellulitis.”

  Dr. Jellicoe nodded. “I love a good case of Spellulitis! One time a patient of mine conjured a hot air balloon right in the middle of a shopping mall. Spellulitis is always good for some laughs.”

  “Not if it exposes witchcraft to the nonmagical world,” Mr. Bishop said sternly.

  Dr. Jellicoe sighed. “Yes, there is that aspect.” He gestured for B to sit on the cot. He took a peculiar helmet out of a cupboard and put it on. Strange wires, visors, and antennae stuck out every which way. A rotating hourglass, a spinning prism, and a tuning fork all whizzed and spun.

  “What’s that thing for?” B asked.

  “Protection,” the doctor said. “If you’ve got runaway magic, anything might happen to me!” He snapped a purple visor over his eyes, then held up a magnifier flashlight to B’s face. “Say ‘ahhh.’”

  B said, “Ahhh.” Dr. Jellicoe peered into her throat.

  “Excellent. Now, would you light my flashlight here for me?”

  B spelled, “L-I-G-H-T,” and a soft light beamed from his magnifier.

  “Marvelous! Spelling magic.” Dr. Jellicoe pulled four crazy-colored dice from his coat pocket, showed them to B, then shook them together between his cupped hands. “Think you can pull off a twenty-one for me?”

  “Huh? Oh!” She quickly spelled the number, “T-W-E-N-T-Y O-N-E!”

  The doctor tossed the dice onto the examining room counter. They rolled to a quick stop, a four, two sixes, and a five.

  “Good … good.” He pulled a little device from his pocket, made of a shiny rod around which rainbow-colored beads spun in circles, with no sign of attaching strings. Dr. Jellicoe studied the revolving beads and nodded. “Excellent. Your magical potency index is quite strong. Four point nine. Now, would you please conjure up some sort of dessert?”

  “What kind?”

  “Surprise me.”

  B thought for a minute. “S-U-N-D-A-E,” she spelled. A jar on the counter became a goblet, piled high with ice cream, caramel sauce, and whipped cream.

  Dr. Jellicoe licked his lips. He examined the sundae closely, then pulled a test tube from his pocket. He spooned ice cream into it and pulled a cord that dangled from the ceiling. A bell rang.

  “Lab work!” he cried. A witch nurse in pale green scrub robes appeared and snatched away the tube. Once she’d shut the door, Dr. Jellicoe scooped a big mouthful right out of the sundae with his spoon.

  “Nothing wrong with this magic,” he said. “I don’t even need to wait for lab results to know that.” He took off his helmet. “You’re fit as a frog, Miss B,” he said. “Get hopping.”

  “Then what about all the odd things that keep happening around me?”

  Dr. Jellicoe ate an even bigger spoonful of ice cream. “The world is nothing but a jumble of strange things happening everywhere you look. Some are magical; some are just part of being alive. But rest assured, your magic is in tip-top condition.”

  B wasn’t convinced, but Mr. Bishop seemed entirely satisfied.

  Dr. Jellicoe took a note
pad and a pen from his pocket. “I have a prescription for you.

  To make most magical malaises stop,

  I prescribe one lollipop.”

  Dr. Jellicoe twirled his hand with a flourish, seemingly plucking a pink-striped sucker right out of thin air. He handed it to B.

  B examined it. “Is this full of some magical medicine?” she asked. “Will it taste terrible?”

  Dr. Jellicoe beamed at her. “Try it and see.” B took a lick. Watermelon!

  “Watermelon lollipops always make me feel better,” Dr. Jellicoe said. He tucked his prescription pad back in his pocket. “You’ll do fine in your magical exam today,” he said. “Stay healthy!”

  Mr. Bishop and B said good-bye and returned to the waiting room, where Mr. Bishop spoke a quick “back-to-school” couplet. They landed in Mr. Bishop’s classroom just as the line of school buses began forming outside.

  “I’d better get to homeroom,” B said.

  “Meet me here right after school, okay, B?”

  B felt the lunar moths in her belly wake up from their sleep. Dr. Jellicoe may have said she was healthy, but right now B felt sick with worry.

  Chapter 9

  “Today, students, we will continue our work on animal portraits in a new medium — scratchboard. Instead of painting with dark strokes on white paper, we’ll be etching white into black-coated paper. You need to suddenly see things in reverse. Let me demonstrate.”

  Miss Willow, immersed in her art lesson at the front of the room, was unaware of Jason harassing Trina behind the back row of easels.

  “You’re hiding something, Katrina. I know it.”

  Trina stared at the front of the room as if Miss Willow’s demonstration contained the answer to the mysteries of the universe.

  “Leave her alone,” B said. “I’m sick of you bugging her.”

  “You’re the only one who’s bugging, Bumblebee,” Jason replied.

  “Why don’t you make like a bee and buzz off?” B said a little too loudly.

  “Beatrix,” Miss Willow called, “please don’t distract the class with your chatter.”

  B’s cheeks burned. Jason hid behind his easel so Miss Willow wouldn’t see him laughing.