by Natasha Lowe
“Yes, she loved opera,” Poppy added. “I’m studying her for my biography project.”
“Indeed. That’s an interesting choice.” Miss Corns gave Poppy a strange look, but she didn’t say anything further on the subject. “Turn the lights off when you leave, please, Poppy. The door will lock behind you automatically.”
After Miss Corns had gone, Poppy sat back down at her table and stared at one of the books she had found. On the cover was a picture of the young Madeline Reynolds, smartly dressed in her Ruthersfield uniform. She was smiling at the camera, but it was an automatic “say cheese” sort of smile that didn’t reach beyond her mouth. Poppy was sure she could see a wistful longing in Madeline Reynolds’s eyes, a sadness that made her wonder just how happy Madeline had been here at Ruthersfield. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be a witch either? Maybe her parents had forced her to study magic when what she really wanted to do was study opera? Sighing heavily, Poppy sketched a cupcake on the corner of her notebook, wondering what had gone wrong in Madeline Reynolds’s life to send her over to the dark side.
Chapter Five
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The Rescue of the Pink Sneakers
MRS. PENDLE WAS DELIGHTED WHEN Poppy GOT AN A ON HER BIOGRAPHY PROJECT. “An original, in-depth essay,” Miss Jenkins, the history teacher, had written in her comments. “Unusual but intriguing—congratulations!”
“Well done, sweetheart!” Edith Pendle said, smoothing out the crumpled pages Poppy handed her. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of lukewarm tea. “Can’t wait to show this to Daddy, although I still don’t understand why you didn’t choose Granny Mabel for your report.” Mrs. Pendle glanced up at Poppy. “I mean, she’s family after all, and that Madeline Reynolds was evil.”
“I think she was sad more than evil,” Poppy tried to explain. “Apparently, she loved opera.” Then, in a softer voice, Poppy added, “But her parents thought singing was a waste of time.” Mrs. Pendle made a huffing sound and scraped at a blob of dried-up cake batter that was smeared across the first page of Poppy’s paper.
“You’re lucky Miss Jenkins didn’t take a mark off this for presentation,” she said. “It may be well written, but it’s a complete mess.”
There was one thing Poppy did enjoy about Ruthersfield, and that was basketball. Ever since babyhood she had been gifted with the strange ability to jump unnaturally high, and from her first term at school, Poppy played on the basketball team. She was an excellent scorer, getting quite a reputation for her slam dunks, but because Poppy was as klutzy on the court as off, her legs were constantly covered in bruises. Even when her shoelaces were double knotted, she somehow managed to trip over her own feet. Still, Poppy loved the game, and it stopped her from thinking about magic. During recess she would practice shooting hoops, which meant she didn’t have to hang about with Megan, Fanny, and the other girls, getting teased.
After most basketball practices, Poppy brought along something she had made as a snack. Her jam tarts and coconut cupcakes were popular, but it was the chocolate melt-away cookies that the team loved best.
“You must use magic in these!” Sandra Willis said, every time she ate one. “I’ve never tasted anything so good.”
“No magic,” Poppy would always say with a smile. “Just real vanilla essence and French cocoa.”
One Thursday afternoon Poppy was walking home from school after practice. She stopped in front of Patisserie Marie Claire, as usual. There was something comfortingly familiar about the place, and Poppy had always felt drawn to the little French bakery, although she had never actually gone inside. She wanted to more than anything, but looking through the window was as far as Poppy got. She knew her parents would disapprove. They always bought their bread from Super Savers Market, sliced white loaves that had no taste. But it was more than that. Poppy also knew that if she opened the door and stepped into the patisserie, it would show her a world she could never be a part of, and that was too painful to think about.
A tempting selection of cakes and breads was displayed in the window, and Poppy pressed her face against the glass. She liked to watch the woman behind the counter, carefully wrapping up pastries in fancy white boxes. It would be wonderful to work in a shop like that, and Poppy sighed as the lights in the window went out. She had a physical ache in her chest, wanting so badly to learn how to make the cream-filled éclairs and little sponge cakes shaped like seashells. The woman who worked there smiled at Poppy as she hung a closed sign on the door. Poppy smiled back and slowly walked away. When she was a grown-up, maybe she would be brave enough to buy her bread at Patisserie Marie Claire—thick, knobby loaves of walnut wheat and long, crusty French baguettes.
As Poppy turned the corner onto Canal Street, she heard someone crying. A girl, probably about her own age, was sitting on the pavement, sobbing. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. “What’s wrong?” Poppy asked, squatting down beside her.
“They took my sneakers and threw them up there,” the girl said, pointing to a tree. Poppy looked up and saw a pair of pink sneakers tied together at the laces and dangling over a high branch.
“Who did such a mean thing?”
“Some horrible girls in my class.”
“You go to the elementary school, don’t you?” Poppy said, recognizing the pale-faced girl with the frizzy hair. “I think I’ve seen you on the bus.”
“Yes.” The girl sniffed, wiping her sleeve across her nose and staring at Poppy’s purple uniform. “You go to Ruthersfield Academy.”
“I do.” Poppy looked uncomfortable. “I wish I didn’t.”
“Can you magic my sneakers down for me?”
“Don’t need to,” Poppy said, doing a few warm-up stretches. Then crouching low to the ground, she suddenly gave a powerful leap and jumped as high as she could.
“Wow!” the girl exclaimed as Poppy rocketed through the air and knocked the sneakers out of the tree. They plummeted straight down and almost hit the girl on the head. “Awwwh!” She blinked in shock. “That was amazing!”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine,” the girl laughed. “How do you do that?”
“What, almost hit people?”
“No, I mean jump that high?”
“It’s something to do with being magic.” Poppy grinned. “I’ve always been able to jump like that and I’m strong, too, although you’d never know it, would you, with my skinny arms and legs! I’m Poppy, by the way.”
“I’m Charlie,” the girl said, smiling an enormous gappy smile. She had a rather large space between her two front teeth and pale, almost invisible eyebrows. “It’s short for Charlotte. Charlotte Monroe.”
“Would you like a cookie?” Poppy offered, taking a crumpled paper bag out of her briefcase. There was one chocolate melt-away left, which she had been saving for the walk home.
“Thanks.” Charlie took a bite and groaned with pleasure. “That is scrummy! You must have bought these at Patisserie Marie Claire.”
“I made them,” Poppy said proudly.
“You did? How old are you?” Charlie asked, squinting shyly at Poppy. “I mean, you cook like a grown-up, but you’re wearing a school uniform.”
“I’m ten, but I’m tall for my age.” Poppy shook crumbs from the bag into her mouth, managing to scatter most of them down the front of her sweater.
“Well, I’m ten too,” Charlie said, “and look at me. I’m so short people think I’m still in the first form.” The girls studied each other for a moment and then they both burst out laughing. “I’m also a terrible cook,” Charlie admitted. “Maybe you could teach me? I know my mum would love that. She always eats my cookies because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, but they taste disgusting. Yours are so good.”
“My mum thinks cooking is a waste of time
,” Poppy said, scrunching the paper bag into a ball. “Witches aren’t supposed to cook, but I don’t want to be a witch. I want to be a baker.”
“Ouch!” Charlie winced, trying to stand up. “I think I twisted my ankle when those girls pushed me over.” She hopped about on one leg. “I can’t put any weight on it.”
“Careful.” Poppy wrapped an arm around Charlie’s waist. “Lean on me. I’ll take you home.”
“Are we going to fly on your broomstick?” Charlie sounded excited. “I’ve never flown on a broomstick before.”
“Well, you’re not missing much,” Poppy said, lifting Charlie up onto her shoulders. Then grasping her briefcase in one hand and her broomstick in the other, Poppy set off with a skip. She immediately tripped and lurched forward, almost losing her balance.
“Are you sure we can’t fly?” Charlie asked rather nervously, clinging to Poppy’s braids. “I must be a bit heavy for you.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Poppy reassured her as they headed off down Canal Street. “Believe me, walking is much more pleasant.”
By the time Poppy got home, it was beginning to get dark. She had walked right across to the other side of town carrying Charlie on her shoulders. They’d chatted and told jokes, and Charlie had listened to all Poppy’s new recipe ideas. Talking to Charlie, Poppy felt as if she could truly be herself, and she was still feeling happy as she skipped up the garden path.
Edith Pendle opened the front door before Poppy had even reached for the brass knocker. “Where in heaven have you been?”
“I, um, basketball practice ran late,” Poppy said, her happiness turning to guilt. She knew her mother would disapprove of Charlie because Charlie didn’t go to Ruthersfield. “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Oh, Poppy, you walked home, didn’t you?” Mrs. Pendle sounded disappointed. “That’s why you took so long.”
Poppy sighed and shoved her broomstick in the umbrella stand. “I don’t really like flying, Mum.”
“But you’re marvelous at it.”
“I don’t like flying,” Poppy repeated. “It makes me feel sick, and I can’t think when I fly. I’m too busy concentrating on not falling off. I’d much rather walk. It’s relaxing and you see more.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of, honestly.” Mrs. Pendle frowned at her daughter. “Well, go and do your homework, Poppy. It’s so late. You don’t want to get behind.”
“We don’t have any tonight.”
“You must have homework. It’s a school night. How can you not have any homework?”
“We weren’t given any, but I did get an A for my essay on the history of the wand,” Poppy said, knowing this would please her mother.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Poppy!” Mrs. Pendle’s frown disappeared, and Poppy made a dash for the kitchen. “Are you going to practice some of your spells?” Edith Pendle called after her. Poppy pretended not to hear. There was a recipe for almond crunch bars she wanted to try, and of course her mother wouldn’t approve. Charlie, on the other hand, thought they had sounded delicious when Poppy described them to her on the walk home. You mixed marzipan into the batter. Poppy had promised to save her new friend some. They’d agreed to meet down by the canal tomorrow, so long as Charlie’s ankle was feeling better.
“Just a strain,” Charlie said after school the next day, holding up her bandaged foot for inspection. They were sitting on the low stone wall of an abandoned cottage that had been built alongside the canal. It had been empty for years. Part of the roof had fallen in and all the windows were broken. The canal was a man-made river cutting right through the middle of Potts Bottom. Nowadays it didn’t get much traffic. An occasional pleasure barge would steam by once in a while, but usually there were more ducks floating down it than boats.
“It’s not too sore and I’m using my grandpa’s walking stick,” Charlie said. She was munching on one of Poppy’s almond crunch bars. “Mmmm, these taste better than anything Patisserie Marie Claire sells.”
“That’s my dream,” Poppy said, throwing a stone into the water. “To own a fancy cake shop when I grow up.”
“Well, I’m sure you will. I’d buy things from you all the time.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Poppy explained. “My parents would never allow it. They’re so proud of me being a witch, and I’m a good witch, a really good witch. That’s the problem. It would break their hearts if I became a baker.”
“Have you told them how you feel?” Charlie asked. “Sometimes parents can surprise you.”
“You don’t know my mum and dad,” Poppy said miserably. “My mum hates it when I bake. She’s even banned me from looking at my cookbooks. The only books I’m allowed to read are things like Magic Through the Ages and The Art of Flying.”
“Oh, those do sound fun, though,” Charlie said. “We don’t have anything like that in our house.”
“You have to be a member of the Witches’ Guild to join the Magic Book Club,” Poppy told her. “They send me a new book every month. My parents signed me up when I was still a baby, if you can believe that. Apparently, I was the youngest ever person to join.”
“Really!” Charlie looked impressed.
“I inherited the gift from my great-grandmother Mabel,” Poppy explained. “Magic just happened to me when I was little. It wasn’t something I could control.”
“It must be sort of special though, being magic,” Charlie said. “Flying about on a broomstick, casting spells. I wish I were. My life’s so dull.”
“I’ll bet it’s not. You just think it is. Believe me, magic doesn’t make you any happier.”
“Would you show me a spell?” Charlie begged. “I’ve never seen real magic before. Please?”
“Oh, fine,” Poppy said, pulling her wand out of her briefcase. “But there’s no substance to magic, you know. It’s all hot air and showing off.” Waving her wand over the canal, Poppy trotted out a quick spell. Suddenly hundreds of fish popped their heads above the water and started to dance. They jitterbugged and twisted and made kissing sounds at one another with fat, pouty lips. Charlie squealed with laughter as the fish boogied about, slapping and splashing with their tails. Then, waving their scaly fins at the girls, they flipped back underwater.
“That was unbelievable!” Charlie shrieked.
“Thanks”—Poppy gave a wan smile—“but it gets boring after a while.” She sighed. “Believe me, I know.”
Chapter Six
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Just Say No
POPPY WAS LATE LEAVING FOR SCHOOL MONDAY MORNING, WHICH HAD Mrs. Pendle flapping around the kitchen like a flustered hen.
“Miss Corns sent that letter home about today’s magical management class being a special one, and could everyone please be on time. And here you are, Poppy, late again.” Poppy had been up early baking lemon squares. She had hidden her Good Eats magazine with the recipe in it under her spell book so her mother wouldn’t see. Mrs. Pendle had canceled Poppy’s subscription to the magazine, so Poppy had to buy it from the corner shop now. The lemon squares had taken much longer than Poppy anticipated, and it was past nine o’clock by the time they were done. When Mrs. Pendle noticed the time, she snapped, “This is ridiculous,” finally shooing her daughter out the door.
“Mum, I’m sorry,” Poppy said, a warm container of lemon squares clutched against her chest. She could already feel her socks starting to slip as she hurried down the garden path. Maxine from next door was watching curiously from over the fence, a pink chiffon scarf tied around her curlers. It had started to drizzle lightly and Poppy wished she had grabbed an umbrella.
“Don’t forget your wand!” Edith Pendle dashed after Poppy and tucked a sticky magic wand into her daughter’s pocket. “No time to walk now, is there. You’ll have to f
ly.” Not wanting to upset her mother further, Poppy hopped onto her broomstick, balanced the lemon squares in her lap, and flew the short, rainy distance to Ruthersfield.
She made a rather slippery landing outside the school gates, skidding to a halt next to a small, dark purple van with no windows. It had DANGER—FEROCIOUS CARGO printed across both sides, and the license plate said SCRUBS 1. Poppy wondered why it was there, and feeling a touch nervous in case it had anything to do with her being so late, she hurried up the steps. She was actually relieved to see Deirdre Lambert rushing through the door just ahead of her. It was a nice feeling not to have to walk in alone. “What do you think is going on?” Poppy panted. “Did you see that van with the Scrubs license plates? I wonder why it’s here. Do you think it’s really from Scrubs Prison?”
“Don’t you know anything?” Deirdre sneered. “Fourth years always get the Scrubs talk in May.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re so dumb,” Deirdre said, rolling her eyes at Poppy. “It’s like, you know, the ‘big speech’ we all get,” she whispered, lowering her voice and making quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “Some of the guards from Scrubs come all the way over here, just to talk to us. Tell us what it’s really like in there.” Deirdre picked at a corner of peeling purple nail polish. “It’s meant to scare the pants off us so that we’ll stay good, not abuse our powers.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Poppy murmured, shifting the lemon squares under one arm and nervously pulling up her socks. “That must be what Miss Corns arranged for this morning.”
“Well, you’d better hurry then.”
“Did it work?” Poppy couldn’t help asking as she watched the older girl saunter off down the corridor. “I mean, scare the pants off you?”