The Runaway Spell (4 page)

“Holy cats!” B cried.

The kid in the tracksuit sniffed the air, revealing protruding buckteeth. George stood up suddenly, and the kid, still chewing his greens, stumbled to his feet. He turned and grabbed at George’s bag of lettuce.

“Gimme some more of that lettuce action! I don’t know when I’ve ever been so hungry.”

George, in a daze, still held the bag back, away from Mozart — or rather, the kid Mozart had become.

“Oh, come on. What’s the matter? Is that the last bunch of lettuce on earth or something? Bet you got a whole backyard full of it at home.” Mozart’s nose
twitched. He turned and waved at B. “Hiya, Missy, did you turn yourself small all of a sudden? You gotta watch out with those spells of yours.” He clutched his stomach and bent over, laughing. “You turned this guy” — he pointed a thumb at George — “into a horse, ain’t ya? One of them stripy horses you see in pictures? I smelled him yesterday when he came into class. Mr. Big Teacher Man, he’s so smart, even he doesn’t notice there’s a stripy horse in his class!”

And please, keep it that way
, B thought, wringing her hands.
But what am I going to do about you? This is terrible! What if Mr. Bishop comes back in the room?

Mozart caught sight of George stuffing his lettuce back into his backpack, and pounced on the pack before George could zip it shut. “You got anything else in there? Carrots? Peppers? C’mon, bub, I’m starving!”

George gave up and handed Mozart the lettuce bag, giving B a helpless look.

“Mmph,” Mozart said, chewing and spraying
little bits of lettuce. “That’s good stuff. One time someone brought me some
zoo … zoo
… zucchini, that’s it.
That’s
something a hamster doesn’t taste every day.”

Just then, Mozart noticed his hands. He held them up before his face in wonder.

“I ain’t a hamster anymore, am I?” he breathed. “I’m a … one of
you.”
He gazed down at his feet, and the tall orange-clad body in between. He poked at his own ribs and shoulders. “This real?” he asked.

B gulped. “Apparently.”

Mozart spun around, spreading his arms wide, letting out a yell. “Whooooooopeeeee!”

George and B looked at each other in alarm. George bolted for the classroom door and shut it, peering through the window to see if any teachers had heard Mozart holler.

Mozart sprang toward the chalkboard and grabbed a new piece of chalk. “I
always
wanted to do this,” he said, and snapped the chalk in half. He dropped one half on the floor and stomped it to
powder, all the while laughing shrilly. Taking the other stumpy piece of chalk, he drew huge looping scribbles all over the board. “I’m gonna learn how to write for real, and then I’m gonna leave everyone notes telling ’em what I really think about ’em.” He scowled. “Especially that bratty boy who’s always poking pencils at me.”

“Jason,” George and B said in unison.

Mozart ran to Mr. Bishop’s desk, bouncing and swiveling in the big office chair. He opened drawers and riffled through the papers, spilling some to the floor, and then stood on the seat of Mr. Bishop’s chair, jumping high while the springs squeaked, still laughing that maniac laugh.

George and B raced to the desk to try to clean up the mess. George elbowed B.
“Do something!”

“Right,” B said, her mouth dry as the cedar chips in Mozart’s cage. “I’ll … do something.”
We all know how well that’ll work,
she thought. She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on Mozart. “H-A-M-…”

Mozart stopped jumping and pointed an accusing finger at her. “No, you don’t,” he shouted. “I ain’t
going back in that cage again! I’m FREE, and no witch-girl or stripy-horse-boy is gonna stop me!” And, taking a flying leap off Mr. Bishop’s seat, he raced toward the door, wrenched it open, and took off running down the hall.

Mozart was gone.

Because of B’s spelling, a ham sandwich appeared on Mr. Bishop’s desk. Without thinking, George snagged the sprig of parsley on the plate and ate it.

“Now what?” George said.

“Catch him!” B cried.

“You want me to tackle him in the middle of the long hallway?”

“Pretty much,” B said. “Just don’t get caught, and don’t hurt him. But you’ve got to get him back here, where I can transform him back into a hamster.”

George shouldered his backpack. “What if you can’t? What if he’s stuck a human, just like I’m stuck a zebra?”

B closed her eyes. “Don’t say things like that, George,” she said. “We’ve got to stay positive. I’ll change him back, and I’ll change you back, too. I swear. But for now, use that supernatural speed of yours and
find that hamster
before he tells the whole school that I’m a witch and you’re a zebra!”

George nodded. “The teachers are bound to notice the strange new kid in orange,” he said. “If he keeps up this loony stuff, he’ll get triple detention in the next five minutes.” He went to the door. “Catch up to me, okay?”

B nodded and hurried to tidy up Mr. Bishop’s desk, while George galloped after the human hamster in a tracksuit.
If I ever get out of this mess
, B vowed,
I will be a good little witch who practices her spelling lessons only at the M.R.S. and never takes risks like this again. I knew it was dangerous to try to make George a better soccer player. And see where it’s led!

Satisfied that the room was tidy enough, B grabbed her things and took off after George and Mozart. She wished she had George’s supersonic hearing, because there was no sight of either boy.

Fortunately, the halls were empty, with most of the sixth-graders already at lunch. B ran as quickly and softly as she could through the school, glancing down each side hallway.

She was just passing the music wing when she heard a braying sound. Sure enough, at the end of the hall was a tall form with devil’s horns and a moving tail. She turned on her heel and scooted down the hall toward her best friend.

George saw her coming and waited for her. “He just ran into the band room,” he panted. “He’s trapped in there.”

“Well, here goes,” B said. “Let’s see if our Mozart is a music lover like his namesake.”

They tiptoed in the room. There was no sign of Mozart. The empty band room looked strange with all the instruments abandoned, the chairs and music stands standing in crooked rows, a few sheets of handwritten musical scores scattered on the floor. George peeked under the bell of a giant tuba, and B grinned.

“A kid couldn’t fit under a tuba, silly,” she whispered.

“What if he’s a hamster again?”

“Then this is our lucky day.”

They checked under the xylophone and the marimba. No Mozart. They peered behind the piano, and in back of the sheet music shelves.

“Are you sure he came in here?” B asked.

“Positive!” George rubbed his head, where the zebra ears used to be. “Shh … I hear something.”

B didn’t hear anything.

“This way,” George said, and headed for the corner where the percussion instruments were stashed.

Then B heard it, too. A little
ker-thump,
followed by a metallic
chingaring.

“He just bumped into the cymbals,” George whispered. Then, without warning, he lunged for the big bass drum, swiveling it around to reveal a folded-up kid in an orange tracksuit.

“Sur-PRISE! Hee hee hee!” Mozart sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and raced, giggling, past George and B, toward the door.

“H-A-M-S-T …” B cried, but he was already gone.

George and B looked at each other for a stunned second, then bolted after him. They only just saw him turn the corner, so they knew which direction he was headed.

“No!” B cried. “Not the cafeteria!”

They rounded the corner just in time to see the double doors bang shut behind Mozart. George sprinted ahead. By the time B got there, Mozart was nowhere to be seen. The cafeteria was full of its usual mayhem — worse today, perhaps, than normal. It must have been the costumes. Everyone seemed noisier and sillier than usual.

Nuggets and fries were on today’s menu and B didn’t have to read the menu board to know it. From the looks of the floor, several minor food fights had just recently finished, and chunks of fried food were everywhere.

George walked up and down the rows of tables, looking and listening for Mozart. Other boys — soccer players, most of them — struck up a “Go, Tigers” cheer at the sight of the popular team captain roving through the caf.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” B ducked into the serving area and scanned the lunch line. No Mozart.

Meanwhile, the rest of the sixth grade had joined the cheering mob, their cries echoing off the walls. The cafeteria sounded like a World Cup soccer stadium.

“Qui-et!” Mrs. Gillet, the head lunch server, appeared in the doorway, waving a wooden spoon.

B met up with George by the side windows.

“I haven’t seen him anywhere,” George said. “You would think he’d be easy to spot in that neon orange suit. I don’t get it! And with my, um, superhearing, this place is giving me a mega-head ache.”

“I’m sorry,” B said. “But so long as you’ve already got the headache, try and see if you can hear anything that sounds like Mozart, will you?”

George closed his eyes and concentrated. B looked around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed that George’s tail was behaving strangely.

George threw up his hands. “It’s hopeless in here,” he said.

B rubbed her temples.
Where would I go if I was a hamster-turned-kid? How would I feel in this crazy, noisy cafeteria if I had a rodent’s brain?

Scared
, B decided.
So what would I do? Try to hide.

B pretended to tie her shoes, and while she was crouching low, she scanned the jungle of sneakers and backpacks.

“Found him,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s go.”

B pulled George toward the far back corner of the cafeteria and sat down at the last seat, directing George to sit in the seat opposite her.

“Where is he?” he asked, perplexed.

“Right by your feet,” B whispered.

Casually, as though she did this kind of thing normally, B poked her head under the table. Mozart was crouching, his arms wrapped around his ankles, his eyes wide with terror. Little whimpering sounds of fright came from his throat.

“Oh, Mozart!” B whispered. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

Mozart nodded. His eyes were rimmed with red. “All the noise hurts my ears!”

“Psst, B!”

B sat up straight. George was making strange faces at her, jerking his head toward the kids at the other end of their table, who were looking at B strangely.

“I know it looks weird,” B whispered, “but we can’t just leave him there! The poor thing’s scared to death!”

“The poor thing,” George replied, “is a tall sixth-grader who’s crying under the table. How are you going to explain that?”

“Tell them he’s your cousin,” B said, “if you need to tell anyone anything. Find me a carrot, will you?”

George trotted to the salad bar while B tried to comfort Mozart, who was curled in a ball, chewing on his lower lip.
He’s got the tracksuit on,
B thought,
but he’s still more hamster than kid.
She held out her hand.

“Come on, Mozart,” she crooned in a soft, soothing voice. “It’s all right. You can come out now.”

Mozart leaned toward her hand, almost sniffing it, his eyes wary and distrustful.

“I won’t hurt you,” B said. “I’m your friend, remember?”

Mozart hesitated.

George returned with two carrots, one that he ate himself, and another that he offered Mozart. The carrot tipped the scale. Mozart crawled out, clumsy and trembling, and snatched the carrot from B’s hand. Then he let himself be guided to stand up and take a seat next to B. He hunkered down, gripping his carrot with both hands and stuffing it into his rapidly chewing mouth.

“Hey, what’s with that kid?” a curly-haired boy from the end of the table asked. “His clothes are the same color as his favorite food, carrots!”

Mozart’s head flew up. “Carrots? More carrots? Where?” He rose from his seat, sniffing the air, his nose twitching a mile a minute.

“The carrots are there, on the salad bar,” the curly-haired boy said, pointing.

Mozart followed the kid’s pointed finger, and gasped. His eyes bulged. His tongue hung out. “S-salad bar?”

B looked at George. “Oh, no!”

Mozart was already waddling off toward the salad bar, his arms outstretched like a zombie.

“Grab him, George!”

But before George could get far, the bell rang. Mozart never made it to the salad bar. He was swept out of the cafeteria on a surging tide of sixth-graders heading for their next class.

“What do we do?” George asked.

“You go ahead to gym,” B said. “I’ll search for Mozart. If I don’t show up in a few minutes, though, get a hall pass and come looking for me, okay?”

George nodded and galloped off. B felt pretty sure that the zebra in George would hate missing gym even more than he’d hated to miss lunch.

B pressed her way through the hallways, scanning for a bright orange suit at every turn. Only when the halls had thinned out, after the bell rang, did B spot him, cringing, tucked into the recess in the wall next to a drinking fountain. Every time a nearby locker banged shut, Mozart jumped in fright.

“Poor Mozart,” B said, approaching him slowly
so he wouldn’t bolt away again. “You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?”

Mozart rubbed his eyes with the sides of his wrists, looking for all the world like his hamster self. “I wanna go back,” he whimpered. “This place is wham-bang scary! People screaming like hawks about to attack, then they show you ‘salad bars’ and don’t let you eat the lettuce.” He sniffled. “I don’t like it out here anymore.”

B put her arm around Mozart’s shoulder, not caring if anyone saw her, and steered him down the hall toward Mr. Bishop’s room.
Please, oh, please let him not be there, or anyone else,
she thought.
And please, let my transforming spell work this time!

And luck was with her. Once inside the room, she asked Mozart to sit on the window ledge next to his cage. “H-A-M-S-T-E-R,” she spelled.

Mozart’s head sunk into his shoulders, his feet gathered in toward his body, and in a blink, his orange suit disappeared and became his tawny coat of fur.

B scooped him up in both hands and nuzzled him against her cheek. “That’s how I like you best,” she said.

“Me, too,” Mozart agreed.

“Oops!” B giggled. “I guess some changes like to stick around, don’t they? S-P-E-E-C-H-L-E-S-S.” She gently placed the silent hamster in his cage. He burrowed into a pile of shavings and vanished from sight.

Whew!
B thought as she headed down the hall, late for gym.
But why, why was it so easy to transform Mozart back to himself, when I can’t seem to fix George?