Chapter 1
“Beeeee-atrix,” B’s mother called up the stairs. “Breakfast!”
B cinched her ponytail and took one last look in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe today,” she told her reflection. Then she plucked a little pot of her sister’s lip balm from the medicine cabinet and chanted softly:
“Let this be my first spell in rhyme:
Cherry lip gloss, change to lime!”
She squeezed her eyes tight, then opened them. Nothing had happened. She sniffed to make sure. It was still cherry. Just like yesterday, and every day since her eleventh birthday, more than three months ago.
Her cat, Nightshade, twined himself between her ankles and meowed.
“I
know
it didn’t work,” she told him. “Don’t remind me.”
He purred in answer. He probably didn’t understand her, but with Nightshade, B could never be sure.
B grabbed her backpack from her bedroom and stuffed her battered copy of
Through the Looking Glass
inside. She hurried down the stairs, two at a time, and slid into her chair, the last one at the breakfast table.
“Dawn, please,” B’s mom said to B’s older sister. “No mascara at breakfast.”
Dawn sighed and shoved her makeup back into her purse, muttering:
“Dawn is quick, her rhymes are cunning.
Dawn’s dark lashes are thick and stunning!”
And, poof! She looked like she’d just had a makeover.
B rolled her eyes. Her sister’s spells were
so
superficial.
Dawn made a face. “What’s the matter, B? Jealous?”
“Girls, girls,” their mother scolded. “No time for bickering. The bus will be here soon.” She pointed toward the table and said, in a singsongy voice:
“Butter melt and batter bubble,
Golden pancakes! On the double!”
And fragrant stacks of steaming pancakes, drenched in syrup and butter, appeared on everyone’s plates.
B’s dad rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, mumbling:
“Roast it, grind it, brew it up.
Coffee, black, in my favorite cup.”
The coffee machine on the counter whirred and hissed, then beeped. A full pot detached itself and floated over to the table. It dipped low over Dad’s summer solstice celebration mug, filling it without spilling a drop. It then paused by Mom’s cup, but she shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m cutting back.”
Dawn frowned at her plate and said:
“Lighter, please. Fewer calories.
A syrup smile is all Dawn needs.”
That’s not even a perfect rhyme,
B thought,
but it doesn’t matter.
Dawn’s pat of butter and half her syrup vanished, leaving a happy face made of syrup on her top pancake. She grinned and flicked her long blond hair behind her back before digging in.
It was so unfair. Everything Dawn did came out perfectly.
B’s annoyance faded when she tasted her pancakes. Mom’s breakfast spells were the best. She’d won first prize at the Witchin’ Kitchen Competition for her dandelion donuts, three years straight, with a second place prize for her famous eel soup.
“Great pancakes, Mom,” B said. “Will you pass the apple juice, please?”
Her family lowered their forks and studied her. B felt her face turn red. She should have just gotten some milk from the fridge, instead of drawing attention to the fact that she still couldn’t perform spells.
Mom’s kind face was full of concern. “Try it,dear,” she said. “Just a little juice-summoning rhyme. Who knows? This might be the day!”
But of course B already knew that it wasn’t. While her family and all their witching friends could rhyme their way out of stomachaches, traffic jams, and washing dishes, B was left doing things the hard way.
B sighed. She’d have to try. It didn’t help, her family waiting and watching like that. Performing in front of crowds, even just her three family members, made B extremely nervous. She tried to think. What rhymed with juice? Loose, goose, hangman’s noose. Arg. Her family made this rhyming business seem so easy.
Well,
she thought,
here goes nothing.
She closed her eyes and recited:
“Syrup sweeter
“Beeeee-atrix,” B’s mother called up the stairs. “Breakfast!”
B cinched her ponytail and took one last look in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe today,” she told her reflection. Then she plucked a little pot of her sister’s lip balm from the medicine cabinet and chanted softly:
“Let this be my first spell in rhyme:
Cherry lip gloss, change to lime!”
She squeezed her eyes tight, then opened them. Nothing had happened. She sniffed to make sure. It was still cherry. Just like yesterday, and every day since her eleventh birthday, more than three months ago.
Her cat, Nightshade, twined himself between her ankles and meowed.
“I
know
it didn’t work,” she told him. “Don’t remind me.”
He purred in answer. He probably didn’t understand her, but with Nightshade, B could never be sure.
B grabbed her backpack from her bedroom and stuffed her battered copy of
Through the Looking Glass
inside. She hurried down the stairs, two at a time, and slid into her chair, the last one at the breakfast table.
“Dawn, please,” B’s mom said to B’s older sister. “No mascara at breakfast.”
Dawn sighed and shoved her makeup back into her purse, muttering:
“Dawn is quick, her rhymes are cunning.
Dawn’s dark lashes are thick and stunning!”
And, poof! She looked like she’d just had a makeover.
B rolled her eyes. Her sister’s spells were
so
superficial.
Dawn made a face. “What’s the matter, B? Jealous?”
“Girls, girls,” their mother scolded. “No time for bickering. The bus will be here soon.” She pointed toward the table and said, in a singsongy voice:
“Butter melt and batter bubble,
Golden pancakes! On the double!”
And fragrant stacks of steaming pancakes, drenched in syrup and butter, appeared on everyone’s plates.
B’s dad rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, mumbling:
“Roast it, grind it, brew it up.
Coffee, black, in my favorite cup.”
The coffee machine on the counter whirred and hissed, then beeped. A full pot detached itself and floated over to the table. It dipped low over Dad’s summer solstice celebration mug, filling it without spilling a drop. It then paused by Mom’s cup, but she shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m cutting back.”
Dawn frowned at her plate and said:
“Lighter, please. Fewer calories.
A syrup smile is all Dawn needs.”
That’s not even a perfect rhyme,
B thought,
but it doesn’t matter.
Dawn’s pat of butter and half her syrup vanished, leaving a happy face made of syrup on her top pancake. She grinned and flicked her long blond hair behind her back before digging in.
It was so unfair. Everything Dawn did came out perfectly.
B’s annoyance faded when she tasted her pancakes. Mom’s breakfast spells were the best. She’d won first prize at the Witchin’ Kitchen Competition for her dandelion donuts, three years straight, with a second place prize for her famous eel soup.
“Great pancakes, Mom,” B said. “Will you pass the apple juice, please?”
Her family lowered their forks and studied her. B felt her face turn red. She should have just gotten some milk from the fridge, instead of drawing attention to the fact that she still couldn’t perform spells.
Mom’s kind face was full of concern. “Try it,dear,” she said. “Just a little juice-summoning rhyme. Who knows? This might be the day!”
But of course B already knew that it wasn’t. While her family and all their witching friends could rhyme their way out of stomachaches, traffic jams, and washing dishes, B was left doing things the hard way.
B sighed. She’d have to try. It didn’t help, her family waiting and watching like that. Performing in front of crowds, even just her three family members, made B extremely nervous. She tried to think. What rhymed with juice? Loose, goose, hangman’s noose. Arg. Her family made this rhyming business seem so easy.
Well,
she thought,
here goes nothing.
She closed her eyes and recited:
“Syrup sweeter
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