Hello. My name is Mandy Logan, and before you hear it from anyone else, I’m a witch.
Yep, you heard me right. A witch. I know, I know. Shocker right, but hey — don’t go spreading the word around, okay? I mean, to most everyone, I’m just a regular kid, but to some people, like my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Billings, I’m an evil, tyrannical child who should be watched and controlled and probably squashed. Why?
Well, it’s kind of a long story. See, it all started two years ago when I was in fourth grade at Starlake Elementary School. That’s when I found out I was different. It was the last day of school and man, was it a scorcher. The air conditioner was broken and everyone was sweaty, grumpy and just plain miserable. My teacher, Mrs. Pettinggill, being the nicest, sweetest teacher ever, pulled out a pack of plastic cups from the supply closet and gave us permission, one by one, to take the long trek down the hall, fill up our cups at the water fountain, and come straight back. I had just finished filling my cup when Principal Babcock came around the corner.
“Young lady, what are you doing out of class?”
I looked up at his horsey face, his comb-over plastered to his bald head. “Getting a drink of water.” I showed him my hall pass. “Would you like some?”
He patted his face with his handkerchief and replaced his glasses. “No, thank you, but I think I will go with you and ask your teacher for one of those cups.”
I drank my water as we walked. “Do you ever daydream, Principal Babcock?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I daydream all the time. You know what I’m daydreaming about right now?”
Principal Babcock shook his head. “No, what?”
“Snow cones. Cherry and blueberry snow cones. And I’d like to eat them while floating down a lazy river, you know, like the one at the water park, with fountains spraying a light mist overhead. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
No sooner had I spoken the words when the pipes in the walls burst, showering us in a fine mist. Behind us, a lazy river turned the bend and swept us down the hall, and my water turned to a cherry and blueberry snow cone. The look on Principal Babcock’s face was priceless as he watched the doors of the classrooms fly open and teachers and students alike float down the hall. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world . . . until Principal Babcock called my parents.
Needless to say, I never saw Starlake Elementary again, and mom and dad had to explain how I’d ‘come of age’.
The following year, I attended Meadowlark Elementary on the other side of town, but fifth grade didn’t fare much better. The incident that did me in at that school happened on a very cold, January morning.
It had snowed the night before and all morning — not too heavy, but enough to make driving hazardous and the kids cantankerous, at least that’s what mom said over a steaming bowl of oatmeal and hot chocolate. I wouldn’t know. All I knew was when I got to school, the heaters were moaning and groaning and the classrooms were cold and there was no sun streaming in the windows to cheer our moods or keep us warm. By the time I got to my third period Science class, I felt like a popsicle stuck to the inside of a down coat.
Mr. Windem canceled his normal class lecture and instead shuffled us all to the rear of the classroom into the pocket of warmth, and gave us slides of bugs to look at under magnifying glasses and microscopes. My slide consisted of an unusual bug, a fire beetle, which I soon learned was the brightest, bioluminescent insect in the world. It was also the source of my expulsion from Meadowlark Elementary.
It wasn’t the bug’s fault, exactly, but it wasn’t mine, either. If I had to blame anyone for the resulting fiasco it would be Johnny Weeder. He’s the one who started the whole thing. Well, him and Mr. Windem that is.
See, Mr. Windem stepped out of the room for a moment to talk to another teacher. This, of course, presented the perfect opportunity for certain kids to act like morons, and if there was ever a moron that existed in our class, it was Johnny Weeder.
“Say, whatcha got there,” he said, snatching my slide from the table. He narrowed his eyes in his pufferfish face as he held it up to the light. “A lightning bug?”
I reached for it but he jerked out of the way, the slide held over his head.
“No. It’s a fire beetle,” I said. “Now give my bug back.”
“No. I wanna look at it.”
“But you’ve got your own bug.”
“I know, and now I’ve got yours.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Johnny Weeder, give back my bug, now!” I headed around the table.
Johnny snickered and took off. “Uh, uh. You gotta catch me first.”
Looking back, I shouldn’t have pursued him, but I couldn’t help myself. He had my bug.
“Give it back, Johnny!” I said, chasing him around the lab table. The other kids stepped out of the way and gave us track room. Then they started cheering us on — half for me, half for Johnny.
Moments later, Mr. Windem returned and from the sound of his voice, he was not a happy camper.
“Johnny! Mandy! In your seats, now!”
Johnny and I both scrambled into our adjacent seats in much the same way we would in a game of musical chairs.
Mr. Windem pressed his fingertips to the desks in front of us. “What on earth were you two doing? Johnny, I expect this behavior from you, but Mandy, I’m appalled.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Windem, but Johnny stole my slide and wouldn’t give it back.”
“Is this true, Johnny?”
“I just wanted to look at it,” he said.
“Ah, geez,” Mr. Windem said. “Where is the slide now?”
Johnny shrugged. “I dunno.”
Mr. Windem rolled his eyes. “We’ll talk about this incident after class. Both of you stay here when the bell rings.” He turned around and walked back toward the front of the room. “Class, take your seats, please.”
Moans and groans followed.
“Tattletale,” Johnny whispered to me as he slumped in his seat. “I hope you get so much homework your arm falls off.”
“Yeah. Well I hope that fire beetle you’re sitting on erupts in flames and burns your butt.”
I knew as soon as I spoke the words I shouldn’t have, but there’s one thing about a magic spell — once it’s spoken, you can’t take it back. Bad thing was, Mr. Windem heard me incant the words. He turned just as Johnny Weeder’s butt caught fire.
Johnny tumbled from his seat, wailing and crawling on all fours, flames licking at his butt. At first everyone laughed, including me, but seconds later, kids ran to the front of the room, screaming. I looked over to see Johnny’s desk engulfed in flames. My mouth fell open. I turned back to the front of the class to see Johnny pinned to the floor, coats smacking him in the butt to put out the flames. Mr. Windem grabbed the fire extinguisher and doused the desk. Someone opened the windows. The overhead sprinklers went off, and then Mr. Windem escorted me to the front office.
I was home-schooled the rest of the year.
So far, my sixth grade year has passed without incident, and if I can get through today, I’ll be out of Coconut Grove Middle School for a two-week Easter break and then I’ll only have six weeks to go before school is out for the summer!
I rushed to my last class of the day. I had just turned the corner of ‘B’ wing when the tardy bell rang. My teacher, the grumpy old sap she is, took one look at me, smirked this irritating smirk, then stepped inside the classroom and closed the door.
“Ms. Billings, wait! I’m here.” I could see her poofy black hair blocking the window in the door. “Ms. Billings?” I turned the knob. It was locked. I pounded on the door. “Ms. Billings! Open the door, please. I have a note.” Pound. Pound. Pound. “Ms. Billings!”
The door flew open so hard and fast I almost fell on my butt.
“What is all this racket out here?” Ms. Billings stared down at me, her hands on her hips. “Oh. It’s you.”
I stretched out my arm. “I — I have a note.”
Ms. Billings snatched the tardy slip from my hand and yanked me into the classroom.
“Go sit down, child, and write one hundred times ‘I will not be late to Mrs. Billings’ class ever again.’”
“But I didn’t do it on purpose. I had a doctor’s appointment.” Everyone was looking at me.
“I don’t care if you had an appointment with God. You are to be in your seat at precisely two p.m. Since you were not, you are considered tardy, and tardiness will not be accepted in my classroom. Now start writing.”
I sat in my seat and opened my notebook.
“Oh, and I want you to skip every other line and write only on one side of the paper. In red ink.”
I looked up at her. “B-but, I don’t have any red ink.”
Mrs. Billings opened her desk drawer and threw a pen across the room. It hit me just below my throat.
“Oww!”
“There. Problem solved. And because you came to class unprepared, you will change your sentence to read ‘I will not be late for Mrs. Billings’ class ever again, and I will always come prepared.’ Oh, by the way, Miss Logan. I’ve read your school file. Don’t try any funny stuff, hear?”
Mrs. Billings rapped her desk several times with her wooden ruler. “Class. Pay attention. Let Mandy Logan be an example to all of you. Slackers and tardiness will not be tolerated in my classroom. Now pull out your science books and put your eyes up front.”
While I set to my task of writing in what looked like blood, the rest of the class learned about rats, more importantly, their role in the Black Plague.
“Mrs. Billings? When are we going to get another pet rabbit?”
The question came from Brandy Bradford, a shy, soft-spoken girl with glasses and pigtails. From the crazed look on Mrs. Billings’ face, however, one would think the devil himself had spoken.
“How dare you speak out of turn in my class, Miss Bradford! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you do not speak in my class unless I ask you a question! Is there something you do not understand about that rule?” She tapped the wooden ruler in her palm.
“N-no, ma’am. It’s just you said after Mr. Peebles died, we’d get another pet rabbit.”
“Hmph. I did, didn’t I.” Her voice was as smooth as poison. “Tell me, Miss Bradford. Why would I get another pet rabbit when it was you and your dyslexic brother’s fault the first one died, hum?”
“B-but I-I . . . i-it was an accident. Brad and I got so excited about Christmas break we forgot to take Mr. Peebles home.”
Mrs. Billings loomed over Brandy like a dark cloud. “So your excitement absolves you of your responsibility? It was your job to take the rabbit home over the Christmas break; however, you shirked your duties, didn’t you, Miss Bradford. Because of you and your brother, your beloved pet rabbit died. You did not care for it. You did not feed it or water it, and now the two of you will have to carry the burden with you the rest of your pathetic little lives that you are murderers.”
“I . . . we are not . . . murderers,” Brandy sobbed. “It was an accident.”
“Leave her alone, you old bat!” Brad Bradford stood up, his hands clenched in fists at his side. “You have no right to talk to my sister like that! I’m going to the principal’s office and tell him what you do in here every day. I’m going to tell him how you call us names and how mean you are. And then I’m going to tell my mom and dad. Trust me, they’ll make sure you never work at this school ever again.”
He walked over to Brandy and placed his arm around her shoulder. “Come on, sis. Let’s go.”
Mrs. Billings blocked the doorway, her hawkish nose stuck up in the air. “Sit down! I didn’t give you permission to leave.”
The bell rang to change class. The other students slammed their books shut and pushed passed Mrs. Billings into the hallway.
Brad stood his ground. “I don’t need your permission, twit.” Brad led his sobbing sister from the room.
Mrs. Billings stood with her hand flat to her chest. “Why, I never heard such impertinence from my students. Your parents will hear of your saucy mouth,” she called after them.
Mrs. Billings turned, then stopped when she saw me still sitting at my desk.
“What are you still doing here, Miss Logan? I’d figure you’d be one of the first out the door.”
I stood and gathered my books. “You know, Mrs. Billings. You really shouldn’t have called Brandy a murderer in front of your class.” I handed her my five sheets of bloodied paper. “It was like so totally uncool. I wish I could stick around to see you squirm your way out of this one.”
I walked to the door and stopped. A brilliant idea ping-ponged in my brain. Why couldn’t I see her squirm? I turned to face her.
“Mrs. Billings, I must say, you’re not a very nice person.” I closed the door. “In fact, I think it’s about time you faced the reality that you are nothing more than a nasty, skinny, hairless rat!”
The morphing happened in less than a second. I chuckled as she let out a squeak. I caught her by the tail before she could scamper beneath her desk.
She writhed and flipped and she would have bitten me if I hadn’t tossed her in Mr. Peeble’s cage and locked the door. I stood there for a moment and contemplated the severity of my actions, then bent over and patted the top of the cage.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Billings,” I said. “It’s such a shame you turned out to be such a witch. You give people like me a bad name.” I filled up the water bottle and food dish with rabbit food. “Maybe two weeks behind bars will change your attitude. See ya.”
I smiled, stepped into the hallway and closed the door on her desperate squeaks.
