The Power of Poppy Pendle (4 page)

“Oh, I’ll never forget her,” Poppy said.

“That quick-growing hair potion she came up with is terrific for bald-headed men, and you can get it in such lovely colors.” Miss Jenkins scrunched up her face in concern. “These woman were amazing, Poppy. Why pick Madeline Reynolds?”

“Because she interests me.”

“She was head girl at Ruthersfield, a straight-A student, and then she went on to become the worst storm brewer in history. Joined the dark side. We had monsoon weather for six straight years until she was put behind bars.” Miss Jenkins shuddered. “It was Madeline Reynolds who washed away the whole bottom half of Italy. Why would you write about someone like that?”

“To find out why she did it,” Poppy said. “I think she must have been very unhappy.” And then under her breath so Miss Jenkins couldn’t hear, she whispered, “Maybe she didn’t like being a witch.”

That afternoon Poppy stayed late in the library, sitting at one of the long tables, surrounded by a stack of books on the life of Madeline Reynolds.

“You can check those out if you like,” Miss Corns, the magical management teacher, said, poking her head around the door. It was strangely quiet. Even Ms. Gilbert, the librarian, had left.

“I know.” Poppy looked embarrassed. “It’s just easier to work here sometimes.”

“Ahhhh.” Miss Corns nodded. “Noisy brothers and sisters at home?”

“Not exactly,” Poppy confessed. “I’m an only child, actually, but my parents like to watch me study, if that makes sense.”

“They watch you study?” Miss Corns walked into the room. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Poppy gave a nervous laugh. “Well, they care a lot about me being at Ruthersfield, you see. My great-grandmother Mabel Ratcliff went here, and they want me to do well.”

“And I’m sure you will,” said Miss Corns.

“But they care so much about me being a witch that it’s almost a bit, you know, smothering,” Poppy finished guiltily.

“Smothering?” Miss Corns questioned, raising a gray, rather hairy eyebrow.

“My mum always sits in the same room with me when I’m doing my homework,” Poppy explained. “She wants to keep me company, and she’s very quiet because she doesn’t want to disturb me, so she won’t read because of the pages’ rustling, and she doesn’t knit or anything. So she just sits there and watches me.” Poppy paused for a moment, then finished up. “It’s a bit hard to concentrate when someone’s staring right at you.”

“I see,” Miss Corns said, and judging from the sympathetic look on her face, Poppy got the feeling that she really did understand.

There was a companionable silence as Miss Corns moved around the room, straightening the odd book into place and dimming some of the lights. She paused in front of the long back wall, where a display of gilt-framed certificates hung. “Well, your great-grandmother Mabel certainly was an astonishing student,” she commented. “Come and take a look, Poppy. She was voted Witch of the Year six times at school.” Poppy got up and walked over to Miss Corns, who gestured at a row of certificates. Each one had Mabel Ratcliff’s name engraved on it in perfect gold script.

“What do you have to do to be voted Witch of the Year?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Simple,” Miss Corns replied. “You have to be the best. Nothing short of perfect. And it’s not just about the magic, either,” she said, tapping at her chest. “It’s about what’s in here. You must be committed to your art, passionate about it.”

“Well, I’ll never be Witch of the Year.” Poppy sighed. “Which will disappoint my parents no end.”

“Oh, Poppy, you’re an extremely talented young witch.”

“Thank you.” Poppy nodded glumly. Tucking a clump of loose brown hair back into one of her braids, she walked along the wall, staring at the names of past witches who had achieved this highest of honors bestowed on a Ruthersfield girl. Poppy stopped in front of an empty space where a dusty rectangular outline was still visible. “Why was this certificate taken down?” she asked Miss Corns.

“That was awarded to Madeline Reynolds.” Miss Corns lowered her voice. “She went over to the dark side and became one of the most evil witches this century has ever seen. Ended up in Scrubs Prison. Hard to believe she got voted Witch of the Year. Although,” Miss Corns admitted, “she was apparently rather famous for her spell chanting. Everyone always said Madeline Reynolds had the most extraordinary voice.”

“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

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The Rescue of the Pink Sneakers

M
RS. 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.”