The Cursed First Term of Zelda Stitch. Bad Teacher. Worse Witch. Read online

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2017

  Copyright © Nicki Greenberg 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76029 490 8

  eISBN 978 1 76063 917 4

  For teaching resources, explore

  www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Nicki Greenberg and Sandra Nobes

  Set by Sandra Nobes

  For Jodie Webster

  (Excellent witch)

  Contents

  WEEK ONE

  Sunday 2 February, 11.55pm

  Monday 3 February, 7.30am

  Monday, 7pm

  Tuesday 4 February

  Wednesday 5 February

  Thursday 6 February

  Friday 7 February

  Saturday 8 February

  Saturday, 6pm

  Sunday 9 February

  WEEK TWO

  Monday 10 February

  Tuesday 11 February

  Wednesday 12 February

  Thursday 13 February

  Friday 14 February

  Saturday 15 February

  Sunday 16 February

  WEEK THREE

  Monday 17 February

  Tuesday 18 February

  Wednesday 19 February

  Thursday 20 February

  Friday 21 February, 4.30pm

  Saturday 22 February

  Sunday 23 February

  WEEK FOUR

  Monday 24 February

  Tuesday 25 February

  Tuesday, 5pm

  Wednesday 26 February

  Wednesday, 9pm

  Thursday 27 February

  Friday 28 February

  Saturday 1 March – Full Moon

  Sunday 2 March

  WEEK FIVE

  Monday 3 March

  Tuesday 4 March

  Wednesday 5 March, 7am

  Wednesday, 5pm

  Thursday 6 March

  Friday 7 March

  Friday, 11pm

  Saturday 8 March

  Sunday 9 March, 4.35am

  Sunday, 7am

  Sunday, 6pm

  Sunday, 8pm

  Sunday, 9pm

  Sunday, 10pm

  WEEK SIX

  Monday 10 March

  Tuesday 11 March

  Tuesday, 10.45pm

  Wednesday 12 March

  Thursday 13 March

  Friday 14 March

  Saturday 15 March

  Sunday 16 March

  Sunday, 6pm

  Sunday, 1.30am

  WEEK SEVEN

  Monday 17 March, 7.30am

  Monday, 6pm

  Monday, 10.30pm

  Tuesday 18 March

  Wednesday 19 March

  Thursday 20 March

  Thursday, 11pm

  Friday 21 March, 7.30am

  Friday, 8.30am

  Friday, 2.10pm

  Friday, 4pm

  Saturday 22 March, 2.15am.

  Saturday, 3am

  Saturday, 4am

  Saturday, 8am

  WEEK EIGHT

  Monday 24 March, 11am

  Monday, 2.30pm

  Monday, 6pm

  Tuesday 25 March, 10am

  Tuesday, 1.30pm

  Tuesday, 5pm

  Wednesday 26 March

  Thursday 27 March

  Thursday, 4pm

  Thursday, 5.26pm

  Friday 28 March

  WEEK NINE

  Monday 31 March

  About the author

  Sunday 2 February, 11.55pm

  ‘Zelda rides a broomstick!’

  ‘Zelda’s got a bat-friend!’

  ‘Zelda smells like toadstools!’

  ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’

  Witch. Witch. Witch.

  It was bad enough when I was eleven years old. But if they sniff me out now, it’ll be a disaster.

  This time there’ll be no hiding at the back of the classroom, hoping no one notices me. No pretending to have a stomach ache or locking myself in the toilets to cry. In just nine hours I’ll be standing in front of a whole class of the little monsters, trying not to make some kind of terrible mistake. Although I think I’ve already made one, taking this job in the first place.

  Barnaby says I’m being a great big baby. They’re not tigers, he says (sharpening his claws on the carpet, even though I’ve told him a thousand times not to). They’re children. Ordinary children! They can’t even do magic! What’s the worst that could happen?

  Easy for Barnaby to say. He’s not going to suddenly forget how to do long division. He’s not going to walk in with his skirt tucked into the back of his tights. Barnaby wouldn’t even care if he farted in class!

  And what if the very worst happens?

  What if they find out the truth about me?

  Witch, witch, witch.

  Worst worst imaginable.

  Monday 3 February, 7.30am

  That appalling cat is determined to ruin my first day before it has even begun. At five am the little fiend decided that he wanted baked beans for breakfast. So he stuck the beans in the microwave, tin and all! The explosion shook the entire apartment. Fire, smoke, boiling beans raining down from the ceiling, the screaming smoke alarm (I had to smash it with a mop handle to stop the hideous noise) and the microwave in a shattered heap on the floor.

  When I’d finally smacked out the last of the flames with the fire blanket, who should saunter out of the pantry but Barnaby himself, cool as you please, with a new can of beans that he demanded I warm up for him!

  I should have shoved him out the window with his stupid beans. But instead, still in shock, I opened the tin, dumped the beans into a bowl, slammed it down on the table and threw a heat spell at it. I can usually do one of those without messing it up.

  Not this time.

  Barnaby took a greedy gulp, and shot straight up in the air, yowling like his entire body was burning. He leapt onto the sink and stuck his tongue under the tap, whimpering with revulsion as the water ran through his fur. That’s when I saw that the gloopy mess of beans and sauce was boiling and steaming in the bowl. It was so hot that the varnish on the tabletop was bubbling and flaking all around it. What is wrong with me?

  I didn’t dare attempt a tidy spell on the kitchen. Tidy spells have never been my strong point, and anyway this wasn’t so much a tidying situation as an industrial strength disaster recovery scenario. I put on the rubber gloves, dragged out the bucket and started scrubbing away like an Ordinary. It took me two hours, while His Majesty lay on the couch and licked his way through a whole tub of ice cream. Mother would have had the kitchen done in seconds with a flick of he
r left hand, but there is no way I’d give her the satisfaction of asking her to come over and help.

  Sigh. Day one, and I’m going to arrive at school smelling like burnt baked beans and floor cleaner.

  Monday, 7pm

  The first thing I did when I got home today was throw Mother’s old crystal ball straight into the bin. What a piece of junk! Yes, it’s possible that I’m just not very good at reading the silly thing, but for the past week all I’ve been able to see in it is a steaming, vomity-orange swamp, which has surely got to mean bad news coming. So you can hardly blame me for panicking. But as it turns out, the crystal ball was WRONG! Totally wrong! My first day was an absolute triumph!

  I do feel a bit silly about being such a worrywart because – amazingly enough – I seem to be quite a natural at this teaching business. My entire class was so quiet, so polite, so beautifully well behaved, I could hardly believe it. It was as if someone had literally cast a spell on them. I had to sneak a look at my hands every so often to make sure my fingertips weren’t sparking! Is this normal for the first day of school?

  At lunchtime Vice Principal Melody Martin asked me how it was going, and I told her marvellous, wonderful etc. She raised her eyebrows and said, ‘So far so good, then?’ with a definite spike of sarcasm in her voice. Not sure what to make of this, but maybe she just didn’t have as smooth a day as I did. She’s a bit terrifying, to tell the truth. Pinch-tight mouth and scraped-back ponytail, and a look on her face like she just smelled something nasty. I still haven’t met the actual principal, Mr Clarence Biggins, which is a little strange, now that I think about it. I hope he’s friendlier than MM.

  Still, altogether a grand success. I can’t wait to tell the gang. They’ve tried not to show it too much, but I know they are all quite sceptical about my choice of career. And I guess that’s understandable: sometimes even I wonder what on earth made me sign up for a teaching course. Although, if I’m completely honest, I might have done it partly because I knew how much it would annoy Mother.

  Anyway, I’ve proven them all wrong, and it’s only day one! I’ll have to save my bragging until Saturday night, though, because I certainly don’t have an appreciative audience at home. Barnaby hasn’t even asked how my first day went, and when I tried to tell him about it, he suddenly became deeply engrossed in some urgent undercarriage cleaning. His burnt tongue appears to have recovered nicely, thank you very much. He did look up once, to say that such excessively good behaviour seems a bit suspicious. Barnaby has never liked children, sure, but even so he could at least try to be pleased for me.

  Tuesday 4 February

  And then came Zinnia.

  No wonder my class was so good yesterday. They were missing a key ingredient. The troublemaker.

  She made her triumphant entrance just after the bell, with a neon-pink cast on her left arm and the promise of mischief in her eyes.

  She spent yesterday in the Emergency department of the Children’s Hospital after jumping from the roof of her house onto the trampoline. At least, that’s what she told her cluster of adoring fans. The trampoline was destroyed, but amazingly – miraculously, according to the doctors – Zinnia was mostly undamaged. And she was definitely undaunted. I spent the entire first lesson trying to squash the waves of whispers and giggles that kept rippling out all around her, but it was like trying to quell the excitement at a rock concert. At one point I caught Zinnia standing on my desk, about to re-enact the infamous roof-jump.

  In the end I let her have her moment of celebrity. Well, her day of celebrity. She did fall off a roof, after all. Plus, I don’t want to be Ms Grumpy Pants when it’s only day two.

  Naturally Barnaby disapproves. He says that I’m being a hopeless wimp, and that I should be handing out some memorable consequences right away, as soon as anyone plays up. Show them who’s boss. But then, Barnaby’s consequences usually involve biting, scratching and spitting. I’m not taking teaching advice from him, of all people. I had a much better idea, anyway. I’m going to make a ‘Rules of the Classroom’ poster and get all the children to sign it, like an agreement. Quite clever, I think.

  Wednesday 5 February

  I brought in my Rules of the Classroom poster today, only to discover a mortifying spelling mistake in Rule #4. Doubly mortifying as I had run a correction spell over the whole thing after I finished it. I should have known it wouldn’t work. My spell-casting is even worse than my spelling.

  It was Eleanor who pointed out the mistake. She put up her hand, and asked in a smug voice, ‘Ms Stitch, do you really think we should “Resect our teacher and classmates”?’

  There were a few giggles, but nobody seemed to get Eleanor’s joke. They were all looking at me, waiting for an explanation. And of course I had no idea what ‘resect’ meant either. I couldn’t come up with anything better than ‘Um–?’, while blushing like an overripe tomato.

  Eleanor let me stand there squirming and sweating for an unnecessarily long time before finally saying, ‘In case you didn’t know, “resect” means doing surgery. So Rule #4 is “Cut up your teacher and classmates”.’

  At least four children got out their scissors and started snapping them in the air like demonic barbers.

  When I’d finally restored some order, I asked Eleanor how she’d learned such an interesting word. She said that her mother is a professor of surgery, and probably knows more words than all of the teachers put together.

  We had a staff meeting at lunchtime presided over by MM, who was all charm and cheer but didn’t speak to me. In fact she pointedly ignored me when I put up my hand to ask a question. After the meeting I tried to say something nice to her, and she completely brushed me off. I could feel myself blushing horribly (again) as she walked away, leaving me alone in the middle of the room with my mouth open mid-sentence. It was like being back in fifth grade, with Emily Groff publicly un-inviting me to her party because I ‘smelled witchy’.

  I made a bit of conversation with a couple of the other teachers, but it felt awkward. I just never know if I’m fitting in properly, or if I’m doing something weird without realising it.

  Maybe I should ask Briony for some tips. She is excellent with Ordinaries – you’d never suspect she was a witch if you didn’t know her. And the crazy thing is, she has the strongest powers of all of us. If she wasn’t such a good friend I’d be quite jealous.

  Thursday 6 February

  Hooray, hooray, hooray! I made a friend at school today!

  Well, I think I did. He looked happy enough to be chatting with me, and I enjoyed it too, so that seems like a good start. His name is Ben, and he’s the librarian. I met him during our first library session, and finally felt like I could have a proper conversation with someone. We talked about books.

  He also told me some pretty interesting stuff that, for some reason, nobody else has bothered to mention. Like the fact that Phoebe Martin is Melody Martin’s niece!!! How come no one warned me about this?? I would have thought it was essential information for a new teacher. Like, ‘Here are the washrooms, here’s the staff room, oh, and you should know that the snooty vice principal’s niece is in your class and will be watching your every move.’

  According to Ben, Phoebe is every teacher’s dream student: bright, polite, friendly and well behaved. Well, obviously. I’d be on my best behaviour, too, if I had Aunt Scary looking over my shoulder every day at school.

  I felt quite nervous for the rest of the day, wondering if Phoebe would talk to MM about me, and what she might say. I couldn’t help sneaking little glances at her all afternoon, trying to see whether I was making a good impression. It was very hard to tell; Phoebe’s face didn’t give much away. She hasn’t said much in class yet, but she seems like a nice kid, and the other kids obviously like her. Her handwriting is extraordinarily neat, and whenever she’s finished her work, she immediately starts writing away in the sparkly pink notebook that she carries around with her, carefully shielding it so that no one else can see.

 
What is she filling those pages with?

  I know that what I should do is try to forget about her being MM’s niece. It isn’t fair to Phoebe if I act all jumpy around her. Plus, the more anxious I get, the more likely I am to have some kind of magic spill.

  PS – I took a peek at the library catalogue to see if any of Jessamyn’s books were there. And yes, they had the whole ElfinFire series, and every single one was out on loan, each with a string of reservations. I couldn’t help feeling a bit irritated. I wish she would stop churning out that cauldrons-and-broomsticks rubbish. Does Ben read them?? I hope not.

  Friday 7 February

  Friday at last! And my two biggest achievements for Week One are:

  1. Not getting fired.

  2. Not setting anything on fire.

  I call that a success.

  You should have seen the other teachers when the bell rang for the end of school. They were more excited than the kids. They practically ran out of their classrooms. I could hear them all moaning to each other as they collected their gear from the staff room and bundled out the door: ‘What a week!’, ‘I’m knackered!’, ‘Is Term One over yet?’ and so on. Huh! They think their jobs are hard? Try being a teacher and a witch!

  Would I rather not be a witch? It’s pointless to think about it, really: I am what I am, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But life would be so much easier if I were an Ordinary. Mother would be horrified to hear me say this, but it’s true. It’s exhausting having to pretend all the time. It’s stressful worrying that someone will catch me out. I know that lots of Ordinaries don’t believe witches are real, but even they would freak out if they witnessed a burst of magic. And there are plenty more who are so frightened, so repulsed by us, that they’d like to drive us out of their world altogether. One thing is for sure: they don’t want to know us. So we do what we’ve done for centuries: keep quiet, stay under cover and try to get by. I wonder what it’s like just to be who you are, and not care who knows it?

  Ha – I should ask Barnaby. He certainly doesn’t give a whisker what anyone else thinks. But His Majesty has gone out somewhere, having first raided both the money tin and the kitchen. The last of the milk is gone (apart from a splatter of drips on the floor), and the empty container is still sitting there in the fridge. Very annoying, as I felt like having cereal for dinner. He really is the most inconsiderate companion.