The Wayward Witch and the Feelings Monster

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About Sally Rippin

  Copyright Page

  Polly Proggett is terrible at spells, which is rather unfortunate when you’re a witch.

  Today Polly’s teacher is teaching the class how to make a potion to remove warts. Wart Removal is supposed to be one of the easiest spells in the book.

  This time I’m going to make sure nothing goes wrong! thinks Polly.

  Polly lines up the dusty jars of ingredients and marks them off in her book.

  All I have to do is carefully follow the instructions in the spell book, just like Miss Spinnaker tells us to.

  Miss Spinnaker is Polly’s favourite teacher. She has curly red hair, which she knots into a messy bun at the top of her head, and she jangles with silver jewellery when she walks. Instead of the plain black school cape most of the Academy teachers wear, Miss Spinnaker wears a velvet cape embroidered with colourful threads and studded with little octagonal mirrors. The mirrors catch the sunlight as it slants through the high windows and send little dancing lights across the room.

  Polly thinks Miss Spinnaker is glorious.

  Miss Spinnaker has put Polly in a group with Rosemary and Valentine, who are very good at spells. Polly knows that Miss Spinnaker hopes some of their cleverness might rub off on her. Polly secretly hopes this might happen, too.

  It’s not that Polly isn’t clever – as Miss Spinnaker always reassures her – it’s just that things get muddled in Polly’s head when she’s given long and complicated instructions.

  Is it three drops of toad juice next? Polly often wonders when she’s in the middle of a spell. Or a pinch of dried snake blood?

  And sometimes, when Polly looks at the yellowed pages of her leather-bound spell book, the letters seem to dance across the page. A letter b might suddenly look a lot like a p. A w might transform into an m.

  Polly decides to be extra careful today. She watches Rosemary neatly tip three tablespoons of milkwood sap into her cauldron. The potion bubbles up and a perfect puff of smoke floats towards the ceiling.

  Miss Spinnaker is walking around the classroom, handing out toads for everyone to practise on.

  ‘Come along now, Polly,’ she says, as she approaches their table. ‘Have you started yet?’

  Polly, Rosemary and Valentine quickly clap their hands over them before they leap away. Polly shudders when she feels the bumpy, clammy skin.

  Rosemary picks up a pipette, dips it into her bubbling potion, and squeezes the rubber bulb to fill up the glass tube. Then she squirts a drop of the potion onto one of her toad’s biggest warts.

  At first, the wart bubbles up into a clear blister, but then it pops, shrivels and disappears.

  ‘Good work, Rosemary,’ Miss Spinnaker says, and wanders over to another table.

  Polly peers down at the spell book again and chews the inside of her lip. She can’t remember if she has already sprinkled in the newt crystals or if she is up to the bat flakes.

  And does ‘tsp’ mean tablespoon or teaspoon?

  Polly is too embarrassed to ask Valentine. Valentine is kind and sort of friendly, but Polly knows she will roll her eyes if she has to explain the recipe again. So Polly tosses in a handful of newt crystals, just in case. She figures it’s better to have too much than not enough. Her potion bubbles up furiously, and Polly decides this means it’s ready to use.

  She squeezes up a big blob of liquid into her pipette and

  ‘Oh, look, look!’ Polly says. ‘It’s working!’

  The warts on the toad’s back begin to bubble up and blister.

  ‘Good work, Polly!’ Miss Spinnaker says as she hurries over, bracelets jangling.

  But as they watch, the toad keeps on …

  until its slimy skin is just a great mass of warts.

  ‘Ew!’ Rosemary says, hopping backwards in disgust. Her toad leaps off the table.

  Malorie and Willow, who are working at the next bench, rush over to see what all the fuss is about. Willow slips on Rosemary’s toad as it hops across the stone floor. She falls against Boris and Walter’s table, and their cauldrons wobble precariously then crash to the ground.

  The warlocks spring backwards, but splashes of the foaming potion spray their trouser legs. Polly watches in horror as the uniform fabric dissolves where the potion has hit, and splotches of warts begin sprouting on their legs.

  Malorie snorts in laughter. ‘Look what you’ve done, Polly! And now your toad is about ready to explode!’

  And it’s true. The poor creature is twice its size and has begun frothing at the mouth.

  ‘Everyone! Look what Polly has done to her toad!’ Malorie yells.

  The other students rush over to Polly’s table. Escaping toads leap about the classroom.

  Polly feels a fiery rage boiling inside her. All Polly can see at that moment is mean Malorie Halloway, laughing her head off at Polly for ruining another potion, and before she can take a breath to calm herself, Polly has flung her loaded pipette full of wart potion at Malorie’s face.

  Polly gasps when she realises what she has done. But of course, it is too late. Malorie’s pretty skin is blistering into warts all over her face. Malorie claps her hands to her cheeks and screams.

  At that precise moment, Polly’s toad …

  ‘Enough!’ roars Miss Spinnaker, sweeping a spell across the room to freeze everyone in their places.

  Even the hopping toads are caught mid-flight and plop to the ground. The students stand fixed, eyes rolling towards their teacher, until she has released the spell and they can move again.

  ‘Boris, Malorie, off to Matron’s office,’ Miss Spinnaker says firmly. ‘She will fix you up. Walter, you too, if your legs have been affected. The rest of you, go back to your desks, quick smart, and continue on with your potions. I don’t want to hear another peep out of a single witch or warlock for the rest of this lesson, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Spinnaker,’ the students mumble as they shuffle back to their desks, still giggling and picking bits of toad off their uniforms.

  Malorie shoots Polly a nasty look as she leaves the classroom, whipping her long black plaits over her shoulders.

  ‘And Polly,’ Miss Spinnaker sighs, ‘you will stay behind after class to clean up this mess.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Spinnaker,’ Polly says, her heart as heavy as a stone.

  She has disappointed her favourite teacher yet again. No matter how hard she tries, Polly just can’t seem to do anything right.

  Polly trudges out of the Academy grounds at the end of another long school day, her backpack heavy with textbooks and her new shoes smeary with toad.

  Polly hates that she is so bad at spells. Nobody ever wants to be in a group with her. She messes up everything. Polly pretends she doesn’t care that not a single witch at Miss Madden’s Academy of Witchcraft and Spells wants to be her friend, but secretly, deep down in that small place a
t the bottom of her tummy, she cares very much. Very, very much.

  Lucky I have Buster, she reminds herself. Buster doesn’t mind if I am hopeless at everything. Buster likes me no matter what. Buster is Polly’s bestest, best friend in the whole wide world, which would truly be a wonderful thing if Buster were a witch or warlock.

  But Buster is a monster.

  Polly and Buster pretend they are not friends. After all, who has ever heard of a witch being friends with a monster? If Polly and Buster walk past each other in the street they don’t even say hello. But every day, when Polly gets home, she dumps her school bag in the kitchen, kicks off her shoes and runs straight out into the garden. She climbs to the top of the tree at the end of her yard.

  Then she calls out,

  This is their secret call.

  Today, when Buster swings up into the tree, Polly sees he is wearing his favourite red jumpsuit. It’s a bit squeezy now that Buster has become so big and hairy, but it has lots of pockets. Buster fills his pockets with treasures for Polly to admire.

  Buster tips out his pockets onto the branch. Today he has stones and sticks and three glass marbles. Then he digs his fingers even deeper and pulls out five sticky jamcakes covered in pocket fluff.

  ‘Ta-da!’ he says, grinning widely, his moss-green fur glowing pink with pride. ‘Afternoon tea!’

  Polly smiles. ‘Thanks, Buster,’ she says, as cheerily as she can manage. She loves Buster’s jamcakes, even if they’re covered in pocket fluff, but she doesn’t feel hungry today.

  Polly sits and watches her dearest friend shove one jamcake after another into his big, wet mouth.

  Eventually Buster notices that Polly isn’t eating. ‘Wash da madder?’ he asks, spraying crumbs all over her. ‘Oopsh. Shorry,’ he says.

  He tries to wipe the crumbs off her face with his big paws but ends up smearing her cheeks with jam. ‘I mean,’ he says, swallowing a lump of jamcake, ‘what’s the matter, Polly? You OK? You haven’t touched your afternoon tea.’

  Polly stares off into the distance. ‘I messed up in spells today,’ she says sadly. ‘Again.’

  Buster stops chewing. ‘Oh,’ he says, looking concerned. ‘What happened?’ He presses his finger down onto a blob of jam on his fur and sneaks it into his mouth.

  Polly sighs. ‘I exploded a toad.’

  ‘Oh,’ Buster says again. He pauses, not quite sure what to say next. ‘Um, were you supposed to explode the toad?’

  ‘No!’ Polly says. ‘Of course not! I was supposed to get rid of its warts. But I accidentally exploded it instead.’

  Buster watches Polly carefully. She can see that he’s wondering whether it’s OK to laugh. Polly tries to keep her mouth still but a smile twitches at the corner of her lips.

  Buster lets out a hoot. ‘You exploded a toad?’ he splutters. ‘That’s hilarious!’

  Polly frowns. ‘It’s not funny, Buster,’ she says. ‘Malorie Halloway laughed at me. And then I got mad and threw wart potion at her face, and Boris and Walter got some on their legs, too, and now my mother will have to pay for new school pants for them, and Miss Spinnaker made me stay behind and clean up the whole classroom. It was the worst day ever!’

  ‘Oh,’ says Buster. His face falls. ‘That’s bad. That’s really bad.’ He immediately shrinks in size.

  When Buster feels happy he gets bigger and brighter. When he is sad he becomes small and grey. When Buster feels Polly’s feelings he almost becomes the same size as her. Polly thinks this is the sign of a true friend.

  Polly leans up against Buster. He feels warm and soft and comforting. Like a favourite blanket. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ she says in a little voice. ‘Winifred is so good at spells. I’m hopeless at everything.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Buster growls. He puts his arm around Polly and pulls her in tight. ‘You might not be good at spells and potions and all those other witchy things your show-offy big sister is good at. But you’re much better at being a friend.’

  ‘Thanks, Buster,’ Polly says. She allows a smile to creep across her face.

  ‘And you’re much better at climbing trees,’ Buster says, grinning.

  ‘That’s not a very useful thing to be good at,’ Polly giggles.

  ‘It is if you’re a monster,’ Buster says. ‘Maybe you should come to my school and learn to be a monster?’

  At Darklands School for Monsters, students get to climb as much as they like. Buster gets top marks for climbing. As well as climbing, they do growling and crashing and crunching. This always sounds like fun to Polly.

  ‘I’d love that,’ she says, ‘but I do want to become a proper witch. A real Black Witch like Miss Spinnaker. Imagine! One that can do spells and make potions – and flies a broomstick. I don’t want to be an ordinary Green Witch like Mum, who prefers to drive a car and does her shopping at Witch Mart. My mum never does magic anymore. I mean, what’s the point of studying witchcraft and spells at school if you never use it when you grow up?’

  Buster shrugs. ‘Not every witch can be a Black Witch,’ he says. ‘But you’ll be special at something, I just know it! And even if you never find that thing you are good at, you will always be special to me.’

  Polly feels her heart squeeze with love for Buster. She throws her arms around his big, thick waist. ‘You are the loveliest friend a witch could ever have.’

  ‘Aw,’ he mumbles, glowing scarlet with happiness. ‘Thanks, Polly.’

  ‘And you know what else? No matter how sad or gumpy or lonely I am, you always make me feel better. Always.’

  ‘Oh, stop!’ Buster says. ‘Stop! Or I might explode!’

  And it’s true. Buster has grown so big and full of happiness that he is almost as tight as a balloon.

  ‘Look at you!’ Polly giggles. ‘You look like you could take off!’

  At that moment a breeze blows through the trees and Buster lifts up from the branch.

  ‘Buster!’ Polly grabs his paw, shrieking with laughter. ‘Think of something sad. Quick! Or you’ll float away!’

  ‘I can’t!’ Buster bellows, growing bigger and lighter by the second. ‘I’m too happy!’

  ‘Orphans!’ Polly yells. ‘Little monsters who have lost their mummies!’

  She watches Buster consider this terrible thought and sees his face buckle. Immediately he shrinks and becomes heavier and darker.

  ‘Oh,’ he says in a deep voice. ‘That’s sad.’

  And as Buster imagines for a moment what it would be like to have no mother, he shrinks, little by little, until he is almost his normal size again, and back to his usual shade of mossy green.

  Polly gives him a big hug. ‘Do your friends at school know you can do that?’ she asks.

  Buster looks at her, horrified. ‘I’m a monster, Polly! Imagine if the other monsters knew. I’d be teased so badly! I can never let them know how much I feel things. When I’m at school I have to concentrate hard to not feel anything at all. I can only be myself with you, Polly.’

  Polly leans right into Buster’s chest and breathes in his comforting smell of leaves and wood smoke and moss. ‘It’s the same for me, Buster,’ she murmurs, her heart full to bursting with happy-sadness.

  The two of them sit side by side on the long tree branch as the sky grows pink around them. Buster understands when Polly needs to be quiet. She closes her eyes and lets her thoughts drift around her like butterflies.

  ‘Polly?’ Buster whispers after a while.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Polly says, still leaning against him. She keeps her eyes closed.

  ‘Polly?’ Buster whispers again. A little louder this time.

  ‘Is it important, Buster?’ Polly says. ‘I’m kind of busy thinking.’

  Buster sighs deeply. A big, growling, sort of longing sigh.

  Polly opens one eye, then the other. It’s almost dark anyway. Her mum will be calling her in for dinner soon. ‘What is it?’ She smiles at her friend.

  Buster smiles back wonkily and clears his throat. He s
hifts his bottom along the branch. ‘Um. I was wondering … I mean, I’ve just been thinking –’

  Polly puts her hand on his big paw. She can see he is turning pink with shyness. ‘It’s OK, Buster. You can tell me anything, you know. You’re my best friend.’

  ‘Weeellll …’ he begins, turning pinker still. ‘I was just wondering. Are you going to eat that last jamcake?’

  That night at dinner, Polly’s mum serves up Polly’s least favourite food.

  ‘Mealworms!’ she moans. ‘Do we have to have mealworms again?’

  ‘Mealworms are good for you,’ says her mum, pouring herself a glass of juniper wine. ‘They’re full of iron.’

  Next to Polly, Winifred takes an extra-large helping of mealworms and dumps them on her plate. She smiles sweetly at Polly. Polly knows her sister doesn’t like mealworms much either, but Winifred loves any opportunity to make Polly look bad.

  This is not hard. Winifred is good at everything. Polly is good at nothing.

  Winifred has changed out of her school uniform into shiny pink leggings and her favourite spider-print top. Her long glossy hair is twisted up into a high ponytail with complicated loops and sparkly clips and bows.

  Polly is still in her crumpled school uniform of a grey tunic and stripy leggings. Polly can’t get through a day without putting a hole in her expensive woollen stockings so her mum lets her wear leggings to school instead. Already her knees are smudged brown and green from her afternoon in the tree. Her knotty black hair is full of sticks and leaves.

  Polly pushes a mealworm around in the sauce with her fork. It curls into a ball. ‘Ew, this one’s not even dead yet,’ Polly grimaces.

  Her mum smiles. ‘Fresh from the market. I’ve found an old ogre woman who collects them herself. They’re much better for you than the dried ones.’

  Polly feels her tummy churn. From the corner of her eye she watches her big sister munching away. Polly helps herself to the thistles and kale from the salad bowl and pours some betel nut oil over them.