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Nancy and her crew, of course, had gotten an A with their fudge brownie peanut butter bars. Apparently the magical MSG spell the leader of the Weird Sisters used didn’t count as bad magic—probably because it made people feel good when they tasted it. So she continued to cheat in order to get good grades, though it was clear her baked goods were no more than ordinary.
Megan disdained the use of such cheating magic in her baking, however.
“My mom taught me to bake and that was a long time before I even knew real magic was a thing,” she’d said firmly as we mixed the cake. “If I can’t make an A without cheating, I don’t deserve to be in this class in the first place.”
I was sure my Coven-mate was right. Still, my heart was beating hard when Mrs. Hornsby finally approached us and got ready to cut a slice of the towering chocolate cake.
“Very nice presentation, girls,” she said, being careful, I noticed, not to look at my exposed face as she spoke. “Let’s hope it tastes as good as it looks.”
Using the cake cutter we had laid out for her, she sliced a generous piece and put it on a plate. Before she tasted it, however, she examined the interior of the cake.
“A good dense, moist crumb.” She nodded approvingly. “And the frosting looks to be just the right consistency. I must say, Miss Latimer,” she said to Megan, “You’ve come a long way—I consider you one of my success stories. You see, I told you that you needed to stay in my class and learn how to bake.”
Beside me, I could feel Megan seething. She had tried to explain to Mrs. Hornsby before that her mother had taught her how to bake—it had been their special thing together, the same way my mom and I used to sew together. To hear the self-important teacher taking credit for her good baking skills obviously irritated my Coven-mate to no end. Still, she only nodded her head and murmured,
“Thank you, Mrs. Hornsby.”
“Well now—let’s see if it tastes as good as it smells and looks,” the teacher declared and cut herself a truly huge bite of the chocolate cake.
She popped it into her mouth, the chocolaty crumbs clinging to her thin lips, and began chewing experimentally.
“Mmm-hmm…mmm-hmm,” she murmured, nodding her head. “Moist cake and creamy, light frosting. Mmm-hmm. Mmm-ha-ha-ha!”
The last “hmm” ended in such a strange sounding laugh that Megan and I both looked at the teacher, alarmed.
Mrs. Hornsby looked a bit alarmed and embarrassed herself. She swallowed and cleared her throat.
“Ah-hem. It’s an excellent effort, Miss La…La…Lati…Ha! Hahahahahaha!”
Her sentence ended in a fit of almost hysterical laughter that made both Megan and me stare at each other.
“Mrs. Hornsby?” Megan asked carefully. “Um…are you okay?”
“I…I’m…” But the Home Ec teacher couldn’t answer—every time she tried to talk she went off into gales of uncontrollable laughter that shook her whole body.
The rest of the class was watching now too—some of them laughing uncertainly, as though they weren’t sure if they ought to join in or not.
“Um, what’s so funny?” someone asked.
But there didn’t appear to be any answer—just our teacher, giggling hysterically.
I was starting to get really worried by this time and clearly so was my Coven-mate.
“Mrs. Hornsby? Do you want some water? Here—let me get you some.” Megan ran quickly to the nearest sink and filled a glass with cold water before bringing it back to the teacher, who was trying to stifle her laughter unsuccessfully.
But though she was laughing, Mrs. Hornsby did not seem happy. She kept on breaking into giggle fits and chortles of glee, but her small black eyes were not amused.
She snatched the glass of water from Megan but when she tried to drink some, she nearly choked because she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to swallow. She tried again and a great gout of chocolate-colored water shot out of her mouth and nose, drenching her blouse and staining the long white professional chef’s apron she was wearing.
The rest of the class burst into laughter at what really was a comical sight. Everyone was laughing at Mrs. Hornsby—everyone except Megan and me. We exchanged horrified glances, unsure what to do.
Watching our teacher, I was reminded of the one time I had taken laughing gas at the dentist’s office. I’d had to have a wisdom tooth pulled and he had assured me that the nitrous oxide would make the procedure completely painless.
It hadn’t been painless though—I could still feel what he was doing to my tooth, only I couldn’t stop laughing despite the discomfort. I remembered thinking distinctly, “This is awful! It’s not funny at all but I can’t help laughing!”
After that experience, I had never wanted laughing gas when I went to the dentist again. It was just too weird feeling like my emotions were being chemically manipulated into laughter, though what my body was feeling wasn’t a bit funny.
