Esmerelda Smudge and the Magic Pepper Pot Page 3
Esme’s door. “But you have to go today in any case. It’s your grade exam.”
Esme’s heart dropped like a conker. She’d forgotten her dratted exam. “But Mum, I failed Grade 1 twice already. What makes you think today will be any different?”
Mum’s face grew still. Esme knew that look. It was often followed by tears. Esme hated it when Mum cried, it made her feel rotten. She jumped off the bed and gave Mum a hug.
“I just want you to be the graceful princess I never could be,” Mum whispered into her hair. “I know you hate it. I’m sorry, I’m being selfish. You can leave if you want.”
They were the words Esme had wanted to hear forever. But they just made her tummy twist. “It’s okay, Mum,” she said. “I’ll take the exam, and I’ll pass this time. I promise.”
Mum pulled away and gave her a wobbly smile. “Only if you’re sure?”
Esme nodded. She would do it for Mum. Besides, if she finally got through Grade 1 maybe Mum would let her switch to gymnastics. All she had to do was pass.
Esme rested her hand on the bar and stretched her leg.
“Point your toes, Mademoiselle Smudge,” Madam Jeté said. “Mon dieu, how many times must I say this?”
Esme dutifully pointed her toes. It was only the warm up, but already she knew today would be no different to any other day. She would forget her steps, drop her scarf and clump on someone’s foot in the clog dance. And through it all Mum would be watching, and she would let her down. Again.
Holding back tears, Esme raised her hand.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Smudge?”
“May I visit the bathroom?”
Madam Jeté shooed her away with a brush of her hand. Esme hurried out of the studio and down to the changing room. She didn’t need a wee she needed a miracle.
Oh I wish I could do ballet, just this once, she thought. Then a spark lit up in her head. She still had the pepper pot, even though it hadn’t worked when she’d wished for pizza at lunchtime. What harm would it do to try?
Esme rummaged around in her kit bag and found the little metal figure. This time his face looked mischievous. Esme shook her head. Metal pots didn’t change.
Pepper had leaked all over her clothes and her rummaging raised a cloud of the pungent dust. Esme sneezed, then sneezed again. She blinked and, holding the pot tightly, wished to be good at ballet. Nothing happened. The floor didn’t tilt beneath her feet. She stood and pointed her toes. She didn’t feel any more graceful. Useless pot. Esme chucked it in the bin in the corner and stomped back to the studio.
The examiner was ready and Esme was the last to scurry into line. She felt Madam Jeté and Mum pinning her between them with their needle-sharp glares of disapproval.
First up was the classical ballet routine. Or standing and flapping her hands as Esme thought of it. Even she didn’t usually get this bit wrong.
Esme stood at the front of the class in first position and waited for the music to start. As she heard the opening bars, dread trickled down her neck. She’d done this exam twice already. Apparently no one failed Grade 1. But she had. It didn’t help that she’d crashed into the examiner last year. Better than the year before, when she’d put a cartwheel in her freestyle. Seemingly that wasn’t permitted.
Her mind still caught up in her past disasters, Esme moved her arms in time to the music. Float this way, float that way, up on her toes, run forwards, don’t crash into the stern woman in the chair. She’d done the routine so many times, it ended without her realising. And then everyone clapped. Mum even stood up.
Esme stared bewildered. Then she remembered to curtsey and hurried to the side of the room.
“You’ve been practising, ma petit chou-fleur,” Madam Jeté said approvingly. “At last, some grace.”
Esme wasn’t sure what she meant and she was pretty sure a chou-fleur was a cauliflower. Had she been that bad? She watched the rest of the much younger children do their routine, until it was time for her character dance. Esme slipped on her character shoes, which were basically just clogs, and her long black skirt. This year she wouldn’t accidentally fling a shoe into the waiting group of girls. Poor Hetty had fled with a nosebleed after that particular disaster.
The character dance passed in a blur and Esme barely noticed the standing ovation as she prepared herself for free movement. Esme was playing little red riding hood in a forest full of scary animals. That was easy. Dark spaces terrified her. As long as she didn’t cartwheel, she might even pass this year. It all seemed to be going much better than usual.
Esme started by pretending to tip-toe into the forest, rubbing her arms for warmth. Then she had to leap away from a scary monster and pirouette round as if she was lost. It was always the pirouette that went wrong. Spinning made Esme dizzy and she usually wobbled over and collapsed in a heap. Her heart contracted as she reached the fatal moment. Then suddenly her feet seemed to come alive and dance on their own. Her arms rose gracefully above her head and she was spinning and spinning in the most beautiful pirouette. The magic wish had come true!
As she spun elegantly across the floor, Esme grinned. Whatever had made the magic work, she would figure it out. She’d never fail a test again. Her feet were still spinning and Esme was feeling giddy. She came to a stop in front of the examiner and sank into an exhausted curtsy. Her tummy squirmed and her ears rang. Then her face grew hot and sweaty and, without warning, Esme threw up all over the examiner’s shoes.
Spelling Shocker
“Well, you passed,” Mum said. She didn’t sound pleased. In fact, she looked mortified. Esme hung her head and stared at her sick-splattered silk shoes. “Apparently you can’t fail for vomiting on the examiner,” Mum continued. “What were you thinking, showing off like that? Your first two dances were beautiful: I knew you could dance gracefully if you wanted to. But that silly pirouette wasn’t even part of your routine. Madam Jeté said you were only meant to spin once.”
Esme didn’t know what to say. If she admitted to the magic wish, Mum would think she was making excuses or – worst still – lying, and would be even more angry. “I’m sorry, Mum,” she said timidly. “I just wanted you to be proud of me, that’s all.”
“Oh, Esmerelda!” Mum sank to her knees and hugged Esme tightly. “I’m always proud of you. And you have your Grade 1 now!” She tried to sound cheerful. “You’re a proper ballerina.”
Esme tugged off her shoes and dropped them on the floor, feeling wretched. What would Mum say at ballet next week, when she was back to being rubbish? It was all the pepper pot’s fault. Then she remembered she’d thrown it in the bin. Did she want it back, now she knew it worked? No. It caused too much trouble.
Mum picked up her ruined ballet shoes. “These stains will never come out. Maybe spaghetti bolognaise for lunch wasn’t the wisest choice before your exam. I’ll pop them in the bin and get you a new pair. You deserve it.”
She walked over to the dustbin and was about to drop the shoes in when she stopped. Leaning down, she grabbed hold of something. “Is this the pepper pot you threw at me in Aunt Maud’s attic?” It was hard to mistake it. It was such an ugly thing.
Esme nodded.
“What’s it doing in the bin? I thought I told you to put it back where you found it?” Mum’s lips scrunched up crossly.
“I thought it might bring me luck,” Esme said. Well, that was sort of true.
“This hideous thing?” Mum stared at it. “It looks like it’s sticking its tongue out at me. Why’s it in the bin?”
“Because it didn’t bring me luck at all!” Esme shouted. “Or at least, only bad luck.”
“There’s no need to get upset.” Mum looked worried. “Perhaps I have been pushing you too hard. Maybe you should take a break from ballet for a bit.”
Esme couldn’t believe it. As Mum walked passed and dropped the pepper pot in her kit bag, Esme stared at it speculatively. The magic pot had made her good at ballet and somehow stopped her having to have lessons. It might be worth keeping it after all
.
As she got ready for school that Monday morning, Esme watched the pepper pot. It held pride of place on her windowsill. Mum said she was surprised it didn’t give Esme nightmares. Certainly the face sometimes appeared scary and rather sly. But it was just a pot, even if it was magic. And it didn’t even work all the time.
Esme had practised on Sunday, trying to figure out how the wishes worked. She’d tried rubbing it like a genie’s lamp, and changed the way she asked her wishes, but nothing had worked. Not that she was sure she wanted to risk a big wish again. The kids at school would laugh themselves silly when news of her bilious ballet exam got about. The only blessing was being two years behind her peers meant most of the girls in her ballet group were only year 3s.
“Have you learnt your spellings?” Mum asked as Esme skipped down to breakfast. Trust Mum to spoil her morning before she’d even eaten.
“I have tried,” Esme sighed. “We’re doing the ‘shul’ sound and I can never remember which is cial and which is tial.” Truth was Esme really couldn’t care. You didn’t need to be able to spell to help orangutans in Borneo, except maybe to be able to spell orangutan and Borneo and those were both easy.
“Show me the list,” Mum said. “We’ll go through it while you eat.”
Twenty minutes later Esme knew that, just like every other Monday, she would start the day not getting a merit for her spelling when