Free The World's Worst Fairy Godmother by Bruce Coville

people I lived with.”
    â€œIs that true?” asked Mrs. Pfenstermacher.
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Mr. Peters. “He would guard you against all sorts of goblins and ghoulies. Things might be a little… lively… at times. But you wouldn’t have to worry about major problems.”
    â€œBesides,” said Susan with a smile. “Think of what a bad influence he would be on me.”
    Mr. and Mrs. Pfenstermacher laughed. “All right, dear,” said her father. “He can stay.”
    The children all began to cheer.
    â€œThat was well done, Susan,” said Maybelle. She stretched up and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “That’s for luck,” she whispered. Then she went to stand with Mr. Peters, Edna, and Zozmagog.
    Mr. Peters made a gesture, and all four of them disappeared in a little puff of white smoke.

    The smell of new hay and cinnamon lingered behind them, mingled with just a trace of beer and peppermint.
    â€œWell,” said Mr. Pfenstermacher, “that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Are you all right, Susan?”
    â€œI never felt better in my life,” said Susan, running to her parents and giving them each a hug.
    â€œMe too!” cried Gustav.
    â€œAnd me!” cried Helga and Ludwig and Friedrich.
    â€œWell,” said Mrs. Pfenstermacher, “I guess they really were what they claimed to be.”
    â€œNot exactly,” said Dr. Dekter.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” asked Susan.
    Dr. Dekter smiled. “Maybelle told me she was the world’s worst fairy godmother. But if you ask me, she was the world’s best.”
    â€œNaturally,” said Susan. “What other kind would I have?”
    And she said it with such a charming laugh that no one wanted to slap her.

A Personal History by Bruce Coville
    I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.
    Our house was around the corner from my grandparents’ dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin’, hay-bale-haulin’, garden-weedin’ kid.
    I was also a reader.
    It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me Tom Swift in the City of Gold that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle .
    I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!
    My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!
    The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall