The Only Thing Worse Than Witches (7 page)

What?

W
HEN
R
UPERT AND
W
ITCHLING
T
WO ARRIVED
at Rupert's house with their groceries, they sorted them into different shelves. Witchling Two gleefully chattered about the health benefits of lollipops, but Rupert hardly even listened.

Sometimes a very good mood can turn very sour in a matter of minutes, and that's exactly how Rupert felt. His stomach twisted, his palms sticky, his mouth dry
—
Rupert knew he had made a mistake. He definitely, positively, without a doubt should not have talked to Kyle. And he shouldn't be talking to Witchling Two, either, because a horde of witches, not to mention his mother, would disapprove. It was the wrong thing to do.

“Rupert?” Witchling Two said. “What do you think?”

“Huh? Think about what?”

Witchling Two sighed a long exaggerated sigh. “Cherry-flavored lollipops versus watermelon!”

Rupert rolled his eyes.

Witchling Two nodded vigorously. “That's exactly how I feel. They are
both
subpar to grape.”

Rupert scrunched his face real tight in anticipation of what he knew he had to say. “Witchling Two,” he said, “would you mind going home for the night?”

“Go home?” Witchling Two said meekly, her voice soft and hushed.

Rupert cringed for fear that she would burst into tears again.

“Why, that's a splendid idea!” she shouted, leaping to her feet.

“It is?” Rupert said, sounding less convinced.

“Of course! You want me to go home and take a written exam, right? Oh, Rupert! You are such a wonderful apprentice
—
you keep me on task!”

“Y-yes,” Rupert said. “Perhaps you should take a written exam.”

“Right! Because we need to let the ingredients rot a bit before we can use them, and goodness knows I'm rubbish at spells, so the only thing left for me to practice is the WHATs.”

“What?”

“WHATs!”

“What's what?”

“What's WHATs?”

Rupert scratched his head. “I'm confused,” he said. “What are we talking about?”

“The WHATs
—
the Witchling Handwritten Aptitude Test! It's part of my examination. I need to pass the written WHATs and the two practical tests: brewing and spell casting. And you're right, Rupert . . . I've been focusing too much on brewing and spell casting.”

“I said that?”

Witchling Two nodded.

Rupert escorted her to the basement window to see her off.

Witchling Two turned to Rupert, an expression of resolve on her face. “Cheers, Rupert!” she said. “I'm off to . . . what's that human expression? I'm off to kiss the crooks!”

“Hit the books,” corrected Rupert.

“Yes, assist the cooks,” Witchling Two said as she made her way to the window. “See you tomorrow, Rupert!” And then she slipped into the darkness and was gone.

Rupert closed the window, walked upstairs, and sat at the kitchen table. He read
The Unabridged History of the Oxford Comma
—
a book that Mrs. Frabbleknacker had assigned his class
—
until he heard the front door open and shut again. His mother came in, carrying an enormous tub of ice cream.

“Mom!” Rupert said, rushing to give her a hug.

“My, my! If only I got this type of greeting every time I came home from work!”

“Sorry . . . I've been busy,” Rupert said.

His mother sniffed, and Rupert knew what was coming next. Sometimes he felt like his mother had extrasensory powers and was instantly able to tell whenever Rupert was sad about something. His mother plopped the ice cream on the counter. “What is it?” she said. “What's wrong? Wait! Hold that thought!” His mother ran into the pantry and grabbed two bowls and two spoons and scooped out two enormous helpings of Mr. and Mrs. Gummyum's new flavor: carrot ice cream.

She set the bowls on the table and sat next to Rupert.

“What's going on, Rupert?”

Rupert took a deep breath. He twiddled his spoon between his fingers. “Do you think . . . am I a bad kid?”

“That depends,” his mother teased. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Rupert said, taking a big spoonful of ice cream. “Hmm. So this is what a vegetable tastes like?”

“Funny.”

“Carrot flavor . . . not bad.”

“I agree,” his mother said, wiping her lips with a napkin.

Rupert sighed. “Mom, I have this friend. But sometimes I feel like we shouldn't be friends because
—
”

“Oh, Rupert, I loved your little friend. What was her name again?”

“Mooooom,” Rupert whined.

“I'm sorry . . . finish your story.”

“Anyway, there are a lot of people who think we shouldn't be friends,” Rupert said, thinking of Mrs. Frabbleknacker, the Witches Council, Nebby, Storm, and his mother. “But I like her. She's a good friend, and she makes me happy. . . .”

“There's your answer, Rupert,” his mother said. “If you like her, that's all that really matters. No one else has the right to tell you who you can or cannot be friends with.” His mother paused. “That would be a great fortune cookie
—
let me write that down.” She grabbed a small notebook and a pen from her purse and scribbled it down.

“Are you even listening to me, Mom?” Rupert asked.

“Hold on . . .
can or cannot be friends with,
” his mother recited. “Okay. Sorry.”

Rupert drummed his fingers on the table. “Mom, what if an adult told me not to be friends with her?”

“Adult, kid, squirrel
—
it doesn't matter, Rupert. You just be friends with whoever treats you well and makes you happy, and that's all you can do.”

Rupert smiled. His mother always knew exactly what to say to make him feel better.

Once Upon a Time in Gliverstoll

E
VERY DAY FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS,
R
UPERT
invited Witchling Two over. And thanks to the talk with his mom, he didn't even feel guilty about it.

But on Thursday night, she decided to practice the WHATs by herself, which worked out well because Rupert needed to make a poster about the history of processed potatoes for Mrs. Frabbleknacker's class. Rupert was working on the assignment in his room when he heard a tapping noise at his window. He turned around to see Witchling Two bobbing up and down outside on a broomstick.

“PSSSST!” she shouted. “LET ME IN! BUT BE QUIET!”

Rupert ran to the window and opened it enough so that Witchling Two could fly into his room and crash-land on his bed.

“What are you doing here?” Rupert said. “I thought you were studying for the WHATs again tonight!”

“I was,” Witchling Two said. “But I got bored.”

“You only have two weeks until your exam!”

“So?”

“So you can't just stop doing your homework when you get bored,” Rupert said. “You'll never get an A that way.”

“An A? What's that?”

“Never mind,” Rupert said. “So what are you here for? Want to brew something?”

Witchling Two nodded. “Yes, and I have the perfect concoction!”

Rupert followed Witchling Two as she skipped down the steps and walked into the kitchen. She put up a pot of water and turned the stove on high.

“You need boiling water for this potion?”

Witchling Two nodded with her tongue sticking out. She giggled and sniggered into her hands. Then she threw her head back and cackled. “I'm brewing . . . HOT CHOCOLATE!” she said.

Rupert was used to her odd antics by now, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Can I ask you a question about witches?” Rupert said, when Witchling Two had calmed down.

“I don't know if I'm allowed to answer, but you can certainly ask.”

“Were they always in Gliverstoll? How did they get here? And what do they do?”

The water began to bubble, and Witchling Two retrieved two mugs from the cabinet. She dumped the chocolate powder into the mugs and then poured the water. She added whipped cream on top for a little touch of flair, and then she handed Rupert a mug.

“Let me tell you a story,” Witchling Two said, sitting down at the kitchen table. She took a sip of her hot chocolate, and the whipped cream formed a white mustache on her lip. “The story is called:
The History of Gliverstoll.
Are you ready for it?”

Rupert nodded and sipped his hot chocolate.

“Once upon a time there was a rocky hill by an ocean. This place is what would eventually be known as the town of Higgenwatsenstinkybottom
—
before the town council overrode this name and changed it to Gliverstoll. Anyway, this town was infected.”

“Infected?” Rupert said. “With what?”

“With
bunnies!
” she whispered, with a spooky edge to her voice. She wiggled her fingers for added effect.

“Are you sure this is historically accurate?”

“Positive,” Witchling Two said.

“But where did the witches come from?”

“The ancient witches were nomads, flying around on their tree branches (brooms weren't invented yet). They stopped wherever and whenever they had a good reason to stop. As they were flying over Gliverstoll, they felt the land call out to them, almost like the town was drawing them in. After feeling this magnetic pull, the witches decided to take a closer look, and that's when they saw a gazillion bunnies hopping around, looking all fluffy and evil. Well, they couldn't just fly by and leave the poor townspeople at the mercy of these devilish creatures. So the witches stopped and banished the bunnies.

“Anyway, the townspeople of Higgenwatsenstinkybottom were so grateful to the witches that they offered to share their home. And the witches loved the town of Higgenwatsenstinkybottom so much that they agreed. They stopped their wandering and decided to stay here, where they felt like they belonged.”

“And how long ago was this?” Rupert asked. “In human years, not witch years please.”

Witchling Two scratched her head. “Well if my conversion scale is correct, then this was hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of years ago, and this has been our home ever since.”

“Hmm,” Rupert said. “But what do you guys do?”

“I'm not allowed to tell you,” Witchling Two said. “Even though you're my apprentice, I still have to keep witch secrets. Just know that you're in good hands.” Witchling Two looked around frantically, leaned close to Rupert, and whispered, “We keep the climate favorable, we circulate commerce, and we bring tourists in on our brooms. The more money the townspeople make, the more we make, too. And the more money we make, the more potions we can concoct. And the more potions we concoct, the more we can trade with average people . . . and the happier everyone is. It's a win-win situation. Plus . . . there's a lot more to it.”

“Like the bad magic?”

Witchling Two's glance darkened. “We deal out punishments, too. We're in charge of making sure that everything is fair.”

“But there's the justice system. What about that?”

“Consider us the catchall. We never let any crime go unpunished, even if your human justice system lets people go. That's why people are afraid of us.”

“But what sort of crimes?”

“All sorts of crimes, any sorts of crimes. We pick and choose.”

“So it's all pretty random then? That doesn't seem fair. Or is it fair?”

Witchling Two frowned. “Yes . . . no . . . maybe . . . whether it's fair or not, it
does
keep people on their best behavior.”

“Hmm,” Rupert said.

“Remember, don't tell anyone!”

“Who am I going to tell?” Rupert said. “I won't tell anyone as long as you don't tell my mom that I'm a witch's apprentice.”

Witchling Two giggled. She took another sip of hot chocolate. “You're thinking about something,” she said solemnly. “Your face is all scrunched like a raisin.”

“A raisin?”

She nodded. “Your forehead is all squiggly. Out with it!”

“Can a witch be anyone?” Rupert said. “Anyone at all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I . . . I think Mrs. Frabbleknacker is a witch,” Rupert said.

Witchling Two opened and shut her mouth wordlessly. “Tell me everything.”

So Rupert told her all about Mrs. Frab-bleknacker
—
from the day he first started fifth grade to the field trip at the dump, from the day she forbid everyone from talking to the latest vocabulary lesson. He told Witchling Two every single detail. Once he started talking, it was impossible to stop, and Witchling Two was a good listener, nodding and gasping at all the right moments.

When Rupert was done, she took a sip of hot chocolate and frowned. “There's just one problem . . . there
is
no Freckleneckle Witch.”

“Frabbleknacker,” Rupert corrected. “She must be using a fake name.”

“But why would a witch become a teacher?”

“I don't know,” Rupert said. “Maybe she's bored with the Witches Council. Or maybe she just wants to torture innocent children.”

“Have you told your mom about this?”

“She doesn't believe me. No one does,” Rupert said.

“Huh,” she said as she swirled her hot chocolate. “Something about this situation is rabbit!”

“Is
what?
”

“Rabbit! It's when something doesn't smell right.”

“You mean, something's
fishy
,” Rupert corrected.

Witchling Two ignored him. “Well, I believe you, Rupert,” she said firmly. She reached across the table and patted his hand. “I believe in you, and I believe you.”