The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

by Lauren Magaziner

  On Saturday, Rupert dragged Witchling Two to the grocery store to get the ingredients she needed.

  “What do we need to buy?” Rupert asked Witchling Two as she skipped around the fresh produce.

  Witchling Two paused and thought. “We need some rhubarb, parsley, chicken bones, and lollipops.”

  Rupert stopped walking. “Lollipops?” he said. “For the potions?”

  “Well, sure . . . if we need some loll or pop in a potion we could always just put one in.”

  Rupert was not convinced. “So, the lollipops aren’t for the potions, then.”

  Witchling Two smacked her lips. Rupert thought he detected a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth.

  “You are an addict,” he said, “and you have a problem.”

  Witchling Two grinned and kept skipping.

  “When are we going to get back to practicing your magic?” Rupert asked. “Don’t you need to pass your Bar Exam?”

  The witchling turned a sickly shade of gray. “Well, strictly speaking, technically, theoretically, notionally, supposedly, hypothetically, in principle, maybe, perhaps, possibly, yes,” she stammered.

  “What happens if you don’t pass your Bar Exam?”

  Witchling Two stopped in front of the cauliflower, her eyes wide and terrified. “Expulsion,” she whispered. “Exile. Shame. They strip me of my powers, and then I’m forced to leave my family and wander nomadically, never to return home again.”

  “And I thought being grounded was bad.”

  “Not passing the Bar Exam is the worst thing that can ever happen to a witch.”

  “So why aren’t we working on your spells?”

  “More ingredients, Rupert. More, more, more. We can’t brew a proper potion without more ingredients.”

  “But I thought you were worse at spells than potions—”

  “MORE INGREDIENTS! MORE, MORE, MORE,” she shouted, plugging her ears.

  Rupert laughed and slipped his hands in his pockets.

  He followed Witchling Two as she inspected vegetables with one eye open. Occasionally, she would sniff an item, and very rarely she took a nibble. Whenever she did nibble on something, she put it back on the shelves.

  Rupert cringed. No wonder his mother always insisted on microwavable food.

  When they got to the sweets and candies aisle, Rupert saw Kyle shopping with his father. Rupert and Kyle looked at each other and froze. Then Rupert backed out of the aisle, dragging Witchling Two by the arm.

  “We don’t need candy,” Rupert said. “Let’s just go—please.”

  Witchling Two looked behind her, then back at Rupert, trying to understand what just happened. “Who was that boy?” Witchling Two said. “Is he trouble? A bully? Do I need to teach him a lesson?” she said, cracking her knuckles.

  Rupert shuddered from the sound. “No!” he said. “It’s just a boy in my class . . . we used to be friends . . .”

  “What, what?” Witchling Two begged, her eyes growing wide. “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Frabbleknacker,” Rupert said. “She won’t let any of us be friends anymore. We’re not allowed to talk to each other in class or outside of class—hey, wait!” Rupert said as Witchling Two marched toward the candy aisle. “Wait—no! What are you doing? No! Stop it—no!”

  Rupert ran to the candy aisle, but it was too late—Witchling Two was already at the end of the aisle, next to Kyle and his dad. She stuck out a hand and smiled brightly. “Hello!” she said. “What’s your name?”

  Kyle looked like he was going to explode. He looked at Rupert for help, but Rupert looked down. He couldn’t be caught talking to Kyle, and if Kyle knew what was best for him, he’d ignore Witchling Two as well.

  “Er . . . I’m Kyle Mason-Reed.”

  “Kyle Mason-Reed, huh? I think I’ve seen you at school. Well, Rupert and I were wondering if you’d like to come to the movies with us next weekend.” Witchling Two smiled at Kyle’s father and batted her eyes innocently. “Would that be okay Mr. Mason-Reed?” she asked Kyle’s father.

  “It’s just Mr. Mason,” Kyle’s father said. “And Kyle is at his mother’s house next weekend—but it should be okay with her. It’s certainly okay with me.” Kyle’s father rolled the shopping cart out of the candy aisle and called for Kyle to meet him after he exchanged numbers with the nice girl.

  Kyle grabbed Witchling Two on the arm. “I am not going to the movies with you and Rupert.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to stay alive.” Kyle looked around the supermarket and lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. “You must be from Miss Snugglybuns’s class, so you probably don’t understand. But I’m in Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s class, which means that I can’t talk to Rupert. She’ll know. I shouldn’t even be talking to you!”

  “That’s nonsense,” Witchling Two said. “You guys are friends—you can’t let Mrs. Frabbleknacker stop you from talking.”

  Kyle dropped her arm and scurried down the candy aisle. He stopped when he was near Rupert, but neither boy looked at the other.

  “Rupert,” said Kyle, to a bag of milk chocolate bars. “Are you insane? You think Bruno’s toothpick punishment was bad? If Mrs. Frabbleknacker finds out that you’ve made friends with someone in Miss Snugglybuns’s class, she’ll probably make you swallow all those toothpicks whole!”

  “Maybe,” said Rupert, suddenly feeling brave and daring. He peeled his eyes away from the shortbread cookies and looked directly at Kyle. “You’re probably right . . . and maybe I’ll get stomach splinters, but it’s a whole lot better than not having any friends.”

  Rupert marched to where Witchling Two was beaming with pride. He wheeled the cartful of potion ingredients to the cashier and paid with the emergency money his mother gave him. Then, he grabbed the bags of groceries and headed out of the store with Witchling Two in tow.

  As they walked home, Rupert hoped he wouldn’t regret talking to Kyle. He had disobeyed Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s orders. And was what he said to Kyle even true? Was having friends really worth swallowing toothpicks?

  Rupert hugged the paper grocery bag to his chest as he listened to Witchling Two chatter on and on about how right Rupert was.

  What?

  WHEN RUPERT AND WITCHLING TWO 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

  EVERY DAY FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, RUPERT 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 the
se 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?”