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.”
Plan B
ON SUNDAY, ONLY A WEEK AND A HALF BEFORE Witchling Two’s Bar Exam, Rupert called for an emergency practice session.
Witchling Two snuck in through the basement window, carrying her enormous witching textbook. She also brought a backpack, stuffed to the brim with an encyclopedia of magic, a magical history textbook, four potions books, three spell books, two witch crime novels, and five dozen lollipops.
“I’m impressed you fit all this in your bookbag,” Rupert said.
“I bewitched it to hold everything.”
“You bewitched it?” Rupert said.
Witchling Two stuck two cream-soda-flavored lollipops in her mouth. “I did . . . or Nebby.”
“So it was Nebby then?”
Witchling Two smiled guiltily.
Rupert sat down on an old, worn chair and folded his legs so that he was cross-legged. “Okay,” he said. “Welcome to magic boot camp.”
“Camp?” Witchling Two said eagerly, jumping on a sofa chair next to Rupert.
“Yes, camp.”
“Are you my counselor?”
“Sure,” Rupert said. “Now first order of busi—”
“Will there be s’mores? And roasted marshmallows? And campfire songs? And—”
“Only if you focus and show signs of improvement.”
Witchling Two clamped a hand over her mouth and nodded vigorously.
“Pass me your textbook,” Rupert said. He started with potions because that was her best subject. If he could just get her confident about her magical abilities then maybe—just maybe—she’d be able to perform a spell right.
He asked her about potion ingredients, how long to brew particular potions, which potions are best for which occasion, and what sorts of potions are legally acceptable to use on other witches. She aced question after question, and the smile on her face grew wider and wider. Finally, Rupert realized that they needed to move on and practice something she wasn’t so comfortable with.
“Okay, now let’s practice for your WHAT,” Rupert said.
“WHATs.”
“What?”
“WHATs.”
Rupert scratched his head. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”
“Perhaps,” said Witchling Two. “Ask away, Mr. Counselor. I want my ’mallows!”
Rupert thumbed through the pages. He stopped almost immediately when a question caught his eye.
He passed the book to Witchling Two and they stared at it together:
A human is found wandering the Witches Council lair. What do we do with him?
A. Boil his toes.
B. Broil his foes.
C. Soil his clothes.
D. Oil his nose.
Witchling Two hummed. “Umm . . . is it D?”
“No, sorry, A.”
“Ooh, so close! That was my fourth pick after D, C, and then B.”
“Let’s try another one,” Rupert said.
Historically, witches were drawn to the town of Gliverstoll in particular because . . .
A. We heard rumors that the area was full of fruitful potion ingredients.
B. We wanted to build our tower on the highest known peak in the world.
C. The Earth called out to us, and we felt our magic surge.
D. We felt it would be pretty to live by the ocean.
“I know this one!” Rupert said. “Which means, you must know it, too.”
“I must?”
“You told me the other day,” Rupert said. “Remember? When we made hot chocolate?”
“Oh, yes!” Witchling Two said. She scratched her head. “Ummm . . .” Rupert handed her a pencil, and she chewed on the eraser. Then she flung it over her shoulder and grabbed another pencil. She chewed and discarded, chewed and discarded. She ate five erasers before Rupert stopped her by putting a hand on her shoulder.
“You can do this. I know you know it. You’re just scaring yourself. When you’re looking at these questions, just pretend you’re talking to me. Now, I just asked you about the history of Gliverstoll, and you say—”
“C.”
“Yes!”
“I GOT ONE! I GOT ONE!” she shouted, throwing a handful of lollipops into the air like confetti. She pointed at A. “See that? Answer A explains why some of the witches went to Foxbury. And answer B shows why some of the witches went to Harkshire. The ancient witches were split three ways, you see, so we divided. But I still think that Gliverstoll holds all the most powerful witches. The Fairfoul Witch is the most feared and mighty of all the witches in every town. I mean, witchlings from Foxbury and Harkshire even come here to become Bar Exam certified witches. Gliverstoll is a big deal.”
“Huh,” Rupert said. He thought of all the places that didn’t have witches—like Butterly, where his aunt and uncle lived. “And why didn’t the witches go anywhere else? Why didn’t they go to Butterly, for example?”
The witchling crinkled her nose. “Butterly! What in the world is in Butterly?”
Rupert shrugged.
“Well, like this question says, there was something about Gliverstoll that made us stronger and made our magic sharper. We all would have stayed here, but the other witches were just a stubborn pack of coots who were determined to go to Foxbury to pick up potions materials in the forest there. But then, all the witches in Foxbury began to fight, and so a group of them broke off and settled on top of the tallest peak in Harkshire. But they’re just satellite colonies. Smaller and less powerful. Always looking to us for help.”
“That must feel good—being
part of the most powerful pack of witches.”
“Sure!” Witchling Two said. “But I think it’d feel better if I actually became a real witch. I’m starting to get very nervous!”
“Okay, let’s focus,” Rupert said. He looked down at the textbook and read aloud.
According to witch customs, the appropriate first response to a duel request is . . .
A. Throw down white gloves.
B. Bow with your head hanging low.
C. Say, “I wholeheartedly and honorably accept your request, by the names of past witches long fallen and forgotten.”
D. Shake your booty.
“B?” Witchling Two said.
Rupert looked at the answer key. “No, it’s D . . . but that seems so odd.”
Witchling Two scratched her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a duel in my entire life. They happened, like, a gorilla years ago.”
Rupert flipped the book to the copyright page. “No wonder—this book is two hundred years old! These questions must be ancient.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m getting so many wrong,” she said glumly.
“If only we could get our hands on some more recent questions,” Rupert said. “Then we’d know what sort of stuff they ask nowadays.”
Witchling Two jumped up and began to giggle like a maniac. When she finally calmed down she sunk into her seat again and grinned. “Rupert, I’m thinking about something dangerous—something really risky.” She put her mug on the table and looked at him with a glint of naughtiness in her eyes. “The witches have these files where they keep some of the old exams. What if we . . . took a peek? Just to see what the questions are like nowadays.”
“That’s not cheating, right?” Rupert said.
Witchling Two gasped. “On my honor, I would never! These questions are from past exams, Rupert, not the present one. It’s like retrieving a study guide. If I’m going to pass this exam, I need to know what they’ve asked more recently than two hundred years ago, don’t you think?”
Rupert nodded. “It would be helpful. But what does looking at these exams involve?”
“Sneaking into the Witches Council lair and read-ing through files that you—a human—and I—a witchling—are both forbidden to see.”
“And if we get caught? Didn’t that WHATs question just say that the punishment for humans wandering the witches lair is boiling my toes?”
“That, or seventy years of pain and torture. Maybe even death. Depends on how the head witch is feeling, but we may be able to butter her up with lollipops. Anyone can be buttered up with lollipops.”
Rupert grimaced.
“Don’t worry, Rupert! I’ll keep you safe! I promise!” She looked down at her feet. “It’s just . . . Gliverstoll is my home. I can’t be exiled and drained of my magic. The exam is getting closer, and I’m not getting any better. And I’d really love your help.”
The punishments were scary sounding, but Witchling Two had promised to protect him. He had to trust her. And he knew, deep down, that that this might be his only opportunity to save his best friend.
“Let’s do it,” Rupert said, and that was that.
The Worstest Assignment Ever
AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, RUPERT WALKED INTO the classroom, and to his surprise, Bruno had finally figured out how to stack the toothpicks in a perfect tower. It took him almost two weeks, and over the course of those weeks, poor Bruno had lost about five pounds. He looked delirious.
Of course, when Mrs. Frabbleknacker entered the classroom, all the toothpicks immediately blew to the ground. Bruno pulled at his hair with his fingers, looking as though he might explode. But Mrs. Frabbleknacker ignored him.
“Children,” she said, as though she was saying something truly awful like Eye Gunk or Tuna Milk- shake. “Today is a day for science.”
Rupert sat up straight in his seat and tried to look as ordinary and calm as possible. Over the months, Rupert had observed that Mrs. Frabbleknacker usually didn’t notice when kids were being ordinary and calm. She only seemed to call on kids who looked nervous or frightened. And she only seemed to torture the kids who talked out or answered incorrectly. Rupert knew that the more ordinary he looked, the less likely it was that she would call on him, which made it less likely for him to be wrong, which made it less likely for him to be tortured.
“How about an experiment?” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said.
She put three glasses on the table and retrieved three thermoses from her bag. She tilted the thermoses and poured into each of the glasses. Each liquid was a different color and consistency. The first was dark and chunky, and it resembled black curdled milk. The second liquid was smooth looking, but it glowed a frightening shade of neon yellow. The third smelled. Really badly. Even from half-a-classroom’s-length away, Rupert caught the whiff of skunk and sweaty sock mixed together. The third liquid was also so thick that it got stuck in the thermos. Mrs. Frabbleknacker had to knock on the bottom of the thermos to coax the liquid out.
She licked her lips and looked around the room.
Don’t look at me, don’t look at me! Rupert thought.
“Hal!” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said.
The boy who sat behind Rupert walked to the blackboard.
“Manny!”
The boy who sat in front of Rupert walked to the blackboard.
Mrs. Frabbleknacker walked up to Rupert, but Rupert continued looking straight ahead. She bent down over his desk, and Rupert could feel the beads of sweat start to form on the back of his neck. He was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but he was determined not to show emotion. He looked straight ahead. He held his breath. He didn’t blink, not even when Mrs. Frabbleknacker blew banana breath in his face to make his eyelids tremble. She banged her fist on his desk, but Rupert did not move one nanometer.
Then, Mrs. Frabbleknacker took a huge whiff of air. Rupert was certain that she was about to send him to the front of the classroom, but then the strangest and most amazing thing happened—Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s nostrils twitched, and she recoiled away from him.
“Allison Gormley!” she shouted.
A nervous Allison Gormley took her place at the front of the classroom, her knees knocking.
“Now, class,” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said. “All of these potions come directly from the witches, and these drinks contain horrible chemicals that may seriously injure, harm, maim, wound, hurt, disfigure, mutilate, mar, or even kill your classmates. But just remember, this is science. And science must be explored. Sometimes, for the purpose of knowledge, we must sacrifice brave little boys and girls in order to make scientific progress. So Hal, Manny, Allison—we all thank you for volunteering.”
Hal, Manny, and Allison exchanged glances that seemed to say but we didn’t volunteer! Mrs. Frabbleknacker walked to the front of the room and hovered over the three trembling students. “Pick your poison,” she said gleefully.
Allison quickly nabbed the black curdled milk, looking quite pleased with herself.
Hal cautiously picked up the neon yellow drink.
Which left Manny with the thick, smelly drink.
“Down the hatch, Allison,” said Mrs. Frabbleknacker.
Allison tipped her glass up and gulped down the drink. When she was done, she slammed her glass on the table and wiped her mouth with her arm. She grinned and raised her hands above her head— she was a hero! A champion!
And then came the tiniest noise, so small it was almost impossible to hear.
Twoinggggg.
A hair sprouted on Allison’s chin. She froze in horror.
TWOINGGGGG. TWOINGGGGG. TWOINGGGGG.
Another hair sprouted. Then another. Then another. One after the other—until Allison had sprouted a full mustache and beard. She put her hands to her face, and the skin behind her new facial hair went completely ashen. Then Allison ran from the clas
sroom crying. Again.
Mrs. Frabbleknacker nodded at Hal, who tenderly swirled the neon liquid in his glass and brought it to his lips. He pinched his nose and chugged the entire drink in a matter of seconds. He turned to the class with puckered lips, and Rupert thought—without a doubt—that Hal was going to hurl.
But when Hal opened his mouth, a glowworm popped out. Hal covered his mouth with his hands, and Rupert leaned in closer. He squinted just a little bit as he studied Hal’s mouth.
Hal burped, and five glowworms jumped out. He turned to Mrs. Frabbleknacker and looked like he was trying to say something, but he just coughed up fifteen more glowworms. Hal grabbed his throat and ran out of the classroom, a trail of glowworms falling to the floor in his wake.
By this time, Manny’s hands trembled around his tonic. For a split second, Rupert hoped that Manny would refuse to drink the smelly, thick liquid, but as soon as Mrs. Frabbleknacker looked at him, Manny turned his glass upside down. Five minutes later, the thick liquid finally touched his lips. Ten minutes later, Manny had downed the entire skunky, sweat-scented juice.
He looked positively ordinary for a moment. Then one of his arms began to shrink. Then the other arm. Then his legs and torso. And with a small HISS, Manny’s head became the size of an apple.
Mrs. Frabbleknacker swooped down and pinched Manny between her two fingers. She held him far away, as though he reeked. Then she dropped him in a glass jar and screwed the cap tight. Mrs. Frabbleknacker poked holes in the top with scissors and put the glass jar on the windowsill, ignoring the tiny high-pitched shouts and the soft thumps of Manny’s fists on the glass.
“Class,” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said, picking up a writhing glowworm off the floor and crushing it between her fingers, “I want you to write a five-hundred-thousand-word essay on glowworms to be handed to me next week.”
No one said anything.
“And if it’s not on my desk in exactly one week, you all will participate in science next time.”
A Potion to Beat All Potions
WHEN RUPERT GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL, WITCHLING Two was busy cutting up the rhubarb from her collection of ingredients. She hardly even looked up when Rupert came in.
The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Page 7
