Sandy grinned. “Nebby had a feeling that the Fairfoul Witch would try to stump me like that. So she made a list of hyrax words that don’t rhyme with anything exactly, and Storm helped me practice how to conjure them.”
“But how could you?”
“We practiced zebra-rhymes,” she said.
“Zebra-rhymes?”
“What’s that you humans call them? Half-rhymes? Near-rhymes? Quarter-rhymes? Almost rhymes? Partial rhymes?”
“And that works?”
She nodded. “Even when my spells on you went horribly horribly wrong, a lot of times it just sounded like something, but it didn’t have to be perfect. If it sounds enough like something else, there’s a whole lot of ways my spellwork could go wrong,” she said proudly.
“Not anymore,” Rupert said, “because you’re a real witch now!”
“Let’s go tell everyone!” she squealed. She grabbed his hand and ran with him through the high school—and then out the doors to where his mother, Nebby, and the remaining witch guardians stood.
“WELL?” everyone said.
Sandy did a cartwheel. “I PASSED!” she said.
Nebby threw the Sand Witch up into the air and paraded her around town on her shoulders. Rupert followed, clapping and hooting and hollering. And Rupert’s mother walked behind them, making sure to hold the cake steady.
Later, Rupert and his mother ended up at Nebby’s clean and pristine lair for celebratory cake, tea, and scones.
“More sugar?” Nebby asked Rupert’s mother.
Rupert’s mother picked up a sugar cube with the tongs and dropped it into the tea. “You must have done wonderfully,” Rupert’s mother said.
“I did, I did!” Sandy said with a grin. “You should have seen me, Nebby! Zebra rhyme here, zebra rhyme there! It was vernacular!”
“Spectacular,” everyone corrected, and then they all laughed.
Rupert smiled. He never thought—not in a million years—that he could help a witch with her magic. He never thought that his best friend would be a witch. He never thought that he would prove that his horrible rotten teacher was a witch. He never thought his mother would actually believe him about his horrible rotten teacher. And he especially never thought that he would peaceably have tea with his witch-hating mother and three witches.
“Psst!” Sandy whispered under the sound of the adults talking.
“What?”
“Come with me!”
Rupert and Sandy excused themselves from the table and ran upstairs to Sandy’s room. It looked just like her lair at Pexale Close—all cluttered and musty and cramped. It was the only room in Nebby’s perfect house that was an absolute mess.
Rupert watched as stacks of papers blew around in the breeze that was coming from Sandy’s open window. Rupert walked over to the window and looked out—she had the most wonderful seaside view, with the orange sun setting beneath a purple sky.
“Hey, look,” Rupert said. “It’s your favorite color.”
Sandy squealed.
“Sandy? Thanks for everything. Really.”
“No, thank you, Rupert! You are the best apprentice ever . . .” Sandy smiled, her ears turning bright pink. She turned back toward the closet and dug through piles of clothes. At last, she seemed to find what she was looking for because she turned around with her hands behind her back.
“And now I’m going to give you a little treat. I hope you like heights,” she said, and she whipped a broom out from behind her back.
If anyone were patrolling the skies for the witches that night, he would have seen one broom holding a young girl in a floral dress squealing with joy and a boy cackling like a witch. It must have been a very confusing sight, indeed.
Acknowledgments
Nancy Conescu, who welcomed Rupert and Sandy into the greatest possible home with open arms; who always took care of them lovingly; who understood their story better than anyone (probably including me); whose clever insights made my jokes sharper and helped me grow as a storyteller; whose astute influence is imprinted on every page.
Stacey Friedberg, who is a certified title genius, who always answers my never-ending questions with warmth, and whose brilliant editorial notes always made me excited to dive back in.
The Penguin Team, whose endless support and tireless behind-the-scenes work make me so thankful and appreciative.
Friends, family, coworkers, and teachers, who have supported, inspired, and encouraged me during this adventure.
Michele Rubin, who held my hand through the first half of this journey, and whose enthusiasm and engulfing hugs brightened all of my days.
Brianne Johnson, who loved Rupert and Sandy first, who made my dreams come true, and who believed in me long before she ever had a manuscript in her hands. To you, I owe everything.
I love you all more than all the grape lollipops in the world . . . and that’s a whole lot!
The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Page 15
