The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

by Lauren Magaziner

  “Don’t worry,” his mother said. “I’m almost done with you. I just want to get this muck off your arms, now that I’ve started scrubbing. Then I promise I’ll leave you alone. What do you want for dinner—pizza? I’ll even let you eat in the tub.” She winked at him.

  “I think I’ll take it in my room, please,” Rupert said. He didn’t want to think about dropping a slice of pizza in the grimy bathwater, but his mind instantly went there. He knew that if Mrs. Frabbleknacker were here, she would make him eat the bathwater pizza, and that was an even worse thought.

  “I can give you microwavable pizza, microwavable lasagna, microwavable quesadillas, microwavable popcorn, microwavable rice, microwavable chocolate soufflé, microwavable cheese, microwavable toast, or microwavable cheese on toast. Which do you prefer?”

  Rupert groaned. “Does everything in our house have to be microwavable?”

  “Oh, Rupert, you know I’m too exhausted to cook by the time I get home from work.”

  “So, how was work today?”

  Rupert’s mother hummed absently. “The day was lovely. Except . . . ” She froze and looked at nothing in particular with glazed, distant eyes. “Mrs. Marmalin had to chase a witch out of the quilting shop with a broom.”

  Rupert nodded. “I ran into Mrs. Marmalin on the way up here. She told me.” His mother wrung out the dirty washcloth in the sink. “What did the witch look like? What did she say? Did she do any spells? Did she hex you?”

  His mother laughed.

  “I just can’t believe you actually met a witch. I mean—I’ve obviously seen the pack flying around Gliverstoll, but I’ve never talked to one!”

  “And let’s hope you never have to,” his mother said with a shudder. “Remember what I said about the witches, Rupert. This one in particular had a downright dreadful temper. She kept calling herself the ‘Queen of the Sea,’ and threatened to slap us with a dead fish.”

  “Cool! Then what happened?”

  “Rupert!” his mother said, in a scolding sort of voice. “I will not indulge your curiosity! I’ve told you a thousand times: stay away from the witches—”

  “But why?”

  “They are dangerous! And horrible! And terrible!”

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “Wisdom is just another word for obedience,” his mother said, reciting a fortune cookie.

  “Didn’t you tell me last week that another word for genius is obsession?”

  “Rupert!”

  Rupert folded his arms. “All right, all right. I’ll stay away from the witches.”

  There was a long pause, and Rupert hoped his mother had let the subject drop.

  His mother finally put the grimy washcloth on the bathroom floor and stood up. “I suppose that’s as good as I’m going to get. I’m leaving so you can take a real bath.” His mother turned to leave the bathroom, but then she paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Rupert, why don’t I see any of your friends around the house anymore? Did something happen? Are you fighting?”

  Rupert frowned. Now that his mother mentioned it, the loneliness seemed real. And it all boiled down to Mrs. Frabbleknacker. She was the horrible, rotten reason that none of them talked to him anymore—because she forbid them to talk before class, she forbid them to talk during class, and she forbid them to talk after class.

  “Everything’s fine,” Rupert lied. “We’re just really busy, now that we’re in fifth grade.”

  His mother sniffled. “My little boy is growing up!” And with the soft creak of the closing door, she was gone.

  Rupert watched the dirt swirl around in the bathwater. Dirt and grime. Grime and dirt. Rupert churned it with his finger. When he got bored, he hung his body over the side of the bathtub, thinking about what had happened. Millie Michaels found the paper clip—but then Mrs. Frabbleknacker made her stay while the rest of the class got to go. Poor Millie. She thought she had won the lottery, only to have the rules changed.

  Rupert leaned forward out of the bathtub, accidentally dripping water everywhere as he grabbed the newspaper that was sitting in the rack beside the toilet. He flipped right to the comics section for a bit of cheering up, but on the adjacent page, a notice in the classified section caught his eye:

  WITCH NEEDS

  One apprentice. Tasks include testing potions and other things. Skill sets for applicants should include intelligence and other things. Applicants should be children preferably. Don’t worry—will not make Toecorn out of you (this witch finds Toecorn much less appetizing than Knuckle Soup). Rabbits need not apply.

  Rupert tore the article out of the paper. Then he folded it and placed it in the sole of his shoe.

  A witch’s apprentice. As he thought about the job, excitement bubbled in his stomach (or maybe that was the dump sludge finally catching up with him).

  This was perfect. Beyond perfect. The most perfectly perfectest perfecty thing to ever fall beside Rupert’s toilet.

  Rupert’s Interview

  ON SATURDAY—AFTER RUPERT’S MOTHER LEFT for work—Rupert changed into his very best suit and tie for his job interview. He was to meet the witch in Digglydare Close, a stuffy alleyway at sea level.

  As Rupert left his house, he was thinking about how far up the mountain he lived. On the one hand, Rupert loved the beautiful view of the ocean from his window, but on the other hand, Main Beach was quite a hike down the hill. Today, Rupert wasn’t particularly excited to schlep all the way to Digglydare Close, which was right off Main Beach.

  Rupert crossed the street diagonally to get to the top of the staircase that cut through the town and led all the way down the hill. The steps were quite narrow, winding, and steep, and Rupert had to hold onto the broken stone walls of the stairs all the way down. Even climbing down the steps was a workout, and when Rupert finally reached the Main Beach at the bottom, he wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

  He stared at the Main Beach, a small area of grainy sand that connected to the endless ocean. The water glowed a neon shade of blue, and the smell of the salty seawater was so strong that Rupert could almost taste it. He had heard tourists complain about the stench, but this fishy tang smelled like home to him.

  Rupert walked through the beach to the shops that lined the bottom of the rocky hill. A few local shopkeepers waved in Rupert’s direction, and Mrs. Gummyum, the owner of the ice-cream store where his mother worked, called out to him.

  “Rupert!” she said, waddling over to him. “Where’s our favorite ice-cream taster today?”

  “You mean Mom? She’s working at the . . .” he was about to spill his mother’s fortune-cookie secret. “Working on learning how to cook,” he said, which was a terribly unconvincing lie to anyone who knew his mother at all.

  “Cook?” Mrs. Gummyum said. “Cook! Why does she need to cook when she can eat all of my ice-cream flavors? She’s not trying to make ice cream, is she? Not that we couldn’t handle a competing store—”

  “Mom’s not cooking ice cream, Mrs. Gummyum,” Rupert reassured her. “She’s making vegetables.”

  “Vegetables? Who needs vegetables? Unless you’re making spinach and artichoke ice cream, the only vegetable ice cream around. Though lately I’ve been dreaming of carrot ice cream . . . perhaps I should try that . . .”

  “She’s cooking vegetables for my health. I’m a growing boy,” he said, which is something that every adult had said to him for as long as he could remember. “But anyway, Mrs. Gummyum, I have to go. I’m late!”

  “Late for what? Late—oh, that gives me a marvelous idea! What do you think of Time-of-the-Day Ice Cream, Rupert? Like Day-of-the-Week Undergarments, only much better. There’ll be an ice cream for every hour, minute, and second. Think about it—that’s at least five thousand new ice creams, all rolled into one idea.”

  “Sorry! Truly sorry—gotta run!” Rupert ran off before he
could get caught in another one of her long-winded ice-cream suggestions.

  Rupert looked at his watch as he jogged through the town—his delay with Mrs. Gummyum left him two minutes late, and he dashed past a store of knickknacks, the quilting store, a candy store, and a jack-in-the-box emporium. At the very end of the strip, Rupert passed Cats, Rats, Bats, and Hats: A Witch’s Top Shop and Broomstick Tours: Showing You Gliverstoll on the Fly, two of the witchy businesses in Gliverstoll that generated money and tourists for the town.

  At last, Rupert finally arrived at Digglydare Close, and he peered into the shadowy street. He saw no one.

  Maybe the witch had decided she didn’t want an apprentice after all. Maybe he would never find her—maybe he would never be able to talk to anyone ever again.

  Rupert walked through the Close. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  A breeze wooshed and swooshed through the alleyway. He heard a cackle, which turned into a throaty cough. Rupert followed the noise down an intersecting alleyway, and he kept following the sound until he stood in front of a wooden door on Pexale Close. The coughs were definitely coming from the other side of the door.

  Rupert looked around the cobblestone path. Was he supposed to follow the cackling coughs? Or was he supposed to wait for the witch at Digglydare Close? Should he turn around? Or should he go in?

  Rupert knocked on the door. It swung open, and he slinked into a musty room that smelled like a sweaty shoe. The room was filled with shelves, stacked top to bottom with books, bottles, and odd knickknacks, but Rupert was more focused on a hunched figure that stood over a cauldron. The figure looked to be brewing a potion, and even in the darkness, Rupert saw her pointy teeth gleaming in a wicked grin.

  He instantly regretted coming to meet her. What if she cooked his toes into Toecorn? What if she boiled his fingers into Knuckle Soup? Or squeezed his eyeballs for jelly? How could he possibly have been so stupid and so careless? If he disappeared, no one would ever know what happened to him. He should have taken his mother’s cell phone or left a note on the kitchen counter . . . or had some sort of contingency plan.

  Rupert looked up at her, his knees knocking. “H-hello,” he said. He tried to smile as pleasantly as possible, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace.

  “Are you here for the interview?” the witch croaked, her voice low and crackly.

  Rupert nodded.

  The witch leaned forward into the slices of daylight that snuck in from the window shades. In the dim light, Rupert saw the woman’s gigantic, crooked, warty, grandflubbing nose, and he saw her rotten, daggerly teeth. The woman raised a gnobbled hand toward Rupert and pointed at the seat.

  “Sit.”

  Rupert took a seat, looking down at the witch’s feet. But then he noticed she had no feet at all— just four wooden pegs that came out from under her cloak. Rupert looked up at the witch’s greenish face, realizing that her face was greener in some places than others and that her face looked awfully splotchy. And there was a thin lining of plastic around her nose.

  He squinted and leaned closer. Rupert thought he saw—yes! The witch was wearing costume makeup!

  Rupert snickered. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he bit his lips and blew his cheeks out, desperately trying to swallow his laughter. His eyes bugged, and his face turned red.

  “Oh!” the witch gasped. “He’s having a fit!” She rushed forward to help him, but she tripped on the robe that was several feet too long for her, and she fell splat on the floor. Her prosthetic nose popped off, flew into the air, and landed in the cauldron with a hiss.

  Rupert howled until tears were leaking out of his eyes. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t laugh,” he wheezed.

  The witch fished her fake nose out of the cauldron with a ladle, but the piece of plastic had completely melted into rubbery goo.

  “That was my best nose, too,” she said sadly.

  She snapped her fingers and the lights turned on. In the brightness of the room, Rupert could clearly see where the witch tried to smudge green makeup on her face and where she had stuck on a plastic nose. She reached into her mouth and removed her set of false pointy dentures. Without the fake teeth, the witch had a row of normal square teeth, just like everyone else Rupert had ever met.

  The witch pulled the wig of long black hair off her head and then wiped her face on a towel until most of the green makeup was off. She still had a greenish hue to her, but Rupert was sure that the rest of the makeup would come off with a good shower. At last, the witch popped off her fake hands.

  Without her makeup and her prosthetic appendages, she had freckly skin, pale yellow hair, a tiny nose, and round baby-faced cheeks. She was a lot shorter than Rupert would have imagined her—and a lot younger. Rupert thought she looked about his age.

  “You aren’t really a witch, are you?” Rupert asked.

  “Course I am,” the girl said.

  “Then why are you wearing all of that makeup?”

  She sighed. “I don’t suppose you would know anything about it. I haven’t grown into my nose, hands, and height yet. And I’m not old enough for nose warts. But if I want to be a real witch someday I have to start acting like one now. Hold on—I’m interviewing you. Not the other way around. So from now on, I’ll be asking the questions.”

  The witch dug an old-fashioned tape recorder out of her pocket and placed it on the table.

  The interview transcript:

  The witch: What is your name?

  Rupert: Rupert Campbell.

  The witch: How old are you?

  Rupert: I’m eleven.

  The witch: Why, you’re just a baby!

  Rupert: Well, how old are you?

  The witch: I’m twelve.

  Rupert: (snorting sounds)

  The witch: Are you smart?

  Rupert: I think so.

  The witch: What’s two plus three?

  Rupert: Five.

  The witch: Pity. I thought I asked for smart applicants.

  Rupert: That’s the right answer!

  The witch: What’s five plus monkey?

  Rupert: Five plus monkey? What in the world does that mean?

  The witch: Wrong. Giraffe.

  Rupert: Giraffe what?

  The witch: Now what’s five plus ape?

  Rupert: Jellyfish?

  The witch: Wrong again. It’s thirteen.

  Rupert: No, five plus eight is thirteen. Eight, not ape.

  The witch: Wrong again. Five plus eight is kangaroo. Now what’s two plus three?

  Rupert: Honeybee.

  The witch: (scribbles on a paper) Well at least you are a quick learner. Now . . . are you a bunny?

  Rupert: A bunny?

  The witch: Are you? Answer honestly!

  Rupert: No, I’m a boy.

  The witch: A boy bunny?

  Rupert: No, no! Just a boy. A human boy.

  The witch: You can never be too careful these days. (scribbles on a paper)

  End of transcript.

  The witch looked at Rupert with her eyebrows raised, and Rupert couldn’t tell whether this was a good omen or a bad one. He started to feel a bit squirmy, and so he stuck his hands in his pockets to calm his nerves. The witch stared at him some more, and Rupert had a horrible feeling that she was considering brewing his fingers into Knuckle Soup.

  “Thank you for coming out to meet me,” she said with a wave of her hand, “now good-bye.”

  “What, that’s it?” Rupert said. “What about the part where we talk about my qualifications? And why I want this job? And my future ambitions?” He knew all about job interviews, since his mom had been on so many, and he had prepared thoroughly.

  The witch drummed her fingers on the table. “Fine then, what are your qualifications? Have you ever worked with a witch before?”

  “Well, no
but I—”

  “Then you have no qualifications.”

  Rupert could almost feel the job slipping away from him. “I’m—I’m a hard worker! Just give me a chance!”

  “Anything else?” the witch said, looking bored.

  “Why do you want an apprentice anyway?”

  The witch put her hands on her hips. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out. Now, if you have no more questions, then you may go.”

  “But—”

  “Go now,” the girl said. “Before I bake you into pudding.”

  Rupert kicked the ground. “Thank you for your time,” he mumbled.

  He stumbled out the door, his cheeks growing hot. How could he have botched the interview so badly? He insulted her, couldn’t answer a single one of her questions, and then had no qualifications for the job. He climbed the steps up to his house, certain he would never hear from the witch again.

  The Chase

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE PHONE RANG.

  “Hello, I’d like to speak to . . . Rupert Campbell please.”

  “This is he.”

  “Hi, Rupert, this is . . . erm . . . the witch. I’d like to offer you the job. What do you say?”

  Rupert nodded vigorously, too stunned to find his voice.

  “Erm . . . hello?” the witch said. “Darn these stupid things—Storm, the phone is broken again! I can’t hear a thing!”

  Rupert heard a voice in the background, shouting: “Smack it on the table! Stupid mortal devices—give it a good thump on the rump!”

  “Don’t!” Rupert shouted. “You’ll only break the phone!”

  He heard a crack, and then the witch said, “Oh, there you are! Oh, no, there you were. Now there are lots of loud fuzzy noises.”

  “That’s because you’re not supposed to thump phones on the rump!” Rupert said.

  “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  Rupert pulled the phone away from his ear. “Ow! Stop yelling!”

  “WITCH TO BOY, WITCH TO BOY—CAN YOU HEAR ME? IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, START WORK IN ONE HOUR. MEET AT THE FISHING DOCK. WEAR PURPLE. IF YOU CAN’T HEAR ME, THEN MEET ME AT MAIN BEACH IN TWO HOURS, AND WEAR ORANGE.”