The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

by Lauren Magaziner

  Witchling Two pulled a soggy piece of parchment out of a stack. She read it over with a hmm, then she crumpled it and tossed it over her shoulder before picking up a new piece of paper. Rupert walked over and began to read papers. They hardly made sense to him, and a lot of them had names of Gliverstoll townspeople and punishments on them.

  “What are these?” Rupert asked, holding up a paper that read: Viola Frobbleman punished under article 31. Caught vandalizing the bell tower. Punishment: Toecorn. He shuddered at the thought of Toecorn.

  “We keep everything all filed together, so we’ve got record on all the punishments we’ve ever given, the WHATs questions, witch evaluation reports, research notes, and witchling report cards all mixed together.

  Rupert shook his head. At this rate, they’d never find what they were looking for. He dug through more papers, some soggy, some crusty, all smelling like sour eggs. There were more papers than Rupert thought—they were endless, circling the ground and piling up to his calves like a parchment swimming pool. There were far too many papers to possibly read in such a short span. But they had to try.

  Witchling Two clicked her tongue. “We need to leave, Rupert,” she said. “We have bobcat minutes to get out of here.”

  “One more minute,” Rupert said as he dug into another stack. It wasn’t right, and he tossed it aside. He grabbed one, two, three—but none of them were right.

  Witchling Two bit her nails. “Rupert . . .”

  “You’re going to have to do a spell,” Rupert said, looking up from the parchment he was reading.

  “A spell?”

  “We’ve got to find those test questions! This is your only chance. All we’ve got is no time and a lot of magic. Just think of it as more practice for your exam.”

  Witchling Two took a deep breath. “I’ll try,” she said with a nod. She snapped her fingers. “I need the test papers. The test papers . . . the test papers,” she breathed.

  Suddenly a cloud of wispy smoke erupted from the ground. The room grew thick and foggy and muggy and damp.

  “What did you do?” cried Rupert. “We needed test papers, not wet vapors!”

  Witchling Two let out a sob. “I’ll never pass!”

  “Yes, you will,” Rupert said, waving his hands to clear away some of the fog. “I’m going to help you study, even if we can’t find current WHATs questions! Now, how much time do we have left before the Council meeting ends?”

  “Catfish minutes—we really have to go!”

  This trip was a failure, Rupert thought as he stood up, but this room is so messy it’s no wonder we couldn’t find anything. He grabbed Witchling Two’s hand and pulled her through the vapors, which were now erupting in spurts. “Come on—let’s get out of here!”

  Witchling Two followed him but stopped dead just before the door. She walked to the wooden table in the corner.

  “Come on!” Rupert said. “We have to get out of here!”

  She gasped.

  “Rupert!” She hovered over the table, and when she turned around, she held up a piece of parchment. “Your mom.”

  Rupert’s heart leaped into his throat. “What?”

  Witchling Two cleared her throat. “Joanne Campbell punished under article nineteen. Caught stealing forbidden potions from the Witches—”

  “That’s my mom!”

  “But that’s not everything!” she said, her face growing pale. “There’s more. It says, Punishment: Firstborn child.”

  Witchling Four

  “WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? AM I A PUNISHMENT?”

  “No,” Witchling Two said. “I think it means . . . you belong to the witches. They’ve claimed you.”

  “B-but I can’t belong to the witches. I’m not allowed to go near them! This doesn’t make any sense.”

  Witchling Two scratched her head.

  “Why was this file on the table?”

  “Nebby and Storm—they knew you had become my apprentice. They must know that we didn’t stop seeing each other after that day in the Brewery, and they must have wanted to read up on your family history.”

  He looked at the piece of paper again.

  “What did she steal? What’s a forbidden potion?”

  “Oh, it could be lots of things. Love potion, death potion, revival potion, fertility potion, intelligence potion, obedience potion. The witches keep all sorts of potions that are forbidden for humans. For moral reasons.”

  He looked at Witchling Two quizzically, but she turned to her watch.

  “Honeybee minutes!” she squealed.

  She grabbed Rupert’s hand, and the two of them sped down the hallways. They ran past the flowers so fast that Rupert didn’t even have time to inhale. The entrance to the Dome Room was just ahead of them—and they leaped into the room like two gazelles.

  “Well, well, well!” said a snotty-sounding voice. “Little miss witchling breaking all the rules.”

  Witchling Two froze, and Rupert turned around the room. Leaning against the wall was a short girl who looked well on her way to becoming the scariest witch Rupert had ever seen. She had tangled brown hair and small, squinty eyes. Her face was sharp and angular, her lips thin and curled. And as she grinned, she bared her small, jagged teeth.

  “You brought a human inside the Witches Council lair?” the small girl said, smacking her lips in delight. “Witchling Two, you’re in so much trouble. I mean, they’ll probably make you clean the dome with your tongue. You always do this, you know—make us real witches look bad. You’re a joke—an insult to the name witch.” The small girl cracked her neck. “And you could never pass your exam, not even if the entire Witches Council gave you private lessons. I don’t know why you even try.”

  Witchling Two looked down. A blush crept on her freckly face, and she shuffled her feet.

  Rupert squeezed her hand. “Go on,” he whispered. “You’re better than that! Now tell her off.”

  Witchling Two looked up and beamed. “Hello, Witchling Four!” she said.

  Witchling Four looked nervous at Witchling Two’s sudden change of attitude. “Did you hear what I just said? You’re getting in trouble! They’ll never let you take the exam, and you and your niceness will be banished forever,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the word niceness, as if there was no worse insult in the world.

  “Wait . . . are you threatening to tattle on her?” Rupert said.

  Witchling Four nodded.

  “You wouldn’t,” Witchling Two said. “You can’t—because if you tell, you’ll have to admit that you were here, too. And then you’ll be in just as much trouble.”

  The sound of a gavel and cries of Meeting Adjourned! echoed throughout the room. Rupert tugged on Witchling Two’s sleeve in panic. She nodded toward his backpack, and Rupert handed it over to her.

  “At least I didn’t bring a human in here!” Witchling Four shouted.

  “Human?” Witchling Two said, reaching deep into the backpack. She pulled out the jar full of sand and handed Rupert back the bag. She smiled as she twisted the cap of the jar open. “I don’t see a human. Do you see a human?” she said to Rupert.

  Rupert caught on fast. “I don’t see anything!”

  Rupert closed his eyes and his mouth, and Witchling Two dumped the jar of sand all over Rupert’s head.

  Witchling Four’s eyes slid off him, and Rupert and Witchling Two dashed toward the boulder. They ducked around the corner and hid for a moment so that they didn’t make too much noise as they scurried toward the exit. Behind him, he heard the doors open and a few witches cry, “Witchling Four! You naughty child!”

  “Quick!” Witchling Four shouted. “Witchling Two is here with a human boy!”

  “Quiet, you! Stop spreading rumors and lies,” said a squeaky voice. “I’m so ashamed of you right now! You know you’re not supposed to be here!”

  “B
ut Coldwind!” Witchling Four whined.

  “No buts, bums, bottoms, tushes, tails, rears, fannies, or glutei maximi, missy! You’ve brought me shame and humiliation. No saliva slushie for you tonight!”

  Witchling Two tugged on Rupert’s sleeve, and he tiptoed behind her as they made their way through the passageway with the framed smiling animals. At last, they made their way to the boulder, and it sat just ahead of them—but then the lights flicked off, and they were stuck in darkness.

  “What happened?” Rupert whispered, frightened. “Are they gone?”

  “No, it’s our new environmental conservation plan. They like to turn off the lights when this portion of the hallway isn’t being used. We’re very concerned about the environment, too.”

  “But why aren’t the witches leaving the lair? Isn’t their meeting over?”

  Witchling Two giggled. “We were really lucky Witchling Four was there—they’re dealing with her in the punishing room. Now let’s get out of here.”

  And she dragged Rupert toward the exit.

  Secrets, Secrets Are No Fun . . .

  THEY SCAMPERED UP YAMMERSTOP WAY AND didn’t stop until they were just outside Rupert’s house. Then they leaned on his porch for support and panted.

  “We were almost toast!” Rupert said.

  “And they didn’t even suspect that anything was rabbit!”

  Rupert shook his head. “Fishy. That rabbit thing will never catch on,” he said. “But anyway, who was that girl? Witchling Four?”

  Witchling Two went pale and started stammering. “Well, you see, um, er, uh, erm . . .”

  “She was horrible. An absolute nightmare. Is that why you won’t practice with the other witchlings? That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

  “No, I really thought you would be useful with your, erm, ability to do things non-magically . . .”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “Okay, fine,” Witchling Two said. “I don’t really get along with the other witchlings. I guess you could tell that I’m a bit . . . different, and they make fun of me a lot. And I was . . . I was . . . I was . . .”

  “Lonely,” Rupert finished for her.

  Witchling Two nodded.

  Rupert understood that feeling quite well.

  Except at that moment, for the first time in a long time, Rupert didn’t feel lonely at all. When he looked at Witchling Two and thought about all their crazy misadventures, he actually felt a lot better. And even though he hadn’t known her for that long, and even though she was a bit batty, and even though they weren’t supposed to be friends, she was the best friend Rupert had ever had.

  The screen door flew open, and Rupert’s mother burst out with two bowls of ice cream. “Hello, kids! Would you like a treat? Or if you don’t want this, I can make you something microwavable.”

  Witchling Two’s eyes narrowed, and she crinkled her nose. “What is that?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gummyum’s homemade carrot ice cream.”

  Witchling Two’s jaw dropped, and she wore a horrified expression. “Carrot?” she said. “Carrot ice cream?”

  “Yes, dear. Try a spoonf—”

  “BUUUNNNYYYYYYYYYYY! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” she screamed, bolting all the way down Piggleswumpfer Court and out of sight.

  “Your friend is an odd little duckling,” his mother said.

  Rupert shrugged.

  His mother sat down on the porch step, and Rupert crawled next to her. They began to eat the ice cream in silence, just enjoying the warmth of the sun and the hush of the ocean and the crispness of the salty air.

  But Rupert wasn’t feeling that hungry, and after a few bites, he put down his bowl. Sitting next to his mom reminded him of what he saw in the witches’ lair—the horrible realization that he now belonged to the witches because of something his mom had done many years ago.

  “Mom . . . What did you steal from the witches?” He didn’t mean to say it, but it just sort of burbled out of him.

  His mother’s spoon flew out of her hand, and she scurried to pick it up again. “What?” she said. “What did you say?”

  “What did you steal?”

  “How could you possibly know that?” she whispered.

  Rupert froze. How could he be so stupid? Of course, she’d want to know how he knew . . . but he couldn’t tell her about Witchling Two or their trip into the witches’ lair.

  His mother put down her bowl. “Rupert?” When he didn’t answer her, his mother’s eyes began to water.

  She began to cry, and she pulled him close to her, holding him tight. He hugged her back and tried to comfort her, but it was hard when he didn’t understand why she was crying.

  When she calmed down, he tried again, “What did you take, Mom?”

  She hugged her knees and stared off into the sea. “This is important—which witch have you been talking to, Rupert?”

  “None of them! Honest!” And it was the truth. Technically, Witchling Two wasn’t a witch . . . yet. Rupert took a deep breath. “I was walking near Digglydare Close, and I overheard two witches talking,” he paused. “But I didn’t talk to them, and I wasn’t on the witch street.”

  “But you were lingering by it?” She took his hand. “Don’t ever do that again,” she scolded, but it sounded more like pleading. “How many times have I told you, stay away from that side of town.”

  “Why?” Rupert said. “Why do I have to stay away from the witches? And what did you steal? And why did you do it? And why do we stay in Gliverstoll if you hate the witches so much? Why do you keep all these secrets?”

  She stood up and walked over to the porch swing. “I’m trying to protect you, Rupert.”

  “I don’t want that. I just want answers.”

  When it was clear she wasn’t going to discuss the witches any longer, he walked into the house. For hours, he listened to his mother rocking back and forth in her porch chair. When he finally went to bed, she was still rocking.

  Turning in the Essay

  ON MONDAY, FOUR DAYS BEFORE WITCHLING Two’s exam, Rupert walked into class with 200 words of his 500,000 word essay. He clutched his paragraph in his right hand and a water bottle of emerald glossy potion that Witchling Two had made him in his left. He’d let the potion sit for five days, and it was ready for use . . . whatever it did. Witchling Two still wouldn’t tell him what potion she had brewed for him, and knowing her, he had no idea what to expect. He felt like he was going to vomit.

  He looked to his left and saw Kyle Mason-Reed struggling to keep his stack of spiral notebooks from toppling. Rupert thought that he must have used twenty-five notebooks—he tried to count, but he kept messing up the numbers. Rupert looked to his right and saw an exhausted-looking Allison Gormley. Rupert had overheard Kaleigh whisper to Millie just before class that Allison’s facial hair from Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s potion had fallen out five hours after she had taken the potion, but until then Allison had spent the day hiding in the bathroom stall, wailing that she was going to have to join a circus. And Rupert had overheard Bruno tell Francis that Hal had stopped vomiting worms one hour after he drank the potion. Rupert was relieved that at least Allison and Hal were back to normal. Manny, unfortunately, was still trapped in his jar on the windowsill.

  But Manny’s punishment was nothing compared to what Rupert feared would happen to him today.

  He looked at Allison again. She stroked her neat stack of typed printer paper. Her pile was even taller than Kyle’s, and Allison sat straight in her seat, looking rather pleased with herself.

  Rupert looked around the rest of the classroom. His classmates looked positively ghoulish: pale skin, droopy eyes, solemn faces. A few people struggled to stay awake, and Rupert watched as Hal and Kaleigh slept with their chins tucked to their chests—and then violently jerked their heads upward to wake themselves.

  Rupert felt completel
y out of place. He was the only well-rested one and the only one who hadn’t done the assignment. Everyone—Allison, Kyle, Kaleigh, Hal, Millie, Francis, and even Bruno—was fiddling with a giant pile of papers. Rupert placed his single sheet of paper on his desk with a sickly wince.

  Mrs. Frabbleknacker kicked the door open. “Children,” she said, as though she was saying something truly awful like Morning Breath or Snot Pudding. “Today is a very special day. A day of science for some,” she looked straight at Rupert’s desk.

  Rupert gulped. His hands clutched his water bottle even tighter.

  Mrs. Frabbleknacker walked down the first row of students, her shoes clip-clopping in time with Rupert’s nervous pulse. He looked away from Mrs. Frabbleknacker for a quick moment, and his gaze rested on Manny, who was calmly nibbling a leaf inside his jar on the windowsill.

  “Too few words,” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said as she walked past Bruno’s desk. She picked up Bruno’s essay and whacked him on the head with it. “Too many words,” Mrs. Frabbleknacker said as she walked past Allison’s desk. She punched Allison’s papers, and the entire stack fell with a swoosh all over the floor. Allison blinked in disbelief. Then she ran from the classroom crying.

  Rupert used the distraction as the perfect opportunity to bring the water bottle up to his lips and gulp down a few sips of Witchling Two’s potion. He thought intensely about Mrs. Frabbleknacker—about the way she terrified him with every clomping step, the way she made every lesson into a dangerous task, and the way he would never ever smell bananas or belly-button lint in quite the same way again. When Rupert had taken five glugs, he quickly lowered the bottle and licked his lips. The potion tasted like bubble gum and mint and cinnamon all mixed together, like extra tangy mouthwash. Which was not what he was expecting, since Witchling Two had said it tasted like cabbages and gravy.

  Rupert brought the bottle down to his knees and watched as scribbly handwriting suddenly appeared on the side of the water bottle. Sand Potion, it said. Rupert had no idea what that was—or what that could even be.