Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth

by E. L. Konigsburg

  She looked straight ahead. At last she spoke. She said, “Cougar.”

  I said, “Poodle.”

  She said, “Cougar.”

  I said, “Poodle.”

  Then she said nothing. And I said nothing. She wouldn’t argue. She began to read the Black Book. We were just thinking about changing into cougar and poodle, and we were fighting. Imagine how unfriendly we’d be when we actually changed! I was ready to admit that I should become a Siamese cat. Before I said so, Jennifer looked up from the Black Book and said, “There’s no way we can pick which animal we’ll be. Suppose we both become mosquitoes.”

  “I know who I’ll bite first,” I said looking straight at her.

  Jennifer didn’t notice. She was still looking at the Black Book. “We could both easily lose our lives to DDT or even a fly-swatter. Let’s make the flying ointment.”

  “Fine with me,” I said. We turned the pages of the book to find out how to make the ointment. The witches didn’t ever give the exact ingredients. So Jennifer gave me a new assignment. I was to read the Black Book very carefully and make a list of all the possible ingredients that could go into a flying ointment. She said that she would find out what chants to chant when we spread the ointment on ourselves.

  “Where are you going to find out?” I asked. Jennifer didn’t answer. She shrugged her shoulders and looked up. I got mad. Some days I got really mad at Jennifer. Some days I really didn’t like being her apprentice. But I was always a little bit worried that she would choose another apprentice. Sometimes when I got angry like this, I’d say to myself, “Who does she think she is, anyway?” And I’d an swer, “She’s Jennifer.”

  Before I’d got Jennifer, I’d had no one. In the days before Jennifer, I would talk to Tony, the janitor in our building. He was a very usual kind of person; he’d always say something about the weather first. “Cold today.” “Cheely again.” “Wew! itsa hota one.” Then he’d say something about his work. “Them boys oughta getta boot for dirting up thisa place.” After talking to Tony only a couple of times I knew everything. Such as how many kids he had and which ones were “gooda boys.” I knew even before September was over. He liked questions and answered all of them as long as I stayed polite. Imagine Jennifer doing that!

  I could ask her questions until I was indigo in the face. (Indigo is deeper than blue.) She still wouldn’t tell me. I knew she wouldn’t tell me, so actually I never tried very hard.

  After all, she had chosen me because she knew that I had all the makings of a fine witch. That must have been why she chose me. And I knew that she was a fine witch already. When you understand something that important about someone, you don’t have to know a lot of other stuff. Like does she have to dry the dishes after supper, and what kind of house does she live in. Besides, even if I did find out all this usual, Tony kind of stuff and discovered that Jennifer lived in an ordinary house and did ordinary things, I would know that it was a disguise.

  So I got mad, but I didn’t stay mad. Every time I thought I couldn’t eat one more apprentice food, I would eat it. I wanted to be a witch so bad that I would eat it. There was a lot I didn’t find out about her and a lot I gave in to. But it was worth it. Being an apprentice witch was worth it. Besides, I thought how nice it would be to fly.

  The next week, Jennifer said I was to eat a raw onion every day. I was to leave her a raw carrot, peeled, wrapped in Saran, and slightly salted.

  5

  THE MINUTE WE GOT BACK from Thanksgiving weekend, the whole school started getting ready for Christmas and the Christmas play. Especially our grade. This year the fifth grade was to put on the play. The play is always presented twice; once for the whole school and once for the Parent and Teachers Association meeting at night. There are three fifth grade classes in William McKinley Elementary School; that’s my school. Three fifth grades adds up to about sixty kids. All the other classes of William McKinley Elementary School were to sing carols and recite poems.

  That first Monday afternoon after Thanksgiving all the fifth graders met in the auditorium. Each classroom teacher had read the play in the morning. Mrs. Stuyvestant would direct the play; Mrs. Stuyvestant would choose the cast for the play; Mrs. Stuyvestant had written the play. The play was long. It had to be long so that all sixty kids could get a chance to act. Our school was democratic about Christmas. Here’s the play:

  • • •

  There is a king who lives once upon a time (of course). He has a beautiful daughter (of course). He loves his beautiful daughter very much (of course). She is very unhappy. No one knows why she is very unhappy. The king wants to make her happy, so he asks her what can he give her for Christmas. She doesn’t know (of course). The king goes to Santa’s workshop, and he asks Santa what can he give his beautiful, unhappy daughter for Christmas. Santa’s workshop is full of merry elves who all love the princess like crazy. They are all hammering and sawing and carrying on. Santa holds up all these dolls and things, but the king doesn’t think they will make the princess smile. He shakes his head and walks away. Then the king goes to the queen’s chamber, and he asks the queen what can he give their beautiful, unhappy daughter for Christmas. The queen’s chamber is full of beautiful ladies-in-waiting who all love the princess like crazy. They are all singing and dancing and carrying on. The queen holds up all these clothes and things, but the king doesn’t think they will make the princess smile. He shakes his head and walks away. Then the king goes to the kitchen, and he asks the chef what can he give his beautiful, unhappy daughter for Christmas. The kitchen is full of cook’s helpers who all love the princess like crazy. They are all stirring big pots and being jolly and carrying on. The chef holds up all these cakes and cookies and things, but the king doesn’t think they will make the princess smile. He shakes his head and walks away. He walks to his throne room. He sits down to think. He thinks and thinks. He thinks he has a real problem. Soon an old scrub woman comes in. She looks so happy scrubbing that the king thinks she has an answer to unhappiness. He asks her what can he give his beautiful, unhappy daughter for Christmas. She tells him that he should give the beautiful, unhappy princess a puppy because to be happy you have to love and take care of someone as well as be loved and be taken care of. She tells him that that is one of the lessons of Christmas. The king thinks this is a great idea. He gets his beautiful, unhappy princess a puppy (of course). She smiles happily (of course), and the play is over (at last).

  • • •

  Guess who was the beautiful princess? Cynthia (of course). Guess who was the little puppy? The smallest kid in the class. Me (of course). Jennifer was a lady-in-waiting. I couldn’t tell whether she enjoyed being a lady or not. She kept her eyes up the whole time Mrs. Stuyvestant was choosing the cast. No one knew that Jennifer and I had made a pact sealed in blood. No one knew that we were witch and apprentice or that we even knew each other. Witchcraft is a private affair. Very private. It’s secret.

  Remember that my apprentice food that week was one raw onion per day. It was no problem because I love onion sandwiches. I loved onion sandwiches even before I was a witch’s apprentice . . . when I was an ordinary, fussy eater. Here is my recipe for onion sandwiches: toast the bread, butter it, slice the onions, salt them, place them on the buttered slice of toast and cover with an unbuttered slice, cut off the crusts (of course) and eat. Delicious. On Sunday I had announced to my mother that I would be having an onion sandwich for lunch every day the next week.

  “Every day?” my mother asked.

  “Yes, every day,” I answered.

  “Hot dogs last week; onions this week. There must be some special reason,” she said.

  “There is,” I answered. My voice was trailing because I was stalling for time to think of a reason.

  “Tell me,” my mother said. I could tell her patience was small because her voice was very slow and very patient. My father was home. That was the way she talked when she was angry if my father was home.

  I thought fast. “I am conduct
ing an experiment. I think I can keep from catching a cold for a whole year if I eat one onion a day for a whole week before winter officially begins.”

  “Well,” my mother said, “you’ll surely keep from catching cold for the week if not for the whole year. No one will be able to get close enough to give you any germs.” Her voice was still slow and low.

  “Please, may I try it?” I asked.

  “Thank goodness you don’t know about asafetida,” she said.

  “What’s asafetida?” I asked.

  “I’ll never tell,” she answered.

  I believe that if you like onions, you should love onions. Nice people love onions. If you love onions, you should find the odor of onions on someone’s breath very pleasant.

  Our first full rehearsal for the Christmas play was on Friday afternoon. It was a long rehearsal. All the teachers except Mrs. Stuyvestant took coffee breaks. Everyone had to be prompted. Everyone stood in the wrong places. Mrs. Stuyvestant would bounce up on stage and move the people around. She made chalk marks on the stage where they were to stand. By the end of that first rehearsal the floor looked like our classroom blackboard just after Miss Hazen explained long division by the New Math. Mrs. Stuyvestant was the tallest woman I have ever seen. Everyone called her Mrs. Sky-high-vestant.

  My part was toward the end of the play. The king brings me (the puppy) to Cynthia (the princess). I didn’t have any lines to memorize. My role meant putting on an old doggie costume and crawling around on all fours. And making bow-wow sounds. When the king gives me (the puppy) to Cynthia (the princess), Mrs. Stuyvestant said that I was to stand up on my hind legs and put my hands (paws) on Cynthia’s lap, look up at her face, stick out my tongue, and pant. “Pant with excitement,” Mrs. Stuyvestant said. “Frolic around,” Mrs. Stuyvestant said. I was afraid that Mrs. Stuyvestant would ask me to wag my tail. Cynthia (the princess) was to snuggle her head up to mine and smile. Then everyone from Santa’s workshop, from the Queen’s chamber, and from the royal kitchen was to come back on stage and sing and dance and carry on.

  Even though this was not a dress rehearsal for anyone else, I had to be in costume to get used to walking on all fours. Mrs. Stuyvestant said that, too. The puppy costume was made of some fuzzy black orlon stuff that was thick, heavy, and hot. Inside, it smelled like a small glue factory. We rehearsed the elves and the ladies-in-waiting and the cooks. Long before I had to walk onstage, I was so hot inside the costume that I was sure I was going to commit spontaneous combustion. But I had heard that the show must go on. Mrs. Stuyvestant said that. The only thing I did, the only thing I could do, was to unzip the head part of my costume and fling it back like a hood. I got some relief. Since this was only a rehearsal and no one else was in costume, I figured that it didn’t make any difference.

  Cynthia had been on stage almost the whole rehearsal. The king keeps visiting her during the play to see if she is smiling yet. She smiled the whole time she was on stage. She was supposed to be unhappy, but she was grinning. She wasn’t laughing. Just grinning. Like the Mona Lisa. Mrs. Stuyvestant would say, “Be unhappy.” Cynthia would frown; but soon the grin would creep back over her face. She was grinning when the king brought me in.

  The king announced, “Princess, it is Christmas now, and it was Christmas then . . . when you last smiled. Here is our gift. We give you this puppy with our love for you to love.” Then the king took me (the puppy) up to the princess. I put my hands (paws) on her lap. I stuck out my tongue. I panted. Cynthia, who had been grinning when she was not supposed to, was now supposed to smile very large. Large enough for the audience in the back rows to see, Mrs. Stuyvestant said. Cynthia took a deep breath and began to snuggle her head up to mine. Instead of sighing and smiling, she stopped the sigh and the smile and puffed out her cheeks like the old North Wind and clamped her hands over her nose and mouth and ran from the stage. Mrs. Stuyvestant ran after her. I don’t know what they discussed off stage, but Mrs. Stuyvestant came back to me and sniffed me and asked me to kindly take the puppy costume home and have my mother kindly launder it, and she asked me to kindly not eat raw onions before rehearsals. Since this was Friday, the end of my onion week, I kindly agreed.

  Jennifer was off stage. As I walked away, I saw a Mona Lisa smile on her face. She winked. No one saw that but me.

  We had rehearsals every gym period, every music period, and every art period. They didn’t call it “rehearsal” during art period because we stayed in the art room and painted the sets and made cardboard crowns (covered with aluminum foil, glued and sprinkled with glitter dust). For the kitchen scene we made a stove out of big cardboard cartons that we painted black. It looked nice from the back rows where the audience sat. It looked nicest from the very last row. Mrs. Stuyvestant asked each of us to bring in a cookie sheet or a pan or a kettle or a stirring spoon. We were to be sure to put our names on what we brought in so that we could get it back when the play was over. I brought in two cupcake pans and put one letter of my name on the inside of each cupcake hole. It looked like this:

  I hoped that the whole audience, even the very last row would see. Mrs. Stuyvestant asked me to kindly wash it off and kindly Scotch tape my name on the bottom—very small. She said, “In the theater one does not get top billing just because one can write one’s name very large. One gets top billing because one has earned stardom.” One always knew when Mrs. Stuyvestant was scolding because she always called you one instead of your name.

  Cynthia brought in her mother’s electric mixer. She knew that she was the only kid in the whole U.S. of A. whose mother would let her carry the family’s electric mixer to school. Mrs. Stuyvestant told her that it was very generous of her mother to lend it, and it was very generous of her to have carried it all the way from home. (I knew that Cynthia’s mother had driven her to school that day, but Cynthia didn’t mention it. Another example of the way Cynthia was: two-faced.) But Mrs. Stuyvestant didn’t consider the mixer picturesque enough. In other words, in the days when there were kings and princesses, there just weren’t any electric mixers. Cynthia didn’t even have sense enough to be insulted. She sighed sadly and told Mrs. Stuyvestant that she would manage to get the mixer home, somehow, even though it was heavy.

  Jennifer caused a small sensation. She brought in a huge black three-legged pot. It would hold about twenty quarts of water. A little kid could swim in it almost. Jennifer didn’t have to write her name on that pot to identify it. No one else had ever seen anything like it except in a museum. I happened to know that it was the pot we were going to cook our flying ointment in.

  Mrs. Stuyvestant was overjoyed. She put her hands on her waist (with her elbows pointing out and her toes pointing out, too, she looked like a long, tall, five-pointed star) and exclaimed, “Oh, Jenny, how won-derful! It’s too cute! A three-legged kettle!”

  If you ever want to make Jennifer angry, call her what Mrs. Stuyvestant did. Call her Jenny instead of Jennifer, her rightful name.

  Jennifer looked up, way up at Mrs. Sky-high-vestant and said, “That makes one, two, three, doesn’t it?”

  Mrs. Stuyvestant looked down, way down at Jennifer and said, “What do you mean, Jennifer?”

  Jennifer answered, “Wonderful, too cute, three- legged. That’s one, two, three.” Jennifer didn’t smile.

  Mrs. Stuyvestant said, “I had no idea you were so clever.” She smiled. I could tell that Jennifer wished that Mrs. Stuyvestant had not smiled. She wanted her to notice how angry she was at being called Jenny instead of Jennifer.

  Everyone was a little surprised at how clever Jennifer was. She almost never spoke in class or during rehearsals. She never spoke to me; she would just slip me a note every now and then. I was worried that everyone would find out how clever Jennifer was. It feels wonderful to have a secret. Sometimes I thought I wanted our secret to be discovered accidentally, but I didn’t want to share Jennifer with the entire fifth grade. It was lucky, the kids of William McKinley Elementary School weren’t ready to make the discovery. T
hey were no longer paying any attention. Mrs. Stuyvestant walked all around the pot, pleased and smiling. She smiled over at Jennifer and asked, “By the way, Jenny, how did you get it here?” She was still feeling cozy toward Jennifer.

  Jennifer pretended that she didn’t hear the question. She was making herself very busy shaking a can of spray paint, and that little ball inside the can was rattling away. Mrs. Stuyvestant said, “Jenny. Oh, Jenny!” No answer from you-know-who. “Jenny. Oh, Jenny!” No answer from you-know-who again. Mrs. Stuyvestant started walking toward Jennifer and said, “Jenny. Oh, Jennifer!” The minute she said Jennifer, you-know-who looked up.

  “Yes?” asked Jennifer.

  “I was wondering,” Mrs. Stuyvestant said, “how you got that heavy kettle to school.”

  “Brought it in my wagon,” answered Jennifer.

  “Then your wagon is parked at school?” asked Mrs. Stuyvestant.

  “Yes,” answered Jennifer.

  “Do you think that you can lend it to Cynthia to help her get her mixer home?”

  Jennifer asked, “You want me to put the mixer in my wagon?”

  Mrs. Stuyvestant said, almost sarcastically, “That’s what I had in mind.”

  Jennifer replied, “I’ll be happy to.”

  Mrs. Stuyvestant said, “Thank you.” She smiled pleasantly at Jennifer and began to turn around.

  Before she was completely turned around, Jennifer said, “Do you think I should tie my wagon to the bumper?”

  Mrs. Stuyvestant spun around. “The bumper? Bumper? The bumper of what?”

  Jennifer answered, “The bumper of their car.”

  Mrs. Stuyvestant was too puzzled to get angry. She merely asked, “Why do that?”

  Jennifer answered, “Because Cynthia brought the mixer here in their car, so I guessed that that was the way she would get it home, too.” Somehow, Jennifer managed to look innocent.