The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Read Free

that was an even worse thought.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œOh, Rupert, you know I’m too exhausted to cook by the time I get home from work.”
    â€œSo, 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.
    â€œI 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!”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œCool! Then what happened?”
    â€œRupert!” 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 — ”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œThey are dangerous! And horrible! And terrible!”
    â€œWhy? What’s wrong with them?”
    â€œWisdom is just another word for obedience,” his mother said, reciting a fortune cookie.
    â€œDidn’t you tell me last week that another word for genius is obsession?”
    â€œRupert!”
    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.
    â€œEverything’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