The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Read Free Page A

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
    O N S ATURDAY — A FTER R UPERT ’ 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.
    â€œRupert!” she said, waddling over to him. “Where’s our favorite ice-cream taster today?”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œCook?” 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 — ”
    â€œMom’s not cooking ice cream, Mrs. Gummyum,” Rupert reassured her. “She’s making vegetables.”
    â€œVegetables? 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 . . .”
    â€œShe’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!”
    â€œLate 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.”
    â€œSorry! Truly sorry — gotta run!” Rupert ran off before he could get caught in another one of her long-winded ice-cream