“That’s nonsense,” Witchling Two said. “You guys are friends — you can’t let Mrs. Frabbleknacker stop you from talking.”
Kyle dropped her arm and scurried down the candy aisle. He stopped when he was near Rupert, but neither boy looked at the other.
“Rupert,” said Kyle, to a bag of milk chocolate bars. “Are you insane? You think Bruno’s toothpick punishment was bad? If Mrs. Frabbleknacker finds out that you’ve made friends with someone in Miss Snugglybuns’s class, she’ll probably make you swallow all those toothpicks whole!”
“Maybe,” said Rupert, suddenly feeling brave and daring. He peeled his eyes away from the shortbread cookies and looked directly at Kyle. “You’re probably right… and maybe I’ll get stomach splinters, but it’s a whole lot better than not having any friends.”
Rupert marched to where Witchling Two was beaming with pride. He wheeled the cartful of potion ingredients to the cashier and paid with the emergency money his mother gave him. Then, he grabbed the bags of groceries and headed out of the store with Witchling Two in tow.
As they walked home, Rupert hoped he wouldn’t regret talking to Kyle. He had disobeyed Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s orders. And was what he said to Kyle even true? Was having friends really worth swallowing toothpicks?
Rupert hugged the paper grocery bag to his chest as he listened to Witchling Two chatter on and on about how right Rupert was.
What?
WHEN RUPERT AND WITCHLING TWO ARRIVED at Rupert’s house with their groceries, they sorted them into different shelves. Witchling Two gleefully chattered about the health benefits of lollipops, but Rupert hardly even listened.
Sometimes a very good mood can turn very sour in a matter of minutes, and that’s exactly how Rupert felt. His stomach twisted, his palms sticky, his mouth dry — Rupert knew he had made a mistake. He definitely, positively, without a doubt should not have talked to Kyle. And he shouldn’t be talking to Witchling Two, either, because a horde of witches, not to mention his mother, would disapprove. It was the wrong thing to do.
“Rupert?” Witchling Two said. “What do you think?”
“Huh? Think about what?”
Witchling Two sighed a long exaggerated sigh. “Cherry-flavored lollipops versus watermelon!”
Rupert rolled his eyes.
Witchling Two nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly how I feel. They are both subpar to grape.”
Rupert scrunched his face real tight in anticipation of what he knew he had to say. “Witchling Two,” he said, “would you mind going home for the night?”
“Go home?” Witchling Two said meekly, her voice soft and hushed.
Rupert cringed for fear that she would burst into tears again.
“Why, that’s a splendid idea!” she shouted, leaping to her feet.
“It is?” Rupert said, sounding less convinced.
“Of course! You want me to go home and take a written exam, right? Oh, Rupert! You are such a wonderful apprentice — you keep me on task!”
“Y-yes,” Rupert said. “Perhaps you should take a written exam.”
“Right! Because we need to let the ingredients rot a bit before we can use them, and goodness knows I’m rubbish at spells, so the only thing left for me to practice is the WHATs.”
“What?”
“WHATs!”
“What’s what?”
“What’s WHATs?”
Rupert scratched his head. “I’m confused,” he said. “What are we talking about?”
“The WHATs — the Witchling Handwritten Aptitude Test! It’s part of my examination. I need to pass the written WHATs and the two practical tests: brewing and spell casting. And you’re right, Rupert… I’ve been focusing too much on brewing and spell casting.”
“I said that?”
Witchling Two nodded.
Rupert escorted her to the basement window to see her off.
Witchling Two turned to Rupert, an expression of resolve on her face. “Cheers, Rupert!” she said. “I’m off to… what’s that human expression? I’m off to kiss the crooks!”
“Hit the books,” corrected Rupert.
“Yes, assist the cooks,” Witchling Two said as she made her way to the window. “See you tomorrow, Rupert!” And then she slipped into the darkness and was gone.
Rupert closed the window, walked upstairs, and sat at the kitchen table. He read The Unabridged History of the Oxford Comma—a book that Mrs. Frabbleknacker had assigned his class — until he heard the front door open and shut again. His mother came in, carrying an enormous tub of ice cream.
“Mom!” Rupert said, rushing to give her a hug.
“My, my! If only I got this type of greeting every time I came home from work!”
“Sorry… I’ve been busy,” Rupert said.
His mother sniffed, and Rupert knew what was coming next. Sometimes he felt like his mother had extrasensory powers and was instantly able to tell whenever Rupert was sad about something. His mother plopped the ice cream on the counter. “What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong? Wait! Hold that thought!” His mother ran into the pantry and grabbed two bowls and two spoons and scooped out two enormous helpings of Mr. and Mrs. Gummyum’s new flavor: carrot ice cream.
She set the bowls on the table and sat next to Rupert.
“What’s going on, Rupert?”
Rupert took a deep breath. He twiddled his spoon between his fingers. “Do you think… am I a bad kid?”
“That depends,” his mother teased. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Rupert said, taking a big spoonful of ice cream. “Hmm. So this is what a vegetable tastes like?”
“Funny.”
“Carrot flavor… not bad.”
“I agree,” his mother said, wiping her lips with a napkin.
Rupert sighed. “Mom, I have this friend. But sometimes I feel like we shouldn’t be friends because—”
“Oh, Rupert, I loved your little friend. What was her name again?”
“Mooooom,” Rupert whined.
“I’m sorry… finish your story.”
“Anyway, there are a lot of people who think we shouldn’t be friends,” Rupert said, thinking of Mrs. Frabbleknacker, the Witches Council, Nebby, Storm, and his mother. “But I like her. She’s a good friend, and she makes me happy….”
“There’s your answer, Rupert,” his mother said. “If you like her, that’s all that really matters. No one else has the right to tell you who you can or cannot be friends with.” His mother paused. “That would be a great fortune cookie — let me write that down.” She grabbed a small notebook and a pen from her purse and scribbled it down.
“Are you even listening to me, Mom?” Rupert asked.
“Hold on… can or cannot be friends with,” his mother recited. “Okay. Sorry.”
Rupert drummed his fingers on the table. “Mom, what if an adult told me not to be friends with her?”
“Adult, kid, squirrel — it doesn’t matter, Rupert. You just be friends with whoever treats you well and makes you happy, and that’s all you can do.”
Rupert smiled. His mother always knew exactly what to say to make him feel better.
Once Upon a Time in Gliverstoll
EVERY DAY FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, RUPERT invited Witchling Two over. And thanks to the talk with his mom, he didn’t even feel guilty about it.
But on Thursday night, she decided to practice the WHATs by herself, which worked out well because Rupert needed to make a poster about the history of processed potatoes for Mrs. Frabbleknacker’s class. Rupert was working on the assignment in his room when he heard a tapping noise at his window. He turned around to see Witchling Two bobbing up and down outside on a broomstick.