Rupert looked at his watch as he jogged through the town — his delay with Mrs. Gummyum left him two minutes late, and he dashed past a store of knickknacks, the quilting store, a candy store, and a jack-in-the-box emporium. At the very end of the strip, Rupert passed Cats, Rats, Bats, and Hats: A Witch’s Top Shop and Broomstick Tours: Showing You Gliverstoll on the Fly, two of the witchy businesses in Gliverstoll that generated money and tourists for the town.
At last, Rupert finally arrived at Digglydare Close, and he peered into the shadowy street. He saw no one.
Maybe the witch had decided she didn’t want an apprentice after all. Maybe he would never find her — maybe he would never be able to talk to anyone ever again.
Rupert walked through the Close. “Hello? Anyone there?”
A breeze wooshed and swooshed through the alleyway. He heard a cackle, which turned into a throaty cough. Rupert followed the noise down an intersecting alleyway, and he kept following the sound until he stood in front of a wooden door on Pexale Close. The coughs were definitely coming from the other side of the door.
Rupert looked around the cobblestone path. Was he supposed to follow the cackling coughs? Or was he supposed to wait for the witch at Digglydare Close? Should he turn around? Or should he go in?
Rupert knocked on the door. It swung open, and he slinked into a musty room that smelled like a sweaty shoe. The room was filled with shelves, stacked top to bottom with books, bottles, and odd knickknacks, but Rupert was more focused on a hunched figure that stood over a cauldron. The figure looked to be brewing a potion, and even in the darkness, Rupert saw her pointy teeth gleaming in a wicked grin.
He instantly regretted coming to meet her. What if she cooked his toes into Toecorn? What if she boiled his fingers into Knuckle Soup? Or squeezed his eyeballs for jelly? How could he possibly have been so stupid and so careless? If he disappeared, no one would ever know what happened to him. He should have taken his mother’s cell phone or left a note on the kitchen counter… or had some sort of contingency plan.
Rupert looked up at her, his knees knocking. “H-hello,” he said. He tried to smile as pleasantly as possible, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace.
“Are you here for the interview?” the witch croaked, her voice low and crackly.
Rupert nodded.
The witch leaned forward into the slices of daylight that snuck in from the window shades. In the dim light, Rupert saw the woman’s gigantic, crooked, warty, grandflubbing nose, and he saw her rotten, daggerly teeth. The woman raised a gnobbled hand toward Rupert and pointed at the seat.
“Sit.”
Rupert took a seat, looking down at the witch’s feet. But then he noticed she had no feet at all— just four wooden pegs that came out from under her cloak. Rupert looked up at the witch’s greenish face, realizing that her face was greener in some places than others and that her face looked awfully splotchy. And there was a thin lining of plastic around her nose.
He squinted and leaned closer. Rupert thought he saw — yes! The witch was wearing costume makeup!
Rupert snickered. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he bit his lips and blew his cheeks out, desperately trying to swallow his laughter. His eyes bugged, and his face turned red.
“Oh!” the witch gasped. “He’s having a fit!” She rushed forward to help him, but she tripped on the robe that was several feet too long for her, and she fell splat on the floor. Her prosthetic nose popped off, flew into the air, and landed in the cauldron with a hiss.
Rupert howled until tears were leaking out of his eyes. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t laugh,” he wheezed.
The witch fished her fake nose out of the cauldron with a ladle, but the piece of plastic had completely melted into rubbery goo.
“That was my best nose, too,” she said sadly.
She snapped her fingers and the lights turned on. In the brightness of the room, Rupert could clearly see where the witch tried to smudge green makeup on her face and where she had stuck on a plastic nose. She reached into her mouth and removed her set of false pointy dentures. Without the fake teeth, the witch had a row of normal square teeth, just like everyone else Rupert had ever met.
The witch pulled the wig of long black hair off her head and then wiped her face on a towel until most of the green makeup was off. She still had a greenish hue to her, but Rupert was sure that the rest of the makeup would come off with a good shower. At last, the witch popped off her fake hands.
Without her makeup and her prosthetic appendages, she had freckly skin, pale yellow hair, a tiny nose, and round baby-faced cheeks. She was a lot shorter than Rupert would have imagined her — and a lot younger. Rupert thought she looked about his age.
“You aren’t really a witch, are you?” Rupert asked.
“Course I am,” the girl said.
“Then why are you wearing all of that makeup?”
She sighed. “I don’t suppose you would know anything about it. I haven’t grown into my nose, hands, and height yet. And I’m not old enough for nose warts. But if I want to be a real witch someday I have to start acting like one now. Hold on—I’m interviewing you. Not the other way around. So from now on, I’ll be asking the questions.”
The witch dug an old-fashioned tape recorder out of her pocket and placed it on the table.
The interview transcript:
The witch: What is your name?
Rupert: Rupert Campbell.
The witch: How old are you?
Rupert: I’m eleven.
The witch: Why, you’re just a baby!
Rupert: Well, how old are you?
The witch: I’m twelve.
Rupert: (snorting sounds)
The witch: Are you smart?
Rupert: I think so.
The witch: What’s two plus three?
Rupert: Five.
The witch: Pity. I thought I asked for smart applicants.
Rupert: That’s the right answer!
The witch: What’s five plus monkey?
Rupert: Five plus monkey? What in the world does that mean?
The witch: Wrong. Giraffe.
Rupert: Giraffe what?
The witch: Now what’s five plus ape?
Rupert: Jellyfish?
The witch: Wrong again. It’s thirteen.
Rupert: No, five plus eight is thirteen. Eight, not ape.
The witch: Wrong again. Five plus eight is kangaroo. Now what’s two plus three?
Rupert: Honeybee.
The witch: (scribbles on a paper) Well at least you are a quick learner. Now… are you a bunny?
Rupert: A bunny?
The witch: Are you? Answer honestly!
Rupert: No, I’m a boy.
The witch: A boy bunny?
Rupert: No, no! Just a boy. A human boy.
The witch: You can never be too careful these days. (scribbles on a paper)
End of transcript.
The witch looked at Rupert with her eyebrows raised, and Rupert couldn’t tell whether this was a good omen or a bad one. He started to feel a bit squirmy, and so he stuck his hands in his pockets to calm his nerves. The witch stared at him some more, and Rupert had a horrible feeling that she was considering brewing his fingers into Knuckle Soup.