The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

The Worst Witch of All

THE WHOLE CLASS LOOKED AT RUPERT. BUT Rupert didn’t have time to worry about them. His thoughts buzzed and hummed and flung around like Silly Putty in a slingshot. Every witch-like moment that had made him suspicious about her suddenly rushed back to him, and all the pieces made perfect sense. The cruel punishments — that was very witch-like behavior. The animal math — that was witch math. Mrs. Frabbleknacker didn’t buy her potions — she made them. Probably with the frog guts that she got from his class. She didn’t even hate the witches — she must have been pretending because she didn’t want anyone to know that she was a witch. This whole time.

Mrs. Frabbleknacker turned her back toward Rupert and scratched the chalkboard with a ruler. The sound made Rupert shudder, and when she stepped away from the board, Rupert read:

Rupert’s mouth went dry. Warning words fired in his brain. Fair. Foul. Fairfoul. Fairfoul Witch. Not only was Mrs. Frabbleknacker a witch, but she was the Fairfoul Witch, the only witch that made Nebby, Storm, and Sandy quake in their boots.

Rupert’s eyes darted for the door. He had to get out.

Mrs. Frabbleknacker — or the Fairfoul Witch — drifted dangerously close to Rupert’s only escape, as if she read his eye movements. Rupert weighed his options. He could make a break for the window, or he could distract her as he dashed for the door. But deep down, he knew that neither of these would work. The Fairfoul Witch had powerful and unlimited magic on her side, and Rupert only had the sand potion in his veins, which was just about expired.

Rupert wondered if the Fairfoul Witch would really hurt him in front of the rest of the class. That would be a liability, right? She would get fired. She could go to jail.

Who was he kidding? The Fairfoul Witch didn’t care about that stuff. She could use her magic to escape — and who would believe the fifth-grade witnesses anyway?

Rupert felt sick — nauseous in the pit of his stomach, clammy sweat on his neck. The Fairfoul Witch had him trapped and cornered.

He was dead meat.

He looked up at the Fairfoul Witch again, and she seemed to be watching him with upturned lips and a twinkle in her eye. Rupert forced himself to calm down — he focused on his breathing. In and out. Inhale and exhale. The more he focused on his breathing, the calmer he got, and the more disinterested the Fairfoul Witch became.

She turned back to the board with a click of her heels and pointed to her clawed message on the chalkboard: LIFE IS FAIR, AND FAIR IS FOUL.

“This is our new class motto,” the Fairfoul Witch said. “Repeat.”

“Life is fair. And fair is foul,” the class droned.

“Louder!’

“LIFE IS FAIR, AND FAIR IS FOUL.”

The Fairfoul Witch sniffed, her grandflubbing nose twitching. “Today’s lesson is about a little boy. A little boy who broke the rules. A little boy who spends his afternoons gallivanting with a witchling. A little boy who tried to trick me.” She licked her lips. “Tell me, class, what should I do with a little boy like that?”

No one said anything.

“Today’s lesson,” the Fairfoul Witch continued, “is one that will be important for the rest of your lives. The first part is that life is fair. A little boy disobeys and sneaks? — well, he gets his proper punishment. The second part is that fair is foul.” She smiled, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth. “Punishment is not pleasant. Punishment for bad actions — though fair — is often foul. Tragic,” she said, as if she was already anticipating newspaper headlines. She loomed close to Rupert, her clawed hands outstretched like she was ready to strangle him.

Rupert dug into his backpack for something — anything — to stop the Fairfoul Witch. His fingers grazed books, pens, notebooks — his hand closed around his water bottle of sand potion. It wouldn’t work — Sandy said it was stale. He quickly undid the cap anyway.

The Fairfoul Witch loomed over him. “You’re finished!” she crowed.

Rupert took the potion out of his bag and splashed the Fairfoul Witch in the face. She howled and hissed as if her eyes sizzled. “AUGHHHHHHHHH! POTION IN MY EYES!”

Rupert dropped his backpack, ducked around her, and made for the door. His sweaty palms clasped around the doorknob — he turned the knob and kicked the door open. Outside the classroom door were nine women and four girls in black cloaks. Rupert recognized Witchling Four, the Storm Witch, and the Nebulous Witch among them. The other women, he assumed, must be the rest of the Witches Council. And the girls must be the other witchlings.

“Nebby! Storm! Please! My teacher Mrs. Frabbleknacker is the Fairfoul Witch! Help!”

But Nebby just leered at him. Storm began to cackle, and soon all of the witches were tittering, snorting, crowing, and guffawing.

He could feel his face getting hot with rage — how could he be so stupid?

This time, thought Rupert, there really is no escape.