# 13: WHICH WITCH IS WHICH?

So exam time is upon us at Planet Nine Elementary. Gross. So, anyway, Fatty, Wiggy and I decide to go to the library to bone up on our science knowledge for the big science test tomorrow morning. Wiggy is not too happy about it, and neither is Fatty. Actually, none of us are.

You see, we’re all pretty convinced that Miss Direcque, the town librarian, is a witch. Not a nasty, mean, crazy woman who you’d call a witch, but an actual, broomstick-flying, spell-casting witch. Except for the hooked nose and warts. She doesn’t have those. Which is too bad. I mean, if she did, it would make it that much easier to see, right off the bat, that she is a witch. Know what I mean?

So anyway, school’s out, and nothing weird happened. Well, not that weird anyway. Which is kind of weird in itself, since really weird things happen at Planet Nine pretty much on a daily basis. The only thing that happened that was kind of weird was during lunchtime in the cafeteria, when Felix Fine curled up on an empty lunch table next to the windows and went to sleep in the sunbeam streaming in. I swear you could hear him purring halfway across the room. Like I said, not full out weird, but kind of weird.

So, there we were, in the library, sitting at the only table available. Which happened to be right across from Miss Direcque’s desk. Looking around, I saw that people were crammed in at all the other tables, practically on top of each other. She must freak a lot of people out, even the weird denizens (that’s my new word for the day) who live in Pluto, if they’d rather be squished together than sit across from her. Who knew?

“Dude?” Wiggy whispers, nudging me. “She’s staring at us. Oh snap! She knows we know.”

I glare at him. “She knows we know what?” I hiss, shoving his elbow away. “C’mon Man. We’ve got a test to study for.” I grab one of the books and start flipping pages, wishing Wiggy would shut up already. Not that I was scared or anything.

Wiggy glares back. “That’s she’s a witch, dummy. Check it out. Those weird eyes of hers are…I dunno…kind of glowing.”

“He’s right Rod,” Fatty chimes in, and his voice is shaking. “They are kinda glowing.”

I roll my eyes. In my mind I see the possibility of that B+ slowly slipping away. I sigh and look up.

And my gaze collides with Miss Direcque’s piercing stare. My stomach flips, making me want to hurl right there in the town library. When she sees me staring back, she smiles. Only it’s not a warm, welcome, good-to-see-you-how’s-your-folks kind of smile. It’s the kind that makes you want to run for the hills, screaming for your mommy. I swallow. “Should…should me move, maybe?” I croak, unable to tear my eyes away from hers.

“To where?” Fatty asks. “Every other table is jam-packed with people. This is the only place left.”

“Maybe we should go study at my house,” Wiggy whispers, still shaking. “Dude, she’s looking at you like she wants to turn you into a toadstool or something.”

“Shut up,” I say, finally tearing my eyes away from the creepy librarian. “A toadstool? Really? Geez, Wiggy. It’s really sad that all your knowledge of witches comes from Bugs Bunny cartoons.”

“Aha! So you admit she’s a witch,” he says, ignoring my insult.

“I admit nothing,” I say, using the voice my dad uses when he refuses to admit he’s wrong about something. Nothing irritates my mom more.

“Clam up,” Fatty snaps in a stage whisper. “She knows we’re talking about her.”

Keeping my eyes glued to my book, I start taking notes. For a while, there is complete silence at our table, which doesn’t happen very often. Whoever said that girls talk more than boys hasn’t been around enough boys. We never shut up. I mean never. Whenever one guy stops talking, another starts up. It’s a never-ending round of yammering voices, blabbing about everything under the sun, from aliens to zombies.

Just when I start thinking that the B+ might be within my hot, sweaty grasp, Wiggy yelps. I mean really yelps. Like a little puppy that’s just received a big scare. Then he starts imitating an owl.

“Who-who-who,” Wiggy stammers.

“What now?” I mutter, tossing my pencil down.

Wigggy’s mouth is working like a fish out of water; only no sound is coming out.

“What the heck dude?” Fatty snaps. “Are you choking? Rod, is he choking?”

“How the heck should I know,” I snap back. We are clearly all on edge here. I’m going to go out on a limb here and profess (another word I like) that the study session for the big science test is not going well.

In answer, Wiggy points toward the circulation desk with a quaking finger. Fatty and I turn as one, and this time I’m pretty sure I’m going to hurl.

Miss Direcque is standing there, behind her desk, exactly where she has been for the last twenty minutes. Only, it’s not her. It’s…I don’t know who it is. It’s someone who looks exactly like her. Same navy blue dress, buttoned all the way up to her scrawny throat. Same weird eyes, one blue, one green which our buddy, Wiley, says is a sure sign of a witch, same tight bun, bundles on top of her head like a big fat donut. Only the bun isn’t pitch-black, which is what color Miss Direcque’s hair is.
No sir!

It is bright flaming red.

We all stare. We are all breathing like we’ve run a marathon, even though none of us knows what that feels like. I feel dizzy. The room is tilting slightly, and I’m pretty convinced I’m either dreaming or I’m going to pass out. Fatty clutches my arm and I jump, which wakes me up pretty quick.

“Dude, her hair! It’s…it’s…”

“Red,” Wiggy whispers, quaking so much his teeth are chattering. Or is that mine? I can’t tell.

“May…maybe she’s wearing a wig,” I say, clearing my throat.

Fatty’s fingers tighten on my arm. “Why the heck would she randomly put on a wig?’ he hisses.

I shrug. My arm, where Fatty is clutching at it, starts going numb. “Maybe she’s doing it to scare us,” I suggest. “You know, to teach us a lesson?”

“A lesson?” Fatty and Wiggy chorus.

“Are you daft? Why would she do that?” Fatty yells, forgetting where we are.

“Shhhh,” a voice hisses.

And there she is, looming above us.

In the blink of an eye, Miss Direcque, or whoever this red-haired woman is, is at our table, leaning toward us.

“May I remind you young gentlemen that you are in a library,” she growls, her strange green and blue eyes snapping from me to Fatty to Wiggy, who’s slid so far down in his chair, he’s practically under the table.

“So—sorry,” Fatty croaks. “We-we-we---"

“Yessss?” “We…uh…we were wondering how you changed your hair color so quickly,” I stammer. Fatty gives my arm a grateful squeeze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, straightening back up, and smoothing a gnarly hand over her hair.

And just like that, her hair is jet-black again.

“Oooohh,” Wiggy moans. “I-I think I’m going to be sick.”

Miss Direcque glances at me and flashes that eerie smile of hers that never fails to send all kinds of shivers down my back. “I think you young gentlemen should take your friend home. Looks like he needs medical attention.” And she turns away, her black heels clicking against the wood floor as she returns to her desk.

We don’t need to be told twice. We grab our books, our backpacks and Wiggy, and haul our butts out the door and down the stairs. We don’t stop until we reach Wiggy’s house and stumble inside, breathing hard enough that we’re all bent over, coughing and gagging.

“I knew it!” Wiggy blurts, once he catches his breath. “Mrs. Carruthers was right. Remember when she claimed she saw Miss Direcque flying over Meteor Park last year?”

Mrs. Carruthers was my old neighbor, and the sweetest woman who ever lived. But she was also like 150 years old. I think she’s the oldest person I’ve ever known. So, when sweet, old Mrs. Carruthers says she saw the town librarian flying over the park on a broomstick, most people just smiled and nodded. I mean, isn’t that what old people do? Their minds start to go at some point when they reach 100, right? So, when they say or do weird things, like going to the grocery store in their bathrobes, like old Mr. Johnson does every now and then, everyone understands.

“She’s old,” I remind the others, wheezing.

“Fine, Smarty,” Wiggy croaks. “Then explain how Miss Direcque changed her hair from black to red to black again, in front of us!”

I open my mouth. Shut it. Open it again. “I don’t know,” I finally say, shrugging. “It’s just...it’s Pluto,” I finish lamely, unable to come up with a reasonable explanation.

Wiggy stares at me, his eyes bugging out. “It’s Pluto?” he screeches at me. I cringe, stepping back behind Fatty. “That’s the best you can do after what we’ve just seen?”

I smile weakly, trying to come up with some kind of explanation, but my mind goes blank. Fatty comes to my rescue, which surprises the heck out of me. “Hey Man? Calm down, okay? We don’t have an explanation for what we saw. But think about it. If we had to come up with a rational explanation for every weird, nutty thing that happens in Pluto, our brains would seriously explode.”

Wiggy scowls at him for a moment, then he sighs. “Yeah. Yeah Dude. You’re right.”

We sit at his kitchen table with cookies and milk, and eat in silence. Then I stand. “I’d better get home, guys. My mom’ll start to freak out if I’m not back soon. And, oh crap, we didn’t get any studying done for the test tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Fatty groans. “Stupid science test. What a drag!”

Yep, even in a cool place like Pluto, school can be a drag.