Man is Witch Baby’s real dad, but you get to live with your real dad and two other dads even if you aren’t sure which is which. Witch Baby doesn’t even get to meet her real mom. Think what that must be like.”
Cherokee stopped crying and caught a tear in her mouth. She snuggled between My Secret Agent Lover Man and Weetzie, her hair mingling with Weetzie’s in one shade of blonde.
None of them knew that Witch Baby was hiding at the doorway and that she had heard everything.
I’ll meet my real mom! she told herself. I’ll have two real parents and I’ll know who I am more than Cherokee knows who she is.
The next morning Witch Baby put her baby blanket, her rubber-bug sneakers, her camera, Angel Juan’s T-shirt and some Halloween candy she stole from Cherokee’s hoard into her bat-shaped backpack, and she skated away on her cowboy-boot roller skates.
Later Weetzie and My Secret Agent LoverMan woke up and lay on their backs, holding hands and listening for the morning wake-up crow. But this morning the house was quiet and Rubber Chicken lay limply by the bed.
“Where is Witch Baby?”
They looked at each other, looked at the globe lamp on the bed table, looked at each other again and jumped out of bed. They ran through the cottage, checking under sombreros and sofas, behind surfboards and inside cookie jars, but they couldn’t find Witch Baby. They woke Dirk and Duck, who were surfing in their sleep in their blue bedroom, and told them that Witch Baby was missing. Cherokee came shuffling in, holding the puppy Tee Pee wrapped up like a papoose.
Duck pushed his fingers frantically through his flat-top. “I bet the witch child ran away!” he said.
Cherokee began to cry. “I’ve been so clutch to her.”
“Let’s go!” Dirk said, pulling on his leather jacket and Guatemalan shorts.
My Secret Agent Lover Man took the motorcycle, Duck took his blue Bug, Dirk tookJerry, Weetzie called Valentine and Ping who got in Valentine’s VW van. They drove in all directions looking for Witch Baby. They went to the candy stores, camera stores, music stores, toy stores and parks, asking about a tiny, tufty-headed girl. Cherokee and Raphael ran to Coyote’s shack on the hill, chanting prayers to the sun and looking in the muddy, weedy places that Witch Baby loved. Brandy-Lynn stayed with Weetzie by the phone, while Weetzie called everyone she knew and peeled the Nefertiti decals off her fingernails.
Weetzie and Brandy-Lynn waited and waited by the phone for hours. Finally, Weetzie’s fatigue swept her into a dream about a house made of candy. Inside was a woman with a face the color of moss who warmed her hands by a wood-burning stove. A suffocating smoke came out of the stove and there was a tiny pair of black high-top sneakers beside it.
Weetzie woke crying and Brandy-Lynn held her until the sobs quieted and she could speak.
“Witch Baby is in danger,” Weetzie said.
“Come on, sweet pea,” said Brandy-Lynn. “I’ll make you some tea. Chamomile with milkand honey like when you were little.”
They sat drinking chamomile tea with milk and honey by the light of the globe lamp and Weetzie stared at the milk carton with a missing child’s face printed on the back. She read the child’s height, weight and date of birth, thinking the numbers seemed too low. How could this missing milk-carton child be so new, so small? Weetzie imagined waking up day after day waiting for Witch Baby, not knowing, seeing children’s faces smiling blindly at her from milk cartons while she tried to swallow a bite of cereal. Seeing a picture of Witch Baby on a milk carton.
“Where do you think she could be?” Weetzie asked her mother. “Would she just run away from us? Last time she was with Dirk and Duck.”
Brandy-Lynn was staring at the clock on the wall and the pictures Witch Baby had taken. There they all were—the family—bigger and bigger groups of them circling the clock up to the number eleven. They were all
Cherokee stopped crying and caught a tear in her mouth. She snuggled between My Secret Agent Lover Man and Weetzie, her hair mingling with Weetzie’s in one shade of blonde.
None of them knew that Witch Baby was hiding at the doorway and that she had heard everything.
I’ll meet my real mom! she told herself. I’ll have two real parents and I’ll know who I am more than Cherokee knows who she is.
The next morning Witch Baby put her baby blanket, her rubber-bug sneakers, her camera, Angel Juan’s T-shirt and some Halloween candy she stole from Cherokee’s hoard into her bat-shaped backpack, and she skated away on her cowboy-boot roller skates.
Later Weetzie and My Secret Agent LoverMan woke up and lay on their backs, holding hands and listening for the morning wake-up crow. But this morning the house was quiet and Rubber Chicken lay limply by the bed.
“Where is Witch Baby?”
They looked at each other, looked at the globe lamp on the bed table, looked at each other again and jumped out of bed. They ran through the cottage, checking under sombreros and sofas, behind surfboards and inside cookie jars, but they couldn’t find Witch Baby. They woke Dirk and Duck, who were surfing in their sleep in their blue bedroom, and told them that Witch Baby was missing. Cherokee came shuffling in, holding the puppy Tee Pee wrapped up like a papoose.
Duck pushed his fingers frantically through his flat-top. “I bet the witch child ran away!” he said.
Cherokee began to cry. “I’ve been so clutch to her.”
“Let’s go!” Dirk said, pulling on his leather jacket and Guatemalan shorts.
My Secret Agent Lover Man took the motorcycle, Duck took his blue Bug, Dirk tookJerry, Weetzie called Valentine and Ping who got in Valentine’s VW van. They drove in all directions looking for Witch Baby. They went to the candy stores, camera stores, music stores, toy stores and parks, asking about a tiny, tufty-headed girl. Cherokee and Raphael ran to Coyote’s shack on the hill, chanting prayers to the sun and looking in the muddy, weedy places that Witch Baby loved. Brandy-Lynn stayed with Weetzie by the phone, while Weetzie called everyone she knew and peeled the Nefertiti decals off her fingernails.
Weetzie and Brandy-Lynn waited and waited by the phone for hours. Finally, Weetzie’s fatigue swept her into a dream about a house made of candy. Inside was a woman with a face the color of moss who warmed her hands by a wood-burning stove. A suffocating smoke came out of the stove and there was a tiny pair of black high-top sneakers beside it.
Weetzie woke crying and Brandy-Lynn held her until the sobs quieted and she could speak.
“Witch Baby is in danger,” Weetzie said.
“Come on, sweet pea,” said Brandy-Lynn. “I’ll make you some tea. Chamomile with milkand honey like when you were little.”
They sat drinking chamomile tea with milk and honey by the light of the globe lamp and Weetzie stared at the milk carton with a missing child’s face printed on the back. She read the child’s height, weight and date of birth, thinking the numbers seemed too low. How could this missing milk-carton child be so new, so small? Weetzie imagined waking up day after day waiting for Witch Baby, not knowing, seeing children’s faces smiling blindly at her from milk cartons while she tried to swallow a bite of cereal. Seeing a picture of Witch Baby on a milk carton.
“Where do you think she could be?” Weetzie asked her mother. “Would she just run away from us? Last time she was with Dirk and Duck.”
Brandy-Lynn was staring at the clock on the wall and the pictures Witch Baby had taken. There they all were—the family—bigger and bigger groups of them circling the clock up to the number eleven. They were all
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