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Authors: Francesca Lia Block
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what she means to us?” says a voice. Weetzie’s voice. “Weetzie,” she whispers .
She stumbles out of the room to the top of the stairs and looks down. Vixanne and the Jaynes are still watching the screen and charring marshmallows over the fire pit. A softchant rises up. “We will ward off pain. There will be no pain. Forget that there is evil in the world. Forget. Forget everything.” Vixanne is holding herself, rocking back and forth, smiling. Her eyes are closed .
Witch Baby goes back into her room and packs her bat-shaped backpack. For a moment she stops to look at the pictures she has taken on her journey. The floating basketball boys. The old woman with the peach. The hungry men in the gazebo. The dying young man and his angel twin. A picture of a child with tangled tufts of hair and mournful, tilted eyes. She leaves the pictures on the heart-shaped bed, hoping that Vixanne will look at them and see .
Then she slips downstairs, past the Jaynes and out the front door. She sits on the front step, tying her roller skates, clearing her lungs of smoke, gathering strength from the night .
The mint and honeysuckle air is chilly on her damp face, awake on the nape of her neck as Witch Baby Wigg skates home .
Black Lamb Baby Witch
W hen Witch Baby tiptoed into the cottage, she saw Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man holding each other and weeping in the milky dawn light. They looked as pale as the sky. She stood beside them, close enough so that she could feel their sobs shaking in her own body.
Weetzie lifted her head from My Secret Agent Lover Man’s shoulder and turned around. Blind with tears, she held out her arms to the shadow child standing there. Only when Witch Baby was pressed against her, My Secret’s arms circling them both, did Weetzie believe that the child was not a dream, a vision who had stepped from the milk-carton picture.
Beneath the pink feather sweater Weetzie was wearing, Witch Baby felt Weetzie’s heart fluttering like a bird.
“Will you tell everyone she’s home? I need to be alone with her,” Weetzie said to My Secret Agent Lover Man. She turned to Witch Baby. “Is that okay with you, honey-honey?”
Witch Baby nodded, and Weetzie put on her pink Harlequin sunglasses and carried Witch Baby out into the garden. The lawn was completely purple with jacaranda blossoms.
“Are you all right? We were so worried. Where did you go? Are you okay?” Witch Baby nodded, not wanting to move her ear away from the bird beating beneath Weetzie’s pink feathers.
They were silent for a while, listening to the singing trees and the early traffic. Weetzie stroked Witch Baby’s head.
“When I was little, my dad Charlie told me I was like a black lamb,” Weetzie said. “My hair is really dark, you know, under all this bleach, not like Brandy-Lynn’s and Cherokee’s. I used to feel like I had sort of disappointed my mom. Not just because of my hair, but everything. But my dad said he was the black sheep of the family, too. The wild one who doesn’t fit in.”
“Like me.”
“Yes,” said Weetzie. “You remind me of a lamb. But you know what else Charlie Bat said? He said that black sheeps express everyone else’s anger and pain. It’s not that they have all the anger and pain—they’re just the only ones who let it out. Then the other people don’t have to. But you face things, Witch Baby. And you help us face things. We can learn from you. I can’t stand when someone I love is sad, so I try to take it away without just letting it be. I get so caught up in being good and sweet and taking care of everyone that sometimes I don’t admit when people arereally in pain.” Weetzie took off her pink sunglasses. “But I think you can help me learn to not be afraid, my black lamb baby witch.”
When they went back into the cottage everyone was waiting to celebrate Witch Baby’s return. My Secret Agent Lover Man, dressed like Charlie Chaplin, was riding his unicycle around the house.
She stumbles out of the room to the top of the stairs and looks down. Vixanne and the Jaynes are still watching the screen and charring marshmallows over the fire pit. A softchant rises up. “We will ward off pain. There will be no pain. Forget that there is evil in the world. Forget. Forget everything.” Vixanne is holding herself, rocking back and forth, smiling. Her eyes are closed .
Witch Baby goes back into her room and packs her bat-shaped backpack. For a moment she stops to look at the pictures she has taken on her journey. The floating basketball boys. The old woman with the peach. The hungry men in the gazebo. The dying young man and his angel twin. A picture of a child with tangled tufts of hair and mournful, tilted eyes. She leaves the pictures on the heart-shaped bed, hoping that Vixanne will look at them and see .
Then she slips downstairs, past the Jaynes and out the front door. She sits on the front step, tying her roller skates, clearing her lungs of smoke, gathering strength from the night .
The mint and honeysuckle air is chilly on her damp face, awake on the nape of her neck as Witch Baby Wigg skates home .
Black Lamb Baby Witch
W hen Witch Baby tiptoed into the cottage, she saw Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man holding each other and weeping in the milky dawn light. They looked as pale as the sky. She stood beside them, close enough so that she could feel their sobs shaking in her own body.
Weetzie lifted her head from My Secret Agent Lover Man’s shoulder and turned around. Blind with tears, she held out her arms to the shadow child standing there. Only when Witch Baby was pressed against her, My Secret’s arms circling them both, did Weetzie believe that the child was not a dream, a vision who had stepped from the milk-carton picture.
Beneath the pink feather sweater Weetzie was wearing, Witch Baby felt Weetzie’s heart fluttering like a bird.
“Will you tell everyone she’s home? I need to be alone with her,” Weetzie said to My Secret Agent Lover Man. She turned to Witch Baby. “Is that okay with you, honey-honey?”
Witch Baby nodded, and Weetzie put on her pink Harlequin sunglasses and carried Witch Baby out into the garden. The lawn was completely purple with jacaranda blossoms.
“Are you all right? We were so worried. Where did you go? Are you okay?” Witch Baby nodded, not wanting to move her ear away from the bird beating beneath Weetzie’s pink feathers.
They were silent for a while, listening to the singing trees and the early traffic. Weetzie stroked Witch Baby’s head.
“When I was little, my dad Charlie told me I was like a black lamb,” Weetzie said. “My hair is really dark, you know, under all this bleach, not like Brandy-Lynn’s and Cherokee’s. I used to feel like I had sort of disappointed my mom. Not just because of my hair, but everything. But my dad said he was the black sheep of the family, too. The wild one who doesn’t fit in.”
“Like me.”
“Yes,” said Weetzie. “You remind me of a lamb. But you know what else Charlie Bat said? He said that black sheeps express everyone else’s anger and pain. It’s not that they have all the anger and pain—they’re just the only ones who let it out. Then the other people don’t have to. But you face things, Witch Baby. And you help us face things. We can learn from you. I can’t stand when someone I love is sad, so I try to take it away without just letting it be. I get so caught up in being good and sweet and taking care of everyone that sometimes I don’t admit when people arereally in pain.” Weetzie took off her pink sunglasses. “But I think you can help me learn to not be afraid, my black lamb baby witch.”
When they went back into the cottage everyone was waiting to celebrate Witch Baby’s return. My Secret Agent Lover Man, dressed like Charlie Chaplin, was riding his unicycle around the house.
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