Witch Baby and Me

by Debi Gliori

  The first time I went upstairs to change, I found Mum had left some clothes out on my bed. I think she was trying to be helpful. I think the clothes on my bed were suggestions for what I might want to wear. I looked at the clothes, but they were all too girly. I’m hoping Vivaldi will be coming to the party so I pretended I hadn’t seen Mum’s ‘suggestions’. Making friends is hard enough without looking like your mum has chosen your clothes. I dug out my favourite shorts and a day-glo blue T-shirt from under my bed.

  Mum wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Ohhh, Lily,’ she said in her Very Disappointed voice.

  Bother. Not the shorts and T-shirt, then. I went back upstairs and changed into my comfy old jeans and a flowery T-shirt that’s a bit small but I love it anyway.

  Double bother. She didn’t like that either.

  It’s so unfair. I don’t like what she’s wearing, but do I say, ‘Ohhh, Mum?’

  I don’t, but Mum does.

  ‘Ohhh, Lily,’ she sighs. ‘No, darling. I know you love your jeans and you practically live in that T-shirt, but tonight is . . . special. Tonight we’re all going to dress up.’

  We are?

  We are.

  Just then, Jack appears in the kitchen. My mouth falls open. Jack’s face is bright pink. He looks really, really embarrassed. This is understandable. If I looked like him, I would be too. What happened to his hair?

  ‘Oh, JACK,’ Mum gasps. ‘What? Have? You? DONE?’

  Behind him, Dad appears, his arms full of shopping, his eyes fixed on Mum as if he’s trying to make her be quiet with special Shut-Up-Darling rays beaming out of his eyeballs.

  ‘Mel . . .’ he breathes.

  ‘Ohhh, Jack,’ Mum gasps.

  ‘What?’ Jack demands. ‘What is it, Mum?’

  Silence falls. So, too, does the whisk in Mum’s hand. it goes, bouncing across the floor and rolling under the table.

  ‘Jaaaaaack,’ Mum wails. ‘Ohhhhh, Jack.’

  ‘WHAT?’ roars Jack.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ Mum sniffs. ‘Jack . . .’

  Jack shrieks.

  ‘Oh, JACK.’ Mum’s hands fly up to her face.

  Enough.

  This could go on for ever. For a second I imagine myself grown up, coming back home to visit my family. They will still be living here; in fact they will still be standing in the kitchen but they’ll be a lot older. I imagine I can hear their voices: Mum and Dad’s will be wobbly and old and Jack’s will sound all deep and grown up. Just for fun, I imagine Daisy with chin warts, long black hair and Witch Babies of her own, but not much else will have changed.

  ‘JAaAaAck . . . oh, JaAaAaAck,’ Mum will quaver, leaning on her walking stick.

  Jack will adjust his tie and peer down at this little white-haired old lady.

  ‘Yes, Mother? What is it now?’

  ‘Jack. OhhHhHhHh, Jack.’

  Back to the present.

  Daisy joins in.

  ‘Dack. Ohh, Dack,’ she squeaks. ‘Hair all gone ’way. Poor hair.’

  I agree. Poor, poor hair. Jack’s poor hair will probably all have been swept up and dumped in the hairdresser’s dustbin by now. He’s bald. He’s got the worst haircut I’ve ever seen. What was he thinking of?

  ‘WHAT?’ Jack roars again. ‘It’s not my fault I look like this. It was your idea, Mum.’

  Now Mum’s doing it too. ‘What idea?’

  ‘The haircut,’ Dad explains. ‘You suggested Jack had his hair trimmed for the party. But it all went a bit wrong.’

  ‘No kidding,’ muttered Jack. ‘The barber went mad with the clippers. I look like a hard-boiled egg. Talking of which, is there anything to eat? I’m ravenous.’

  Ten minutes and three peanut butter sandwiches later, Mum and Dad are moving so fast they’ve turned into the Two-Headed Human Blur. Jack’s upstairs trying to find a disguise for his newly shaven head – a hat, a scarf, a headband, a new head . . . Daisy’s getting ready for her bath1 and I’m trying to find something to wear. Again.

  I refuse to wear Mum’s ‘suggestions’, but I’d probably better not wear my shorts or jeans either. What am I left with?

  A long black velvet dress out of the dressing-up box.

  My old school uniform.

  Tough choice. I’m standing on one leg thinking about this when the doorbell rings.

  First guest and I’m still in my underwear.

  * * *

  1 This means she’s selecting which one of her Barbies she intends to drown tonight. This also means she is running around with no clothes on. This means she is not wearing a nappy. Uh-oh. Beware of the damp patches.

  Twelve:

  Eyes in the back of my head

  I AM SO cross.

  The first guest turned out to be Vivaldi. Her mum had sent her round to our house to see if we needed help getting everything ready for the party. We all needed help – me, Jack, Daisy, Mum and Dad, but unfortunately, Mum asked first. Then, when Vivaldi had finished helping Mum lay out all the glasses, plates, cups and bowls, Dad appeared and asked her to help him wrap tons of knives and forks and spoons in rolled-up napkins. Just when I thought Vivaldi had finally finished and could come up to my room and help me choose what to wear, Mum sent me upstairs to look after Daisy and help her into the bath.

  I can hear our house filling up with people. I can’t leave Daisy on her own, so I’m stuck in the bathroom while, on the other side of the door, there’s a party going on. I can hear loads of unfamiliar voices, but I can’t hear Vivaldi. I have no idea where she’s gone. I need to go and find her, but I can’t do that until I’ve got Daisy out of the bath and into her pyjamas. This is taking for ever.

  If I don’t get a move on, Vivaldi will go home and all the food will be gone. I don’t want to spend the whole party stuck in the bathroom so I’m trying to persuade Daisy that it’s time to get out but she won’t budge. In fact, Daisy’s getting really annoyed with me.

  ‘Nononononono,’ she yells, grabbing an armful of Barbies and giving me the I’m ignoring her bad mood. Actually, I’m in a bad mood too, because so far I haven’t had one single minute alone with Vivaldi. How am I supposed to make friends with her at this party if I have to spend the whole time persuading my baby sister to get out of the bath?

  ‘Come on, Daze,’ I say, reaching forward to pluck her from the water. She slithers out of my grasp like an eel.

  ‘Go WAY, Lillil,’ she mutters, turning one of her Barbies’ heads right round till it’s facing backwa—

  No. NO. She couldn’t have. Daisy? DAISY? I turn to face her. To do this, I have to turn my whole body round until my back is facing her. That way, I can see her, because thanks to her, my head is now the wrong way round. MY HEAD IS ON BACK-TO-FRONT.

  This is awful. This is a million times worse than being a slug, or having a fridge dropped on your head. Daisy has really Done It this time. I am so shocked, my legs have gone all wobbly. I am going to have to sit down on the floor at once. From outside the bathroom comes the sound of an argument.

  ‘You’re a fat pig, Jamie. You ate that whole chocolate cake. That’s why you feel so ill. I’m only going to eat one or two crisps.’

  ‘Shut up, Annabel. Get out of my way. I need the bathroom – I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Yikes. I recognize those names. It’s the unfriendly posh kids from Mishnish Castle. To my horror I realize that the bathroom door isn’t locked. Jamie and Annabel are going to barge in and see me with my head on the wrong way round. How embarrassing is that?

  There’s only one thing to do. I leap to my feet and sit on the toilet just as Jamie bursts in. It works perfectly. Jamie catches sight of someone sitting on the toilet, but he doesn’t really see me because he turns bright red and rushes straight back out again, going, ‘OH! Good grief. So sorry.’

  Before anyone else can barge in, I leap to my feet and lock the door. Daisy squirms around in the bath to get a better view of the New Improved Lily.

  ‘Ooooooh,’ she decides. ‘Lil gone ’w
aaaay,’ and she sits back down hurriedly.

  There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

  ‘I say,’ yells a voice, ‘anyone in there?’

  ‘NO!’ I shriek, and then, ‘YES! Go away.’

  No one must see me with my head on back-to-front. Not Jamie or Vivaldi, not Mum or Dad. If anyone saw me like this, they’d call an ambulance and I’d have to go to hospital and have my head cut off and sewn back on the right way round. How horrible would that be? I have to break Daisy’s spell. Right away, before I’m discovered.

  There’s a little squeak from the bath. It’s the squeak that Daisy’s yellow plastic bath ducks make if you squeeze them gently. If you squeeze them really, really hard, they go,

  Daisy loves her ducks when I play with them and pretend to make them talk. She laughs like a drain. I always start the game by giving one of the ducks a little squeeze so that it goes,

  Then I pretend to answer.

  ‘Really?’ I’ll say. ‘You’d like to change the colour of your feathers?’

  ‘From yellow to pink?’ I’ll say, staring at the duck as if it’s really talking to me. We can talk for hours, the ducks and me. We talk and quack and squeak but Daisy never gets bored. Sometimes I wish I’d never invented the Duck Game, but right now it’s maybe my only hope of having my head put back on the right way round. With a bit of effort – it’s as if my hands are the wrong way round – I grab a duck out of the bath and give my best-ever performance.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ I cry. ‘Whatever is the matter, Mister Duck?’

  ‘Oh you poor, poor thing.’ I stare at the yellow plastic duck, my brain whizzing as I desperately think what to say next. ‘What – what an awful thing to happen.’

  I risk a peek at Daisy. She’s laughing like a small hyena. With any luck she’ll soon forget all about her spell. Keep going, Lily.

  ‘Oh! Poor, poor Mister Duck,’ I explain. ‘Somebody turned him into a lump of yellow plastic. He hasn’t got feathers any more . . .’ and running out of things to say, I give the duck an enormous squeeze and it obliges with a huge

  followed by a spectacularly rude squirt of water which flies across the bathroom and splatters onto the window with a sound. It’s so unexpected that I burst out laughing, along with Daisy. Brilliant! Daisy abandons the turning-Lily’s-head-the-wrong-way-round spell and immediately two things happen. My head snaps back round the right way and poor Mr Duck flies straight out of my hands and up to the ceiling in a whirr of feathers.

  Feathers?

  ‘Fy, fy ‘WAY, poo duck!’ Daisy bawls. Does she mean poor duck, or does she mean duck poo?

  I look up. Ruffling their brand-new feathers and sitting in a row on top of the shower rail are Daisy’s ducks. Now they’re no longer made of yellow plastic, they look really sweet, even if they are dropping duck poo everywhere. Since it’s raining duck poo, Daisy decides that it’s time to get out of the bath.

  ‘Upupupupupu pup,’ she repeats, lifting her arms in the air. I scoop her up and wrap her in a huge yellow towel. In my arms, she looks as sweet and fluffy as a baby duck.

  .

  Thirteen:

  A quick bite

  ‘WHAT WERE YOU doing in there?’ Jack demands.

  I wish I could tell him the truth, but there’s no point. He’d never believe I had my head on back to front. Next time Daisy does something like that, I’m going to take a photograph. Then Jack’ll believe me.

  ‘Have you seen a girl with long red hair? She’s called Vivaldi,’ I ask, desperately scanning the crowd downstairs for signs of her. All I can see is grown-ups, none of whom I have ever met before.

  Jack sighs, reminding me he’s been standing outside the bathroom for ages, waiting for us to emerge. This is probably because he didn’t want to go downstairs on his own. I can understand that. The house is full of strangers, after all. Where is Vivaldi?

  ‘Come on, then,’ Jack says. ‘We’d better go downstairs.’

  I stare at him. Jack’s wearing black from head to toe: black T-shirt, black trousers and an old black tie of Dad’s tied round his bald head like a headband. I’m in my long black dress out of the dressing-up box. It’s too late for Mum to make us go upstairs and change if she doesn’t like how we look. Actually, I think we look quite cool, but no one notices as we go downstairs. We’re walking very slowly because my dress is too long and I don’t want to trip and fall. Still nobody notices us. Nobody except Daisy. In between Jack and me, Daisy’s head is going from side to side as she stares at first Jack, then me, then back to Jack again. We smile reassuringly at her. At least, I thought we were smiling reassuringly. Daisy thought our smiles meant something else entirely. Her mouth falls open.

  ‘Oooo, look,’ she says. ‘Lilil and Dack like vampie. Ooooo. Vampies.’

  I sneak a glimpse at Jack.

  Oh, dear.

  Jack glitters. At least, his eyes do. Not with brotherly love, either. Jack’s eyes are dark, red, scary pools. Jack’s got hungry eyes. Sadly, I don’t mean hungry-for-party-food eyes. Jack’s eyes are vampire eyes and we all know what vampires like to eat. Judging by the way he’s looking at me, my eyes have that I’m-in-the-mood-for-blood look, too.

  ‘Li-Li-Lil?’ Jack’s voice wobbles. His red eyes grow wide and his mouth falls open.

  Those . . . those fangs. No amount of toothpaste and brushing is going to make them look any better. As I peer in horror at Jack’s fangs, I’m running my tongue round my own teeth.

  I’ve got big pointy fangs, too. All of a sudden I feel awful. I feel as if there’s a gale howling round my tummy. I feel as if small lions are clawing their way out of my middle. I feel as if I’m full of broken glass. Then I realize what’s wrong. I’m hungry. Peckishhhhh.

  I wonder if there’s any MEAT in the fridge? meat. Anything, as long as it’s not cooked. I’m not fussy. Mince. Steak. Liver. Chops. Sausages. Chicken. Black pudding . . .

  WHAT AM I SAYING? Black pudding? I’d rather die than eat black pudding. Then I remember that if I’m a vampire, I’m already dead. My mouth drops open. I think I might be about to scream, but when I look downstairs I see all Mum and Dad’s guests and I clamp my lips shut. Screaming would only make everyone notice that Jack and I have changed.

  Heads would turn. Mum would have to pretend that we were perfectly normal. Poor Mum. Imagine.

  she’d gasp, her hands flying up to guard her neck, just in case we were thinking of biting her. ‘Meet Jack and Lily, my dear little undead children. No, no, DOWN, Lily, you’ve been fed. JACK, stop that at once. It’s tomato ketchup, not blood, you silly boy. No need to be alarmed, everyone. They won’t bite.’

  Daisy. This is Daisy’s doing.

  Before anyone downstairs notices what’s going on, I have to break Daisy’s spell. Again. This is getting to be a habit. Keeping a lid on Daisy’s spells is hard work. What on earth should I do? I suppose I could remind her about WayWoof but I don’t think having him appear in the middle of the party would be a good idea. Not if Mum and Dad want to make friends, it wouldn’t. What to do? I can hardly hear myself think because the noise coming up from downstairs is deafening. Everyone’s talking at once, loud music is playing – aHA. That’s it.

  ‘Jack? Lend me your earbuds for a second. Quick,’ and before he can say a word, I grab them from round his neck and show Daisy.

  ‘Look, Daisy.’ I smile widely. ‘Jack’s kindly offered to lend you these.’

  Daisy frowns at me and her bottom lip wobbles as if she’s about to cry. This is hardly surprising. After all, I am grinning down at her with huge big pointy vampire teeth. Of course, if she cries, the spell will be broken, but I hate making Daisy cry. I’d far rather distract her, and that way, make her stop the vampire spell.

  ‘Don’t worry, Daze,’ I say, wiggling Jack’s earbuds in front of her. ‘Listen to these. Jack’s got teeny tiny people inside his earbuds. If you listen, you’ll hear them singing . . .’

  Daisy’s face crumples. Her big green eyes fill with tears.
/>   ‘Go WAY,’ she wails. ‘No wantit eebuds.

  No likeit vamPIES. GO WAYYYYY.’

  And suddenly everyone notices us.

  Luckily for Jack and me, Daisy may well be a witch, but she is also only a baby. As soon as she begins to cry, her spell dissolves. She stops thinking about vampies and starts to think about her world full of woe instead.

  Thank heavens.

  Poor Daisy. Still wailing, ‘NO WANTIT VAMPIES,’ she is carried off into the garden by Dad. Luckily Dad has no idea what Daisy is on about.

  ‘Don’t you worry, bunny,’ I can hear him saying. ‘There aren’t any. Mummy didn’t have time to make pies for the party.’

  There may not be any pies to eat, but there is everything else you could ever wish for. Jack makes a bee-line for the cakes and I’m about to help myself to a slab of pizza when I spot a familiar figure coming through the garden door.

  Vivaldi!

  And now nothing can possibly go wrong. Daisy is safely outside, I’m not a slug or a vampire and my head is on the right way round. Brilliant. Time to go and make friends.

  Fourteen:

  Extra special

  THE SISTERS ARRIVE dressed in their best party clothes, perfectly camouflaged in a noisy crowd.

  ‘Let’s mingle,’ whispers the Nose, attempting a smile as she weaves through the crush of guests in the kitchen. She is carrying the Toad like a handbag, and at the first opportunity she puts her Sister down on the floor. The Toad is immediately lost in a sea of strange party guests’ legs and spends the next ten minutes trying to avoid being stepped upon. The Chin finds herself pressed up against a bookcase, half listening as a Mr Harukashi tries to tell her how the Internet works.