Diary of a Fairy Godmother by Esme Raji Codell Chapter One Earwax Moon, waning Miss Fortune Harbinger felt it would be a good idea to discuss what we had planned after graduation, since it's just around the corner, thank badness. Mama says to cherish these years, that the first hundred just fly by, blah blah blah! I don't know what she's talking about. I feel like I've been in school forever and I don't really see the point of it; Auntie says if you're smart you can do without it and if you're dumb it doesn't help anyway. I can't wait to get out and start working. Some of my classmates plan to pursue further studies. Frantic Search is such a show-off and keeps going on about how she's going to get a degree in advanced studies at Hogwarts -- as I said before, blah blah BLAH. Excuse me, we can't all afford Hogwarts; some of us have to work for a living. Sinus Infection said she would like to get into agriculture, maybe grow vegetables that are so irresistible, humans will try to steal them, and then she'll ask them for their firstborn and stick them up in towers, or something like that. Miss Harbinger said it sounded like Sinus was really thinking about things and then hit her with a peashooter. Miss Harbinger pointed out that tower-building is a popular option that we all might consider, and just because we're young women, we shouldn't think for an instant that we can't build a tower and stick somebody in it. Sinus looked pleased. Twisted Ankle said she was going to continue to pursue a career as an artist. She is lucky enough to have a natural talent. The likeness she rendered of a vampire bat that hangs in the back of the room is so true to life that its eyes seem to follow us wherever we go. It bothers Belladonna so much that she wears a scarf to school every day, in case the image should fly off the canvas and bite her on the neck. Miss Harbinger clucked her tongue and said that art is a low-paying affliction for which there is no cure, and that Twisted Ankle was likely destined to starve alone in a cave full of those bats she likes so well, and we should all wish her good luck. Acid Reflux plans to set up a clinic for animals, treating cats who have been wounded in broom-related accidents. Miss Harbinger advised Acid to study very hard, because it is even more difficult to become a veterinarian than it is to become a regular witch doctor, and you have to be well acquainted with the anatomy of all different species. Acid's face fell at the prospect of all that studying, and she whispered that maybe she would just go into taxidermy if it meant she could still work with animals. Miss Harbinger said an apprenticeship might be a good way to decide. Velvet Underground said she was going to take over her mother's poison taffy apple stand, and Miss Harbinger commented that Velvet was very good at math and should have no problem giving the wrong change to all her customers. My ears perked up a little because I wouldn't mind running a business myself. My mother is a brewer, but I don't know if I will follow in her footsteps. Our cave is en route to the broom factory, and folks come by to pick up the homemade brews she's cooked up on their way to work. She has taken advantage of modern society; witches these days have so little time to cook for themselves. Still, I don't know how she can stand it, stirring for hours. It's a living, I guess, and she says it's good to work from home. I guess Miss Harbinger noticed, as teachers do, that I didn't want to be called on, and asked me what I thought I might attempt after I graduate. I said that I thought Velvet had a good idea, and I wouldn't mind selling something. "What would you sell, Hunky?" I admitted that I wasn't sure, and Miss Harbinger grew very excited. She said that sometimes the people who don't know what to do with their lives end up having the most interesting adventures of all. She told me to invest in a skateboard, the vehicle of choice for lost souls, and to be sure to document my current indecision in my diary. Miss Harbinger encourages us to keep personal diaries for three reasons: one, in the event that we become famous, we can sell them; two, in the event that we become infamous, we can sell them for double; three, if we are good and bad, our diaries may someday even be admissible as evidence of our misdeeds in court and as entertainment for future generations. But Miss Harbinger did not tell us what we are supposed to write that would interest a court or future generations or any other audience. So I am going to summarize what we read in class today. We were on chapter three of Venefica Mandrake's guide, Be the One with the Wand. The main idea of the chapter was Eradication, or the getting rid of individuals who might cross us. The approaches ranged from the simple retort "Excuse me, you must have mistaken me for someone who cares" to the transmogrification of subjects into houseflies that can easily be swatted with one hand. Curses are addressed in a later chapter, Miss Harbinger says. I can't wait! White Chocolate Moon, new What a dull day. The sun was shining, so I stayed inside all morning reading cookbooks. There are some delicious booger cookies I would like to try, but Mama said to stick with the brews. If I keep making desserts, we'll be too heavy for our brooms to carry us. Do you think warlocks worry about such things? Then we went to the supermarket, where Mama ran into some witch I didn't recognize but who sure remembered me. She went on and on about "Why look at you, dearie, baddie me, don't you know I remember when the vulture first brought you, and now you're as big as a tumor!" As if it's news that I have grown in the hundred years since I was a baby! Mama took the lead and went on about how I'm first in charm school and how "she'll be the wickedest witch wherever the four winds blow." Doesn't Mama know it's bad luck to brag? Well, they just went on and on and on, and there was the poison mushroom pizza just defrosting in the cart and nobody seemed to care. Then Mama dragged me around (IN THE SUN, I might add) to all the cellar sales in the haunted houses so we could hunt for dolls for Mama's collection. Mama didn't have much luck at all. The good news is, I found a used skateboard. Maybe Twisted will paint one of her bats on it for me. Of course Mama had to literally talk the head off the poor ghost who asked, "Is that your daughter?" She read that as a green light to go through her whole rigmarole again about my being the wickedest witch wherever the four winds blow -- which, by the way, is Mama's fondest forecast. She whispers it in my ear each night as she tucks me in. Indeed, why wouldn't she believe it will someday come to pass? I am at the top of my class in charm school. I can make flowers droop like wet spaghetti! I can make thunder rumble like a whale's bellyache! I have cultivated a wart and a knobby finger, a taste for eye of newt, and a cantankerous cackle that rattles the bones of any vertebrate for miles around! And, as a true testament to my talent, I can turn any prince into a frog, yes, a frog-green and boggy and bumpy, with fly breath and slimy lips. But I always change him back. Mama says it's just nat-ural rebellion. I don't know if it is or it isn't, but for historical record and future generations, I do think such actions disqualify me for title of wickedest. "If it's so great to be wickedest witch wherever the four winds blow, why don't you be it?" I asked her when we were walking back to the cave. "Hush your yap," she snapped. "I'm old. I don't have to do anything!" "Well, don't you want to do something?" "I do do something! I raise a spoiled brat who doesn't know the meaning of 'hush your yap.'" Well, that's quite the career choice, isn't it? But Mama was only kidding; that isn't her real job. Mama was in the kitchen most of the afternoon, brewing something murky for the late shift to grab on their way home from work. She called me in to help, and I was crushing some herbs in the mortar, when she saw me and came running over, yelling, "No, like this!" and she grabbed the pestle to show me. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about. It looked exactly the same to me both ways, and I don't care how she howls about it, I still don't believe there's any difference. I think she just gets a kick out of telling me I'm doing it wrong. I try to be a helpful and faithful daughter. But I hope being the wickedest witch doesn't include stirring away my afternoons. White Chocolate Moon, waxing crescent Miss Harbinger says I must stop writing in such a way that placates the teacher. Miss Harbinger says that means I must stop kissing up. Miss Harbinger says it is not necessary for a girl as talented as I to continually try to impress people with words like "transmogrification." Miss Harbinger says a real witch does not care so much what other people think. Miss Harbinger says that developing a personal voice in one's work is all one really can aspire to. Miss Harbinger says if I start one more sentence with "Miss Harbinger says," she will turn me into a dirty toothbrush. Miss Harbinger wouldn't know half of what I do or say if Frantic Search were not such a huge tattletale. She would narc on me as soon as look at me. For example: today was our spelling test, so Miss Harbinger sent word to a nearby kingdom that we were a group of princesses being held hostage by a ferocious dragon. It wasn't long before we could hear the thundering of hooves and snapping of branches as our rescuers approached. We hollered "help!" in our best falsettos, whereupon a prince, with such pronounced muscles that they dented his armor, flung himself against the door. Miss Harbinger opened it before his shoulder hit, so that he fell to the floor in such a clanktankerous fashion that it sounded like it was raining soup cans. His faithful men followed him, unsheathing their shining swords, but we wielded our wands at equal speed and turned their weapons into cattails. They looked very surprised. "Where is the dragon?" the prince demanded. "Disappointed, are you?" Miss Harbinger clucked her tongue. "Now, please behave. You are about to be educational." "But you said that there would be princesses!" one of the knights began to whine. "But you said that there would be princesses!" we chorused. (From chapter three, Be the One With the Wand: "Mimicry is basic to witches and all other brands of bullies.") "Awww!" Miss Harbinger stuck out her lower lip. "They want princesses, girls!" So we waved our wands, and, in a rain of glitter, all of the knights were outfitted in lovely gowns. Miss Harbinger took out her grade book. "Belladonna? A little heavy on the rouge, don't you think? Keep it natural; I think a peach-to-orange would have suited him more, don't you agree? And Twisted Ankle! I said princess, not queen! Ease up on the golden tresses and double-check your work!" Twisted Ankle crossed her arms and grumbled something about having her creativity stifled. The prince was unscathed, but not for long. "Now, today's spelling test is on class pets. The best spelling will decide what pet we will keep. Velvet Underground? Spell cat." Velvet promptly turned the prince into a very pretty Siamese, his crown slipping around his neck like a sparkling collar. "One blue eye, one green! Lovely! That's the Velvet touch!" Miss Harbinger encouraged her. "Pffft!" Frantic blew a small raspberry. "Anyone can spell cat." Velvet overheard and her face fell. I know Miss Harbinger gave her an easy one because spelling is not her strong suit. I think Frantic is beyond witchy to point it out. "Belladonna? Spell mouse." Bella turned the prince from cat to rat. Miss Harbinger waited patiently while Bella shook her head and gave it another go, this time changing him into a sweet little white mouse with purple ears. "Very good," said Miss Harbinger. "Very good?" sneered Frantic under her breath. "She couldn't even turn a man into a mouse." "Yes, she did!" I pinched her. She pinched back, hard. "It took her two tries." Frantic tossed her black hair over one shoulder. "That's sad." "Frantic?" Miss Harbinger called on her. "Spell . . . frog." Within a moment, there was a textbook-perfect frog, wearing the unhappy grimace that only frogs -- and princes that have been turned into frogs -- can wear. "There are five warts, Miss Harbinger," Frantic gushed. "So I see. Very good, Miss Search." I fanned my hand delicately over my mouth to disguise a smirk. My frogs generally have seven warts, but who's counting? "Now, Hunky. Your turn. Let's make this a challenge . . ." "I've got one," I offered. I waved my wand and whammied the prince into a fabulous dragon, with emerald scales and a lovely fiery breath of three hundred and fifty degrees (which, incidentally, is usually an effective temperature for baking cookies). In his surprise, the prince-dragon swung his tail and bashed out the back wall of our school, and all the knights in princess garb fell upon him out of sheer dragon-fighting instinct and beat him bravely with their cattails, following in pursuit as he fled into the forest. "Well!" Miss Harbinger sighed. "I didn't know you could spell dragon! I guess our new class pet will have to be a teacher's pet: Hunky Dory!" "Bleaaahhhh!" All the girls stuck their tongues out at me in tribute. I was very moved by their jealousy. We conjured up a new wall. After school I followed the trail of destruction left by my dragon until I found him curled up in a cave, looking glum, with his crown still hanging lopsided from a yellowing horn on his head. He was panting smoky little pants, exhausted, and exponentially more unhappy than any frog. I climbed up onto an overhang and bopped him on his head with my wand so he was returned to his original princely form. After an amazed moment, he ran back through the woods, though he tumbled on something before making his escape. I assumed it was a tree root, but then out stepped Frantic Search in her designer curly-toed black boots, size fourteen. "Were you following me?" I couldn't believe it. "I saw you!" she accused me. "I saw you undo your charm!" "So what? You must have me mistaken for someone who cares." "Oh, you'll care all right, when I tell Miss Harbinger that you were kind and helpful." "Really? Well, I heard that dung beetles don't tell tales." I raised my wand in a challenge. "You can't do anything to me! We haven't learned curses yet!" She jeered. But I could see a nervous gulping movement in her throat, so I whirled my wand around a couple of times for good measure. She beat a hasty retreat, but called over her shoulder, "I've got more in my bag of tricks, Hunky Dory. You won't be teacher's pet forever!" Teacher's pet? She really does have me mistaken for someone who cares. I hadn't planned on being teacher's pet forever. Forever is such a long time to stay the same way. That's why I turned the dragon back into a prince. He was so happy, you'd think he expected to be a prince for the rest of his life. You'd think he'd never run into another witch or magic spell. From chapter one, Be the One With the Wand: "Be open to changes." White Chocolate Moon, first quarter It is one thing to transmogrify, and quite another to bring things up out of thin air. I've devoted three days to the spell books (chapter six, Be the One with the Wand: "where you devote your energy, so shall you improve"). Three days of teacups, hammers, hats, and sausages. Things we need but rarely wish for. Some things just appeared accidentally, and soon I was tripping over all sorts of clutter: cages and bicycles and clothes and platters. It occurred to me to approach the task with some sort of progression. Invoke a caterpillar, then a butterfly. A lock, then a key. An egg, then a chicken. A seed, then a flower. And then, by the light of the moon, I raised a beanstalk that uncoiled itself heavenward and disappeared beyond my sight. The feeling was electric. I climbed to the top, and, blissfully alone, I watched the moon hover above the roiling white sea of clouds. I used my force to grab falling stars from the sky and redirect their paths. Did I only dream it? White Chocolate Moon, full Auntie Malice came for a visit. We were so excited to see each other that we bit and kicked each other and pulled each other's hair. I told her right away, "I hate when you come over, because your visits are always too short and I am always so sad when you leave." "Terrible, isn't it?" She grinned. "I'll try to leave extra early, then, so I won't postpone the agony." Auntie is so thoughtful! Of course, Mama was beside herself with glee, and they set themselves right down to complaining. I prepared the ragweed tea. I was very careful to put the toe jam in a gourd, because Auntie has told me time and time again that one should allow one's guests to season their food to their own taste, so condiments must always go on the side. Auntie is a stickler for good manners. I went in and threw the cup of tea at Auntie. Mama gave me a stern look, so I asked Auntie if she would like something with her tea, and she said yes, please, so I threw the gourd as well and hit her in the head. Auntie sighed and said if she were ever stupid enough to have a daughter, she'd want one exactly like me. Mama bragged about how well I am doing in charm school, and Auntie pulled Mama's eyelashes for bragging. Then said she knew a few kings and queens who could take some lessons. Auntie went on to bemoan how she wasn't even invited to the christening taking place at the castle today, and she's known the family for years. "If I were you I'd crash that party," I said, just to make a joke, but they both stopped talking and stared at me as if they were going to stomp my toes. "Is she in the gifted class at school?" asked Auntie. "She really should be in the gifted class." "She'll be the wickedest witch wherever the four winds blow!" Mama beamed, and was promptly punched in the ear for bragging again. "Ouch! Let her come with you, Malice. She's been all cooped up in this cave." "But there will be F.G.s," said Auntie, under her breath. "What's an F.G.?" I asked. They glared at me and spoke in hushed tones. "Bother! Well, she's got to find out someday" Mama set her hands on her hips. "Hopefully at her age she's beyond their sphere of influence." Auntie gave me a long look. "What's an F.G.?" I repeated. Mama pinched me and told me to grab my hat and skateboard, and to mind my manners; Auntie was taking me to a grown-up party. "Will you join us?" "No, I think I will stay back and set rat traps. Why should this stupid cat have all the fun?" She gave Clot's black tail a yank, making him arch his back and show his pointed teeth. Mama giggled girlishly. "What's an F.G.?" I asked Auntie for the third time when we were in the air. "A nincompoop," said Auntie. I have not been alive very long, but I already have met a lot of nincompoops, and they come in all shapes and sizes and are hard to recognize by just looking; usually you have to talk with one for a while before you find out you are in the company of one. So Auntie's definition was not very helpful, but she did not seem in any sort of a mood to help me along. She was grumbling something about "EVery Oh-ther GAL in the PLACE gets an invite, and ME, how LONG have I KNOWN them, why, YEARS and YEARS, and my BADness, what kind of people ARE they, they probably won't even serve CHEESE. . . ." Well, we soared and skated over the moat and the guards, and the porter at the door who was supposed to announce the guests, conveniently lost consciousness when Auntie Malice asked him to check her boa and it hissed at him. Auntie asked me if I knew the way back, in case she had to make a quick exit, and I assured her that I did. As we entered the Great Hall, the jubilation of the scene that spread widely before me took my bad breath away. Even the walls seemed to be dancing, but it was just the flickering of candlelight. At one table a dozen women feasted from golden plates; their shrill laughter carried all around the hall like the rattling of cicadas. Some even had wings like butterflies, with a glittering dust that shook from them as they approached the king and queen and the bassinet in between. As each one of these beautiful creatures bent over the bassinet and spoke, a great roar of approval rose, and applause sprinkled like spring rain. The last woman walked away smiling, back to her golden plate, where the others gathered like sisters to kiss her. "Show-offs." I heard Auntie growl dangerously. "Who are they?" "F.G.s," said Auntie. "Fairy Godmothers." Her voice swelled with such disgust that I thought for a moment she said gagmothers. "Giving the infant princess everything the parents have registered for. Grace. Beauty. Virtue." Auntie clucked her tongue and narrowed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth very, very slowly. "Vapid little underachievers, those F.G.s." "How so?" I couldn't help asking. "Don't they have any powers?" "They grant wishes." "For a living?" Something inside of me plucked and sang like the string on a harp. "I suppose so, but why, darling, why" -- Auntie closed her eyes in exasperation -- "would anyone use their power to do good? The world is good in general! When you wake up, what do you hear? Birds singing! What do you see? Flowers blooming! Little animals scurrying to their little animal burrows! Streams tripping merrily over stones! Cows mooing to be milked! And so on and so forth, all the way to the end of the day, when even the craters of the moon appear to be smiling down upon the wonders of the earth! Don't you see, darling, it's so terribly trite! It's been done! It's all one big re-run! There's nothing original about it!" I nodded like I understood, but I wasn't sure I did. Auntie rolled her eyes and continued. "Now, look, look, look at those girls! Some measure attraction by 'oohs and ahhs,' And how much you look like a flower. But if I may offer you some aunt-i-ly advice: Don't waste your time being flowerful; Being smart is much more powerful! What's more appealing than aptitude? What's more resplendent than skill? What's more captivating than competence? Do you want to climb a mountain, will you settle for a molehill? What is more intriguing than intellect? I hope that you won't swallow other swill; It's true, trolls won't make passes At witches who wear glasses, But princes nearly almost always will. No girl is more attractive Than one who's interactive, So plug in your adapter and Live happily ever after. Because beauty's in the form of a girl with a brainstorm! I really mean it! Beauty's in the form of power!" Have I mentioned that Auntie has a degenerate love of musicals? Now and then she breaks into a number. I hope it's not genetic. "Now, mischief . . ." Auntie's flinty eyes scanned the hall from corner to corner with an ember glow, "mischief is original. Mischief is clever and creative and always en vogue. People sit up and take notice when there's a bit of mischief." "But must all mischief be naughty mischief?" I asked. "For your information, I believe the word's meaning comes from the Latin prefix mis, meaning naughty, and chief, meaning most important, or first. First comes naughtiness, and first is best. It's right there in the etymology, dear. See, darling, you aren't the only one who went to school." Inside, there were footmen carrying around little trays of pink squares, and upon stepping into the Great Hall we were offered one. Auntie nodded so I took one, and it was a lovely little yellow cake with strawberry icing, and I asked, "what is it called?" And the man bowed and said what sounded like petee fwah, so I said, "excuse me?" and Auntie barked, "Petit four. It's French for 'too cheap to buy a real cake.'" The man frowned and bowed again to leave, but Auntie swiped half the tray before he could escape and shoved the cakes into my apron pocket. "There, now you have refreshments so you can watch the show. Now, go, go, go, darling, announce your Auntie to the royal fatheads." She draped her boa around my neck and primped it, then gave me a push toward the thrones. I got a lot of sideways glances, but managed to make it up the incline before I turned to the assembled party and pronounced, "Spiteful Malice!" I saw Auntie across the hall, energetically mouthing the word "the" to me as a reminder to present her as we have often rehearsed at home. "I mean, squirm, mere mortals! The Spiteful Malice, doyenne of the dark arts, has condescended to have an audience with you." Auntie lifted her chin, and I must say she looked quite stunning in her purple satin dress with the high neck and tortoiseshell cape -- tortoises sewn on at the hem, clawing helplessly as she dragged them along. Her red eye shadow brought out the black circles under her eyes, and the raven feathers on her head came to a neat widow's peak that accentuated her frowning brow. Auntie really knows how to dress for a party. The crowd, buoyant with dancing and laughter and billowing gowns, at once parted and became silent as she crossed the room. Bouquets of pink peonies wilted at her passing and dropped brown petals with a hushed and crumpled breath. At the end of the hall, the king and queen cowered over their bundle, seized by a look of terror, as if one of the beasts from the forest was about to fall upon them. I could see the delight quiver in the corner of my auntie's mouth. At last she stood before them, then thrust out her knotted staff. "I KNEW you wouldn't serve cheese!" she howled. "You FOOLS!" I wondered if the king was controlling his bladder. The queen held what looked like a pile of blankets to her breast, and had both of her eyes clamped shut. "Weren't expecting me, eh? Did the invitation get lost in the mail? Forget to put a stamp on? Did you send it to an old address? Leave a message on my machine, did you? The dog ate it? Eh? Eh? Stop me when I come to the right one!" "Forgive us," the king blubbered. "You see, we had only twelve golden place settings, and we didn't want to offend --" "Didn't want to offend! Didn't want to offend!" Auntie singsonged. "A little late for that, wouldn't you say, crown-boy?" "She is right, she was wronged!" one of the F.G.s stood and shouted. "Wash all of our plates! Let Spiteful Malice eat off the golden plates!" Soon it echoed all around the hall. "Set a place for Spiteful Malice! Let Spiteful Malice eat!" I held my breath, wondering if Auntie would consider this reasonable. She did not. Black smoke began to billow around her ankles, which is never a good sign. "Sit down, you overgrown moth!" she bellowed at the fairy. "Do you imagine that I am so easily appeased? And anyway, why does everything always have to be about me? I am wounded yet again!" She lay the back side of her hand against her forehead. "Today is a happy occasion, the christening of your first born child. Didn't I read in the papers that she is lovely as the dawn? Come, let an old Auntie see." Her gloved fingers moved delicately across the bunting like a black spider and peeled back the blankets. "Oh! She is a dear! Now, you allowed all of your invited guests to bestow a gift upon the newborn child, did you not? Certainly, you wouldn't begrudge my giving her a little gift, would you?" The parents looked uneasily at each other, and the F.G.s tittered among themselves, looking decidedly worried. "What is her name?" "Aurora," the queen squeaked. "Aurora," Auntie repeated with a sour smile. "Like the dawn. How original. I guess 'Tiffany' and 'Britney' were already taken, then?" She yawned and stretched extravagantly. "Now, let's see, Aurora. What gift shall I give you, dear. Hmmmm? How would you like to be good at playing piano without ever having a lesson in your life?" "I-I'm afraid that gift has already been given," stammered the king. A small F.G. with an acorn beret waved tentatively. "Oh? What a shame. Well, how about lustrous curly locks the color of solid gold, so bright that they outshine the sun?" "Th-thank you," the queen quaked, "but once again, your thoughtful gift has already been given." A tall fairy with lustrous curly locks the color of solid gold swayed her mane off her shoulders and waved. Auntie nodded in return. "So Blondie beat me to the punch, did she? My, my, my." Auntie caught my eye and suppressed a smile. "Let's see. What to do, what to do! You already have so many gifts right now, sweet Aurora . . . oh, I know! Let me give you something you can open a little later!" She waved her hands around the baby, and a cloud arose that circled in a green vortex first slowly, and then faster. "When she is fifteen years old, she will prick herself with the needle from a spinning wheel, and kapow! She will fall! Down! Dead!" The cloud enveloped the baby and then seemed to drain into the blankets with a noisy whoosh. The crowd was aghast. It was as if the entire room had been engulfed in some terrible, sticky ash that suffocated all air and light. But no, the candlelight still flickered, the crystal still sparkled, and the black shadows danced and danced upon the walls. "What's that? 'No, thank you'? Did somebody already give that gift, too? Well, I'm afraid it's no trade-backs, no nothing-backs on that one. I seem to have lost the receipt, so you'll just have to live with it. Or, you can pass it on to someone else; I hear some ill-mannered people do that with gifts they don't want. Which reminds me: here is a gift for you, Mom and Dad!" Auntie reached into her cape and pulled out a heavy book with gilded edges and a title that read in elegant scroll: Book of Etiquette "I trust you don't have that already, do you?" Auntie bent over and kissed the baby, who promptly began to wail; It wasn't long before the whole court joined in. "Okay, mission accomplished," said Auntie. "Let's go." "But I haven't seen the baby," I complained. Auntie rolled her eyes. "I'll wait by the door," she said. "My hanging around here spoils the dénouement." People made way as I approached the baby in the bassinet. A small fairy, about my size, seemed to be guarding it while the parents wept, but she seemed less lovely than the other F.G.s due to her unusually large buck teeth. They made her look friendly despite her thin and pointed eyebrows. It occurred to me that maybe she didn't especially like having sticky-out teeth, but that they were, in fact, the thing that made her seem most approachable. I must have been staring, because she asked me, "Do you want to see me, or the baby?" "Baby, please." She lifted the coverlet and revealed a creature that looked very much like the pink petit four in my pocket. I had never seen anything so sweet and delicious and divine in all my life. Her tiny pearly fingers wiggled at me her eyes moved all around, and her mouth was rounded in what seemed to be perpetual surprise. I couldn't help gasping. "Doesn't her face looked like mashed potatoes?" asked the F.G. I ignored her, so she kept talking. "No, really. Look! Mashed potatoes! If she spits up, it's like mashed potatoes with butter running down the sides." "She does not look like mashed potatoes," I snarled in measured speech. "She is beautiful and perfect." "Mmmmm," said the fairy. "You're not the one who has to be up all hours with her. Trust me, this kid's definitely not perfect." "What was your gift?" I asked. "Child care services." Her nostrils fluttered as she suppressed a yawn. "Under my watchful eye until she's sixteen. Luckily, your friend gave me a break." I didn't think that was very F.G. of her to say, but she smiled in such a good-humored way that I had to forgive her. "Hunky Dory," I introduced myself. "Lemon Droppings." She reached out her hand, and we shook. The baby started to cry again. "Wah wah wah yourself." She picked her up and rubbed her back until the baby let out a delicate burp and spilled something witchy out of her mouth all over the fairy's right shoulder. My heart did a flip. Surely my aunt did not really intend that the pukey little princess should prick her finger and die. Did she? Then again, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. Surely this child would eventually learn to take on the terrible habits of her parents. She would not send thank-you notes or hold doors open for people behind her and would start sentences with "get me a . . ." instead of "may I please have." In fifteen years, she might become the sort of person who wouldn't invite me to a party. Auntie was right. She needed to suffer, if only to make her different from her terrible parents. But death? A sudden inspiration hit me. "Can anyone give a gift to the new baby?" "I guess so." "I would like to give a gift!" I announced, and was surprised at the hush that fell over the crowd. "You were very rude to my auntie," I pointed out to the royalty assembled, "and you deserve to be punished. But there's really no need for the child to die. I'm sure my aunt was in a hurry and simply acted rashly. So, on the condition that you learn everything in the book Auntie gave you, forwards and backwards and upside down, and pass all you learn to your offspring, I will adjust the spell. When the princess turns fifteen," my eyes slid toward Lemon Droppings, "she will fall into a hundred year's sleep, and so will you all, until the princess is awakened by love's first kiss or some reasonable facsimile." Lemon Droppings smiled gratefully. "I could use the rest," she said. "Thanks for something to look forward to." "You're welcome." The strangest feeling was coming over me, almost like a fever. I wondered if maybe the petit fours were going to come up the same way they went down, but no, it wasn't like that. It was a warm feeling, but it wasn't a sick feeling. It was spreading, though, from my feet and legs and into my hands and up my neck. "You'll excuse me for saying so, but I never would have guessed you were a fairy godmother from your uniform." "I am not a fairy godmother." I glowered, shaking my hands to get rid of the needles that seemed to be prickling from the inside. "I am a witch." She shrugged. "Sorry." And went back to jostling the baby in her arms. I almost asked if I could hold the baby, but I caught myself. "I am a witch," I said again, and Lemon Droppings gave me a look like yeah, I heard you, and turned away. I am a witch, I said to myself as I fled the hall. I am a witch. I am a witch. Auntie hit me over the head with her staff. "What was that about? I knew exactly what I was doing! You completely undermined my power and showed absolutely no respect for authority! Darling!" She kissed me on the top of my head. "You are a witch, through and through." I am a witch, I told myself. I am a witch. We started our vehicles. "Did you see that one F.G.?" I asked. "By the baby? She said that Aurora looked like mashed potatoes." "Mmm. Maybe that fairy godmother has a little witch in her," Auntie said absently. "You know, mashed potatoes are a very fine substitute for baby. Mashed potatoes with lots of butter and salt." I was barely listening. I was trying to shake the fizzy feeling from my hands, and trying to drown out the question darting like a wasp in all the corners of my mind. Can a witch have a little fairy godmother in her? No. She can't. I am a witch. I am Hunky Dory. I will be the wickedest witch wherever the four winds blow. "Did you notice how the smoke matched my dress? Inspired, wasn't it? Weren't they wowed? Did you hear what they were saying? They said I was terrible and cruel! They said they had never seen anything so dastardly in all their born days! They said I was a scourge and a curse upon the earth!" "I'm glad you had such a good time, Auntie." "Do you know what the funny part is? I wouldn't have even gone if they had invited me. Throwing a party because a baby is born, well, that is just excessive." "Then why did you care at all?" I asked. My aunt seemed quite taken aback. "Well, it's still nice to be invited," she said.