care of Witch Baby by herself. She went into the shed and said, “Witch Baby, come out. We’ll go to Farmer’s Market and get date shakes and look at the puppies in the pet store there and figure out a way to rescue them.” But Witch Baby buried herself deeper in the mud.
“Witch Baby, come out and play drums for me,” Cherokee said. “You are the most slinkster-jamming drummer girl and I want to dance.” But Witch Baby shut her eyes and swallowed a handful of gritty dirt.
Cherokee heard Witch Baby’s thoughts in her own head.
I am a seed in the slippery, silent, blinds breathless dark, I have no nose or mouth, ears or eyes to see. Just a skin of satin black and a secret green dream deep inside.
For hours, Cherokee begged Witch Baby tocome out. Finally she went into the house and called the boy who had been her best friend for as long as she could remember—Raphael Chong Jah-Love.
Raphael was practicing his guitar at the house down the street where he lived with his parents, Valentine and Ping Chong Jah-Love. Valentine and Ping were away in South America with Cherokee and Witch Baby’s family working on the movie.
“Witch Baby is buried in mud!” Cherokee told Raphael when he answered the phone. “She won’t come out of the shed. Could you ask her to play drums with us?”
“Witch Baby is the best drummer I know, Kee,” Raphael said. “But she’ll never play drums with us.”
Raphael and Cherokee wanted to start a band but they needed a bass player and a drummer. Witch Baby had always refused to help them.
“Just ask her to play for you then, just once,” Cherokee begged. “I am really worried about her.”
So Raphael tossed his dreadlocks, put on his John Lennon sunglasses and rode hisbicycle through sunlight and wind chimes and bird shadows to Cherokee’s house.
He found Cherokee in the backyard among the fruit trees and roses knocking at the door of the shed. Witch Baby had locked herself in.
“Come out. Witch Baby,” said Raphael. “I need to hear your drumming for inspiration. Even if you won’t be in our band.”
Cherokee kissed his powdered-chocolate-colored cheek. There was still no sound from inside the shed.
Cherokee and Raphael stood outside the shed for a long time. It got dark and stars came out, shining on the damp lawn.
“Let’s go eat something,” Raphael said. “Witch Baby will smell the food and come out.”
They went inside and Cherokee took one of the frozen homemade pizzas that Weetzie had left them when the family went away, and put it in the oven. Raphael played an Elvis Presley record, lit some candles and made a salad. Cherokee opened all the windows—the stained-glass roses, the leaded-glass arches, the one thai looked like rain—so Witch Baby would smell the melting cheese, hear it sizzlealong with “Hound Dog” and come out of the mud shed. But when they had finished their pizza, there was still no sign of Witch Baby. They left two big slices of pizza in front of the shed. Then they set up Cherokee’s tepee on the lawn, curled into their sleeping bags and told ghost stories until they fell asleep.
In the morning, the pizza looked as if it had been nibbled on by a mouse, Cherokee hoped the mouse had tangled hair, purple tilty eyes and curly toes, but the door of the shed was still locked.
Witch Baby would not come out of the mud shed. Cherokee finally decided she would have to ask Coyote what to do. With his wisdom and grace, he was the only one who would know how to bring Witch Baby out of the mud.
Early that morning, Cherokee took a bus into the hills where Coyote lived. She got off the bus and walked up the steep, winding streets to his shack. He was among the cactus plants doing his daily stretching, breathing and strengthening exercises when she found him. Below him the city was waking up under a layer of smog. Coyote turned his headslowly toward Cherokee and opened his eyes. Cherokee held her breath.
“Cherokee Bat,” said Coyote in a
“Witch Baby, come out and play drums for me,” Cherokee said. “You are the most slinkster-jamming drummer girl and I want to dance.” But Witch Baby shut her eyes and swallowed a handful of gritty dirt.
Cherokee heard Witch Baby’s thoughts in her own head.
I am a seed in the slippery, silent, blinds breathless dark, I have no nose or mouth, ears or eyes to see. Just a skin of satin black and a secret green dream deep inside.
For hours, Cherokee begged Witch Baby tocome out. Finally she went into the house and called the boy who had been her best friend for as long as she could remember—Raphael Chong Jah-Love.
Raphael was practicing his guitar at the house down the street where he lived with his parents, Valentine and Ping Chong Jah-Love. Valentine and Ping were away in South America with Cherokee and Witch Baby’s family working on the movie.
“Witch Baby is buried in mud!” Cherokee told Raphael when he answered the phone. “She won’t come out of the shed. Could you ask her to play drums with us?”
“Witch Baby is the best drummer I know, Kee,” Raphael said. “But she’ll never play drums with us.”
Raphael and Cherokee wanted to start a band but they needed a bass player and a drummer. Witch Baby had always refused to help them.
“Just ask her to play for you then, just once,” Cherokee begged. “I am really worried about her.”
So Raphael tossed his dreadlocks, put on his John Lennon sunglasses and rode hisbicycle through sunlight and wind chimes and bird shadows to Cherokee’s house.
He found Cherokee in the backyard among the fruit trees and roses knocking at the door of the shed. Witch Baby had locked herself in.
“Come out. Witch Baby,” said Raphael. “I need to hear your drumming for inspiration. Even if you won’t be in our band.”
Cherokee kissed his powdered-chocolate-colored cheek. There was still no sound from inside the shed.
Cherokee and Raphael stood outside the shed for a long time. It got dark and stars came out, shining on the damp lawn.
“Let’s go eat something,” Raphael said. “Witch Baby will smell the food and come out.”
They went inside and Cherokee took one of the frozen homemade pizzas that Weetzie had left them when the family went away, and put it in the oven. Raphael played an Elvis Presley record, lit some candles and made a salad. Cherokee opened all the windows—the stained-glass roses, the leaded-glass arches, the one thai looked like rain—so Witch Baby would smell the melting cheese, hear it sizzlealong with “Hound Dog” and come out of the mud shed. But when they had finished their pizza, there was still no sign of Witch Baby. They left two big slices of pizza in front of the shed. Then they set up Cherokee’s tepee on the lawn, curled into their sleeping bags and told ghost stories until they fell asleep.
In the morning, the pizza looked as if it had been nibbled on by a mouse, Cherokee hoped the mouse had tangled hair, purple tilty eyes and curly toes, but the door of the shed was still locked.
Witch Baby would not come out of the mud shed. Cherokee finally decided she would have to ask Coyote what to do. With his wisdom and grace, he was the only one who would know how to bring Witch Baby out of the mud.
Early that morning, Cherokee took a bus into the hills where Coyote lived. She got off the bus and walked up the steep, winding streets to his shack. He was among the cactus plants doing his daily stretching, breathing and strengthening exercises when she found him. Below him the city was waking up under a layer of smog. Coyote turned his headslowly toward Cherokee and opened his eyes. Cherokee held her breath.
“Cherokee Bat,” said Coyote in a
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