to look utterly and blessedly normal.
What was truly disturbing was that I didn’t know if I liked it or not.
Now that I had my own hair again, I couldn’t stop looking at it, touching it. Hillary, with much more glee than necessary, had treated me with her own special blend of organic herbs and colorants. And it worked. She’d brought me back. I couldn’t get over it.
She stood behind me, smiling as I ran my hands through my hair yet again.
Her fingertips dusted my shoulder. “I’ll mix a blend for you to use whenever you need.” She’d even given me a trim so that my dark hair fell in stylish layers around my face.
“I still don’t know how you did it.” She’d defied biker witch magic.
Hillary made her own adjustments to her impossibly perfect hair. “Never under-estimate your mother.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Time to go. The caterers are ready with tea.”
“Right,” I said, playing with my hair the entire way as she led me to toward the large sitting room off the foyer. I remembered seeing it when I came in.
A black stone fireplace dominated the room, with an aged wooden shield mounted over it. A coat of arms was carved into the shield, with painted chalices and red pansies. I pitied the knight who had to go into battle with wine glasses and flowers on his shield.
A round, wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling. Under it, Grandma and her biker witch buddies crowded onto the dark red and black leather couches and overflowed onto spare chairs from the dining room. I stifled a gasp. They’d changed as much as I had.
Grandma sat in a straight-backed medieval-looking chair wearing a loud, colorful flowered dress that looked like it had come from a psychotic Hawaiian Mumu enthusiast or more likely, a Goodwill reject box. She’d styled her hair into an honest-to-god bun and had tied a yellow ribbon around it.
Next to her, Frieda had wrapped herself in a tweed suit with a pink silk shirt that tied at the neck into the biggest bow I’d ever seen. She’d tamed her blonde hair from its usual bouffant style and had wound it into a helmet-head bun that had been hair sprayed to within an inch of its life—as if that was what people wore to tea parties.
Buns.
They must have seen it in a magazine.
Creely the engineering witch had gone for the
My dog, Pirate, was nowhere in sight. However, his pet dragon, Flappy, had his large, nose pressed up against the bay window. Flappy snorted, fogging the glass around his pink and ivory mottled snout. I pretended not to notice.
I still didn’t know why my dog needed a pet. The white, snaggle-toothed beast was the size of an SUV, and still growing. At least non-magical people couldn’t see him.
Hillary was having enough of a shock as it was. True to form, she kept it all inside. Still, I couldn’t help noticing how she stared at the witch who was displaying ample cleavage above a corseted, medieval gown. Two Date Tessa actually looked good. As for the rest of them?
There was no leather, no denim, no doo-rags. Only fashion mistakes as far as the eye could see.
Hillary and I exchanged a glance.
“Welcome to the Celebration Tea!” she chirped, clearly determined to forge ahead, blithely ignoring the biker witch to her left, who was studying a dainty porcelain cup like it was a moon rock. Mom painted a smile on her face. “This is the first event in a week of friendship, family, and joy that will lead us to Lizzie and Dimitri’s big day.”
I’d happily skip right to the wedding.
She gestured at two catering assistants, who entered from the arched doorway off the dining room. They held gleaming silver serving pots.
“Simply turn over your cups,” Hillary instructed as the biker witches eyed the delicate painted tea sets in front of them. “And tell Tina or Gina which of our
Grandma turned over her teacup like she expected a bug to crawl out from under it.
My assigned chair was across from the couch that held Grandma, Ant Eater and Frieda. At least, I thought the spot was mine. It had a white and silver bow attached. Let’s hope I wouldn’t have to strangle anyone with it. So far, the witches were remarkably well behaved.
I turned over the pink teacup in front of me, recognizing it from mom’s display case back home. She really did go all out. These antique serving sets were from her special collection. I couldn’t help but feel touched, and a little worried.
Ant Eater, grandma’s second in command, stared at me from behind a green and gold painted fan, as if she needed some kind of spiritual protection from what was taking place. It was clear Grandma had dressed her—and done her hair. The biker witch slowly lowered the barrier, her good tooth glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. “What happened to your hair?”
“My mom fixed it,” I said, refusing to feel embarrassed for looking like myself.
Her eyes traveled over my Malibu Barbie outfit. Okay. So I wasn’t exactly the seersucker sundress type anymore, but I didn’t think Ant Eater had suddenly taken to giraffe patterned Mumu’s, so she could cut me some slack.
I was about to tell her that when Gina, the caterer, popped up on my left faster than Pirate on a pork chop. She wore black pants, a white shirt and a permanent smile. “Hi!” she said, holding out a basket with tea bags in organized slots. “We are so excited about our tea selection today. We have Green Mountain Flower, Pomegranate Black, Welsh Morning, Jasmine, Sweet Ginger Green—”
“Black tea would be fine,” I said, as Ant Eater’s eyes began to cross.
“Sure,” Gina said, “Would that be Tibetan, Darjeeling, Assam—”
“You choose,” I said, and then added, “Assam,” when Gina seemed confused.
Across from me, Grandma kept eyeing the door and Frieda had gone a bit green.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Ant Eater said.
I tried to smile, but found I felt as ridiculous as the biker witches looked. It was as if we were all trying to be something we weren’t.
Gina slipped a bag of Assam into Ant Eater’s cup and poured steaming water over it.
She should like strong tea. “It’s got a nice kick,” I assured the wary biker witch.
“Like Jack Daniels nice?” Ant Eater asked.
Not quite.
But at least they were trying. I appreciated that. Even if Frieda’s sleeve had already gotten into the clotted cream. She swirled her blueberry scone in the cream once more.
Somebody should tell her it wasn’t a dipping sauce.
Then again, at least Frieda had sleeves. Yes, Grandma had wrapped several stretchy bangles around the phoenix tattoo on her upper right arm, but they didn’t exactly hide anything.
My mother slipped into the chair next to me, teacup in hand.
“This is great, mom. Thanks.” It really was nice to have everyone together, safe and happy; to know that the room was still standing after five minutes...
Mom smiled, reaching for a scone until she saw what Frieda was doing to the clotted cream. Hillary cleared her throat and selected a finger sandwich instead.
Maybe this would work out after all.
“So, my daughter tells me that you like motorcycles,” Hillary said to Grandma.
Grandma nodded, actually taking care to finish chewing before she responded. “Yes. My,” she searched for a word, absently drawing circles in the air with her sandwich, “colleagues and I…of the motorcycle persuasion… have been riding together for several years.”
“Fascinating,” Hillary said, taking a dainty bite of her cucumber sandwich.
“What she means,” Frieda said, warming up as she took a stack of jam sandwiches cut into the shape of hearts. “Is that we had to run like shit from a goose from a fifth level demon before Lizzie here—”
