beatrix bobbit goes to witch camp

Now that Luna is in a pretty good place (actually SHE'S not but her story is, sorry Luna!), I felt inspired to delve back into Beatrix Bobbit's world. Last we saw Beatrix, she was had just turned seventeen and received a very intriguing little black book as a birthday present. This is five years earlier...enjoy!

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Mrs. Bobbit stood in the gravel driveway wearing a black witch hat to shade her eyes from the sweltering sun. She held a broomstick in her hand and fought the urge to sweep something, anything, to make the broomstick useful. Ordinarily, she’d be appalled to be caught wearing such a strange hat while holding a broomstick that wasn’t intended for sweeping. But, these minor oddities were the least of her concerns.

Today, she was driving her twelve year old daughter to Witch Camp. This wouldn’t be a problem if witches existed, but since they most definitely did not, Mrs. Bobbit was cringing inside at the thought of all those fake witches bobbing about on their broomsticks.

Mr. Bobbit came tottering down the stone path balancing a black cauldron precariously in one hand and a black cage with a rabbit in the other. The rabbit was not a pet. But, rather, a wild rabbit that lived in their garden. Beatrix claimed the rabbit had practically begged to be taken in as a pet.

“Everyone knows, Beatrix dear, that rabbits do not beg,” Mrs. Bobbit told Beatrix as she stroked the rabbit’s black fur.

“Her name is Penny,” Beatrix giggled after leaning her ear towards the rabbit's twitching mouth.

“Do something, Jack!” Mrs. Bobbit exclaimed, raising her hands in the air.

“You can’t keep it,” Mr. Bobbit grumbled.

Mrs. Bobbit was satisfied when Beatrix placed the rabbit -- Penny -- outside in the garden. Until the next morning, when Mrs. Bobbit opened the door to the garden to have a morning cookie in peace amongst the flowers.

The rabbit was waiting.

“Shoo,” Mrs. Bobbit shrieked. “You are not a pet rabbit.”

The rabbit had quite some nerve. Because it cocked its tiny rabbit head, and hopped away from Mrs. Bobbit to resume a post by the door. This occurred for four consecutive mornings before Mrs. Bobbit gave in, and let Beatrix keep the non-pet rabbit named Penny inside. The cage and rabbit food and rabbit toys had appeared instantly after Penny’s move.

“Jack, do you have her smiley carrot toy?” Mrs. Bobbit heard herself shout at Mr. Bobbit. It was, after all, Penny’s favorite toy.

“Of course I do,” Mr. Bobbit grumbled. But he was working to hold the cage especially steady, lest poor Penny get ill from all that motion.

At this point, Mrs. Bobbit had turned the broomstick around and was using it to fan her face which was beginning to perspire in the sun. Beatrix appeared then, dressed in a black velvet shirt with black velvet leggings.

Her cheeks remained white despite the heat, even with her long black hair hanging down her back. With a grin, she plucked the witch hat from Mrs. Bobbit’s head and slid into the backseat of the small red car.

Penny was at once freed from her cage, and sitting in Beatrix’s lap. Mrs. Bobbit checked her watch, quite missing the shade from the witch hat. Not a moment later, their youngest daughter, Sybil, came bounding out the front door in a tutu with a pink ribbon trailing in her wake.

“Scoot over, Bea! We’re going to camp,” Sybil squeezed Mrs. Bobbit’s hand as she joined her sister in the car. What a pair they made. The ballerina and the wannabe witch.

Mrs. Bobbit sighed, and attempted to place the broomstick in the trunk.

“Judy! NO. I had everything measured just so,” Mr. Bobbit’s brow was furrowed in concentration and perspiration.

“Sorry!” Mrs. Bobbit held her hands up, and joined her daughters in the car.

“...and there’s a ginormous foam pit for learning to fly on your broomstick so when you fall -- which you probably will -- it won’t hurt,” Beatrix was saying to an enraptured Sybil.

“Beatrix, dear, will you be suspended from some sort of rope over the foam pit?”

“No, of course not. I’ll be flying on my broom,” Beatrix answered as if Mrs. Bobbit had just asked her what color the red car was.

“You know, of course, that you can’t really fly on your broomstick, right?”

Both girls shrugged, and continued discussing the broomstick training and the giant foam pit. By the time they’d moved on to spells for transforming vegetables into cookies, Mr. Bobbit opened the door and grunted into the driver’s seat.

Mr. Bobbit pulled a rumpled piece of lined yellow paper from his shirt pocket, and the entire car moaned.

“Now, now. What’s this? I’m just double checking--”

“For the zillionth time!” Beatrix said.

“For the zillionth time times ten,” Sybil said with a laugh.

Mr. Bobbit turned to Mrs. Bobbit then, perhaps looking for an ally in the wrong place, as she responded, “What the girls said, Jack. Dear.”

“I was just going to say, we’ll drop Beatrix at *cough* camp first. Then, Sybil at her dance camp after. Is everyone buckled up?”

“Which camp am I going to, Dad?” Beatrix asked with a smirk.

“Which?” Mr. Bobbit asked.

“WITCH, you said it!”

“Damn,” Mr. Bobbit grunted. This was not the first time he had fallen for this particular joke. Mrs. Bobbit tried her hardest not to smile.

Then, they were off, spluttering along winding roads through the green countryside. Sybil chatted animatedly the whole ride with the sun shining in her blonde hair.

“It’s gonna be so awesome when you can fly and I can finally do ten pirouettes in a row without feeling sick!” Sybil exclaimed, then, “Eeeeee we’re almost there, Bea! Look, look ahead.”

Sure enough, out of nowhere, the lush countryside had given way to a rather menacing looking forest. Mr. Bobbit slowed the car and peered at the weather-worn wooden sign for: Witch Camp, two hundred and seventy-seven toad stools away.

“Of course,” he muttered, and the car spluttered forward into the trees.

“How long is a toadstool?” Mrs. Bobbit wondered aloud.

Exactly two hundred and seventy-seven toad stools later, they arrived at a large, dilapidated red barn. The paint was peeling which irked Mrs. Bobbit more than the plethora of children in witch hats.

“Could they not teach the witches to paint?” Mrs. Bobbit asked.

But the backseat door was already opening. Beatrix had maneuvered out with Penny tucked against her chest. Sybil slid out after them, looking around wide-eyed.

“Don’t open the trunk! I have everything just so. Wait just a moment,” Mr. Bobbit barked as he too maneuvered out of the car, with a lot less grace than his two daughters.

Mrs. Bobbit sighed and checked the backseat. Sure enough, the smiling carrot toy was lying abandoned on the floor. She retrieved it and went to join her family outside.

Beatrix was miraculously balancing the black cage and cauldron and large trunk and broomstick with ease. Mr. Bobbit was examining her to work out her trick, but scratched his head and shrugged when he couldn’t find one.

“Now, don’t forget to write. Weekly, please, Beatrix, dear,” Mrs. Bobbit said with a cough. Her eyes prickled.

“I’ll send weekly owls,” Beatrix replied.

“Fine,” Mrs. Bobbit sighed. She attempted to hug Beatrix then, who somehow freed her arms to return the hug. Her pile of belongings didn’t move.

“Don’t forget Penny’s carrot,” Mr. Bobbit had snatched the smiley carrot from Mrs. Bobbit, and was wedging it into the cage.

“Bye, Bea! Have fun flying and using spells,” Sybil whispered.

“I’ll see you all in a month,” Beatrix exclaimed before she disappeared in a purple cloud.

“What--where--?” Mr. Bobbit scratched his head and looked at Mrs. Bobbit and Sybil.

“At least we know she’s at the right camp,” Sybil smiled, and hopped back to the car.