“Hilda, come here sweet, I won’t hurt you dear I’m your mother silly little thing,” Mrs. Grant coaxed exasperatedly. Instead of an obediently immediate response, Hilda began sucking on her toy wand for entertainment in the boring world she was currently occupying. Hilda ran her wet, unblemished hands through her soft, shiny chocolate hair. She stared expectantly at her stepmother, as if the tall woman she saw through her forest green eyes would be able to entertain her somehow. “Will you please just choose something already—your father and I have been trying to get you to do so for a half an hour!” Hilda slowly extracted the wand from her mouth, and it was followed by a string of clear saliva that hung for a moment, and then broke onto her shirt so her mother would have to clean it later. “Thank you. Now, please go and find something in the transportation cabinet so we know how you’re going to get around best for the rest of your life?” Hilda looked at her mother like what the hec are you talking about lady I ain’t fully developed so I have absolutely no clue as to what it is you are saying; but she said nothing because, of course, she didn’t know how. So, she thought of a better resolution, and did what she was told instead—to the best of her ability, because, as I said before, she had no clue what was going on.
She followed the direction in which her mother’s finger was pointing and crawled cutely toward the open closet. Once she was inside, she looked around herself with awe. Now, for those of you who don’t know, and I assume that that means just about anyone reading this book seems how I made it all up, when a witch house is built there is always a transportation closet. It’s like having doors in a human house. The transportation cabinet is where the babies go six months after they are born. The parents convince the child to enter, and the child chooses some means of transportation from within the closet (E.G. they’ll retrieve a model airplane or a toy bicycle or something of the sort) and whatever they pick, it’s witch tradition that that will be whatever they are best at for means of transportation—like if they pick a bicycle they’ll be better at riding a bicycle then at driving a car. And it just so happens, that Hilda chose a broom.
She hopped onto it expectantly, And when nothing happened, she impatiently squirmed around, stood up on the hovering object, then it began to move. It wiggled around just as impatiently as she had, and with one large jerk she toppled over and smacked face first into the broom handle. She whimpered in pain, rubbed her bruised face, and, with an impatient harrumph pulled up on the broom handle and cried, “Go!” The broom gave an unexpected jerk and dragged her along with it. She attempted to be a good girl and fly into her mother’s arms, but, being new at the whole flying thing, missed and fazed through the wall instead. “No don’t let my baby die MY BABY!!!!!!!!!! Mrs. Grant cried, shocked to a paralyzed position for at least two consecutive seconds before running through the door and after her child –Tripping over her robe in the process. Once the two were outside, Hilda “conveniently” knew how to steer the broom and jerked it up continually out of her mother’s grasp as Linda jumped at the air, unfruitful. Her spider web - veined hands always fell short.
“Oh Hilda do come down!” But Hilda continued laughing and jerking the broom away. She zoomed toward a bush. “HILDA STOP!!!!!” Apparently this command must have registered in Hilda’s brain because she came to an immediate halt, as if the words had barricaded her. “What mama?” She asked. She turned around to get a face-to-face answer, and unfortunately for Hilda, the brief interlude conferred to her mother the opportunity to snatch the rebellious child and the toy on which she had obtained conveyance. “Ha! Finally —now, come inside with me and we can celebrate our discovery of your transportation object. You probably shouldn’t be flying for a while, though.” She chortled to herself. Snuggling the child to herself she weaved Hilda’s chubby wet fingers through her long wrinkled ones and went inside.
But when they went inside, Mr. Grant was way ahead of them. “Who wants an eggnog cream brownie?” he asked, holding out a glass pan of rich smelling, manila colored brownies in a gelatinous form. The steam of their fresh heat fogged up Mr. Grant’s glasses, and he retrieved a hankie to wipe them. “Gaha!” Hilda cried, grabbing at the brownies with her chubby little fist and harumphing cutely when she couldn’t reach them. “Of course you can have one Hilda,” Mr. Grant chuckled, spoiling her with two. “John if she eats too many it could ruin her appetite,” Mrs. Grant scolded. “Hildie wuv Dada!” Hilda interjected. They both laughed. “Our little baby has a mind of her own!”
