By Josh Lanyon
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Extra info for A Limited Engagement
Not that she didn’t believe in magic—that was the main thing she believed in. She just didn’t think that Vixanne needed a spell. It was only Max, being weak, being hurt. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was just being weak and hurt again. But still, he couldn’t stop himself. He rode up the circular driveway and parked the bike. She was waiting for him at the door, her long body silhouetted darkly against the light of the front room. She led him inside. Her paintings were everywhere. Witch Baby had told him about them.
No one was there except the woman in the black bikini and her son. They were splashing around, giggling uncontrollably. The woman had green eyes and the reddest hair Weetzie had ever seen. Her son kept reaching up to tug on it. He had a sweet, impish face and a very small, fragile-looking body. Weetzie remembered how happy she had been when her children were that age. She called them her little vampires, sucking her dry, and she was almost always tired, but there was something wonderful about being needed that much.
Finding your family and holding hands with them and flying off into pink skies, touching down in the dark world and then joining hands and flying off again. Only people who find their true families can survive, the songs said. By the end of the show, Weetzie had cried so many tears into her ginger ale that it tasted of quinine. She stayed sitting at her table, unable to move. Her legs were weak and her chest was still thudding under the satin. She felt as if her heart might fall out and roll away if she stood up too quickly.