By Laura Schiller

Based on: The Weetzie Bat series

Copyright: Francesca Lia Block; song performed by Elton John.

Here comes the night,

here come the memories:

lost in your arms

down in the foreign fields.

Not so long ago –

seems like eternity –

those sweet afternoons

still follow me...

Witch Baby's room was full of Angel Juan.

It wasn't just the photographs, although they plastered the walls. Mostly all they showed was a blur anyway, a dark head and baggy clothes, a cloud of fingers strumming a base guitar too quickly for the camera to catch. It wasn't just the lace doilies and wooden picture frames made by his parents or the tapes of the Goat Guys stacked precariously on the floor. It was the memories that haunted the room so Witch Baby couldn't sleep. The moon, half-full, stared forlornly through her half-open window with its left side missing. How many times had Witch Baby and Angel Juan cuddled up together under these purple sheets, looking up at that same moon?

Now he was gone. Off to discover himself. How much time would that take anyway? How much longer would she have to look at the moon alone?

Someday, out of the blue,

in a crowded street

or a deserted square

I'll turn and I'll see you –

as if our love were new.

Someday we can

start again,

someday soon.

Angel Juan looked down at the multicolored, twinkling lights of New York, spread beneath him like some mysterious code map. He was standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, but instead of assisting clarity, seeing everything from so high up only made him nervous.

Tourists swarmed around him – black, white, Middle Eastern, Latino – parents and children, brothers and sisters, friends laughing together in little knots, lovers holding hands. He was the only one completely alone. Wasn't this what he had wanted?

I still believe...

I still put faith in us.

We had it all –

and watched it slip away.

Where are we now?

Not where we want to be!

Those hot afternoons

still capture me...

All his life, Angel Juan felt he had been overshadowed - by his rambunctious siblings, his artistic parents, his glamorous, outgoing friends and band members. Even his girlfriend. He was Mr. Witch Baby, her model, her muse, the angel she looked up to. His face and personality defined, analyzed, idealized by her in photographs and songs. Much as he loved her, it drove him crazy. He wanted some time by himself, to see if he could still shine without the glow of others to reflect. He wanted to learn to compose his own songs.

But he missed her. It was incredible how much he missed her, like an amputated arm or leg. Her jacaranda-blossom eyes, her ferocious drum playing, the way her fragile body felt next to his. She made him want to look after her, untangle her wild hair, listen to her talk in her sleep. She was the only person he knew who really needed him – which could be comforting or frightening, depending on his mood. He worried that it wasn't right for her to depend on him this much. He was just a flawed human being – how could he be responsible for someone else's happiness?

Someday, out of the blue,

maybe years from now

or tomorrow night,

I'll turn and I'll see you –

as if we always knew –

someday we would

live again,

someday soon!

He wanted to be worthy of her. That was it. To prove that he could step out into the world and meet it head-on, to grow and stretch himself so that the next time he saw her, he would be a man. Secure in himself, so that when she looked at him in that trusting way, he could meet her eyes and not feel ashamed.

I still believe, I still put faith in us!

That night Witch Baby had a dream. She dreamed she was roller-skating down a sunny, unfamiliar street, lined with sidewalk cafés, little shops and art galleries. She photographed everything she saw: a white cup of tea against a red tablecloth, a mannequin in a glittering yellow dress, a fluffy white dog peeking out of a Louis Vuitton bag. She was content, but a little anxious, as if she were looking for something.

Suddenly someone tapped her on the shoulder. She almost fell off her skates with shock. She turned herself around carefully. There he was.

Angel Juan with his guitar slung across his back and new shadows in his face, making him look older and more defined, more 'in focus' somehow. His panther-black hair was longer and his caramel-colored skin had acquired a new tan, but his warm, eye-twinkling smile was the same. He held out his arms to her without saying a word, just as on their first meeting, and she skated right into them.

Witch Baby woke up smiling.

Someday soon.