CHAPTER ONE

I don’t trust babies. Who are they, anyway? That’s the problem, you don’t know. That new little sister, the one currently curled up and drooling all over your mom?

She could be a serial killer.

Your little brother, the one ripping your dad’s hair out while he balances him on his shoulders?

Potential arsonist.

Hitler was a baby once. So was Genghis Khan. Voldemort. My neighbor Carl. As far as I’m concerned, babies are evil until proven innocent. They’re also incredibly disgusting. And it is my life’s greatest tragedy that the most evil, most disgusting baby of all is sitting next to me in this backseat.

When Josie was born, there was a great disturbance in the force. Before the doctor pulled her screaming, goopy body out of my poor mother, life was great. Movie nights, board games, every craft ever crafted—Mom, Dad, and I lived it up. Weekends were for adventures, Labor Day was for Dragon Con, and Sundays, we always, always ordered pizza. But then Darth Josie showed up and destroyed it all.

Instead of movies, only the same three episodes of Sesame Street. Painting is limited to red, blue, and yellow and lasts a maximum of 45 seconds before something’s uncleanably ruined. Weekend adventures are harrowing trips to the grocery store or, if Mom and Dad get more than four hours of sleep, the aquarium for the twentieth time this year. Even Pizza Sabbath, the holiest of Dillard family traditions, has been ruined. If Josie so much as looks at cheese, she turns into a red, rashy banshee, so now we’re basically vegans. Meat-eating vegans, but still! 

And the veganism’s not even the worst part. 

Josie’s red-brown eyes are burrowing into my neck right now, like she’s reading my thoughts. Though I don’t want to, her powers compel me, and my head turns slowly towards her car seat where she sits clutching that thing.

The thing they call Mr. Fluffy-Butt.

The gruesome teddy bear stares at me with his one black eye, the other one buttonless and mended with a stitched-up X. Above him, Darth Josie smiles around the nozzle of her broccoli puree pouch, baring six little teeth as crooked and green as tombstones in a graveyard. I shudder despite the cozy heat Dad’s Prius is pumping out.

“What do you want?” I whisper so Mom and Dad don’t hear. They haven’t latched onto the fact their youngest child is a dark wizard.

“Rawwr!”

A green splatter of broccoli slobber freckles my face, and Josie rears back and cackles. She perfected her villain laugh at four months old, and I’ve been hearing it ever since. I retreat to my corner of the backseat and wipe off the puree, which smells the same coming out of the pouch as it does from Josie’s butt. I sigh and lean against the window. It’s Christmas Eve-Eve. I should be marathoning Star Wars movies with Mom while building the Lego manger-mansion sweet baby Jesus deserves, I’m talking gilded beams, vaulted ceilings, indoor plumbing for the cows, open concept living at its finest. Instead, I’m stuck in this backseat while Josie defiles a room temperature pouch of liquid fart on the way to do more Christmas shopping.

A small grunt rumbles from her belly, and the smell hits like an atomic bomb. Mom and Dad chatter happily away in the front seat. As the proud, loving parents of a fourteen-month-old psychopath, they’re desensitized to stink. I slap the window control like a maniac.

“Mom, the window won’t work!” A thick butt-fog billows from Josie’s car seat while she giggles like a deranged clown. “Help, I’m dying of pollution!” Mom pokes around her door controls, like the life of her forgotten eldest child doesn’t depend on fresh oxygen.

“Wil, hold on a second, the child-lock is engaged.” Of course they disabled the windows. Thanks to Josie, I’m an eleven-year-old man trapped in a baby-proofed life.

Mom sniffs the air. “Ooh, maybe that means she’s finally pooped.” Mom and Dad exchange an excited glance, like the absolute weirdoes they’ve become.

“Mom!” I croak. Darth Josie’s mind-choking me, but with baby farts. I don’t have long to live.

The window finally peels down, and the chilly December air of Atlanta swirls through the car. I take a deep breath in before Mom powers it back up.

“Too much exhaust,” she says. “It’s bad for Josie.”

“So it’s okay for my nose to shrivel up and fall off from fart trauma?”

Dad takes a deep breath as he turns into the overflowing madness of Target’s parking lot. “Cheer up, bud. Maybe Santa will bring you a nice, new nose if you’re helpful today.”

Mom peers through the space between the front seats and smiles. “Or maybe that fancy glue gun you want.”

My heart jumps involuntarily. “The Devil’s Torch 3000? With long-lasting battery-pack life for serious crafters??”

Mom’s eyebrows wag. “Santa loves a good big brother.”

It’s a clear bribe, which means the package I’d been shaking all week isn’t the crafting world’s most respected glue tool. “I thought Santa would be done with Christmas shopping already.”

Mom’s shoulders go stiff. “Maybe Santa’s really tired, okay? Maybe Santa hasn’t slept a lot lately.” Her cheery voice has a thin, sharp edge to it. 

Dad pats her arm like it’s my fault when we all know it’s Josie’s. Her soft brown pigtails jut from her head like devil horns, and she cackles again as she throws the empty pouch across the backseat.

I can’t get out of this car fast enough. We dart strategically through the parking-lot-turned-obstacle-course towards the store.

“Who’re we shopping for, anyway?” I snag the last red shopping cart and power it through the automatic doors.

“Your cousins, weird Uncle Guy, and that lady your mom doesn’t like at work.”

Valerie. “Secret Santa bit you again, huh?”

Mom grimaces. “Three years running. Plus you need to pick out something for Carl.”

The cart careens forward into the crowds without me. “What! Why?”

Dad chases after it and tries to lower Josie into the seat. Three screams later, he gives up and lets her stand in the cart itself.

“Because he’s coming over today.” Mom angles the cart carefully through the shopper mob, with Josie lording over its prow like a tyrannical pirate captain.

“NO!” Josie shouts, her favorite word because of course it is.

“We talked about this, Mom. You can’t plan play dates with my arch nemesis.” My face is as red as the shopping cart. “I’m eleven, for Yoda’s sake.”

“NO!” Josie yells at a pregnant woman, who guiltily drops an armful of frou-frou baby outfits.

“He’s your neighbor, not your arch nemesis.” Mom smiles apologetically at the woman and helps her pick up the baby clothes before swinging down the gift wrap aisle. Employees stock the shelves as fast as frenzied parents raid them. “You’ve been friends since you were Josie’s age.” Mom starts throwing paper and bows into the cart indiscriminately. While her back is turned, Josie jabs a stocker right in the butt.

“Hey now!” The stocker winks at Mom, then Dad. “Merry Christmas to you, too.” He drags the words out so long, we’re all uncomfortable.

Dad grabs five rolls of paper and wheels the cart quickly in the other direction.

“Exactly.” I gesture at Josie gunning for another jab at the stocker’s butt. “Does it look like Josie is capable of making good decisions?”

“NO!” Josie yells.

Maybe Carl and I were friends once, but now he’s constantly playing video games on whatever handheld device is most expensive that year and has the personality of a Lego jammed firmly between your toes. He never wants to make anything, or build anything, or do anything I like to do. He doesn’t even listen to me. It wouldn’t bother me so much, I mean, it doesn’t bother me at all, but I’d rather not be forced to hang out with a kid who thinks everything I love is stupid. Why doesn’t Mom get that?

“He’s worse than Valerie, Mom. Honest.”

Mom laughs at that. “Nobody’s worse than Valerie, honey.”

“Why don’t you take Carl down to the basement and jam?” Dad looks over his shoulder like the stocker might follow us. “He plays drums, right? Your sweet axe is getting dusty down there.”

“It’s a guitar, Dad. You can’t call it a sweet axe when all I can play is She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.”

“Music brings people together, Wil. It’s magic that way. And besides, that song slaps.”

“Dad. I don’t wanna jam with him, he—”

“Just pick something out for him.” Mom presses a hand against her forehead.

 Hates me, I want to say, but I know this place is stressing her out. I don’t want to make it worse by complaining.

Mom breathes in deep like she’s at yoga instead of this asylum of last minute shoppers. “I’m going to shop on my own—it’ll be faster that way. Can you two handle Josie for a bit?”

“Sure, babe.” Dad slings an arm around my shoulder and gives her a smooth grin. “Your dudes have it covered.”

As soon as Mom disappears, his smile slips away. “Okay, between you and me, this dude does not have it covered. I need to find something for your mom, pay for it, and run it out to the car before she gets back. Can you watch Josie for five minutes?”

I gasp in legit horror. Not only because come on, he hasn’t bought Mom anything by Christmas Eve-Eve? But also at being left alone with Josie, public butt-toucher #1 and villain-in-training, in this madhouse Target.

“NO!” Josie yells. For once, the siblings Dillard agree.

“Three minutes?” He eyes our surroundings like a wild animal. “Be a good big brother. Santa remembers.” He taps his temple, and my stomach drops. To get the Devil’s Torch 3000, I’d have to watch the Devil herself.

“Ugh, fine, but the clock is ticking!” I yell to his already turned back as he quarterbacks through the crowds.

Josie and I face each other as I wheel her cautiously toward the crafts section. Her round eyes narrow above her big, sloppy grin.

I grip the handle of the cart. I know that grin. It usually comes right before she does something evil.

“Be good, Josie,” I squeak out.

“No,” she whispers, and the hairs on my arms prickle. Mr. Fluffy-Butt’s eye gleams at me, and the lights flicker and spit. Did Josie do that? I let go of the cart’s handlebar and nudge it forward with my foot.

Mom and Dad think it’s jealousy, that I’m an only child who can’t adapt to a new sibling. But Josie is legit terrifying. I’m onto her evil ways, and she knows it. That’s why she’s determined to destroy me.

Josie stares at me from the bottom of the cart, evil eyes locked on mine. In the dark craft section, they almost glow red. A loud pffffurgh bugles from her butt, barely muffled by her diaper. She cackles.

I fling a hand to cover my nose. “Don’t you go poopie right now, Josie! I won’t change you!”

She raises one eyebrow, daring me. The cart screeches to a halt in front of the needlepoint.

“Stay. There.” I retreat towards the shelves. Kittens, balloons, wolves howling at the moon, all your basic cross-stitch kits for newbies stare back at me. I haven’t needed a how-to kit since kindergarten, but Carl doesn’t know embroidery thread from yarn.

I snort and pick up the epic wolf kit, even though that cat fart doesn’t deserve it. If I have to give him a gift, might as well give him something he’ll hate. Maybe he’ll leave it at our house, and I’ll end up with it. What kind of cool extras will I add? Silver thread for its wolf teeth, a hot pink Mohawk? Maybe a cowboy hat, maybe antennae. Storm Trooper wolf? Why not!

I turn to throw the kit in the cart. Dad’s three minutes are up, and if we leave soon, Mom and I could still get through most of the Star Wars movies—

The wolf kit tumbles from my fingers onto the floor, its full moon rising. 

The cart is empty.

“Josie? Josie?!”

#

Where is she?!

The aisle is empty. I lurch up and down the aisles, my ears straining for Josie’s signature scream, but there’s nothing but holiday jingles and my cart’s squealing tires and no sign of her. What if she’s lost? What if Mom and Dad find out? What if someone took her, kidnapped her, carried her off—

Nah. Nobody would take a baby that evil. But still, I can’t lose Josie, especially not on Christmas Eve-Eve. An ear-clawing screech sounds from three aisles away.

The toy section, of course!

I round the corner, but a grizzled grey biker man with a leather vest and a long ponytail stands between me and the screaming. Ugly black tattoos scissor up his thick arms. He reaches for something on the shelf, but it’s no doll.

There, on the third rack, is Josie. She’s hunched up like a gargoyle amidst a display of blushing baby dolls. I’m not even surprised. She climbs like a spider.

“Hey there, little lady. How’d you get up there?” This biker is clearly some other baby’s Paw-Paw, but he’s in way over his head with Josie. I cringe as he unknowingly commits her most hated crime: he, a stranger, picks her up.

“RAWWWWWR!” Josie’s tiny fists slam Mr. Fluffy-Butt down on the biker’s balding, perma-burnt head.

“Ow! Ow! STOP tha-OW!” Biker Paw drops Josie back on the shelf and hollers for someone named Rhonda. Josie slithers through the rack’s toys like a snake. I leap after her, but a woman in spikes grabs my collar.

“Hey, son!” Biker Grandma thumbs over to Biker Paw’s purpling eye. “Yer baby done blinded Big Frankie here!”

A throng of bikers puff up behind Grandma, all leather, meanness, and hard, staring eyes, but the effect is lost since they’re clutching an assortment of this season’s hottest toys. I don’t know what they want me to say. Sorry my evil baby sister maimed you for life, please take it up with her master Satan?

Something loud crashes from the next section over, followed by gasps. Grandma drags me with her to see, and all the blood leaves my face.

A lady mannequin wearing striped pajamas lays sprawled on the floor. Josie mounts her like a steed.

“Mok!” Josie roars, her special word for milk, and tears the mannequin’s shirt open.

“Oh, no!” My face burns with hot red mortification. Mom has beat it into my head that breastfeeding is magic and beautiful or whatever, but until your evil baby sister attacks a mannequin’s bare chest like a vampire, you can’t understand what I’m going through.

“Good lord,” Biker Grandma’s grip goes lax as Josie releases a furious grunt, her hungry mouth searching for a nipple the mannequin factory hadn’t bothered to create. “That baby is straight chewin’ that mannequin’s titty!”

“JOSIE!” I wrench free. “Stay there!”

“Mok!” Josie yells again, this time in disgust, and kicks the poor mannequin right in her milk-less boob. She sees me coming, then scurries down the center aisle of Target. Amused shoppers stop to smile at her, like she’s being cute.

“Stop that baby!” I jump over the downed mannequin like an Olympian clearing a hurdle. But unlike an Olympian, my foot catches on its outstretched arm, and I go down on my belly, hard.

“Josie,” I wheeze, arm outstretched, but I yank it back before a bright red miniature car runs it over. A horn honks loudly as Josie whizzes by, slamming her hand down on all its buttons and rawr’ing with delight. Mr. Fluffy-Butt’s buckled up beside her, and they speed away grand-theft-auto-style from the center toy display they just robbed.

I hobble after them.

“Is that your sister, man?” a teen working electronics says, his walkie talkie dangling limply by his mouth.

“No,” I say, certainty ringing through my bones. “She’s something much worse than that.”

“Confirmed, rogue baby heading towards the Christmas village display,” a tinny voice blurps through the walkie talkie. “Considered dangerous and highly irrational.”

That’s our Josie. 

The Christmas village display is gigantic. I arrive at its peppermint stick gates in time to see Josie crash the car into the side of a manger, then tumble from the wreckage. It’s a yard Nativity scene, complete with Mary, Joseph, three wise men, some sheep, a cow, and a—

“Sweet BABY Jesus!” an old man sings in horror. Josie shoves the three wise men out of the way and clambers over to Jesus’s little bassinet.

“MINE!” Josie announces to the plastic Son of God. A second later, Jesus sails by my head, and Josie and Mr. Fluffy-Butt take his place in the bassinet.

Crowds gape and raise their phones to film what’s surely the nation’s next viral video. Meanwhile, Josie’s rocking back and forth in the bassinet, cackling and throwing hay like confetti.

I skid to a stop in front of her. Our eyes meet. Her grin grows vicious, and my blood turns cold.

“Josie, I’m going to pick you up now.” I edge towards her. I’ve never actually picked her up before—I haven’t even held her. I’ve flatly refused since the day she was born, but I don’t have a choice now.

The rocking slows, and I lunge.

“NO!” she screeches. We struggle against each other, me trying to pick her up, her trying to kick me in the teeth.

She wins.

I crash backwards onto my butt, blood filling my mouth. Tears spring to my eyes. I’d hide in the manger myself if this wasn’t gonna be on Good Morning America tomorrow.

“What in the world—JOSIE?” Mom pushes through crowds, Dad right behind her. “WIL!”

I scramble up, but Mom and Dad push past me to Josie, like always. She’s abandoned the bassinet for the big pre-lit tree in the village’s center. With the biggest grin I’ve ever seen, Josie pulls up her red dress, rips off her diaper, and squats.

“NO, JOSIE! NO!” Mom yells, but the plop silences us all. I stand there, a broken man, and watch as Dad tries to scoop up Josie’s Christmas present to the world with a grill brush scored from Aisle Four.

I hope that’s not what he got Mom.

Red-faced and furious, he mouths at me: How could you? Mom grabs Josie bare-butted and spirits her through the cell phone mob, without a passing glance at me or my bleeding face.

An escort of Target employees stand waiting to make us pay for probably half of this ruined store. The evil baby’s red-brown eyes glint with victory as I shuffle after them. 

You win, Josie. You win.

For more information, go to Find Moi and drop me an email.