Read Witcha'be Online

Authors: Anna Marie Kittrell



Anna Marie Kittrell



Copyright 2013 Anna Marie Kittrell


Cover Art by Joan Alley

Editing by Jacqueline Hopper

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means without the permission of Prism Book Group. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Prism Book Group

ISBN 13- 978-1-940099-29-3 ISBN 10 1940099293

 First Edition 2013

Published in the United States of America

Contact info:
[email protected]































The publication of this book is a dream come true. With my whole heart, I thank Tianne Quoetone, Dana Morris, Sandy Harris, and Michael Fourman for their tireless critiquing of this story and their continued support. I also extend my supreme gratitude to my extraordinary editor, Jacqueline Hopper, for believing in Witcha’be. I’m still pinching myself. –Anna



Mrs. Timble’s gaze snapped from her paper-strewn desktop as giggles peppered the freshman algebra classroom. I always got the hiccups when I was scared.

“Way to go, Molly,” Kit Benson blurted from the back.

Bianca rolled her black-lined eyes, breaking the stare she’d fastened on me. She tossed her red hair over her shoulder, and then ran her hands over her black top, smoothing the lace.

Relief washed over me. Lenni said Bianca couldn’t read minds without making eye contact. I guess if she
read my mind, she’d know I’d never intended to intrude on the friendship she shared with Lenni. Then again, she’d also find out about my grasshopper phobia and I might end up with a lunch tray full of them. I shuddered.

The bell sounded. Mrs. Timble raised her pen, waiting out the long ring. “Chapter eight over the weekend. Zero credit for late work.” She lowered her gray eyes, along with her red pen, and continued her assault on a worksheet. I hoped it wasn’t mine.

I scribbled an eight on the back of my hand and hurried from the room. The click of Bianca’s boots against the floor gained steadily on the slap of my flip-flops. Heart pounding, I swung full speed into the main hallway and rammed into mountainous Jake Hughes, knocking his Band-Aid-covered notebook from his gigantic hands.

“Sorry, Jake.” I knelt and pinched the corner of the notebook, not wanting to touch it.

“They’re not used.” Jake slid the disgusting spiral from my fingers and lumbered down the hallway.

Something pricked my scalp. “Ouch!” I stood and whirled. Bianca held one of my hairs between her fingers. She shot a cold glance at me, chilling my blood. She was going to put a curse on me.


I walked to my locker, rubbing my head. Lenni fiddled with the combination.

“Hi, Molly. How was Timble’s class?”


“That bad?” She spun the numbers. “I can’t get our locker open.”

I cleared the lock and started over, hitting the combination first time.

“Cool.” She crammed her books into my organized locker and slammed the door. “Oops.” She winced, glancing at the stack in the crook of my arm.

“It’s okay.” I twirled the lock, shrugged at the jumbled books and tossed mine on top.

“What’s the eight on your hand for?” she asked as I shut the locker.

I’d forgotten my algebra book. “Chapter eight.” Grinding my teeth, I spun the dial.

We ran down the hall, hitting the double-glass doors in time to see our bus pull away from the curb.

It was a long walk home. I kicked a rock with my flip-flop as Lenni chattered on. I didn’t feel much like talking.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Bianca.” I concentrated on not hiccupping.

“Bianca? Did you see her outfit? She designs all her own stuff. Buys clothes at thrift shops, rips them up and attaches old jewelry and scarves. I could never pull off that black-lace look she wore today, but with her red hair and ivory skin, she rocked it.” Lenni batted her lashes, her admiration of Bianca annoyingly obvious.

I looked away.

“Oh, and you look hot today, too. That beige color really goes well with your dark hair.”

“Thanks.” My favorite t-shirt felt suddenly uncomfortable. I tugged at it.

“Um, my aunt Jodi works at the makeup counter in the mall. I could schedule a makeover for you—I mean for us—if you’d like. It’d be fun, don’t you think?” she stammered.

“Makeover?” I stopped walking. “Am I hideous or something?”

“Of course not. I just thought if you were threatened by Bianca’s looks, a makeover might make you feel better. They do it on TV all the time. Sometimes I don’t even recognize those mousy girls when the stylists finish with them.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Not that
are mousy.”

“I’m not threatened by Bianca’s
. I’m threatened by Bianca.” I strode ahead.

She jogged to catch up. “What do you mean? Bianca likes you.” Lenni reminded me of an animated Barbie. Shiny, blonde hair, bright smile, turned up nose, light-blue eyes focused on a perfect, plastic world.

“Bianca does not like me. She only pretends to when you’re around. She stares me down with those witchy eyes every day. And I’m pretty sure she plucked a hair out of my head.” I halted, looking Lenni square in her starry eyes. “I think she’s going to put a curse on me.”

“You can’t be serious.” She laughed.

I guess my fears were a little bit silly. Maybe even ridiculous. A grin found its way to my lips.

“She can’t put a curse on you.” She placed her French-manicured fingers on my shoulders and fixed her eyes to mine. “Bianca is just a

A frown chased the grin from my face. I broke free and resumed my stride. “What is a witcha’be?”

“A witcha’be is sort of like a wannabe witch. The most she can do is levitate small objects and read minds. She read Mrs. Timble’s once.
lady’s got problems.”

“Witcha’be. Wanna
witch. Clever.”

“It’ll be years before she graduates to full-blown witch. Then she’ll be able to place curses and cast spells.”

“So, how does a person become a witcha’be? Is there criteria?”

Lenni stared blankly.

“Are there requirements?” I rephrased the question.

“Only two. A person must be in the direct bloodline of a full-blown witch. Bianca is the daughter of one. Her mother lives in the mountains somewhere in New Mexico. Or maybe in the canyons. Anyway, she made the transition from witcha’be to full-blown witch when Bianca was six, and then moved away. Bianca will be allowed to join her when her own transition is complete.”

“What’s the second requirement?”

“The person must choose to be a witcha’be. Witches are all about freedom of choice.” She stopped walking. “Well, you’re home.”

I stared up at my tall, gray house.

“I like your
.” Lenni pointed to the red flower box beneath the second story window.

“What did you say?”

“Wutchamacallits. I don’t know what they’re called.” She squinted at the yellow flowers.

“They’re daisies.” I shook my head to erase what I thought I’d heard.

“They’re pretty. You’re still sleeping over tomorrow night, right?”

“Yep, wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great. Come before six. I have a surprise for you.” She gave me a too-tight hug. “I’d better get home and clean my room or Dad might change our plans.”

She rounded the corner and I dropped my smile, dragging my feet up the front steps. Boo, my Chihuahua, met me at the door.

“Hey, Boo.” I tossed the algebra book on the couch, picked up the tiny dog and kissed his head. “Where’s Mom?” I set him down and followed him into the laundry room where my mother stood behind her ironing board.

“Hey, Molly Lou.”

“If you like Molly Lou so much, why’d you name me Molly Marie?”

“Apparently, I should’ve named you Molly Smart Mouth.” She grinned, releasing steam from the iron. “How was your day, Molly
? You’re a little late getting home.”

“We missed the bus and had to walk again.” I examined my dust-covered toenails.

“Maybe we’ll find a second car soon. Then I can take you to school and pick you up,” she said, the crease in Dad’s pants sharp enough to slice bread.

“That’d be cool. What did you do today? Iron everything that stood still?” I picked up Boo, checking for pleats.

“Funny. I’ve just been catching up around the house and piddling in the yard.”

“Dare I ask what

“Working, but not too hard. More like playing.”

“Sounds like something you should do in the bathroom.”

Mom chuckled.

“Are you still cool with me spending tomorrow night at Lenni’s?”

“Fine with me. Double check with Dad when he gets home.”

“Okay. Going up to my room.” I grabbed my algebra book and climbed the stairs. I belly flopped onto my bed, feeling safe for the first time all day.

I unfastened my cross necklace, a gift from Lenni, and admired the way the light bounced off it. I placed it on the nightstand, my head whirling from the strange conversation we’d had after school.
? All that witch-and-spell talk was plain crazy. She had me worked up over nothing. I wasn’t sure I even believed in that stuff. I’d never really thought about it. Until Bianca. I sighed and muddled through Mrs. Timble’s assignment.

A tap on the door broke my concentration. “Come in, Dad.” I rubbed my eyes then glanced at the clock. I’d worked for two whole hours.

“How did you know it was me?” Dad asked, opening the door.

“You have a tap, not a knock,” I explained, reaching up to return his hug.

“How’s your foreign language homework coming?” He held my book upside down.

“It’s algebra.”

“It’s Greek to me.” He frowned and handed the book back. “Time for dinner. Mom made liver and onions.”

I jabbed my finger to the back of my throat.

“Only kidding,” he said as we walked down the wooden staircase.

“Can I stay at Lenni’s tomorrow night?”

“Is she allowed to have boys over?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your boss?”

He chuckled. Lenni’s father was his boss, owner of Flemming Accounting. “You can stay.”

I sniffed the garlic-scented air. “Lasagna?” I asked.

“Spaghetti. The cheesy kind she puts in the oven.”

My mouth watered.

* * *

“Madeline, dinner was amazing.”

“You always say that.” Mom rose from the table to collect the dishes.

“It’s always true.” Dad caught her hand as she reached for his plate.

“You said the hotdogs and French fries were amazing last night.”

“You’re amazing. Therefore everything you create is amazing.” He trailed kisses up her arm.

“Geez, you guys.” I duplicated my liver and onions gag while gathering the remaining dishes.

“Did you clear tomorrow’s overnight plans with your dad?” Mom asked, stepping into the kitchen.

“Yeah, he said it was fine as long as no boys were invited.” I rolled my eyes and rinsed the silverware.

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