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  The Accidental Witch

  Anne Mazer

  To my grandmother, Jean Fox,

  a great reader, writer, and a killer Scrabble player

  —A. M.

  Contents

  1. BEE FOR SHORT

  2. WITCHES’ POWERS FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

  3. EXPERIMENT ACCIDENT

  4. THE BEAUTIFUL WITCH

  5. MY MAGIC SNAP

  6. INTO THE CIRCLE

  7. ACCIDENTAL WITCH

  8. WITCHMART

  9. BEGINNER’S BROOM

  10. THE IDEAS KIDS GET

  11. JUMP-START YOUR POWERS

  12. IT FOLLOWED ME TO SCHOOL ONE DAY

  13. BUBBLE TROUBLE

  14. MY INCREDIBLE DISAPPEARING MAGIC

  15. MOTHER-DAUGHTER CHAT

  16. ON TOP OF THE WORLD

  17. FLOATING WORDS

  18. PETER DISAPPEARS

  19. POWERS FOR SALE: NO REASONABLE OFFER REFUSED

  20. AN IDEA

  21. THE TAMING OF THE BROOM

  22. MANDY APPLE

  23. COVEN GIRL

  24. ANOTHER ONE

  About the Author

  1

  BEE FOR SHORT

  I’ve wanted to be a witch since I was four years old.

  That was when the witches transformed a rusty, dried-up old park near our house into an oasis for parents and kids.

  One night I saw the witches roosting on the withered trees. In the morning the trees were all in bloom, and in the park there were swings and slides, a fountain, beds of flowers, and a carousel that looked like a circus, a parade, and a wedding cake all at once.

  Since then I’ve always dreamed of being a witch.

  To tell the truth, I’m not exactly witch material.

  I never go near a broom—or even a vacuum cleaner.

  And cats make my eyes puff up.

  My hair isn’t long and black and flowing, either. It’s short and straw colored and sticks up where it should curl or lie flat.

  I once won a spelling bee, but I don’t know anything about spells. Speaking of bees, my name is Phoebe, but I’m called Bee for short. I look something like a bee, except that I never wear yellow. Or black for that matter. Now if I were a witch, I might wear it a little more often.

  It was International Spotlight on Witches Week in our class. We roasted our lunches over a bonfire, adopted a stray black cat, and put on a play about the old dark times when witches were banned.

  Mr. Belkey, our fifth-grade teacher, said, “Without the witches, we’d all dry up like a box of raisins.”

  It had to be true. The witches possessed a special power that kept our world going. Witches put the colors in rainbows, the shine in a cat’s fur, the reflection in mirrors.

  Now we were studying witch lore. On the blackboard, Mr. Belkey had a list of superstitions and sayings about witches:

  Witches and wishes go together.

  A witch at night means luck in the light.

  Stamp on a crack; save a witch’s back.

  “Which of these sayings are true and which are false?” Mr. Belkey asked. He was plump and pink, and round like an egg.

  I flung my hand up and caught Peter Cook on the nose. “Sorry,” I muttered. Peter was so thin and slight he was almost invisible, but somehow I always managed to knock into him.

  “All true, Mr. Belkey!” Mandy said, glancing at the Apples. They gazed back at her adoringly.

  Mandy looked like an ice-cream cone with sprinkles. She was leader of the Apples and she was not sweet.

  “I admire your enthusiasm for the witches, Mandy,” said Mr. Belkey. “But we must introduce the scientific method.” He wiped a dimpled hand across his face. “Class, I want you to test out the ancient sayings. Find out if you stamp on a crack, will you really save a witch’s back?”

  “Of course,” Mandy said.

  “Superstitions such as these have always been taken for granted,” Mr. Belkey said. “Now you have a chance to prove whether they are true or false. Perhaps one of you will make witch history.”

  “I will, Mr. Belkey!” Mandy said.

  “Is she for real?” I asked Jennifer.

  Jennifer shrugged. Lately, she was always hanging around the Apples, Mandy’s band of adoring followers, even though she had been my best friend since preschool. We had shared witch games for years. We used to love to play at witches. We’d wave our hands and pretend to make the sun come out. Or jump off fences, pretending to fly.

  Once, I danced around a tree and chanted some made-up words. Suddenly it began to rain.

  “I made it rain!” I said.

  The rain fell harder and harder. I opened my arms to gather it in. So this was what it felt like to be a witch! After that, even though I never got it to rain again, I wanted to be a witch more than ever.

  “What are you going to do for your witch experiment?” I asked Jennifer on the way home.

  “I don’t know yet,” she said.

  I knew what I was going to do. I had known right away.

  It was something I had read in A Child’s Garden of Witches. “Witch in the mirror, witch and a moon. If you catch them both, you’ll catch a boon!” All I had to do was line up a witch and the moon in a mirror, and I’d catch witches’ powers for twenty-four hours.

  If I caught powers on Sunday night, I could fly into class on Monday and cast a spell or two before math.

  Jennifer would be so thrilled. She would be proud to call me her friend. Maybe she would even forget about Mandy and the Apples.

  As for Mandy and her Apples, they would turn green. And Mr. Belkey would have to give me an A+.

  2

  WITCHES’ POWERS FOR TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

  I sat in front of my open bedroom window with a pocket mirror in my hand and chanted, “Powers, powers, powers for twenty-four hours …”

  It was cool outside, and the moon was full. I was so lucky! According to the book, this was the best time of the month to catch witches’ powers.

  Faraway in the darkening skies, I saw half a dozen witches flying toward our town.

  The witches appeared small, smaller than the witch dolls that lined my room. Just like my dolls, they wore peaked hats and long capes, which billowed out behind them.

  I tightened my grip on the mirror and tilted it so the full moon was reflected directly in its center.

  Now all I needed was a witch to fly across the moon.

  Of course, even then I might not gain any powers. No one I knew had ever done it. And, anyway, it might just be another old witches’ tale, like “To reach a witch, roll in mud.”

  I hoped Mandy would pick that one to test out.

  I hoped my superstition would turn out to be the true one.

  The witches were coming closer. I heard a low hum. It grew to a whir and filled the sky.

  Capes crackled with wind, brooms swept away clouds.

  The lead witch was riding straight for the moon. Her long gray hair streamed in the wind.

  I was going to do it! “Yippee!” I yelled. I jumped from my seat and lunged closer to the window.

  Then it happened. I stumbled over my feet and dropped the mirror.

  The witch flew past the moon.

  The mirror shivered, sighed, and broke into a thousand pieces.

  When my mother came into my room to say good night to me, I was sweeping. Tiny slivers of glass were scattered everywhere—over the floor, under the bed, even in the closet.

  “What broke, Bee?”
>
  “Just a mirror.”

  My mother sighed. “Not the one I gave you for your birthday!”

  “Sorry, Mom. It was an accident.”

  “It always is,” she agreed.

  Disasters follow me. I can’t brush my teeth without spraying toothpaste over my clothes. I can’t pop popcorn without it flying all over the kitchen. I can’t even hand my mom a glass of water without spilling it in her lap. I’m the last one chosen for volleyball because I always drop the ball.

  And the hamster always escapes when it’s my turn to clean his cage.

  Maybe someday I’ll be like my mother. Buttons never fall off her clothes. Dishes don’t drop from her hands. She was even a tennis champion in high school. If I can pick up a racquet without breaking something with it, I count it a good day.

  “What were you doing with the mirror, Bee?” my mother asked. “Though I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “My homework assignment.” I swept glass into the dustpan. “I was trying to catch witches’ powers in the mirror. And I almost caught them, Mom!”

  My mother looked worried. “Bee, trying to catch witches’ powers is serious stuff. You could get hurt.”

  “Mom, someday I want to be a witch.”

  “You, Bee?” My mother shook her head. “Gaining witches’ powers is not easy. You have to go through a long, arduous training. And the witches guard their magic carefully.”

  “But I really want to be a witch.”

  “If just anyone could have magic—then it wouldn’t be magic, would it? Anyway, Bee, I don’t think you could handle it.”

  “I could, Mom! I’m sure I could.”

  “You don’t know anything about it, Bee. You’re too young. Too starry-eyed. You don’t see the reality of what it means to be a witch.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. I leaned on the broom. Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t help dreaming. I could just see myself flying over trees, casting spells, making flowers bloom in the gravel of the schoolyard. And maybe turning Mandy into a plastic apple and giving her to Mr. Belkey on Teachers’ Day.

  “Bee … Bee …” My mother waved her hands in front of my face. “Earth to Bee!”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “You remind me of your father, Bee. Head in the clouds, feet two inches above the ground. He never saw what was in front of his nose.”

  We were both silent for a moment. My father died when I was little; I really don’t remember him at all.

  “Maybe being a witch would help me be more practical, Mom. Think about it. What if the mirror had worked? It almost did.”

  “I’d rather not think about it. You, with witches’ powers? Haven’t you learned yet, Bee? You have to walk before you can fly.”

  My mom gave me one of those long, steady gazes—the kind that made me feel about two years old. “Maybe someday, Bee.” She hugged me. “In ten years or so. It’s a question of maturity, of dedication, of coordination.”

  “Yes, Mom.” Was that all? Dedication I knew I had. Maturity would come someday, maybe a lot sooner than my mother thought. Coordination was the only thing I really lacked, and I could work on that.

  3

  EXPERIMENT ACCIDENT

  “Who will be first to present the results of their experiment?” Mr. Belkey asked on Monday.

  “Me, Mr. Belkey!” Mandy said. She pranced to the head of the class and clasped her hands in front of her.

  “What superstition did you pick, Mandy?”

  “If you see a witch on the end of your bed, your wishes will come true,” Mandy recited.

  The Apples oohed.

  “Did you see one?” Mr. Belkey asked.

  Mandy smiled one of her sickening smiles. “Of course I did, Mr. Belkey. I see witches on the end of my bed all the time. My wishes always come true.”

  The Apples aahed.

  “Yeah, right …,” I muttered to Jennifer.

  “So you believe this superstition is true,” Mr. Belkey said.

  “Absolutely,” Mandy answered.

  “An example, please.”

  “My wish this week,” she announced, “is to be the best student in the school in every way.”

  The Apples applauded.

  Mr. Belkey beamed. “Very good, Mandy. I can tell you are almost there already.”

  “Of course,” Mandy said. “And the witches will make sure I stay there.” She flounced back to her seat.

  “Anyone else?” Mr. Belkey asked. “Jennifer?”

  Jennifer stood up at her desk. “‘Witches’ brew is good for you.’ I drank a whole cup this weekend. The ingredients were one can of soda, one jar of peanut butter, a dribble of vanilla fudge, two rotten bananas, dill, parsley, and pepper.”

  “And? You had a stomachache?”

  “No, my older brother and I raced across the park and I won.”

  “You attribute this to the witches’ brew?” Mr. Belkey said.

  “I’ve never beaten him before.”

  The class murmured in approval. Jennifer sat down.

  I raised my hand.

  “Phoebe? Tell us about your experiment.”

  “I had a mirror. The witches were flying toward the moon. I only had to catch the witch and the moon in my mirror at the same time to gain witches’ powers!”

  “My goodness! And did you gain these powers?”

  “Her?” Mandy sneered. “The only powers she could gain are pip-squeak powers.”

  “I had the moon in the mirror!” I said. “I had a corner of the witch’s skirt in the mirror, too!”

  Peter Cook stared at me.

  “Yes, Phoebe? And then?” Mr. Belkey said.

  “Well … then I stumbled.”

  “Oh, Phoebe,” Jennifer sighed.

  “And I dropped the mirror, and it broke.”

  Mandy and the Apples snickered.

  “A little accident,” I said. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  Though it probably wouldn’t have.

  Mr. Belkey clapped his hands. “I have a surprise for you, class. Tomorrow, a real witch is going to visit us.”

  “Hooray!” I said.

  “Her name is Andelica. She is senior witch of the Fifth Sector, and she’ll be here at exactly two minutes past two. I’ve done a little research, and I found out that a witch’s favorite midafternoon snack is scones and tea.”

  “How wonderful of you, Mr. Belkey!” Mandy said.

  Mr. Belkey beamed. “Senior Witch Andelica will tell us what the witches really do and exactly what kind of people they look for as apprentices.”

  Mandy pointed to herself. The Apples gazed reverently at her. “She’ll love you,” one of them said.

  She might not love me—especially if Mandy was there hogging all the attention.

  It was rumored that a senior witch could spot talent instantly, and if she saw the gift, even in a ten year old, she would take her and train her as an apprentice witch.

  I hoped it was true and not another superstition.

  I hoped she would spot the gift in me.

  If I were a witch, I’d be less clumsy. My mother would have more confidence in me.

  Jennifer would stay my friend. And Mandy and her Apples wouldn’t pick on me all the time.

  I had to get Senior Witch Andelica to notice me.

  4

  THE BEAUTIFUL WITCH

  On the day of Andelica’s visit to our class everyone was guessing what she would look like.

  “Twisted and ugly,” one of the Apples said. “Only the junior witches are pretty.”

  “Mandy could be a junior witch,” another Apple said.

  “How many warts do you think she has?” Peter Cook asked.

  “Do you think she’ll change us into frogs or toads?” Jennifer asked.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Mandy said.

  Jennifer’s face fell.

  At 2:10, Mr. Belkey said, “I don’t know what’s keeping this witch. So unreliable. I’ll give her ten more minutes, then we’ll h
ave to go back to our regular work.”

  I groaned loudly.

  I had to meet Andelica.

  The venetian blinds on the windows clattered, and a strong breeze gusted through the room.

  There was a puff of smoke and a faint burning smell.

  Andelica, senior witch of the Fifth Sector, stood before us.

  Senior Witch Andelica was young—and beautiful. Her long black hair hung almost to her waist; her skin was pale, her eyes gray and piercing. She wore an oversize purple-and-black sweater, black leggings, and acid purple socks.

  A gray cat with a hot pink collar perched on her shoulder.

  Her broom was long and sleek, with neon colors swirling through it. Andelica rested one slender hand on the broom and darted fierce glances at the class.

  Mr. Belkey turned pale as an egg and edged toward the door. No one said a word.

  “We fly through the skies, cast enchantments, and are part of the great sisterhood of witches,” Andelica sang out.

  “We weave spells for matters great and small. We weave stories as well—stories for the rain, snow, and wind, and stories for men and women, girls and boys.”

  I tried to get closer, but Mandy stuck out her elbows. “Buzz off, Bumble Bee,” she hissed.

  I stepped back—onto Peter Cook’s foot.

  “Oww, Phoebe!” he said.

  “Sorry, Peter,” I whispered.

  “Most witches come to us at fourteen,” Andelica continued, “though we take on very few as young as ten or eleven, if the time is right and they have the gift.”

  I looked over at Jennifer and pointed to myself.

  “We use light powers lightly. We use strong powers secretly. We never use our powers carelessly.

  “The colors of rain, dusty winds, and gutters of muddy water may all carry magic into your world.”

  I imagined secret rivers of magic seeping into the world, and I wanted to be a witch more than ever.

  Peter Cook raised his hand. “How do you become a witch?”

  Andelica pulled out a sheaf of orange papers and passed them out. She handed each of us a black pencil embossed with gray cats.

  “Who among you dreams about joining the witches of Sector Five?”

  My hand shot up. So did Mandy’s hand and all the Apples’ hands, like a wavy fence that hid me from view. How was Andelica ever going to notice me?