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SPELL CHECK


Book 1: The Teen Wytche Saga

Bullies. A secret crush. A traitorous friend.

First year of high school isn’t supposed to be an emotional minefield. A photojournalist father isn’t supposed to die in war, and no one should cast a binding love spell on her best friend’s secret crush. And yet...

Halloween looms and so does the anniversary of Evie’s father’s death. She needs to pull herself together or she’ll lose her position as Yearbook Photo Editor and suffer academic failure. Even worse, Evie will lose Jordan, her secret crush, if she can’t stop her friend Parvani from casting a love spell on him. Despite a falling out, Evie never forgot Jordan. Now they are lab partners and the chemistry between them definitely sparks. Parvani possesses a brimstone-hissing spell book and plans to cast the spell by Halloween. To save Jordan, Evie must join forces with Salem, the school goth.

The clock is ticking. Can Evie get her mojo back in time to check this spell?

Extras

My Ariella Moon boards on Pinterest include pictures of how I envision the characters from the Teen Wytche Saga, what I imagine is in their closets, what their dream homes and vacations would be, and even the animals — magical and mundane — that populate the series. Enjoy!

How to do a Love Spell

A wrongful love spell plays a prominent role in Spell Check. Ever wonder how to correctly craft a love spell? Great, because I created a love spell video just for you!

Reviews

"This book was really fun!... It had a lot more depth to it than I expected.
I highly recommend this enjoyable book!...
If you're in the mood for a fun, young high school book with a little spell action go check it out."

Clean Teen Reviews

"Ms. Moon tells a wonderful, entrancing story... Then the feelings that Evie had for Jordan reminded me of how first love feels, giddy and sweet."

The Long and Short of it Reviews

Honors

  • The Long and Short of It Book of the Month
  • 2008 Zola Award from the Pacific Northwest Writers Association

An excerpt from Spell Check:

     About ten minutes into class, while Mr. Esenberg wrote on the board, I heard Jordan slide his feet under my desk. My breath wedged in my throat as the tips of his size nine high-performance sneakers nudged the heels of my shoes. Could the girl in front of me hear my heart thudding? Should I move my feet forward?
      My feet tingled and refused to move. A blush blazed across my cheeks. I struggled to pay attention to Mr. Esenberg without making eye contact. Forty minutes passed, the bell blared, and I had no idea what had transpired. Hopefully, my notes will make sense. I think I took notes.
      Jordan slid his feet back and thudded his book closed. We both bent down and reached for our backpacks. His leaned against mine. Our hands brushed and our heads were so close I could smell his herbal shampoo.
      Students walked past us. I'm sure some of them were talking to each other or flipping open their cell phones. But it all faded away along with the smell of chalk, highlighters, and sweat. Everything receded except the warmth of Jordan's skin, his cinnamon gum-scented breath, and the heart-stopping rush sprinting up my arm.
      "Evie?"
      We jerked apart. Seeing Parvani in the doorway looking hurt and shocked snapped my senses into hyper focus. Conversations sounded extra loud. Colors seemed too bright. It felt like a movie had started, full blast, in a hushed theater.
      I grabbed my backpack, stood up, and tried to look innocent. "Hey," I said, a little too loudly.
      Parvani adjusted her designer frames further up her nose. "My mom just called. She's going to pick me up and drive me to the hospital. We have to drop off the pillows I made."
      Parvani glanced at Jordan as he rose from his chair and stood beside me. I wondered if he knew she made heart-shaped pillows for women who'd had mastectomies. The pillows kept seatbelts from rubbing against the stitches, or something. I should think about building my résumé for college. Besides, I've heard helping others alleviates depression.
      "Could you tell your mom I don't need a ride?" I heard a definite edge to her voice.
      "Sure."
      Jordan slung his backpack over his shoulder. "How's it going?"
      Parvani acted startled, like she had just noticed him. But her voice softened. "Oh. Hello, Jordan." To me, she said, "Thank you. Goodbye."
      Unease spider-walked down my spine. I took a step toward her, trying to close the chasm that had sprung up between us. "Talk to you later."
      Parvani didn't reply. She just left, her long black hair swinging across her shoulders.
      Jordan fell into step behind me. "Did I miss something? Is she all right?"
      He sounded like the old Jordan—the sensitive, pre-Smash Heads Jordan I had grown up with. Since I couldn't give him the obvious and correct answer, I spun through possible alternatives.
      Loud static from the school's public address system blasted my eardrums, followed by the school secretary's voice. "Evie O'Reilly. Please come to the office. Evie O'Reilly. Please come to the office."
      I froze. My flushed cheeks grew hotter. Every kid crossing the field had heard my name. Cold fear formed bricks in my stomach. What if something had happened to Mom?