“Just wait until you meet Allie and her mysterious friend in this imaginative, satisfying story. Heart stopping and unusual, I couldn't put it down. You won't be able to either.” --Patricia Reilly Giff, author of the Newbery Honor Books, Lily’s Crossing and Pictures of Hollis Woods  THE GHOST IN ALLIE’S POOL Allie really likes eighth grade. That is, until her best friend, Marissa, dumps her for the popular girls. Now Allie sits by herself in the middle-school cafeteria and has no one to call with her new cell phone. Things get even worse when mean-girl Crystal’s boyfriend becomes interested in Allie. In a fit of frustration, Allie flings the friendship necklace Marissa gave her into her pool, and to her astonishment, the ghost of Dorothy May--the Pilgrim ancestor she’s been researching for English class—appears. It seems Dorothy May is as depressed as Allie because of her difficult experiences coming over on the Mayflower. But even though Dorothy May’s perspective is totally different than Allie’s about things Allie takes for granted—bathing suits, computers, popularity--is it possible that Dorothy May is exactly who Allie needs to help her cope with eighth grade? And, in return, can Allie help Dorothy May deal with her own problems? And best of all, what happens to mean-girl Crystal? EXCERPT **1** If Dorothy May hadn’t jumped off the Mayflower on a freezing cold Cape Cod day in 1620, I wouldn’t have been born. So should I be happier with my life? I’m sitting on the curb in front of Bristol Pizza with my best friend Marissa, waiting for the cool kids to show up. Marissa says we need to be more popular. I don’t see why; we have each other. I really shouldn’t be here. I’m supposed to be at the library. My paper on “digging up the roots of your family tree” is due in Mr. Sampson’s English class tomorrow. Mr. Sampson says it’s important for us to know who we are by where we came from. We’ve been waiting for over an hour on this hard curb and my stomach is killing me from wearing the tight jeans Marissa lent me so the cool kids won’t think I’m a nerd. According to her, we already have a couple of strikes against us because we’re in the smart eighth-grade class. Marissa tucks the clinging pink shirt her mother just bought her into her low-cut skirt and looks over her shoulder to admire herself in the pizza-place window. “Do I look fat?” she asks. “Right.” I roll my eyes. Marissa has the tiniest waist. But then, she has the tiniest everything—the tiniest nose, the tiniest feet. Next to her, I look like King Kong. I’m only thirteen and I already have a size 9 1/2 shoe. “We really should go to the library.” I open the genealogical chart my mother created by tracking her ancestors on the Internet. There are black lines connecting my name to my Pilgrim ancestors—people connected to me by blood, but who I’ll never know. If I drew a chart of all the friends I’ve had over the years, all the black lines would connect them to Marissa. She’s the friendly one. I’m shy. Ever since I met her in kindergarten, Marissa would walk up to anyone and say, “Wanna play with us?” “I’m glad my mother’s not obsessed with her dead relatives.” Marissa looks at her watch and I notice she’s not wearing the bracelet I gave her with a fairy charm dangling from it. Engraved on a disk attached to the charm are the initials “M&A, BFF,” which means “Marissa and Allie, Best Friends Forever.” I’m wearing mine around my neck on a silver chain. “You’re lucky,” I say. “Your mother isn’t always telling you how proud you should be that you’re descended from someone who came over on the Mayflower.” “Doesn’t she know how uncool it is to be descended from anyone as totally white as the Pilgrims?” She draws a line of diet soda on the pavement with her straw. Suddenly Marissa hisses. “Here come Crystal and Suzanne. “Pretend we’re having an interesting conversation.” She sneaks a look at Crystal and Suzanne walking towards us, swinging their hips and flipping their long hair as if they expect all eyes to be on them. “Okay.” I glance at the name Dorothy May on the chart. “My mother told me this story about one of my ancestors whose wife jumped off the Mayflower and killed herself.” “Do me a favor,” Marissa cuts me off. “Don’t bore Crystal and Suzanne with that stuff.” To Marissa, ancient history is an Instant Message that came five seconds ago, so something that happened almost four hundred years ago is beyond boring. Before the girls reach us, Marissa rushes to them and gives them big hugs, leaving me on the curb. Everyone in the parking lot is probably staring at me, whispering, “There’s that girl with the pale skin, frizzy red hair, and no friends.” To Be Continued... Available in bookstores, online at Amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and powells.com Click here for articles about the publisher: Brown Barn Booksreviews.htmlBrown%20Barn.htmlshapeimage_2_link_1
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