The Lottie Project Paperback - 2008

From the rear cover

Charlie's world is changing -- for the worse. Her new teacher refuses to call her anything but Charlotte. (Blech!) And forces her to sit next to Jamie Edwards, the most revolting, stuck-up, horrible boy in the whole class. (Yuck!) And assigns her a dreary project on the dreary Victorian period. (Ugh!) But clever Charlie isn't so easily beaten. Instead of writing a boring report, she creates a diary for Lottie, a Victorian nurserymaid, and history suddenly comes to life.

Charlie's trouble at home isn't quite so easy to fix. It's always been just her and her mom, but her mom has been acting really weird lately -- wearing makeup and dressing up for no reason. Could it be, is it possible, that Charlie's mother's got a boyfriend? There's only so much change Charlie can handle before she has to take control of her own life the way she's taken charge of Lottie's!

Excerpt

I knew exactly who I was going to sit next to in class. Easy-peasy, simple-pimple. It was going to be Angela, with Lisa sitting at the nearest desk to us. I'm never quite sure if I like Lisa or Angela best, so it's only fair to take turns.

Jo said what if Angela and Lisa want to sit together with you behind or in front or at the side. I just smiled at her. I don't want to sound disgustingly boastful but I'm the one Angela and Lisa are desperate to sit next to. Lots of the girls want to be best friends with me, actually. I'm just best friends with Lisa land Angela, but anyone can be in our special girls' gang. Any girl. No boys allowed. That goes without saying. Even though I just did.

But guess what happened that first day of the term. We got this new teacher. We knew we wouldn't be getting Mrs. Thomas because when we broke up in the summer her tummy could barely fit behind her desk. Her tummy could barely fit behind her smock. You could see her tummy button through the material, like a giant snap fastener.

When I was a very little kid I used to think that's how babies were born. They grew inside the mother and then when they were ready themom pressed her tummy button and out they popped. I told Jo how I'd got it all figured out. Don't laugh. I was very little. Jo laughed."Dream on, Charlie," she said. "If only it were that easy.

That's my name, Charlie. Okay, my full name is Charlotte Alice Katherine Enright, but nobody ever calls me that. Jo and Lisa and Angela and all the kids at school call me Charlie. Some of the boys call me Cake or Carrot Cake, but they're just morons, though they think they're really original. (Note the initials of my name. Got it?) But ever since I was born, all the way through nursery and primary school, no one's ever called me Charlotte. Until this new teacher.

Miss Beckworth. She was new so I thought she'd be young. When you get a new young teacher they're often ever so strict the first few weeks just to show you who's boss, and then they relax and get all friendly. Then you can fool around and do whatever you want.

I love fooling around, doing crazy things and being a bit sassy and making everyone laugh. Even the teachers. But the moment I set eyes on Miss Beckworth I knew none of us were going to be laughing. She might be new but she certainly wasn't young. She had gray hair and gray eyes and a gray-andwhite blouse and a gray skirt and laced-up shoes, with a laced-up expression on her face to match. When she spoke her teeth were quite big and stuck out a bit, but I put all thought of Bugs Bunny imitations right out of my head.

There are some teachers-just a few-who have YOU'D BETTER NOT MESS WITH ME! tattooed right across their foreheads. She frowned at me with this incredibly fierce forehead and said, "Good morning. This isn't a very good start to the new school year."

I stared at her. What was she talking about? Why was she looking at her watch? I wasn't late. Okay, the school bell had rung as I was crossing the play.ground, but you always get five minutes to get to your classroom.

"It's three minutes past nine," Miss Beckworth announced. "You're late."

"No, I'm not," I said. "We're not counted late until it's five past."

I didn't say it rudely. I was perfectly polite. I was trying to be helpful, actually.

Media reviews

"Wilson creatively reshapes [heroine] Charlie's own experiences to depict the plight of a girl living 100 years earlier, thus adding new dimension to Charlie's perceptions while offering intriguing period particulars." -- Publishers Weekly, Starred

"Charlie's creative writing is a gentle endorsement for using one's imagination to work through problems. Readers will empathize with many of the situations Charlie copes with." -- The Horn Book Magazine