As I was going out for a run yesterday I saw my neighbor, Lucia Monfried, who is also a children's book editor. She knows I write kids stories, and she recommended a new book called "Clementine." It's from the point of view of an 8-year-old trouble-maker. A female Ethan.
I picked up a copy at Barnes & Noble yesterday evening.
Meanwhile, Samuel had a sleepover last night with his friend, Leah, at our apartment. (Ethan was having a sleepover with Leah's little brother, Aaron, at their apartment.)
Leah's dad picked her up this morning. About an hour later, as Jennifer was leaving to pick up Ethan, she saw "Clementine" sitting on the sofa. She assumed it was Leah's. She promptly "returned" it to Leah's mom.
So now I have to call Leah's mom and tell her that "Clementine" is actually my book. And try to explain why I read books for 8-year-old girls, while she thinks to herself, "I will never let Leah have another sleepover at the Tarpleys'."
P.S. The book is good.
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