From School Library Journal
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Gr 3–6—Annie, who feels out of the ordinary due to
her exceptional memory and shyness, loves making lists so much
that she keeps a full of them with her all the time,
organized by month. Annie's family moves from Brooklyn to Clover
Gap, population 8,432. As Annie's parents adjust to home
ownership and her her to a new job, Annie must find her place
at her new school and learn how to get by without her best—and
only—friend, Millie. Over the course of the novel, Annie uncovers
the real reason her family moved, struggles to find her place in
a new group of friends, and earns herself a bit of celebrity
during the town's annual Clover Fest. Mahoney's novel is
literally written in lists, all of which have their own titles,
some with a sentence or a few paragraphs of explanation after.
Annie's humor, empathy, and frankness shine through in her
engaging narrative. Every character has its own distinct presence
on the page, and the individual conflicts help each one feel
fully developed and unique. The plot moves at a steady pace and a
subplot addresses racism. While the ending is almost too neat,
readers will find themselves cheering for Annie, her friends, and
her family. VERDICT Even with its imperfections, the format,
featuring illustrations throughout, will make it a great choice
for reluctant readers.—Liz Anderson, DC Public Library
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Review
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"Perfect for anyone who's ever worried about
starting a new school, saying the wrong thing, dying of
embarrassment, or losing a best friend. I loved getting to know
Annie through her lists!" --Kelly Jones, author of Unusual
Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer
"A sweet, clever, warmhearted book, and so fun to read!" -Natalie
Standiford, author of The Only Girl in School
"Annie's slightly tongue-in-cheek voice, revealed in the lists
and occasional narrative paragraphs, breathes life into the many
characters around her, adding believability. 1. Fresh. 2. Fun. 3.
Entertaining." --Kirkus Reviews
"Annie's humor, empathy, and frankness shine through in her
engaging narrative. Every character has its own distinct presence
on the page, and the individual conflicts help each one feel
fully developed and unique." --School Library Journal
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About the Author
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Kristin Mahoney is a former magazine editor and
elementary school reading teacher with a master's degree in
elementary education and teaching literacy from Bank Street
College of Education. Her writing has appeared on the New York
Times Learning Network Blog, McCall's Magazine, and the SCBWI
"Write This" Gallery. Kristin has lived in both Brooklyn and in a
small town that resembles Clover Gap. She now lives in New Jersey
with her husband and two daughters. Follow her on Twitter at
@KMcMahoney.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Five things I hate about my real name, Andromeda
1. Everyone says, “That’s a weird name.”
2. No one knows how to spell it.
3. No one knows how to pronounce it. (You pronounce it like
this: “Ann-drama-duh.”)
4. No one can remember it. (This one probably bothers me most,
because I remember just about everything.)
5. Even though most people call me Annie, my brother says my
nickname should be Drama or Duh. (His name is Ted, after my
great-grandher. Apparently, Mom and Dad saved all their naming
flair for me.)
Three things I like about my name
1. My mom says I was named after her favorite constellation.
2. My dad says Andromeda was also a mythical princess.
3. My nickname, Annie
I am Annie. This is my life in lists.
Nine things I see when I look in the mirror
1. Freckles. Lots of them. Especially in summer, of course.
2. Indescribable hair color. Not indescribable like
“indescribably beautiful!” Just really hard to describe. Not
blond. Not brown. My Grandma Elaine calls it “dirty blond,” but I
don’t like the sound of that.
3. Green eyes (my favorite part)
4. A bump on the bridge of a long nose (This I get from my mom.)
5. A little gap between my two front teeth
6. Almost always: a T-shirt
7. Almost always: leggings or jeans
8. In summer: flip-flops
9. In winter: sneakers or boots
Three things I never see when I look in the mirror
1. A dress
2. Expensive sneakers (My mom doesn’t “believe” in them.)
3. Smooth hair (It’s always kind of straggly, even five minutes
after I’ve brushed it.)
Three things you can’t tell just by looking at me
1. I’m left-handed (although if you looked really closely, you
might see that I always have pencil smudges on my left pinky from
where my hand has dragged across my writing).
2. I’m ic to .
3. I have an amazing memory.
Five things about my memory
1. I have a regular memory for things like spelling tests and
phone numbers.
2. I have a not-so-great memory for things like bringing
permission slips back to school and putting my homework folder in
my backpack.
3. I definitely do not have a crime-solving photographic memory
like Cam Jansen.
4. I have a weirdly amazing memory for things about people. I
remember their names, what they wore on different days, who their
brothers and sisters are, what their houses look like, and what
their pets are named.
5. I remember things about people that they will never remember
about me. In fact, there are kids at my school who don’t even
know I exist, but I could tell you their names, their favorite
sports, where they went on vacation, and what they ate for lunch.
Four things other people say about my memory
1. My mom says it runs in the family, and that some people just
have amazing memories. (Hers is pretty good too. She remembers
the names of all my grandparents’ cousins, even on my dad’s side.
And her old friends tell her she’s like their “childhood Google,”
because anytime they forget something from when they were
kids--the name of a teacher, the secret nicknames they had for
their crushes, the ending of a crazy story--they just ask her.)
2. My dad says I should be proud of how much I remember.
3. My best friend, Millie Lerner, thinks it’s cool because:
a. I can tell her the names of all the fifth-grade boys she
thinks are “interesting.”
b. I remember all the teachers’ first names (from reading the PTA
directory one day while I was bored).
c. When someone annoys her, I make her feel better by reminding
her of embarrassing things they did when they were younger. (For
example, when Millie got glasses, Hannah Krenzler called her a
four-eyed freak and I told Millie not to sweat what Hannah says,
because she used to shove her teddy bear’s fur up her nose.)
4. Ted says my memory is creepy and makes me seem like a stalker.
I tell him you would not believe how much you would learn if you
just paid attention. But Ted still has a habit of nudging me when
he thinks I’m going to say too much. Especially when I’m
remembering something about him and someone in his grade.
Especially if it’s a girl. (Like when we saw Sophia Karlin in Key
Food and I reminded him of how he once said she looked like Queen
Amidala. He stepped on my toe for that one. Hard.)
What I think of my memory
1. I won’t admit this to Ted, but it can be a little
embarrassing. Remembering so much about people can make you feel
like no one else is as interested in you as you are in them. For
example:
a. Once, Millie and I knocked on her neighbor Sheila’s door to
tell her we’d found her cat in the hallway. Sheila’s son Pete had
been on Ted’s soccer team three years earlier, and all the boys
called him Professor because he was always sharing weird soccer
trivia that no one else knew. Of course I remembered this, so
when Pete answered the door I automatically said, “Hey,
Professor. We found Mittens.” He squinted at me for a second
before saying, “Who are you?”
So to recap, not only did I know his nickname and his cat’s name,
but he had no idea who I was. Even though I had been at every one
of his soccer games. And he had come to the team pizza party at
our apartment. And I was his neighbor’s best friend. You’d think
he might be embarrassed not to know me, but somehow I was the one
who was blushing.
b. On the first day of school last year, when my teacher, Ms.
Allen, wondered aloud how we would distinguish between the two
Emmas in our class since both of their last names started with
“S,” I said, “We could just call one Emma Marie and the other
Emma Elizabeth.” Because I remembered both of their middle names.
From when they had them written on their plastic Easter baskets
at an egg hunt in the park. In kindergarten. Clearly neither Emma
remembered this, though, because they both looked at me and said,
“How do you know my middle name?” in stereo. Cue red face again.
2. Lately, it’s a serious problem. Since my memory got me kicked
out of school, Ted really doesn’t have to worry anymore about me
saying too much. Now I keep all this information to myself.
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