Where I'd Like to Be [NOOK Book]

Overview

A ghost saved twelve-year-old Maddie’s life when she was an infant, her Granny Lane claims, so Maddie must always remember that she is special. But it’s hard to feel special when you’ve spent your life shuffled from one foster home to another. And now that she’s at the East Tennessee Children’s Home, Maddie feels even less special.

She longs for a place to call home. She even has a “book of houses” in which she glues pictures of places she’d ...
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Where I'd Like to Be

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Overview

A ghost saved twelve-year-old Maddie’s life when she was an infant, her Granny Lane claims, so Maddie must always remember that she is special. But it’s hard to feel special when you’ve spent your life shuffled from one foster home to another. And now that she’s at the East Tennessee Children’s Home, Maddie feels even less special.

She longs for a place to call home. She even has a “book of houses” in which she glues pictures of places she’d like to live. Then one day, a new girl, Murphy, shows up at the Home armed with tales about exotic travels, being able to fly, and boys who recite poetry to wild horses. When Murphy offers Maddie something she has never had before, Maddie begins to wonder if she has finally found someone who feels like home.

From the Edgar Award-winning author of "Dovey Coe" comes this story of 12-year old Maddie, a foster child who can't stop looking for a home. When Maddie shows a new girl her beloved scrapbook, she doesn't anticipate this one gesture will challenge her very idea of what home, and family, are all about.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
"This quietly affecting novel explores the fragile camaraderie between two 11-year-old girls who are placed in a children's home," wrote PW, calling it "a celebration of friendship and of the healing powers of the imagination." Ages 10-14. (Sept.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Children's Literature
What Maddy wants more than anything is a real home, like when she lived with her Granny Lane before Granny got too old and sick to care for her anymore. That is how Maddy landed in the East Tennessee Children's Home, where she would have to stay until someone adopted her. Which was not likely, being that she was eleven already, so she expected to stay until she was eighteen and could leave for a home of her own. Meanwhile, though, Maddy kept a scrapbook of homes she might have some day—any and all kinds, it did not matter. It was her most prized possession, and she did not share it with anyone except six-year-old Ricky Ray, who was her shadow, kind of, at the Home. All this changed when Murphy came—with her exotic stories about her adventurous parents, and knowing how to fly, and stuff like that, which you couldn't believe, except that who would lie about things like that and risk being totally ridiculed? So they must be true...except that they are not. Maddy's story is absorbing and filled with memorable characters. Its tension, refreshingly, is not about sex or drugs but centers on the primeval longing for a place to be, a family of your own. The children in the Home build such a place for themselves and share the secrets of Maddy's scrapbook until that, too, blows up. Boys as well as girls will warm to this likeable heroine and rejoice when things begin to work out for her. 2003, Atheneum,
— Judy Chernak
School Library Journal
Gr 3-6-With a charming southern drawl and plenty of heart, narrator Denise Wilbanks reads Frances O'Roark Dowell's lovely story (Atheneum, 2003) about Maddie, a 12-year-old foster child residing in the East Tennessee Children's Home. Wilbanks does a fine job with Maddie's first person narration, deftly conveying the protagonist's warmth and humanity. Listeners will be hooked right from the novel's first sentence ("When I was just a baby, a ghost saved my life."). Maddie befriends the newest kid to arrive in the Home, a story spinning girl named Murphy. This unusual new girl claims she can fly, and that her deceased parents were adventure-seeking research scientists. Although Murphy seems clearly troubled, she inspires Maddie, who makes scrapbooks filled with pictures of her dream houses, to build a fort. Helping the girls are other homeless children, with six-year-old Ricky Ray the most endearing child of them all. Once inside the fort, the kids tell stories and daydream about their futures. Wilbanks reads Ricky Ray's dialogue in a sweet little boy's voice that will win over listeners, making the connection between Maddie and Ricky Ray all the more compelling and charming. She also does well with the adult characters, especially the gruff Mr. Potter and Maddie's lovable Granny. The narration is lively and energetic, bringing out the story's humor and poignancy. Country flavored music plays at the beginning and end of the recording. Pair this excellent title with Pictures of Hollis Woods (Random, 2002) by Patricia Reilly Giff or The Same Stuff As Stars (Clarion 2002) by Katherine Paterson.-Brian E. Wilson, Evanston Public Library, IL Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
An orphaned girl creates, with friends, a remarkable shelter that allows them to dream of a permanent home. Maddie has resigned herself to life in the East Tennessee Children's Home, figuring that "there wasn't much chance anyone was going to adopt an 11-year-old girl as plain-Jane as me." She keeps her hopes up by cutting out photographs of houses and pasting them in her Book of Houses in anticipation of a house of her own. When the charismatic, opinionated, and secretive Murphy arrives at the Home, Maddie determines to be her friend. In short order, their group expands to include Donita and Ricky Ray, two other children from the Home, and Logan, the lonely and misfit son of a local judge; together they decide to build a fort in Logan's backyard. With a fair degree of help and luck, they build a solid little fort, within which they dream and tell stories of their homes and families, past, imagined, and hoped-for. Dowell (Dovey Coe, 2000) has created a tremendously appealing heroine and a parcel of equally agreeable secondary characters. Their stories, individual and collective, are poignantly told without ever becoming maudlin, and the way these lonely children come together to make their own home and family is truly lovely. When Murphy's yearning for a place outside of their little society causes a jealous Maddie to threaten it altogether, readers will find themselves hoping as hard as Maddie that it will all come right in the end. The talky, pie-in-the-sky resolution mars the tightness of the narrative that precedes it, but taken as a whole, this is a lovely, quietly bittersweet tale of friendship and family. (Fiction. 10-14)
Booklist
"A choice read aloud. Tough issues, difficult situations, engaging characters, and a tentative ending provide ample discussion possibilities."
From the Publisher
* "A lovely, quietly bittersweet tale of friendship and family."

"A celebration of friendship and of the healing powers of the imagination."

"Unique and memorable."

"A choice read aloud. Tough issues, difficult situations, engaging characters, and a tentative ending provide ample discussion possibilities."

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781439132272
  • Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
  • Publication date: 3/26/2013
  • Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 240
  • Sales rank: 275,363
  • Age range: 10 - 14 Years
  • File size: 440 KB

Meet the Author

 Frances O’Roark Dowell is the bestselling and critically acclaimed author of Dovey Coe, which won the Edgar Award and the William Allen White Award; Where I’d Like to Be; the bestselling The Secret Language of Girls and its sequels The Kind of Friends We Used to Be and The Sound of Your Voice, Only Really Far Away; Chicken Boy; Shooting the Moon, which was awarded the Christopher Medal; the Phineas L. MacGuire series; Falling In; the critically acclaimed The Second Life of Abigail Walker; Anybody Shining; and the teen novel Ten Miles Past Normal. She lives with her husband and two sons in Durham, North Carolina. Connect with Frances online at FrancesDowell.com.
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

When I was just a baby, a ghost saved my life. This is according to my Granny Lane, who I lived with at the time in a trailer on Roan Mountain.

Hurry, now, hurry, that baby is smothering, the shivery voice whispered into Granny Lane's ear. She popped open her eyes to find an old man dressed in overalls and smelling of black-licorice gum standing next to her bed.

Granny Lane was up and running so fast she didn't have time to be scared. She raced to my crib in the corner of the living room, and sure enough, I was all tangled in a knot of blankets and couldn't breathe. After Granny Lane got me loose, she crept back to the bedroom, holding me tight to her chest, and flipped on the overhead light.

There was nobody there.

Granny Lane's landlady, Mrs. Treadway, said Granny Lane wasn't the first person in that trailer to be haunted.

"Folks used to see that ghost every few months or so, it seemed like," Mrs. Treadway told Granny Lane the next time she went to pay her rent. "They say it's John Edgerton, who used to farm this land. His wife and children burned up in a fire one day when he was gone off the mountain.

"It's been some time since old John Edgerton showed up in these parts," Mrs. Treadway went on, taking Granny Lane's check, folding it twice, and slipping it into her sweater pocket. "He must think highly of that baby of yours."

I like telling this story to people. It makes them think I just might be somebody special, even if I don't look it.

I told it to Murphy fifteen minutes after I first laid eyes on her. I wanted to give her my best story right up front because when a new kid comes into the Home, you've got to stake your claim quick if you want dibs on being friends. And I thought Murphy was somebody I might want to be friends with.

"Murphy's not my real name," were the first words out of her mouth after our housemother, Corinne, introduced her in the dorm. She leaned back against the hallway wall, her arms folded across her chest, not looking at any of us. "I don't tell anyone my real name."

"What's that junk all about?" Donita asked, already halfway out the door to dinner. "This girl don't tell no one her real name. You think anyone cares what your real name is, Murphy Oil Soap?"

Now that business about Murphy changing her name flat out interested me. I changed my middle name every few months or so to suit my mood. When I first met Murphy, my middle name was Jasmine. I thought Madeline Jasmine Byers had a nice ring to it. Before Jasmine, I'd tried out Amber, California, and, once, when I was six, Lollipop. My mama didn't bother to give me a real middle name of my own, which is why I was always on the look-out for a good one.

Murphy was the only one listening when I told my ghost story at dinner. Everybody else at the eleven-year-old girls' table had heard it already, more than once, and besides they were all too busy to pay any attention. Donita was cutting her dried-up chicken into tiny pieces so maybe it would look like she'd eaten some, and Kandy was lecturing Brittany on how many calories were in that lumpy mound of mashed potatoes on her plate. I had Murphy all to myself, which was just how I wanted it.

"So why don't you live with your grandmother anymore?" she asked when I'd finished telling my story, poking her fork at the pile of overboiled broccoli on her plate. "I mean, is there some specific reason she doesn't want you to live with her?"

I took a sip of milk. I was used to getting a more wondrous reaction to my story than the one I was getting from Murphy. "Well, Granny Lane got the diabetes when I was eight and her eyes started going bad, so I went to live with my aunt, and then she couldn't keep me anymore, and by that time Granny Lane had broke her hip and couldn't take me back, so I got fostered out. It's not like Granny Lane didn't want me living with her or anything."

"Oh," said Murphy. She sounded like she didn't care all that much. "Well, when I was a baby, my parents took me to Africa. My father carried me around in a sling everywhere they went, and people gave me presents. Once a boy no bigger than a weed handed me a dead grass-hopper, and I ate it. It tasted like tuna fish, that tin can sort of taste."

"How do you remember all of that if you were just a baby?" I asked. "Most people don't have memories back that far."

Murphy shrugged. "I'm the sort of person who remembers everything. I don't know why." She speared a limp broccoli stalk with her fork and held it up. "What did they have against this poor thing anyway?"

"The cooks here hate all food," I told her, taking a bite of a stale roll. "It's not like they discriminate against the broccoli."

Murphy looked at me over her fork, like she was thinking about smiling and then decided against it. She pushed her plate away and asked, "So how long have you been here?"

"Five months," I answered. I was happy she was interested. "Since April. I came in about a month after Donita and Kandy. Brittany's been here since she was eight. I don't believe anyone's coming to claim her, and she'll never get adopted."

Those were the two things we were all biding our time for at the East Tennessee Children's Home: either getting sent back to our folks or getting a new family altogether. I knew I wasn't going back home, and there wasn't much chance anyone was going to adopt an eleven-year-old girl as plain-Jane as me. I was just waiting out the years until I could pack my bags and move into a house of my own.

Leaning closer to me and cutting her eyes over at Brittany, Murphy whispered, "She smells terrible."

"Corinne is working with her on that," I whispered back. "I don't think Brittany gets the idea of personal hygiene."

Murphy shivered and frowned. You could tell by looking at her that personal hygiene was high on her list. Her curly brown hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and she had a real clean smell about her, like apples and baby powder. Her clothes were nice. Maybe not directly out of a magazine, but better than your average foster care-child wardrobe. I know from personal experience that you're lucky to get clothes that fit when you're a foster-care child. Being fashionable is almost always out of the question.

Back in the bedroom all of us eleven-year-old girls shared, Murphy began unpacking her cardboard boxes. She had four of them, which may not seem like much to you, but believe me, a lot of kids show up here with a paper bag full of nothing. I sat on my bed, which was right next to hers, and watched as she poked through first one box and then another.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked, her head deep inside a box. "Play in traffic? Start a forest fire?"

"Nope," I said. I was just dying to see Murphy's stuff. I love stuff. One day I'd like to live in a big old house crammed floor to ceiling with stuff. "I'm fine right here."

"That's too bad," Murphy said, pulling out a lumpy pillowcase. She took a smaller cloth bag from the pillowcase, tucked it in her pocket, and heaved two of the unpacked boxes onto her bed. In a flash, she was up and teetering on top of them.

"Throw me that pillowcase, will you?" she asked, holding out her arms to get her balance. "I mean, as long as you're going to stare, you might as well be helpful."

"Aren't you afraid you're going to fall?" I asked. "Those boxes look a little unsteady."

"I never fall. I don't believe in falling."

"What does believing have to do with it?"

Murphy shook her head, like she'd never met anyone so dumb. "Believing has everything to do with everything."

She grabbed the pillowcase from me and stuffed it under her arm. Then she pulled the little cloth bag from her pocket and carefully spilled its contents into her hand. "Thumbtacks," she told me. "In case you were wondering."

"I was wondering," I said.

"Why don't you go watch TV with everybody else?" Murphy asked, two thumbtacks clamped between her teeth, her words coming out cramped.

"I hate TV."

Murphy stretched up as far as she could and poked a thumbtack into the ceiling. "Me too," she said. "TV's for idiots."

She pushed some more thumbtacks into the ceiling over her bed and began pulling things from the pillowcase: orange and black silk butterflies dangling from shimmery threads, a web of glow-in-the-dark stars, a silvery moon. One by one, she hung each item from a thumbtack, until she'd made a shining galaxy above her bed.

I was starting to feel more ordinary than usual, standing there watching Murphy. The only thing above my bed was a fluorescent light. I pondered the contents of my desk, wishing I had something breathtaking to pull out of my top drawer, like a singing canary or a pair of ruby red slippers, just something to make an impression. There were my drawing supplies, but I couldn't imagine anyone making a big whoop-dee-doo about a bunch of pencils. My scrapbooks were interesting, at least to me, but I didn't like to show those around. I sighed, wishing I hadn't already told my ghost story.

"Do you need help with that?" I asked. She was straining to poke a loop of wire over a tack. The other end of the wire hung about a foot down and was coiled around a polished, blue stone. It was like she was trying to hang the smallest planet in the universe.

"Even if I did, I'd be out of luck," she said, grunting a little. "This is an incredibly special and rare artifact, and no one can touch it but me."

I stood on my tiptoes, trying to get a better look. "Did you steal it from the Smithsonian?" I asked. "Or just borrow it?"

Murphy ignored my joke. She hooked the wire on the thumbtack and jumped down from the boxes onto the floor. Closing the lids to the boxes, she slid all but one under her bed. Then she took a seat at her desk, the same plain old brown particleboard desk that we all had, reached into the remaining box, and pulled out a paperweight, the snowy kind. "That stone was a gift from my parents, who were famous researchers. They collected artifacts from all over the world."

I sat down on my bed, feeling even less interesting than I had before. I didn't have a single artifact to my name. "Where are they now?" I asked.

Murphy plunked the paperweight on her desk. "Dead. They were killed in a car accident. I don't like to talk about it."

I looked at my feet. I didn't know what to say about dead people. "So is that why you're here?"

Murphy stood and slowly walked over to the sink. Her face looked yellow in the mirror, but then everyone's did. It was a terrible mirror to look into if you were trying to feel good about yourself. When she turned away from her reflection, her hands were planted on her hips. "I'm not supposed to be here," she said, her eyes narrowed. "I'm supposed to be living with my aunt. But she's somewhere in Europe and no one can get in touch with her."

Murphy looked up at the ceiling and blew out a few short breaths through her lips, so that the wisps of hair on her forehead fluttered out. It was the sort of thing a person might do to keep from crying. "I can't believe I ended up here, stuck in with a bunch of orphans."

"I don't think very many people here are orphans," I said. "Most people have at least one parent somewhere."

"Well, I don't." Murphy crossed her arms and stared up at the ceiling.

If Murphy were the sort of person who cried, she would have burst into tears at that very minute. But I learned that first night, Murphy wasn't the crying type.

Turns out, she was more the type to tell a bold-faced lie. Only I didn't know it then. I believed everything she told me.

Well, almost everything.

Copyright © 2003 by Frances O'Roark Dowell

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First Chapter


Chapter 1


When I was just a baby, a ghost saved my life. This is according to my Granny Lane, who I lived with at the time in a trailer on Roan Mountain.

Hurry, now, hurry, that baby is smothering, the shivery voice whispered into Granny Lane's ear. She popped open her eyes to find an old man dressed in overalls and smelling of black-licorice gum standing next to her bed.

Granny Lane was up and running so fast she didn't have time to be scared. She raced to my crib in the corner of the living room, and sure enough, I was all tangled in a knot of blankets and couldn't breathe. After Granny Lane got me loose, she crept back to the bedroom, holding me tight to her chest, and flipped on the overhead light.

There was nobody there.

Granny Lane's landlady, Mrs. Treadway, said Granny Lane wasn't the first person in that trailer to be haunted.

"Folks used to see that ghost every few months or so, it seemed like," Mrs. Treadway told Granny Lane the next time she went to pay her rent. "They say it's John Edgerton, who used to farm this land. His wife and children burned up in a fire one day when he was gone off the mountain.

"It's been some time since old John Edgerton showed up in these parts," Mrs. Treadway went on, taking Granny Lane's check, folding it twice, and slipping it into her sweater pocket. "He must think highly of that baby of yours."

I like telling this story to people. It makes them think I just might be somebody special, even if I don't look it.

I told it to Murphy fifteen minutes after I first laid eyes on her. I wanted to give her my best story right up front because when a new kid comes into the Home, you've got to stake your claim quick if you want dibs on being friends. And I thought Murphy was somebody I might want to be friends with.

"Murphy's not my real name," were the first words out of her mouth after our housemother, Corinne, introduced her in the dorm. She leaned back against the hallway wall, her arms folded across her chest, not looking at any of us. "I don't tell anyone my real name."

"What's that junk all about?" Donita asked, already halfway out the door to dinner. "This girl don't tell no one her real name. You think anyone cares what your real name is, Murphy Oil Soap?"

Now that business about Murphy changing her name flat out interested me. I changed my middle name every few months or so to suit my mood. When I first met Murphy, my middle name was Jasmine. I thought Madeline Jasmine Byers had a nice ring to it. Before Jasmine, I'd tried out Amber, California, and, once, when I was six, Lollipop. My mama didn't bother to give me a real middle name of my own, which is why I was always on the look-out for a good one.

Murphy was the only one listening when I told my ghost story at dinner. Everybody else at the eleven-year-old girls' table had heard it already, more than once, and besides they were all too busy to pay any attention. Donita was cutting her dried-up chicken into tiny pieces so maybe it would look like she'd eaten some, and Kandy was lecturing Brittany on how many calories were in that lumpy mound of mashed potatoes on her plate. I had Murphy all to myself, which was just how I wanted it.

"So why don't you live with your grandmother anymore?" she asked when I'd finished telling my story, poking her fork at the pile of overboiled broccoli on her plate. "I mean, is there some specific reason she doesn't want you to live with her?"

I took a sip of milk. I was used to getting a more wondrous reaction to my story than the one I was getting from Murphy. "Well, Granny Lane got the diabetes when I was eight and her eyes started going bad, so I went to live with my aunt, and then she couldn't keep me anymore, and by that time Granny Lane had broke her hip and couldn't take me back, so I got fostered out. It's not like Granny Lane didn't want me living with her or anything."

"Oh," said Murphy. She sounded like she didn't care all that much. "Well, when I was a baby, my parents took me to Africa. My father carried me around in a sling everywhere they went, and people gave me presents. Once a boy no bigger than a weed handed me a dead grass-hopper, and I ate it. It tasted like tuna fish, that tin can sort of taste."

"How do you remember all of that if you were just a baby?" I asked. "Most people don't have memories back that far."

Murphy shrugged. "I'm the sort of person who remembers everything. I don't know why." She speared a limp broccoli stalk with her fork and held it up. "What did they have against this poor thing anyway?"

"The cooks here hate all food," I told her, taking a bite of a stale roll. "It's not like they discriminate against the broccoli."

Murphy looked at me over her fork, like she was thinking about smiling and then decided against it. She pushed her plate away and asked, "So how long have you been here?"

"Five months," I answered. I was happy she was interested. "Since April. I came in about a month after Donita and Kandy. Brittany's been here since she was eight. I don't believe anyone's coming to claim her, and she'll never get adopted."

Those were the two things we were all biding our time for at the East Tennessee Children's Home: either getting sent back to our folks or getting a new family altogether. I knew I wasn't going back home, and there wasn't much chance anyone was going to adopt an eleven-year-old girl as plain-Jane as me. I was just waiting out the years until I could pack my bags and move into a house of my own.

Leaning closer to me and cutting her eyes over at Brittany, Murphy whispered, "She smells terrible."

"Corinne is working with her on that," I whispered back. "I don't think Brittany gets the idea of personal hygiene."

Murphy shivered and frowned. You could tell by looking at her that personal hygiene was high on her list. Her curly brown hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and she had a real clean smell about her, like apples and baby powder. Her clothes were nice. Maybe not directly out of a magazine, but better than your average foster care-child wardrobe. I know from personal experience that you're lucky to get clothes that fit when you're a foster-care child. Being fashionable is almost always out of the question.

Back in the bedroom all of us eleven-year-old girls shared, Murphy began unpacking her cardboard boxes. She had four of them, which may not seem like much to you, but believe me, a lot of kids show up here with a paper bag full of nothing. I sat on my bed, which was right next to hers, and watched as she poked through first one box and then another.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked, her head deep inside a box. "Play in traffic? Start a forest fire?"

"Nope," I said. I was just dying to see Murphy's stuff. I love stuff. One day I'd like to live in a big old house crammed floor to ceiling with stuff. "I'm fine right here."

"That's too bad," Murphy said, pulling out a lumpy pillowcase. She took a smaller cloth bag from the pillowcase, tucked it in her pocket, and heaved two of the unpacked boxes onto her bed. In a flash, she was up and teetering on top of them.

"Throw me that pillowcase, will you?" she asked, holding out her arms to get her balance. "I mean, as long as you're going to stare, you might as well be helpful."

"Aren't you afraid you're going to fall?" I asked. "Those boxes look a little unsteady."

"I never fall. I don't believe in falling."

"What does believing have to do with it?"

Murphy shook her head, like she'd never met anyone so dumb. "Believing has everything to do with everything."

She grabbed the pillowcase from me and stuffed it under her arm. Then she pulled the little cloth bag from her pocket and carefully spilled its contents into her hand. "Thumbtacks," she told me. "In case you were wondering."

"I was wondering," I said.

"Why don't you go watch TV with everybody else?" Murphy asked, two thumbtacks clamped between her teeth, her words coming out cramped.


"I hate TV."

Murphy stretched up as far as she could and poked a thumbtack into the ceiling. "Me too," she said. "TV's for idiots."

She pushed some more thumbtacks into the ceiling over her bed and began pulling things from the pillowcase: orange and black silk butterflies dangling from shimmery threads, a web of glow-in-the-dark stars, a silvery moon. One by one, she hung each item from a thumbtack, until she'd made a shining galaxy above her bed.

I was starting to feel more ordinary than usual, standing there watching Murphy. The only thing above my bed was a fluorescent light. I pondered the contents of my desk, wishing I had something breathtaking to pull out of my top drawer, like a singing canary or a pair of ruby red slippers, just something to make an impression. There were my drawing supplies, but I couldn't imagine anyone making a big whoop-dee-doo about a bunch of pencils. My scrapbooks were interesting, at least to me, but I didn't like to show those around. I sighed, wishing I hadn't already told my ghost story.

"Do you need help with that?" I asked. She was straining to poke a loop of wire over a tack. The other end of the wire hung about a foot down and was coiled around a polished, blue stone. It was like she was trying to hang the smallest planet in the universe.

"Even if I did, I'd be out of luck," she said, grunting a little. "This is an incredibly special and rare artifact, and no one can touch it but me."

I stood on my tiptoes, trying to get a better look. "Did you steal it from the Smithsonian?" I asked. "Or just borrow it?"

Murphy ignored my joke. She hooked the wire on the thumbtack and jumped down from the boxes onto the floor. Closing the lids to the boxes, she slid all but one under her bed. Then she took a seat at her desk, the same plain old brown particleboard desk that we all had, reached into the remaining box, and pulled out a paperweight, the snowy kind. "That stone was a gift from my parents, who were famous researchers. They collected artifacts from all over the world."

I sat down on my bed, feeling even less interesting than I had before. I didn't have a single artifact to my name. "Where are they now?" I asked.

Murphy plunked the paperweight on her desk. "Dead. They were killed in a car accident. I don't like to talk about it."

I looked at my feet. I didn't know what to say about dead people. "So is that why you're here?"

Murphy stood and slowly walked over to the sink. Her face looked yellow in the mirror, but then everyone's did. It was a terrible mirror to look into if you were trying to feel good about yourself. When she turned away from her reflection, her hands were planted on her hips. "I'm not supposed to be here," she said, her eyes narrowed. "I'm supposed to be living with my aunt. But she's somewhere in Europe and no one can get in touch with her."

Murphy looked up at the ceiling and blew out a few short breaths through her lips, so that the wisps of hair on her forehead fluttered out. It was the sort of thing a person might do to keep from crying. "I can't believe I ended up here, stuck in with a bunch of orphans."

"I don't think very many people here are orphans," I said. "Most people have at least one parent somewhere."

"Well, I don't." Murphy crossed her arms and stared up at the ceiling.

If Murphy were the sort of person who cried, she would have burst into tears at that very minute. But I learned that first night, Murphy wasn't the crying type.

Turns out, she was more the type to tell a bold-faced lie. Only I didn't know it then. I believed everything she told me.

Well, almost everything.

Copyright © 2003 by Frances O'Roark Dowell

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Introduction

ABOUT THE BOOK

Maddie lives in the East Tennessee Children's Home. Ricky Ray, age six, is her special friend. Then Murphy, a new girl, comes to the home telling wonderful stories about her previous life. Maddie doesn't know whether to believe them but enjoys them anyway. Maddie makes scrapbooks of houses, houses cut from magazines, houses where she'd like to live. The children build a fort with the help and in the yard of Logan, who has a home and a family. The children make scrapbooks and weave stories about how they would like their lives to be.

THEMES

Adoption; Orphans and foster children; Friendship; Imagination.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

• Why do you think Murphy tells such stories about herself?

• Do you think Penny Korda will adopt Maddie and Ricky?

• Why did Maddie bury the books? What was the symbolism?

• Maddie was judging the other children by her first impressions. Why can that sometimes be wrong?

• How did Logan's mother change during the story?

ACTIVITIES

• Start a scrapbook of your favorite things — faces, clothes, toys, etc.

• Draw a map of what you think the fort looks like. Where are the doors, windows, and furniture?

• Maddie collects pictures of houses to decide which one she wants for herself. What would your ideal home be like? Draw a picture or write a description.

• Read some other books about foster children, such as Pictures of Hollis Wood by Patricia Reilly Giff, The Pinballs by Betsy Byars, and The Same Stuff as Stars by Katherine Paterson. How are they alike and different?

This reading group guide is for classroom, library,and reading group use. It may be reproduced in its entirety or excerpted for these purposes.

Prepared by Marj Lloyd

© William Allen White Children's Book Award

Please visit http://www.emporia.edu/libsv/wawbookaward/ for more information about the awards and to see curriculum guides for other master list titles.

Read More Show Less

Reading Group Guide

ABOUT THE BOOK

Maddie lives in the East Tennessee Children's Home. Ricky Ray, age six, is her special friend. Then Murphy, a new girl, comes to the home telling wonderful stories about her previous life. Maddie doesn't know whether to believe them but enjoys them anyway. Maddie makes scrapbooks of houses, houses cut from magazines, houses where she'd like to live. The children build a fort with the help and in the yard of Logan, who has a home and a family. The children make scrapbooks and weave stories about how they would like their lives to be.

THEMES

Adoption; Orphans and foster children; Friendship; Imagination.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

• Why do you think Murphy tells such stories about herself?

• Do you think Penny Korda will adopt Maddie and Ricky?

• Why did Maddie bury the books? What was the symbolism?

• Maddie was judging the other children by her first impressions. Why can that sometimes be wrong?

• How did Logan's mother change during the story?

ACTIVITIES

• Start a scrapbook of your favorite things — faces, clothes, toys, etc.

• Draw a map of what you think the fort looks like. Where are the doors, windows, and furniture?

• Maddie collects pictures of houses to decide which one she wants for herself. What would your ideal home be like? Draw a picture or write a description.

• Read some other books about foster children, such as Pictures of Hollis Wood by Patricia Reilly Giff, The Pinballs by Betsy Byars, and The Same Stuff as Stars by Katherine Paterson. How are they alike and different?

This reading group guide is for classroom, library, and reading group use. It may be reproduced in its entirety or excerpted for these purposes.

Prepared by Marj Lloyd

© William Allen White Children's Book Award

Please visit http://www.emporia.edu/libsv/wawbookaward/ for more information about the awards and to see curriculum guides for other master list titles.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 10 )
Rating Distribution

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(7)

4 Star

(1)

3 Star

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2 Star

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1 Star

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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 26, 2007

    The BEST Book I Have Ever Read

    I love this book! It is an amazing story of a girl named Maddie who longs for a place or person to call home. When the new girl, Murphy 'who's,by the way, real name is not told til the end' comes to join the Home, she brings exotic and strange belongings and stories. Maddie thinks she can trust Murphy and shows her her beloved scrapbook of places she would like to live in, who no one else had ever saw but Ricky Ray, a six-year-old boy who's parents never came back after a party. I LOVED this book after reading it twice. I suggest you to read this fantastic book when you find it.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 2, 2013

    Good book

    I give five stars!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 11, 2012

    don't waste your money and time!!

    worst book i have ever read and i'm 11

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 7, 2007

    BEST BOOK EVER

    this is an awesome book so far. i had it for about 2 years before i decide to read it but i am almost done i am on page 190 but i can't believe it so far it is so great that i just can't put it down!!!!! I just have to find a theme in it now!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2006

    This Book is THE BEST book out there

    Where I'd Like to Be, had me enticed and enchanted when I read the back. As I read the first page, I was stuck. I couldn't keep my head out of it. I've read it about 3 or 4 times now because it was so good. I also enjoyed it because I had the same name as the main character.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 8, 2005

    Where I'd Like to Be

    I loved this book! I just got finished reading it. It was the best book I ever read!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 9, 2005

    GREAT BOOK

    This was the best book ever i highly recamend this it has all the things that you would want to read. Once you read the first page BAM your stuck to it, its an eyecatching cover too. I LOVED THIS BOOK!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 27, 2004

    Where I'd Like To Be

    It is a great book! It is a Texas Blue bonnet award and I was delighted to read about it! It is a very great story and for anyone all ages to reAD! loved it!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2004

    Wonderful book!!!

    I love this book! It expresses emotions very well. It is really good.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 14, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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