For seventh grade, brainy Meg is attending ultra-competitive Fischer, while freewheeling Edward goes to an alternative school downtown. But it's just when they're finally out of each other's shadows that the trouble begins. Meg's aspirations for popularity and a boyfriend combine with Edward's devious planning and lack of singing ability to set off a showdown the likes of which twindom has never before seen.
Why is this final showdown so much fun? Could it be that Meg and Edward are more alike than they thought?
About the Author
Rachel Vail is the award-winning author of the critically acclaimed novels If We Kiss and Lucky, Gorgeous, and Brilliant (the Avery sisters trilogy) and more than a dozen other novels for young teens, including the Friendship Ring series. Rachel has also written many beloved picture books, including Piggy Bunny and Sometimes I'm Bombaloo, and two hit novels for elementary school kids, Justin Case: School, Drool, and Other Daily Disasters; and Justin Case: Shells, Smells, and the Horrible Flip-Flops of Doom. Rachel lives in New York City with her husband and their two sons.
Date of Birth:December 23, 1937
Place of Birth:New York, New York
Education:University of Wisconsin; M.A. in Library Science from Columbia University, 1964
Read an Excerpt
Never Mind!A Twin Novel
HarperCollins PublishersISBN: 0060543140
Though my sister, Meg, and I were born on the same day, I am ten minutes older, which -- trust me -- is a lot. True, we have the same parents, live in the same 106th Street apartment, same city, state, country, continent. But I'm nothing like her. No way, big way. So I didn't consider myself her twin.
Like, in fifth grade we had to interview our grandparents, asking them sixteen questions the teacher handed out. No offense, but our grandparents are not that interesting. So I made up new answers. Problem was the teacher didn't believe my grandmother hunted armadillos with a bow and arrow or that my grand-father had the world's largest under-glass ant farm.
Meg did the boring facts. Got an A.
Then there was that time we had to do a report on a favorite animal. Meg wrote about the three-day life of our only pet, a sorry goldfish named Polly. There was nothing to say, really. It lived, it ate, it went belly-up.
I wrote about my pet porcupine, which lived in my closet and chased away burglars. When I read it out loud in class, everyone laughed except Meg . . . and the teacher.
Fortunately, this year my parents figured out a way to send us to different middle schools for seventh grade.
"You each have your own talents and styles," Mom said.
"We like it that you're each unusual in your own way," added my dad. "We want to encourage your individuality."
So when seventh grade started -- three weeks ago -- Meg went to Fischer High on the East Side. I went to Charlton Street Alternative School, downtown.
Meg, as usual, will probably get As in all her classes. An A- or B+ on a quiz means supersulks.
My new school doesn't give grades, because they aren't considered meaningful. You pass or fail in small classes where we do lots of projects, field trips, and hands-on stuff. So far, considering that I have to go to school, it seems okay.
Meg isn't just a perfect student. She's also great at sports. She has show-off ribbons (swimming) and trophies (soccer).
I like skateboarding.
Her room is spotless.
My room is a mess.
Meg expects to become a senator. Maybe president. Grown-ups like that. "Good for you," they say. "Like to see that kind of ambition. You've got my vote." Ha ha. Not mine.
If they ask me what I'm going to do, I just say, "Nothing." My hero? Bill Gates. World's richest man -- didn't go to college.
Also, Meg looks a lot older than me. She's at least a foot taller -- a frigging giantess -- and thinks she can look and act like an eighth grader. Ninth, maybe.
Me? The first day of school, Mr. Feffer, the bald teacher with gross hair tufts in his nose, asked me the date of my birth because he wasn't sure I was even supposed to be in the seventh grade. That's how puny people think I am. My rat's-tail haircut and fake tattoos don't help.
Also, Meg has six gazillion friends. If she isn't in a crowd, she feels like she's on a desert island. She and her friends talk to each other on the phone all the time. When she hangs up and I ask, "Who was that?" she'll always answer, "One of my friends you don't know."
(Of course I do know. Because I often listen in on the kitchen extension. My sister may be smart, but she ain't too swift.)
Until this week I had one friend, Stuart Barcaster. While he is the best dude in the world -- and worth more than all her friends put together -- he was the only one I had.
Get my point? She's twelve noon. I'm midnight. We are that different.
So, then, how can I explain what happened?Continues...
Excerpted from Never Mind! by Avi Excerpted by permission.
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