Fans of Louis Sachar will welcome the adventures of a contest-crazed seventh grader who uses his wits and way with words in hopes of winning a big cash prize to help his family avoid eviction.   Benjamin is about to lose a whole lot more than good toilet paper. If he doesn't make tons of money fast by selling candy bars and winning contests—like the Royal-T Bathroom Tissue slogan contest—his family will get kicked out of their apartment. Even with his flair for clever slogans, will Benjamin be able to win a cash prize large enough to keep a promise he made to his dad before he died? Or will he lose everything that matters to him?  Praise for Death by Toilet Paper     "Readers can't help but enjoy this heartening book about hanging in there."-- Kirkus Reviews "Ben is a character kids will root for."-- Publisher's Weekly  "Would make a fine classroom readaloud."--The Bulletin   "Gephart's generous view of humanity's basic goodness shines through, and she leavens her characters' difficult situation with plenty of humor. . . Readers can't help but enjoy this heartening book about hanging in there."-- Kirkus Reviews "Ben is a character kids will root for, and he's surrounded by family and friends who help him see things will be okay, a message that may comfort readers facing similar circumstances."-- Publisher's Weekly  "Gephart, author of  How to Survive Middle   School  (BCCB 6/10), again shows a deft hand at rendering difficult situations with empathy, adding just the right amount of realistic humor to relieve but not trivial- ize. . . Despite its title and cover art, this is not a romp, but it would make a fine classroom readaloud."--The Bulletin   As a child Donna Gephart entered every contest she could find and won everything from savings bonds for college to a check for $1.98 to tickets to a local amusement park. She lives in Florida. The first letter . . . Dear Royal-T Toilet Paper Company, You guys make the best toilet paper on the planet. I realize that’s a weird thing for a seventh grader to say, but it’s true. I didn’t know enough to appreciate having Royal-T in our bathroom until the day it was gone--replaced by the world’s worst recycled, scratchy (sand)paper. Good toilet paper was the first thing to go; then cable got turned off, and it’s gotten worse from there. Much worse. But I don’t feel like talking about that now. I just want to tell you Royal-T is the best, and I wish we could go back to using it. Your friend, Benjamin Epstein Seven percent of Americans steal toilet paper from hotel and motel rooms. Inside my best friend’s kitchen, blood spatters cover every surface--the kitchen table, including the pepper mill, the wall behind the table and much of the tile floor. Even their cat, Psycho, has a blood spatter across her white fur. My eyes, open wide with horror, take in each gruesome detail. Lying on the blood-spattered floor with a cleaver buried in his chest is my best friend’s dad, Mr. Taylor. He’s wearing his chef’s apron from Chez Gourmet, but the apron is more red than white. A trickle of blood leaks from the side of his mouth and drips into his beard, then onto the sticky floor. Mr. Taylor’s right eyelid springs open. He looks at me. I step back, but his thick, hairy arm shoots out. He grabs my ankle, and his fingers squeeze with surprising strength. “Help . . . ,” he gurgles. “Help me.” My voice explodes eight octaves too high, and I scream like a girl. Toothpick lowers his video camera. “Cut! Great scream, Ben! Thanks, Dad.” He does an awkward dance step that makes him look like an ostrich whose feet are on fire. “This is going to be my scariest film yet!” Mr. Taylor (aka the corpse) leaps off the kitchen floor, removes the fake cleaver from his chest and pulls the bloody apron over his head. “You’d better get my apron clean before I leave for my shift at the restaurant tonight,” he tells Toothpick, “or you’re going to end up in there.” Mr. Taylor points to a pot on the stove, where tomato sauce and severed fingers are bubbling. Toothpick pulls the fake fingers out with tongs and tosses them into the sink. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he says. “Most of the fake blood is actually salsa. Looks great on film, and super easy to clean up.” “Tastes good, too,” Mr. Taylor says, swiping his finger across the “blood” on the kitchen table and putting it in his mouth. “Needs a little cilantro, though.” Toothpick cracks up, and I get a pang in my chest, because I know my dad would have done something dumb like that, too. He was always doing silly things and cracking jokes, like “How do you get a baby astronaut to sleep? You rocket.” When Mom and I didn’t laugh, he’d say, “Rocket, rock it. Get it? Funny, right?” I never imagined I’d miss my dad’s dumb jokes. “Now, get this salsa cleaned up,” Mr. Taylor says, patting Toothpick’s shoulder, “or I’m going to have to buy a truckload of nacho chips to go with it.” “No problemo,” Toothpick says, slinging his skinny arm across my shoulders. He’s mo