Four girls navigate friends, family, and fiction in this first book in the acclaimed Mother-Daughter Book Club middle grade series—now with a fresh, cozy new look! Even if Megan would rather be at the mall, Cassidy is late for hockey practice, Emma’s already read every book in existence, and Jess is missing her mother too much to care, their new book club is supposed to meet every month. After all, “books are always good company if you have the right sort,” according to Jo March. But what begins as a mom-imposed ritual of reading Little Women soon helps four unlikely friends navigate the drama of middle school. From stolen journals to secret crushes to a fashion-fiasco first dance, the girls are up to their Wellies in drama. They can’t help but wonder: What would Jo March do? Heather Vogel Frederick is the award-winning author of the Mother-Daughter Book Club series, the Pumpkin Falls Mystery series, the Patience Goodspeed books, the Spy Mice series, and Once Upon a Toad . An avid fan of small towns like Pumpkin Falls, Heather and her husband live in New England, close to where Heather grew up. You can learn more about the author and her books at HeatherVogelFrederick.com. 1. Emma Emma “?‘It’s so dreadful to be poor!’ sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.” — Little Women “Nice skirt, Emma,” calls Becca Chadwick, giving me the once-over as I head down the aisle of the school bus looking for a seat. This is not a compliment and I know it and she knows it. Blushing, I slide into the first empty spot I find. My brother Darcy passes me, heading for the last few rows, which, by tradition, are reserved for eighth graders. Behind me, I hear Becca whisper something to Ashley Garcia. I hunch down and smooth a crease in my skirt, my stomach clenching in all-too-familiar anxiety. It’s starting already. I’d hoped maybe sixth grade would be different. “Must have been a big back-to-school sale at the thrift store,” says Ashley, her lame attempt at sarcasm producing a burst of laughter from Becca. As the bus doors whoosh shut and we lurch forward down Lowell Road, I force myself to ignore them both and look out the window instead. The familiar scenery is soothing, and I feel myself relax a little as we cross the quiet waters of the Concord River and pass stately old colonial houses and meadows hemmed by time-worn stone walls. In a few weeks the leaves on all the trees will start to turn, quilting the woods with New England’s famous blaze of yellow and scarlet and orange. Here and there amongst the thickets I spot fat clusters of wild Concord grapes. They’ll be ripe soon, and just thinking about the way the thick purple skins burst when I bite down, releasing the sour juiciness inside, makes my mouth start to water. As we turn onto Barnes Hill Road and begin our slow circle back toward town, I pull a notebook from my backpack and open to a fresh page. “Ode to September,” I write across the top. I chew the eraser on my pencil, pondering my opening line. But instead of writing verse, I find myself stewing about how much I hate the first day of school. I never used to. When I was little, I could hardly wait for it to start. I’d get all excited about my new lunchbox and pencils and stuff, and I’d wear my new shoes around for weeks to break them in. Then a couple of years ago, in fourth grade, everything changed. Suddenly it was all about who’s popular and who’s not and if you’re wearing the right thing. Which I never am. Ever. The bus wheezes to a stop in front of the Bullet Hole House. It’s called the Bullet Hole House even though the Anderson family owns it because two hundred and fifty years ago during the Revolutionary War, a retreating redcoat—that’s what they use to call British soldiers—fired at it. Well, at Elisha Jones, who lived in the house back then. He was a minuteman and he’d accidentally slept through the skirmish across the street at the Old North Bridge. He was standing there in his doorway watching the British retreat when it happened. Sometimes I think about the Jones family, who were probably sitting at their breakfast table when wham! —all of a sudden a bullet hits the house. I’d have been scared to death. At least it missed Elisha. Anyway, the hole is still there and there’s a little sign explaining all about it. The Bullet Hole House is on all the maps of Concord, and tourists are always stopping to take pictures of it. They take pictures of everything in our town. You can’t turn around in Concord, Massachusetts, without bumping into history, my dad says, and I guess he’s right. The front door opens and someone runs out, but it isn’t a minuteman and it isn’t a redcoat, it’s only Kyle Anderson. He swats me on the head as he passes my seat. It’s more of a big brother swat than a mean swat, though. I’ve known Kyle since I was in diapers. “Hey, Emma,” he says. “Hey, Kyle.” Behind me, Becca and Ashley chorus their hellos too, but Kyle ignores them and takes a se