Sometimes your life just needs a little jolt. This is what Evie's new friend Francesca tells her, and soon enough, Evie's life has had something more like an earthquake. Francesca thinks life is dull unless you go after everything you want and say everything on your mind all the time--and sometimes that includes giving other people a little behind the scenes help to give them what she thinks they want. Evie can't always tell if she's horrified or fascinated by everything Francesca convinces her to do, but ultimately, she comes to see friendship--and life--in a whole new light. "Poignant and hilarious, This Is Me From Now On is just like real life . . . only funnier." --Lisa Papademetriou "Hilarious and heartwarming! I loved it!" --Lauren Barnholdt, author of The Secret Identity of Devon Delaney Life has been predictable for Evie, and she doesn’t expect seventh grade to offer many surprises for herself or her longtime best friends, Lily and Nisha. Then Francesca moves next-door to live with her aunt, and suddenly nothing’s the same. A free spirit, Francesca has an elastic relationship with the truth and doesn’t mind getting involved in matters that are none of her business—as when she tries to engineer a romantic relationship between two teachers, one of whom, as it turns out, is married. Evie is alternately intrigued and infuriated by Francesca’s behavior, but there’s no doubt that Francesca offers a decidedly different take on life. Dee neatly captures the interactions of middle-schoolers and in Francesca provides a character, who, while larger-than-life, still fits well into the seventh-grade milieu. A quick, fun read. - BOOKLIST, Online Exclusive, November 7, 2010 Barbara Dee is the author of fourteen middle grade novels including Unstuck , Haven Jacobs Saves the Planet , Violets Are Blue , My Life in the Fish Tank , Maybe He Just Likes You , Everything I Know About You , Halfway Normal , and Star-Crossed . Her books have earned several starred reviews and have been named to many best-of lists, including The Washington Post ’s Best Children’s Books, the ALA Notable Children’s Books, the ALA Rise: A Feminist Book Project List, the NCSS-CBC Notable Social Studies Trade Books for Young People, and the ALA Rainbow List Top Ten. Barbara lives with her family, including a naughty cat named Luna and a sweet rescue hound named Ripley, in Westchester County, New York. I squinted at Francesca. Even outside in the glaring sunshine she looked fantastic: her skin was a golden tan, and her hair was the color of Kraft Caramels. “So where do you want to go?” I asked, my teeth skidding on the last little slivers of ice cubes “Oh, you decide,” Francesca said happily. “You’re the expert.” “I am?” “Well, you live here, don’t you? Where do you go when you want to have fun?” “I don’t know. The mall, probably. When someone’s mom can drive us.” She made a face. “Where else?” “The park. The movies. The stores on Elm.” “Blah. Boring.” “The ice cream place—” “Ooh, ice cream,” she said, clapping her hands. “What a genius idea. Is it far?” “Sort of. Half a mile, maybe.” “Oh, that’s nothing. I love to walk.” I looked at her feet. “Even in those shoes? They don’t look very comfortable.” “Oh, they’re not. They’re bloody torture, actually. But they’re so epically gorgeous, don’t you think?” She took off her left shoe. I could see the side of her foot near her big toe looked pink and peely. She rubbed it, then put the shoe right back on and beamed at me. “Besides, if Mother Darling saw me wearing them, she’d go berserk. So who cares about stupid blisters.” I didn’t know what to say to that; it never occurred to me to want my mom to go berserk. The truth is, Mom went berserk all the time, over things like unwashed dishes and unmade beds, and I didn’t exactly find it entertaining. And why did Francesca just call her own mom ‘Mother Darling’? She talked really, really strangely, like everything she said was in quotation marks or something We walked long blocks without saying very much. The air was so hot, it was almost chewy, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my armpits, even though this morning I’d snuck some of Grace’s powder-fresh deodorant. Francesca was definitely limping by now. Once or twice I saw her stop and rub her foot, but she never complained or took her shoe off again. Finally she pointed across the street. “Is that the ice cream place, Evie? It looks like heaven.” “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “But I really like their chocolate chip.” She wiped her forehead. “Yum, chocolate chip. My absolute favorite.” We crossed the street and went inside. Oh, I should tell you that I Scream for Ice Cream (I know, I know: dumb name) was owned by Zane’s dad, and Zane helped out there sometimes. Today was one of those days, probably because the place was packed with sticky first graders off the camp bus and moms sick of dieting all summer to fit into bathing suits and middle schoole