One of twelve siblings growing up in Depression-era Baltimore, Edith isn’t quite sure of who she is. Between working at her father’s diner, taking care of her younger siblings, and living in the shadow of her more mature sisters, she feels lost in a sea of siblings. When a kind teacher encourages Edith to be a teacher herself one day, Edith sees prospects for a future all her own. Full of joy, pain, humor, and sadness, this novel in verse is an enduring portrait of one family’s pursuit of the American dream. "Rosenthal's spare writing superbly captures the emotional growth of a girl on the cusp of adolescence, despite its specific historical context."-- School Library Journal "The overall tone is one of solidarity in spite of difficulties."-- Booklist "This would serve as an excellent class readaloud as well as appealing to fans of both poetry and memoir."-- Bulletin Before she began writing children’s books, Betsy Rosenthal was a lawyer for a national civil rights agency. She left that career behind to raise her three children and concentrate on her writing. She is the author of three picture books: My House Is Singing, It’s Not Worth Making a Tzimmes Over!, and Which Shoes Would You Choose? Looking for Me is her first novel.Ms. Rosenthal has also had many essays published in national and local newspapers and magazines.  To learn more about Ms. Rosenthal, you can visit her at www.BetsyRosenthal.com . Edith of No Special Place I’m just plain Edith. I’m number four, and should anyone care, I’m eleven years old, with curly black hair. Squeezed / between /two / brothers, Daniel and Ray, lost in a crowd, will I ever be more than just plain Edith, who’s number four? In my overcrowded family I’m just another face. I’m just plain Edith of no special place. Always One More I saw these wooden nesting dolls in a store, the kind where you don’t know how many dolls there are altogether until you start opening them up, and there’s always one more inside, sort of like my family. Family Portrait, Baltimore, 1936 We’re lined up: girl boy, girl boy, girl boy, girl boy, girl boy, and in the middle of us all, Dad, who ordered us to smile right before the Brownie clicked, standing stiff as a soldier, no smile on his face, and Mom’s beside him, a baby in her arms and in her rounded belly another one, just a trace. Inspector Bubby When Mom goes to the hospital to have this new baby, us older kids watch the younger ones and keep the house clean. We think we’re doing okay until Dad’s mother, Bubby Anne, comes over and runs her finger across the top of the china cabinet that we couldn’t even reach, just to show us the dust we’ve left behind. There Goes That Theory Nobody asked my opinion about having another sister or brother. But if someone had, I would have asked for another little sister, even though I was sure this new baby in Mom’s belly had to be a boy. How could I be so sure? Because the last girl she had was my sister Annette. Sometime after Annette came along, Mom collapsed and Dad rushed her to the hospital, where they took out one of her ovaries (part of her baby-making equipment, Bubby Anne told us). So my sisters and I thought it must have been the girl-making one because since the surgery Mom has had nothing but boys — my brothers Lenny, Melvin, Sol, and Jack. But now this baby in Mom’s belly turned out to be Sherry. And that’s the end of our ovary theory. Now We’re Even Maybe Mom and Dad wanted one last one to even things up. With six boys and now six girls, maybe they’re done. I guess there’s really no way of knowing, but I sure hope our family’s all done growing. Some People Don’t Understand About a Big Family My friends Connie and Eunice love coming to my house. To them it seems like we’re always having a party. But I’d rather go to their houses, where there’s room to move around without bumping into anybody and you never have to stand in line to use the bathroom. I Wonder What It Would Be Like To sleep by myself in this bed that holds three with all of the covers to cover just me. To spread my arms wide and lie at a slant with no other bodies to say that I can’t. To lie on a pillow, no feet in my face; I’d lie awake nights just feeling the space. Keeping the Days Straight Since it’s summertime and we aren’t back in school yet, I keep forgetting what day it is. So my brother Raymond teaches me the trick of checking what Mom’s making for dinner. Mondays are milkhik , Tuesdays, liver; Wednesdays are macaroni casserole days, Thursdays are meat, and Fridays we eat a Shabbos feast of chicken, chopped liver, and soup. Saturdays we have what’s left, and Sundays Dad brings home deli. So the day of the week all depends on what’s inside my belly. Why Can’t Summer Last Forever? Summer means we’re outside, trying to cool off. So my little brother Melvin grabs my hand and we run by the garden hose that Mom’s waving around. We scream with glee as she hoots