Title: Paloma and the Bow Wow Bar Mitzvah
Genre: contemporary early middle grade chapter book
Word Count: 14,500
Impulsive, fur-phobic, nine-year-old Paloma Perez needs cash fast, or she’ll miss celebrating her best friend’s birthday at the most epic-i-lious concert ever.
Pet sitting a lost and most-likely dead cat isn’t working out, so Paloma literally turns herself upside down. Ka-ching! She comes up with a brilliant money maker--Paloma Perez Party Planner Extraordinaire. But she ignores her best friend’s warning, and her first event, a Doggie Bar Mitzvah, unloads a pooper-scooper full of trouble.
Paloma scrambles to pull together a furry fun-a-palooza, but amid the chaos of cat party crashers (they come for the herring) and yarmulke-eating canines, Paloma’s worried she could fail. And even worse, she could lose her best friend too.
Summer Vacation Rule Number One: if you’re trying to save the planet, don’t use left-over Easter egg dye as hair color.
I, Paloma Perez, have a lot of hiccups. Not the mini-heart-attack, can’t-breathe-for-a-second kind of hiccups. The Paloma-what-have-you-done-now kind of hiccups. But those are my
mom’s words. She calls my oops-I-made-a-mistake hiccups, disasters.
Hiccups aren’t disasters unless you’re Charles Osborne. He’s in the Guinness Book of World Records for hiccuping for sixty-eight years. Can you believe he hiccuped every ten
seconds, even when he was sleeping? I used a calculator. That’s over two hundred million hiccups.
I’m only nine. I bet I don’t have a thousand hiccups. Even if I add the regular kind and the mistakey kind together. But it’s only the first day of my summer vacation.
Anything could happen.
I could drink too fast and laugh too hard and ka-powie! Hiccups.
Or my planet-saving hair color could stink like pickles. Which it does. But I told my mom, that’s not a disaster.
I didn't convince her. She banished me from the back of Lucia's Divas Hair Salon, to the front. My mom’s Lucia. She’s the owner, and we live above the salon with my grandmother.
So I’m sitting at the scratched wooden table called the reception desk, when Nina, my best friend, flies into the salon like she packed her Tori Skori backpack with jet fuel.