Title: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Category and Genre: (YA/Magical Realism/Time-travel)
Word Count: 86,000
Query:
A year has passed since sixteen-year-old Ellie Barrett’s mother died. She pulled away from her two best friends and her once-beloved Aunt Jane who’s now her guardian. She only talks to Nate, the loner guy at school with a mysterious past. She doesn’t see her life ever changing until the night she wishes on a shooting star to get her mother back. And she does, just not the way she imagined.
Now, instead of sleeping, she travels to 1976 when her mother was sixteen-year-old Trix. Being with her mom is a dream-come-true . . . almost. Ellie loves Trix and adores her grandmother and her aunt at twelve. But Trix isn’t a mom-substitute, and time-travel has its downsides. Besides never sleeping, Ellie vanishes when she travels from one time to the other. In the past she’s healthy, but in her present Ellie fears she won’t survive.
Time-travel is killing Ellie, so she must choose—if she can—life in the past with her sixteen-year-old mother or life without her mother at all.
First 250 Words:
The breeze on top of the Empire State Building gusts Mom’s soft hippie skirt behind her, her black and silver hair intertwining with mine. “Can anything be better than this?” she asks.
We pose like figureheads on a ship, arms outstretched, hugging all of Manhattan, the car lights streaming like rivers far below.
I laugh. “When did heights stop bothering you?”
Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. “When I died, my sweet.”
My alarm went off, the droning buzz erasing Mom’s voice. I hit the clock, needing to smack something. To break something. My heart pounded, my eyes teary.
Mom Dream #365. She leaves me. Again.
I curled into a ball under my comforter, my arms wrapped around me. Me pretending they’re hers. I didn’t know which was worse—great dreams where Mom is herself or the ones like last night’s where she sat next to me at her funeral, skeleton thin, accusing me of forgetting her, preferring Aunt Jane.
No matter which kind of dream, waking up was torture. I wanted her here, whether she was nightmare Mom or real Mom. Real Mom—pushy, loving, funny, mush under impatience—would know how desperately I missed her, that I’d do anything to get her back, to have her open the door, hear her say my name.
“Ellie, you up?”
Wrong! Wrong person!
The door creaked opened. “Ellie, answer so I know you’re awake.”
Every morning we did this. She’d sound like Mom, but every morning she wasn’t.





















