Samantha Berger

A boy who looks ordinary transforms into grumbling Crankenstein on what he sees as the most lovey-dovey, yuckiest day of the year.

When I first met my stepmother, I was a little suspicious. All stepmothers are supposed to be wicked! Evil! Downright B-A-D BAD! Or at least, that's what the stories say. So I thought I knew just what to expect from mine. But my stepmother didn't seem to be any of those things. She helped me paint my room. She left me notes in my lunch box. She baked my favorite lemon squares. Is it possible I might have been wrong about stepmothers?