As I became closer to the teachers and mothers, they began to share pieces of the children’s stories with me.
The horror of it all piqued my curiosity: how would Jane survive the night?
\r\n\r\n I read the second time, in secret, the summer after eighth grade.
Alongside those, stacked neatly, are aerospace engineering papers, about plasma propulsion, pork chop plots, and Hohmann transfers.
They feature my fascinations with physical science and innovation for the future.
On “brain rest” for a concussion, I had missed the last two months of school and reading was forbidden, so I hid in my closet, or sat outside in the sweltering DC heat where I knew no one would follow me.
I hid the book under my bed for nighttime forays when I couldn’t sleep due to an almost constant migraine. I couldn’t understand how Jane was capable of moving on.
Everything ranging from the science fiction of gathers in those shelves.
Here is the embodiment of my curiosity and thirst for knowledge.
Each line is parsed, with cursive handwriting pointing out the important bits. In my parent’s books, I can pick up where they left off twenty-five years ago, writing my own replies to decades-old thoughts in the margins.\r\n\r\n At first reading, had everything a romantic eight-year-old could desire.
The subtext was over my head, but I was completely entranced by the red room.