I don’t remember when it was or which book that started it all. I do remember asking my dad to stay up late to read. It worked the first few times until it became habit and he started saying no. But by then I was hooked and it was an all time thing, not just at night.
My parents were divorced and I lived with my dad. My sister and I went to our mom’s every weekend. I got $5 allowance and every Friday night we went to Walmart. That was just enough for two books, usually Sweet Valley Twins or Baby-Sitters Club. I would have one read by the time we got home.
Car rides, restaurants, school… I remember in third grade getting a “hole punch” (a not so good thing) on my name because I was reading instead of paying attention in class. My sixth grade teacher told my mother that I finished my work too quickly and then all I would do is read in class. She said it like it was a bad thing. Never mind it was a rinky-dink 1A country school that had the curriculum for slugs. My mother told the teacher in a kinda polite way to fuck off.
I was the fat kid. Hell, I still am the fat kid. Reading was my escape. I make it sound like I was tortured. But really, no. Sure, in grade school I was teased, but I had friends, good friends. But my best friends were written on pages that never laughed at or judged me.
(To be continued.)