When I was a kid in elementary school, I used to get in trouble for reading. It seems absurd. But when I was ten, I could read with utter concentration. I could remain immersed in Bullfinch’s Mythology when the television was on and not know that Samantha was twinkling her nose at people. If Alex and the Black Stallion had been separated and Alex had lost his memory, I never knew my mother was calling for me. After I raced through whatever work we were doing in class and opened At the Back of the North Wind, I was oblivious to the teacher calling our attention and starting the next lesson. So Mr. Fish, my fourth grade teacher, used to take my library book from me and put it on the chalk rail of the blackboard, close to the door. I could pick it up at the end of the day. Once my book had been confiscated, I was forced to fall back on drawing horses, which probably says way too much about what kind of girl I was.

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