That's me in the groovy sweaterI've always said that I was at my best when I was eight years old. I was in fourth grade, the same age as Arthur Read, and Arnold of the eponymous Nickelodeon cartoon. It was the best of both anthropomorphic and cartoon worlds, not to mention Sailor Moon was still on t.v. I was bright, interested in school, loved to read, and I could spend hours in the backyard on the swings, daydreaming endlessly. School was exciting because my academic rivalry with the other smart kid in my class was absolutely thrilling, and when we worked together, we would dominate. I read so many books that my parents tried to intervene, and I was best friends with Jamie, the coolest girl in the world.
I would bring home five books from a series at a time, and thus devoured The Baby Sitter's Club, Sweet Valley Twins, and The Boxcar Children, and longed to be a big girl babysitter, a twin, and a self-assured orphan who took care of herself and a small pet, sleeping at night in a network of cozy treehouses which I fantasized would appear when I most needed them. The above copy of Racing Hearts isn't from my childhood, but from two Christmases ago, a gift from a friend who truly knows my heart, and my childish brain. I have to confess that I skipped picture books altogether, because as soon as I mastered English and learned to read, it was time for chapter books. Books didn't have real pictures until I started reading Greek mythology. You and I had very different childhoods even though we lived minutes apart, and I love that. We forged our own sassy little girl paths, meeting some time later in the middle. We're both fiery, with dark, dark hair, and dark disapproving gazes, and we're dark and twisty on the inside
We're best friends.-Karen
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