Regular readers will not be surprised to know that my childhood identity was that of Book Girl: The kid whose nose was forever in a book. Who read all the "Little House" books, including the one Almanzo Wilder. Who knew the difference between the Newberry Medal and Newberry Honor. Who read every book in the classroom library, and remembered the call numbers of favorite volumes in the school library. Who, when hospitalized for asthma (a common condition among Book Kids), asked only for concerned relatives to retrieve a stack of books from home.
To the tribe of kids who keep paperbacks in their lunchboxes, the Scholastic Book Fair was akin to a religious holiday. I'd bring home the purchase form and negotiate with my mother over how many books I could buy on our strict family budget. Return to school with the form and a handwritten check neatly folded into an envelope with my name. After an interminable wait, which was actually just a few weeks, the books would show up after lunch, piled on our desks as if by magic. Everything from stone-cold classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" to the latest "Babysitter's Club" release, to be devoured in a day.
