An Unlikely Writer

By Deborah Ann Lucas

We moved every year when I was young, making me the perpetual new kid. One day during the summer after fifth grade, I complained I had nothing to do. Busy making dinner, Mom sent me out into the small Michigan town to find a library—my first. I walked around the block, climbed the stairs, and entered a cavernous room. The smell of musty books enveloped me. As my anxiety grew, the room blurred. I couldn’t figure out the catalog system. But Mom expected me to bring home ...