His eyes widen. "That is so. Cool! You're so lucky. Letters just stand there all boring when I read. I hate reading. I'd rather do anything in the world than read."
"Really?" I ask, wishing that the letters would just stand still for me and wait to be read.
He gasps a little, as if he can't believe that I don't agree. "Uh, yeah? Are you kidding? Last summer, my mother kept giving me the choice of reading or washing her car. She had the cleanest car in the neighbourhood all summer."
I smiled because I really like Oliver. I've been thinking about myself so much, I never really noticed how funny he is.
And looking around the room, I remember thinking that my reading differences were like dragging a concrete block around every day, and how I felt sorry for myself. Now I realize that everyone has their own blocks to drag around. And they all feel heavy.
Fish in a Tree, P245
Lynda Mullaly Hunt
ISBN 978-0-399-16259-6
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