I, like most other middle-schoolers, was struggling to keep up with the norms of the rest of my class and spent most of the day gossiping with my friends. I first read “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” when I was in middle school, a time that I still identify as one of the nastiest stages in adolescence. It’s always in the center of everything, out of sight and out of mind, co-existing until someone from the periphery has the sudden urge to pick it back up again. It’s as if I can’t bear to let it out of my sight every time I reread it, or as if the book can’t tear itself away from the countertop. Somewhere between the time when I first read the book five years ago and now, that spot on the kitchen island became the permanent spot for the novel.
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