I was the only girl in my household, raised with one older brother and two younger ones. I was a tomboyish, introverted, socially and athletically awkward middle child. My classmates teased me for my red hair, for getting the highest test scores in the class, for my thrift-store and hand-me-down clothing, for my name. I was probably an easy target. My stepdad and I did not exactly get along because I stubbornly wanted to understand the why of everything, rather than just obeying his orders as he very clearly would have preferred. I had such an affinity for animals that I rescued mice from my grandmother’s cats and saved drowning worms from puddles after it rained. Whenever I could, I would climb the tree in the backyard to sit on my favorite branch and read a book.
Books were my refuge from the difficulties in my life. They enabled me to live someone else’s life for a while, to vicariously visit fascinating places and meet kind people and have far more interesting problems than my real ones. Because my family was (and still is) very religious, there were also things I might never have learned about, or at least not until much later, if not for my insatiable love of reading.