I had this moment of panic a couple nights ago.
I couldn’t remember the name of a very common, pretty classic book for young adults. It’s one we all know. But for the life of me, I could only remember the author {}, and the less well-known sequel, A Swiftly Tilting Planet. On a normal day, sitting in the Children’s section of Barnes & Noble, this would have been enough for someone to fill in the blanks. I’m sure 90% of the people reading this post know exactly which book I’m talking about.
Sadly, not one person present that day had a clue.
Not even my sister, who is the smartest person on the planet besides her husband, my own sweet hubz, me, and maybe a handful of others whom I won’t name for fear of leaving someone out and getting attacked by all their hurt feelings. {KEEP YOUR HURT FEELINGS TO YOURSELF, YOU GUYS. I’m sure you’re all very, very smart in your own special ways.} My sister, in her own defense, came to love reading later in life than I, so while I still find it unacceptable that she couldn’t read my fucking mind, I’m giving her a pass. THIS TIME, SISTER. Don’t ever do that again.
Another person at our table should have known.
My mother read the book, and it was fairly recent, too – like within the past decade. I know this FOR A GODDAMN FACT, because I’m the one who bought her a copy and forced her to read it after discovering that she had somehow missed it, as she, *TOO*, came to love reading later in life.
{It should be pointed out here what a freaking phenomenon I am, since I started reading at the age of four and have not yet come up for air. And my family thinks *I* am the weirdo. Whatevs.}
You might wonder if my mom really read it.
Yes, smart-ass, she read it. Because not only did I buy her a copy, I motherfucking quizzed her over the material. I asked her opinion on the story line and character development and plot things and other reading analysis types of smarty-ness. We had entire discussions over this book, okay? I’m not crazy. I’m NOT fucking crazy. Stop looking at me like that, a-hole.
My mom, however, still thinks I’m crazy.
{But that’s okay, since she may be an a-hole, too.} This is what she said, eyes wide in innocence as we poured our adult bodies onto tiny, kid-size bench-seats:
“Well, it must not have been very good, since it didn’t make much of an impression.”
And thusly my planet swiftly tilted.
FUCK YOU FOR THAT, MOTHER! Because you liked that book. You told me you liked that all the people – “great religious figures, philosophers, and artists” {Wikipedia} – throughout the history of our planet who fought against the *The Black Thing* included Jesus. An excuse to insert your Lord and Savior into our conversation was like a major selling point for you. Nevertheless, while I have always looked back on our discussions as some of the few nice conversations we shared, you successfully poisoned them forever now that I know you don’t remember them in the slightest.
Yeah, you are definitely an a-hole on this.
You left me high-n-dry. What should have been a “gimme” suddenly turned into this weird, awkward situation wherein I looked around with hungry, crazed eyes in an attempt to make someone, anyone, help me with the title of this stupid book. A couple moms browsing in our area made eye contact and shrugged, indicating they, too, were unfamiliar with this novel. Because apparently no one in Dayton, Ohio has ever heard of {much less READ} this very famous book. And for that, I say that every single parent in that section should have their children stripped from their care.
Seriously: What responsible mother has NOT heard of A WRINKLE IN TIME?
THIS. This is the book, dumb-dumbs. TELL ME YOU’VE READ READ IT.
Yeah, fuckers. I finally struggled from my chair in a panic and scrambled over to the Information Desk because THIS CANNOT STAND, YOU NON-READING PIECES OF SHIT.
Breathless, I gasped for air.
The worker-person looked at me in concern when I told her I was having a heart attack. She asked me if I needed her to call 911. I said no, I needed her to help me recall the name of a book before my brain exploded all over the jerks in the Kid section. She took me very seriously and immediately logged in to her little computer-desk-thing.
“Madeline L’Engle. What did she write? The sequel is called A Swiftly Tilting Planet and I don’t even know why I can remember that. Help me. Please.”
She got all excited.
Because – SEE, YOU GUYS? – it’s a common title. I’m not crazy. And then her tongue got all tied and stuck to the roof of her mouth because everyone knows that forgetfulness is extremely contagious. She was snapping her fingers and going, “Oh, it’s uh, uh, uh… I know this… hold on.” Finally she resorted to looking it up because otherwise we were fucked and her brain would be following mine in explosion sequencing.
By now you already know.
Because you aren’t dumb. And also because I told you. But just in case you missed it:
The classic book by renowned Author Madeline L’Engle is fucking A WRINKLE IN TIME.
It’s okay if you missed this. You can catch a newer version in theaters at some point.
Please tell me you have read it?
Or at least heard of it?
Maybe watched the ultra crap-tastic, but oh-so-fun, made-for-TV version?
Come on, you guys.
Don’t leave me hanging. I’m dying over here. My planet is *SO* swiftly tilted I’m about to fall off.
PS – Although she is dead now, you can still visit the continuing, active blog of Madeleine L’Engle, which is pretty goddamn talented for a corpse. I mean, I’m supposedly *ALIVE* and sometimes I don’t post for months at a time. KUDOS. Maddy gots mad skillz.
