Page 114 of What You Wish For

“He’s had a book on his nightstand for a week, and he’s barely read any of it.”

That definitely didn’t sound like Clay. “What’s the book?” I asked.

Tina looked straight at me and said, “The Sound and the Fury.”

I coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

She nodded. “Yes. He did fine withOf Mice and Men,but he’s faltering with this one.”

“Clay readOf Mice and Men?” I asked.

Please note: we were talking about a third-grader.

“Yes,” Tina says, “and he aced his reading comprehension quiz. But now it’s like he’s backsliding.”

I had to step back.

“Why,” I asked then, “is your third-grader reading Steinbeck?”

Tina gave me a look. “You’ve seen him. You know what he can do. His father and I think he needs to be challenged.”

“Challenged… by Steinbeck?”

“His dad and I want him reading the classics.”

“In the third grade?”

“He can handle it.”

“Maybe he can. But should he have to?”

It wasn’t shocking to talk to a parent who was pushing difficult reading on her kid. Parents at this school did that all the time. No matter what culture or socioeconomic group they came from—and we had a wide variety here—they were all, uniformly, people who valued education. They were hard-working, driven, goal-oriented people, and most parents, I’ve found, have some level of anxiety about their kids’ relationship with reading. It’s beyond common for parents to equate reading with success—and difficult reading with more success.

I spent a lot of time trying to convince overeager parents thatharderdidn’t always meanbetter. So a conversation like this wasn’t all that surprising.

What was surprising, though, was that this was (A) Max and Babette’s daughter (who should know better), talking about her (B) third-grader and his interest—or lack thereof—in (C) reading Steinbeck.

Steinbeck.

“We also have another issue,” Tina said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Last night, I found some disturbing materials in his backpack.”

I frowned. What were we talking about? He was a little young forPlayboy.

“Disturbing how?” I asked.

“I found them—but I hid them in the pantry behind the cereal boxes before his father could see.”

“Hid what?” I prompted.

Tina took a breath, then let it out. She leaned in a little closer. Then she whispered, “Garfields.”

I frowned.Garfields? “I don’t understand,” I said.

She nodded, like we were on the same page. “Four compilations. The big, fat ones.”

I knew about thoseGarfields. He had checked them out yesterday. I’d let him go one book over the limit, even. “What’s wrong withGarfield?”

She looked at me like I was nuts. “It’s cartoons.”

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