I was reading The Pink Motel during silent reading in the fifth grade.  It belonged to Alice Goldstein.  She had loaned it to the classroom library.  Alice had told all the fifth grade girls how good it was, and I had finally gotten my turn to read it.

Now I wasn’t much of a reader back then.  I was good at reading, but I wasn’t book crazy like so many of my friends.  I didn’t seem to be able to find books that grabbed me, until I started The Pink Motel.  I looked forward to silent reading time so I could get further into the story.

Today, though, I wasn’t feeling so good.  Mama had given me orange juice at breakfast and sent me to school though I protested I was sick.  Unfortunately, during silent reading, with my head bent over the beloved Pink Motel , all the orange juice came up and splattered over the book, my desk, my lap, and the floor.

“Eeeewww” burst out from my classmates, and Mr. Harrington, the teacher, walked briskly over, gingerly picked up The Pink Motel with finger and thumb and dropped it in the brown metal trash can by the door.

I went to the nurse, then home, and I never finished The Pink Motel. I was also never really friends again with Alice Goldstein.  Either she never forgave me, or I was never brave enough to approach her after barfing on her book.

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