Unwritten Books 1 - Unwritten Girl Read Free Page A

now. I’m with my uncle, whisked away from downtown Toronto to greater Clarksbury.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Rosemary again. “What a thing to bring up.”
    “Don’t worry,” said Peter. “I’m looking forward to dinner. I like my uncle, but ... well ... it’s just him and me in that place and he doesn’t believe in suppertime. He buys things you heat up in the microwave. You have a real family, Sage.” He grinned at her.
    She looked away. “Hardly normal, though.”
    “I wouldn’t wish normal on my worst enemy,” said Peter. “But I see what you mean. I’ve never seen so many books outside of a library. And where’s your television set?”
    Rosemary grimaced. “Mom won’t have one in the house.”
    Peter raised an eyebrow. “Explains your love of books.”
    Rosemary looked up at him. His smile was perfectly benign. No teasing here. “Partly,” she said at last. “Dad’s the other reason.”
    “The other reason for what?” Mr. Watson set a steaming bowl of spaghetti on the table. He took off his pig-puppet potholders and untied his apron.
    “We were talking about the books,” said Peter.
    Mr. Watson laughed. “Oh, yes. Town librarian isn’t a job; it’s a way of life. My love of books doesn’t turn off when I get home.” He glanced at a clock on the wall in the shape of a cat, its tail a pendulum. “Listen, kids, I think we’d better dig in before dinner gets cold.”
    “But what about Mom and Theo?” asked Rosemary.
    “Your mom’s already two hours late from picking up Theo.”
    Peter nudged Rosemary. “Is Theo your brother?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “He’s studying English at the University of Toronto.”
    “The storm may have slowed them down,” Mr. Watson continued. “Waiting for them is likely to leave dinner cold, so let’s eat. Just make sure you leave enough for them to warm up in the microwave.”
    After dinner, Mr. Watson led Peter on a tour of the house. “Books, books, books!” said Peter, staring up the main staircase and the shelves lining one wall of it. “How did you get so many?”
    “Forty years of shopping in used book stores,” Mr. Watson replied.
    “Have you read them all?” Peter asked Rosemary.
    She snorted. “No!”
    “I haven’t read them all, either,” said Mr. Watson. “Almost as intense as the joy of reading is the joy of just having a book. They may be able to put books on thecomputer these days, but it’s not the same.” He pulled out a thick tome with a dust jacket:
All The Strange Hours
by Loren C. Eiseley. “Here, feel the weight! Feel the quality of the paper!”
    “I read it,” said Rosemary brightly.
    Peter flipped through the pages and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “This is a book about geology.”
    “Rosemary is an avid reader of science books,” said Mr. Watson. “I hardly ever see her in the fiction section. Which reminds me: Did you remember to bring your English homework home this time, Rosemary?”
    She drooped. “Yes, Dad.”
    “What is it?”
    “Another two chapters of
The Outsiders
.”
    Peter studied her face. “What’s wrong with
The Outsiders
?”
    “Only that it’s the grimmest book on the planet!”
    Peter chuckled. “Wait until they make you read
That Was Then, This is Now
. Talk about dreary.”
    Mr. Watson laughed. “I once heard Ms. Hinton say that the ending of
That Was Then, This is Now
made readers throw the book against the wall. She seemed rather proud of that. But be that as it may, Rosemary, if two chapters of Hinton have been assigned, then two chapters shall be read.”
    She sighed. “I can’t read
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
again?”
    “You don’t get credit for reading the same book over again. Come on, Rosemary, you’ve got to build an appreciation for good literature.”
    “Why do people have to die to make it good literature?”
    He blinked at her, then mussed her hair. “It’s not always like that.”
    “It’s like that a lot!”
    Just then, they saw lights turn