Three years old and already into books, I browsed a bookshelf in my preschool classroom. That’s when I saw it:
The flip book.
I flipped through it. I flipped through it again. Over and over, I watched the magic of the animation created by my flipping. That’s when I knew it:
I wanted the book.
So I clutched it between my two tiny hands and carried it to my teacher.
“Can I have this?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
So, shortly after – when I knew she wasn’t looking – I took the only next step I could conceptualize as natural: I stuffed it into my shirt and went to recess.
Outside, I sat in the grass. Kids my own age climbed and kicked balls and dug holes. Older kids rolled a tire to and from each other at the top of a hill.
Until one kid missed his turn.
The renegade tire rolled with reckless abandon, down the hill, through the grass and rammed directly…
Which is when my teacher ran to me.
“Are you ok?” she said. She moved the tire.
“What is this?”
She pointed at what had flown out of my shirt on impact:
the flip book.
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This post is part of a series called “True Story.” Click here to read other posts in the series.