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I started to read—I mean really read—when I was about four or five. I was in a time out (where I spent the majority of my childhood) in a separate room than my sister. I was bored, and she was not. She was allowed to read in time outs and I found that unfair. I wasn’t allowed to play with my brothers anymore—I got in trouble for punching somebody. But since she got to read in time outs and found it enjoyable, I decided I was going to be a better reader than her and have more fun in my inevitable time outs. So I picked up a book, I think it was one of her books, and I started to read. And I refused to come out of my room until I was done reading and I liked it better than she did. IN school, I was mocked because I had learned early to read silently (we had to be quiet during time outs.) “Teacher! Stephanie isn’t really reading!!!!” rang through the classroom day after day. My teacher continued to patiently explain that yes, Stephanie was actually reading “adult style.” But I won, and to this day I continue to read more than my sister. Throughout childhood I insisted that I could read the same books as her, despite her genius level of intelligence and the three-grade difference. By the time I got to fifth grade, my AR list consisted of Gone With the Wind and Jane Austen novels—mostly because they were worth the most points. I like a challenge, and I like to win!