I was lying on the blue, somewhat comfortable couch, but I was sadly not taking a nap; instead, I was being read to. I was an eight-year-old homeschooler, and every day I was subjected to the same monotonous school day. Most monotonous of all was listening to books. I could read pretty well, yet every day my mom forced me to listen to her or a recorded voice read to me. As I lay on the couch under my warm blanket, my mom read to me. My mom’s reading was tolerable and sometimes enjoyable, but on that day, as with most days, I didn’t listen attentively. All I could think about was when I would have eventually done enough schoolwork to watch TV, more specifically, to watch Scooby Doo. I would go upstairs to our TV, sit on the couch, and make my nest of pillows and blankets. My mother read to me about George Washington’s world, yet all I thought of was Scooby and Shaggy. I missed Scooby.

As I lay there, I decided that before watching Scooby Doo, I would sneak into my oldest sister’s room. I enjoyed visiting my sisters’ rooms when they didn’t want me to, and I even took things from their rooms. Once, I took a few dollar bills. I knew it was wrong, but I simply didn’t care. Another time I borrowed a Lego set, okay Lego sets. I took my sister’s entire Lego Hogwarts castle collection. Within a few days, there was no castle, just plastic rubble. Worst of all, I once went to my sister's room and sprayed a very smelly spray everywhere in her room. The room smelled terrible. It smelled badly for weeks.  

I snuck into my sister’s room like a ninja. I was stealthy. She wasn’t at home, though, so stealth was just for fun. I lay on her bed, and I considered taking a nap. I decided a nap would be boring. “What should I do?” I asked myself, as I got up from her bed, and looked around the room. Her room was pretty cool, a little girly for my taste, but still cool. She, like me, was a nerd. As I scanned the room, her bookshelves caught my eye. I decided then and there that I would be ‘borrowing’ one of her books. Which one? I looked at the Harry Potter books, “Eh, those are too long, and I have already seen the movies.” Then I saw it. On the worn paperback cover, which has since fallen off due to my use, I saw the words “The Lightning Thief.” “How does one steal lightning?” I took the book, not because I knew what it was, but rather because I was bored, and it was shorter than The Sorcerer’s Stone or The Fellowship of the Ring.

I ran to the living room, and I sat on the blue, somewhat comfortable couch. Opening the worn paperback, I began to read. As I began, I was astonished because I thought, at first, that the book was truly autobiographical. I was amazed that a 12-year-old actually jumped into the Mississippi from the St. Louis Arch. As I read, I felt free. It was exhilarating to read, and to ask, “What comes next?” I continued to seek that answer, so I read for hours on end. I didn't just think about Percy while I read, I thought about the story almost constantly, even when I wasn't reading. Although, I thought most about Percy while I read his story.

I didn’t want to, but I often had to stop reading so that I could actually do some schoolwork or go to soccer practice. Yet, I always went back to the couch to read as soon as I could. I never stopped asking “What comes next?” This question drove me to read the entire Percy Jackson series. My sister only had the first three books, so I also borrowed books from the actual library. Percy Jackson: The Battle of the Labyrinth was the first time I borrowed a book, instead of a DVD, from the library. Now I was borrowing books from the library instead of my sister’s shelf. My perspective on libraries and books in general was changing. I did not immediately love all books, but I did love some, which is more than none.

Every time I read Percy Jackson, I wanted more. I wanted to know what came next, and while I read Percy Jackson, I realized that I could make listening to my mom and reading less fun books more enjoyable by simply asking, “What’s going to happen next?” After realizing this, I tried to see if it would actually work, and well, it did, and it didn’t. Some books I found were simply boring and had to be tolerated, but others I found were not boring if you continually asked, “What comes next?” I still listened to my mom read aloud every day, but now I found some of the books were more enjoyable, and not simply tolerable. 

Daily I continue to ask, “What comes next?”