That summmer, I was seventeen and had two scorching months ahead of me. At the time, it felt like a nightmare, but now I'd sell my soul to the devil to go back to that moment in my life. During your teenage years, everything is either super cool or super uncool — there's no middle ground. This time, it was definitely the latter.

I unpacked my stuff and spread it out on my bed like a bad croupier at a blackjack table: T-shirts over here, shorts over there, a poorly rolled-up beach towel farther away, and a borrowed book that fell off the bed thanks to my lack of aim.

I picked up the book and flung it back onto the bed. This time, the pile of T-shirts kept it from sliding off the other side. It landed face up, and I read the title. I told myself, "Don't judge a book by its cover". The book had fallen squarely into the uncool category of "begrudgingly/reluctantly borrowed books." Those are the worst — the ones you can't highlight or write down things on their margins, and of course, don't even think about dog-earing their pages. I've never understood why this is considered such a sacrilege, though.

I lay down on the bed and opened it halfway. The pages felt rough and stale, but the smell was warm and familiar. I stretched my legs out and read the inscription: "To my family." These are the real heroes, I thought, as I skimmed through the prologue. Prologues are all the same and do nothing but raise your expectations — such a shower of flattery could only be surpassed by their grandmothers'.