it's like buried treasure

When Dad bought a first edition copy of My Name Is Asher Lev he gave me his other copy . . . I think. In fact, I'm almost positive I have my own hardback copy of Asher Lev, so today I began a more dedicated search for the book (you see, I'm reading it with someone and said I could probably finish it over break). No surprise to any of you I'm sure, I have many, many books. I have a few shelves in my bedroom, a drawer in my captain-style bed for books and two or three boxes full of books out in the garage. After looking for the book in the usual places (e.g., my many bookshelves plus my parents' bookshelves in case the book gravitated back to its original home), I took on the garage.

Yup. So I started looking through boxes, trying to decipher if any of them were mine. I was up on ladders and step stools and crouched down all the while trying to avoid the spiders I knew were there but couldn't see.

My first hint of success was finding a box full of old high school workbooks and AP test prep books and college application remnants. No luck with actual books, but finding that box at least told me that I do have possessions somewhere in that garage. And I found this eighth-grade treasure:

Oh the joys of 14-year-old creativity!

After some more rummaging—and really the actual rummaging was kept to a minimum, because Dad wouldn't love the organized chaos of the garage to be become unorganized chaos—I found another box that contained many of my books! I sifted through this buried treasure—I think it was literally buried—and made a selection of books to take inside with me.

Many of these books are writing books I bought back in high school and writing books Grandma gave me. Regardless, I was excited to find this treasure trove of words and stories I'd forgotten.

But did I find Asher Lev? No. I swear I have my own copy. . . .