(2022) Second Place: Acceptance Letter
by Devinne McCombs
As a young child, I never really enjoyed reading. We had many books in the house, but I have no memory of my mom or dad ever reading one to me. It wasn’t until around the age of eight that everything changed; I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
One particularly sweltering summer day, I was stuck in my ordinary suburban home; trying to escape the excruciating California heat the best I could. As I wandered around my house, searching for something to keep me occupied, I noticed my sister sprawled out on the couch, reading a novel with the title Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I inquired sheepishly.
My sister, being the delight she was, glared over the top of the pages, scoffed, and went back to her reading as if no one had spoken to her.
I decided I wasn’t going to get any information out of her, but I was too intrigued by the art on the cover of the book to give up on my pursuit, so I decided to enlist the help of my mother. I slowly crawled up the stairs, thinking over my words carefully. My mother was usually very busy, and didn’t have the patience for questions, or tattling, or any other such nonsense.
I reached the landing and reluctantly crept into her room, hoping I caught her in a good mood. I was relieved to see that my mother was in the bathroom, using a styling wand to produce loose curls in her yellow straw hair. Even though I was far too young to understand the crippling effects of mental illness, it was well known in our house not to bother her if she was in bed in the middle of the day.
Stuttering slightly, I stammered, “w-what’s that book that Cami is reading? It’s got a picture of kids riding on a bird horse thing on it.”
At first, she looked annoyed, then paused as though deep in thought.
“Oh, she must be reading Harry Potter” she responded.
I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I pressed on, “Can I read it too?”
“Check the bookshelf,” she said while shooing me away.
I quickly sprinted down the stairs, nearly tripping over my feet, ran to the kitchen, sliding across the floor in my socked feet to the computer desk and shelves. I scanned the contents of the bookshelf until I found Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: Book one. It had a picture of a boy with shaggy black hair, round glasses, and he was riding on a broomstick. I snatched it up from the shelf and scurried away to my bedroom with my prize.
I soon became so enthralled with the story of the boy who lived, that I only reluctantly emerged from my bedroom for meals and bathroom breaks. I stayed up late into the night until the weight of my eyelids finally forced me to surrender to a deep sleep with dreams of a little boy living under a staircase. Only to awaken and spend the next weeks doing nothing but exploring dark corridors in an old magic castle, flying across the quidditch field on my enchanted broomstick, and dodging chalk pieces being pelte