The sixth grade began to find out that April had a way of making life interesting. For instance, when she raised her hand in class, her answer wasn't always what the teacher wanted, but it was almost certain to be fascinating. And when it came to guts — whether it was hanging by your heels from the highest bar, or putting a stinkbug on the principal's desk — you could count on April to do it first and best.

Maybe everybody had wing buds, or at least the possibility of wings, only they just didn’t know it. Maybe people had really been meant to have wings.

There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books.