Angelina sighed as she snapped her book shut. Nothing was ever interesting any more. The words on the page all blurred together and her motivation had gone out the window. Where was the wonder? The panache? The little extra something that made reading worth while. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. Squinting, she attempted to make shapes out of paint splotches and cracks. Nothing. She could hear the sounds of the house: her mother walking to the kitchen upstairs, her father puttering in the garage, her dog yapping in the backyard. Groaning, she stood up from her armchair and stretched, attempting to get some feeling back in her legs. As she made her way over to her bookshelf, Angelina slowly began to think of her collection. As her eyes skimmed over titles, they were all nixed. Too dramatic, she thought, not dramatic enough, boring, boring, read it too much, boring, boring, aagh! She flopped helplessly against her bed. This was getting ridiculous. There should be at least one book that would be able to hold her attention. Making up her mind, Angelina straightened her shirt and strode out of her room. She made sure to tell her mother that she was going out, probably to the library, and she would be back before supper. Her mother sent her off with a smile and a kiss. Angelina shoved her feet into her shoes and she was off.