What Do You Need?

I'm reading Need by Joelle Charbonneau. Well, I'm not reading it right this second because I keep having to put it down. "Intense" may be too mild to describe this one. 

The premise is that there a new, invitation only, social networking site, open to only the students of one high school. The first few who join only have to get a few others to join in order to have their "Needs" met. Once all of the students join, they must complete tasks in order to have their need requests filled. And what's the harm? It's just a note shoved under someone's door. Just a false receipt created in a bakery.
It's just harmless pranks, right? And, really, some of those people being pranked deserve it.

Then the body count begins to rise.

Someone on an Amazon review commented that the premise is completely unrealistic-that no one would be stupid enough to do even the seemingly "little" things that the website asked. I beg to differ. Not I only do I know some teenagers who could be easily convinced to do some of the seemingly harmless activities, I know plenty of adults who would dive right in without asking questions. This is a frightening book. And the greatest fright lies in the fact that, for the most part, it is all too plausible.

What Do Your Books Say About You?

A few weeks ago,  I stopped at an estate sale on my way home. Some people love those, and they go to every one that is advertised, but estate sales always make me a little bit sad. You see people's entire lives spread out like so much detritus. Shoes and purses may line the walls. Blow dryers and curling irons sit on bathroom counters. All with little stickers showing a price. If you don't like the price, you can haggle-haggle over the bits that remain of a life once lived.

This particular home was filled with books. A narrow floor to ceiling shelf capped the end wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. An office had one wall with floor to ceiling shelves, and the other three walls had half shelves. A bedroom had several book shelves. These people were readers. She loved to garden; I know this because there were three rows of shelves full of gardening books. Another shelf was filled with books on bird watching and feeding birds. One table was piled with 40 or so Civil War books, and there were shelves of historical fiction. The lower shelves, those near the floor, were filled with titles that appeal to young readers.

These people also supported their local library by buying books from library sales. Receipts served as book marks, and there were occasional notes that read "Such a good book!" I became ever more reflective as I browsed. At some point, strangers may well peruse my shelves, pick up books that I've loved, discard them as uninteresting, or, maybe, give a small gasp of pleasure at finding a loved title.

What will my books say about me? That I loved baseball and horses? That I enjoyed a good mystery? That I thirsted for ways to engage students in the reading and writing process? I don't know. And at that point, it certainly won't matter to me. But it certainly makes me more mindful every time I place a title on the shelf. What will it tell about me?