I was in the 10th grade when I read Of Mice and Men. I had gotten behind on the reading track, but as English was (and is) my favorite subject, I determined to finish it before class. I picked up my softly worn copy,  curved the cover around the spine to fit nicely in my hand, and I slunk down into my chair at the back of my Algebra 2 classroom. Out of the line of site of my tiny red-headed teacher, I read on uninterrupted. I flipped through the pages, reading faster as I neared the end the end of the book and the class period. I remember the…