Kierra Alexander Eden Pearson Composition 1 06/15/15 Chanel number bye My palms would began to sweat as I tried to force the words from my mouth. I wanted to read it perfectly. The words were so big and blurred as my grandma’s hands trembled holding it up for me. Each night when my grandmother put me to bed, she would walk to my shelf and pick out a book. Now at age five, she had read me every single book to me. One special night, she had a brand new book to add to my collection. The night lights in my room masked how dark it was and the warmth of my bed shielded me from the cold bare air outside. A giant cookie with a mouse covered the big, shiny book. My heart beat fast as the words stumbled out when I began to read the title. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I was filled with so much excitement and couldn’t wait for my grandmother to read it to me. My excitement soon disappeared when she told me I would be doing the reading tonight. I was so scared. I could only read the books I’d memorized; I couldn’t read a grown up book all by myself. To make it less scary, my grandmother came up with some rules. We would only read one page a night and finishing a page meant I was grown up. It also meant that if I read through a page, I got a frosted oatmeal cookie and a spray of grown up’s perfume. I got to be just like grandma for the night. As the days passed, I worked even harder on reading the book. This night I wanted to surprise my grandma. I had the book in bed, an oatmeal cookie under my pillow and had practiced all day to show her I could read the whole book. I couldn’t wait for her to jump up in happiness and hug me. But my grandmother never came. That night I was told she could only read to me in my dreams for now on. For a couple of days I couldn’t sleep. It didn’t feel right not having her lying next to me cheering me on. The book seemed bigger and the words appeared to be harder without her. I went into her room to find any courage or motivation to get through the book. The room was still filled with her things, but felt empty. Cardboard boxes covered her bed and on the dresser sat a small glass bottle where only a quarter of brown liquid remained and it shimmered from the lamp that towered above it. Tightly, I held the bottle against my chest to hold on to her one last time. Tears slid down my face and down onto my neck, creating a small puddle as I sat up in her bed with the book in my lap. My mind felt empty. I just couldn’t get myself to finish the book. Lying there in defeat, I started to think about what my grandmother would say if she was lying next to me. I wanted to feel her holding me in her arms, just like she used to. Out of anger, I threw the book aside. I didn’t want to read ever again. How could I without her? When the book was tossed, it landed in the glass bottle creating an unusual sound. Cool to the touch, I lifted the bottle delicately. “Chanel #5” it read. I wasn’t worried about reading anymore. I just stared for what felt like hours at the bottle. Without a thought, I sprayed the perfume on myself. Then I ran into my room and sprayed my bed, dresser that were full of the books she would read to me. I wanted her everywhere. Throughout school when reading books, I would have this block that would make me hesitant to read. Sometime later, I finished the rest of her perfume, leaving the book “If You Give a mouse a Cookie” to me my only memento. Whenever it was hard to read, I would start to recite those big, hard words to “if you give a mouse a cookie”, making whatever I was reading in class, small and easy. “If you give a mouse a cookie” became my aid at night when sleeping felt impossible, when I was bored, or just when I want to see her again. Sometimes, if I shut the book fast enough, I could still smell her perfume.