I distinctly remember closing the book halfway through and staring at the author’s name on the cover. Written in capital letters so that they stood out on the page, those notes shocked me with their unflinching honesty. And who wouldn’t want to be brave enough to sneak into a rich lady’s dumbwaiter? Fitzhugh’s line drawing of wide-eyed Harriet scrunched into that small space is seared into my memory.īut the best thing of all in Harriet the Spy was her notebook entries. She was gutsy enough to peek through windows and skylights. Harriet’s spy route fascinated me, and her bravado was thrilling. She looked like a kid I wanted to know.īetween the covers, the book was even better. Harriet, wearing baggy jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and high-top tennis shoes, walks past it all with an air of detached confidence. The gritty-looking brick building in the background with broken, boarded-up windows and peeling posters on the wall sets the scene. It was thicker than most of the books I’d read. Back then I read pretty much everything in the school library. It was still a relatively new book in my school library when I pulled it off the shelf at age nine. I can clearly remember the first time I encountered Harriet the Spy.
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