Remembering the Alice Series
I was in elementary school in the nineteen-nineties when I discovered “The Agony of Alice,” a book that occupied the anxious years and sacred shelf space between Ramona Quimby and Jane Eyre. Alice was my companion; the rasp of her crisp new jeans — bought, with the help of a Gap saleswoman, after a mortifying encounter with a boy from school when Lester takes her into the men’s changing room — was as familiar to me as Harriet the Spy’s tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwiches. For years, I imagined that my first kiss would come, like Alice’s, on a porch swing, with the taste of melted Whitman’s chocolate-covered cherries. I aged faster than she did, but, like the best characters from our childhood, Alice remained a beacon, a perpetual reference.
I loved this series; anyone else?