The introduction to my brooding young crush is as follows:
“There once was a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself. Not just sometimes, but always.”
From two sentences, my 11-year-old self (jaded and indifferent beyond my years) was in love. Thirteen years later, my childhood heart is still captive to the formerly-apathetic star of Norton Juster’s The Phantom Tollbooth. Now, I know what you’re thinking: isn’t that kind of creepy? Yes. And no.